sorry its not very good

when depression first made a home of me in elementary school, i had a friend who took my hands and held me tightly as she said, “hang in there. better days are coming.”

she was right. i have had days, weeks even, where there’s a spring to my steps, where i am confident and lighthearted and clearheaded. i have had days where i am simply happy, and i think, i am so glad to have lived to see such days.

i think of my friend, and the way her small hands gripped mine, when depression starts gardening in my mind again. everything dies. all my thoughts turn to suffocating black smoke and i can only cry to try to stop the burning in my throat. better days are coming, i remind myself, but i don’t believe it. i can’t see it. living is a marathon, and i am exhausted. there are often days where my dog is the only thing that keeps me going, and in my darker moments, i don’t know if i’m grateful for that or not.

but. better days are coming. i say it over and over and over until i could maybe believe it, because it is the only kindness to be found in this awful mindset. and i will take whatever light i can find, however little there may be.

@chainedintimacy a réagi à votre billet “i wanna do one last drawing for the night to destroy my wrist nice and…”

Some gayness possibly? Though don’t hurt your wrist too much! If it does hurt, you should ice it after! ;w;

My hand is beyond the icing point rn

Ethika

[ao3]

1.4k words
Hungover Jensen, post Jib

Jensen opens his eyes and immediately closes them again. His head is pounding, it’s too bright in the hotel room, his entire body aches.

After a couple minutes of stretching and groaning and adjusting his eyes to the sunlight, he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and ends up with a piece of notebook paper in his hand instead. In terrible handwriting, there are a few random words on the paper like “breakfast,” “crepe options,” and “hamburger meat with onions.” He bunches the paper up and tosses it aside before grabbing his phone and lying back down against the bed.

For some reason his email app is open, and a drafted email is waiting to be sent. It’s addressed to Jim Michaels, with the subject line “Get fuckd.”

In the body of the email is written, “I think I want to quit the show and open a food truck. I have a lot of great ideas for a food truck, and I’m writing up a menu right—”

Jensen deletes the drafted email and scrambles through his sent messages to make sure he didn’t actually email anyone. Thankfully, he didn’t.

He checks his text messages next and finds that the only person he texted yesterday was his wife. Thank fucking god.

Babe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m wearing the underwear you bought me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The pair I said I’d never wear in a million years!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m wearing it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Babe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jensen’s eyes widen and his face heats up as he stares at his phone, the words blurring together. He tears the covers away from his lap and looks down at himself. The only thing he’s wearing is a pair of peach-colored boxer briefs that are too big on him.

Keep reading

phil lester sits criss-cross applesauce atop a world of his own creation and smiles. he stands in scuffed shoes and cares steady, holds consideration in gentle palms and offers it like the worst kept secret. jokes, delicate and airy, translucent flower petals and lavender blush and making the world a bit brighter. well meaning words settle whisper quiet into hearts, moulding them into something better, something softer. the rosy brightness of adoration blooms steady behind his eyes and glows for something good.

phil lester sits on his old bedroom floor and tells a camera about his day. ten years later he performs his last show on a worldwide tour, best friend by his side and tucks memories laced in silver and gold in his back pocket for safekeeping. he stumbles and a million hands reach out to balance and propel him forward. happy screams and photos and tweets and art and unadulterated love put down roots in his chest. vines creep across his ribcage and beat in a rhythm only he can hear, safecomfortablewarm. he locks it there, vivid and precious.

phil lester smiles, sunlit and breathtaking, the turn of his lips smeared on and dripping joy like a fingerpainting. he inhales colour and light and sound and exhales creativity, his fingers itch for something just out of his reach. mind floating away, barely there clouds dancing and wispy, and lying back among them and dreams about flying. determination is sharp in his veins and laces through his lungs like string tugging him along, do this make that write this down plan this out. add another rung and climb higher. he twists lovely things with clumsy fingers and adds another line to the autobiography titled how to make the stars appear dim next to this.

phil lester looks at the sky, twinkles wistfully and wonders if he could be up there. he doesn’t realise he’s been flying for years.

anonymous asked:

If nO hOnEyMuStArD hOw AbOuT cHeRrYbErRy b0i

Y’all honestly, please stop asking about ships please

3

I wanna lay down and stay up all night
As we look at the moon, as full as our hearts 💞