unable to stop

anyone else get a fuzzy-restless feeling when you need to do something but your brain won’t focus on anything and you’re silently begging yourself to just do one thing but instead you’re scrolling tumblr even though you don’t even want to be … it’s like your head is filled with heavy electric cotton like you’re both uncomfy and unable to stop

8

- So then you’re over that, right?  - Yup, long over.

John wakes and feels tears on his face. His heart is pounding but he doesn’t quite know why- he can’t remember the specifics of the nightmare, he can only remember the vague feeling of running, of danger coming and him being unable to stop it.

He briefly wonders if this is the only reason he has woken but then he hears Rosie’s cries through the baby monitor. Sherlock stirs next to him and makes a deep “Hmmm?” noise, hovering between deep sleep and the beginnings of waking up.

John quickly reaches across and turns the baby monitor off. It’s not fair, it’s not fair on Sherlock.

He slips out of bed and goes to her. She is red faced with crying, little hands making little stubborn fists. John picks her up and she squirms. “Come on, Rosie, it’s okay,” he whispers, but he knows he doesn’t sound at all convincing. Pathetic.

She’s still hiccuping with the force of her tiny cries. John doesn’t know what to do. He carries her through to the living room, stands in front of his arm chair and tries to rock her.

But he knows nothing he’s doing is working- he can’t even soothe her with words now, his breathing is still all shallow and wrong, and she’s picking up on that, she can feel his chest heaving and John knows, God he knows, he’s just making everything worse, like al-

He feels Rosie being taken out of his arms. John inhales and gasps before noticing- it’s Sherlock, of course, standing in front of him. Beautiful, warm and safe and sleepy Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock says. He tucks Rosie into his exposed shoulder, cupping her head gently with his hand. “John, it’s alright. Sit down.”

John feels like he can’t breathe. “John,” Sherlock repeats. His voice is soft and low and so incredibly thoughtful. “You can sit down, it’s okay.”

John doesn’t so much as sit down as collapse into his chair. Sherlock walks away with Rosie and John can hear him soothing her in the distance: “Hush, now. I know, I know, enough of that now, my darling girl. Hush. Hush. Ssh…”

John keeps breathing. He doesn’t know how much time passes, he’s only aware of Sherlock suddenly crouching down in front of him.

“That’s her drifted off again,” Sherlock says. His smile is so wide and genuine that the guilt pierces John all the more.

“Christ, I’m-Sher-I’m sorry. I just seem to m-make things worse.”

Sherlock shakes his head. Patient. God, how John loves him. “You know that’s not true, John. Besides-” He starts to grin a little- “- you got her the last two nights before I even woke up. It was my turn.”

John tries to laugh, but his breathing still feels all strange and wrong. Sherlock stands up. “Do you want- I could make some tea? Or water?”

“N-no. It’s okay, Sherlock, you go back to bed. I’ll just sit here, I’ll be fine in a minute.”

John closes his eyes, breathes in and out. He hears Sherlock’s footsteps fade away. Good. The man needs his rest.

But then, then come the oh so quiet notes of Sherlock’s violin. John opens his eyes and smiles. Sherlock is standing by the window, looking out into the night. He plays slowly and carefully, and John focusses on his breathing, relishing it becoming deep and even.

By the time John realises exactly what Sherlock is doing, he’s almost nodded off. The notes are soft and so slow, and John allows himself to follow them and…and he doesn’t know when his eyes were getting too heavy, but…and have they closed?…yes, he supposes they must…and his head, he can feel it moving forward down to his chest, and that’s fine…that’s…

A hand on his knee. John’s head slowly comes back up, his eyes open just enough to see Sherlock looking at him with the fondest smile.

“Come on, my good man, to bed with you,” he says.

John nods. It sounds like the best idea Sherlock’s ever had. He follows Sherlock as if wallowing through a heavy cloud- not inconvenient, it’s just everything seems so…slow…

He feels sleep pulling, he’s ready to be pulled under. He turns to Sherlock, half surprised that they’re back in bed. “Mmm, thanks Sher-” He yawns and Sherlock pulls him close, and John can’t keep his eyes open any longer. “Love you,” he manages.

He feels Sherlock press a kiss to his hair. He’s sinking down, down into the bed, his body so wonderfully heavy…

“Hush, now,” Sherlock says. “I love you, too.”

And John finally lets himself sleep.

“And you know what? Lindsay and I… We made an extra life.”


No, I totally didn’t cry over this announcement, and no I totally haven’t been obsessing over it, unable to stop thinking about how Michael must be scared of losing their baby and how absolutely excited and in love he is with his child already and how Lindsay is so happy and how they are going to be the cutest parents to ever parent and how happy I am to watch them grow over the years.

That would be ridiculous.

there are two settings. the first is success, a crushing perfection that simmers below the surface, a gritted-teeth force that breaks down more often than it runs. it is relying on panic to wake you up, it is nightmares about numbers, it is being unable to stop shaking when the test comes back, it is empty scores, no flaws found but still feels sore. it is the appearance of self-assurance, top-of-the-class, always-in-yoga. nobody gets into the room when you’re sobbing over your gpa. they only smell the candles and not the burning.

the second is failure. it comes in the wake of the smallest thing. a shrug and “you could have done better” rather than a smile. that’s it. and then it’s time to destroy everything. she frowned at me once, we aren’t really her friend and we must never speak to her again. he didn’t want to get dinner, not only is he not interested but he finds us repulsive. it is realizing you are sixteen minutes late and just skipping class rather than showing up late. it’s refusing to study because you understand nothing. it’s taking something down before someone can rip it down for you. it’s isolating yourself so nothing can hurt you and it’s hurting because you’re isolated. it’s missed calls, never-at-work, always-too-drunk. 

that’s it. all or nothing.

jikook @ isac last year: hey everyone *blushes* we’re gay

vmin @ isac 2017: bITCHES WE GAY AS FUCK I WILL SPANK JIMIN RIGHT HERE 

My biggest fantasy is gaining weight without even trying and being unable to stop, either because of a feeder or because of my own gluttony and lack of self control.

I want to force myself (or be forced by someone else) to overeat, stuff and gorge myself on far more food than I need, until eventually my body becomes so used to massive portions of fattening foods that I’m unable to stop eating, that a whole tub of ice cream becomes a small and unsatisfying snack that only serves to increase my appetite. I want food to become such an important and vital part of my life that I can’t go for more than an hour without binging and stuffing my face, even if I try. I want to go through the amount of food that would currently last me a whole month, daily

I want to look at myself in the mirror every day and see that I’ve visibly put on weight, and know that there is nothing I can possibly do to lose it or even to maintain it, and that I will only get fatter and fatter for the rest of my life until I reach the point of immobility, and that I’m helpless to stop it. Helplessly stuff myself with more and more food every day, speeding the process up and causing myself to need more and more food to feel full. I want to try to diet and be forced to confront the fact that dieting only makes me fatter because I lack the willpower to go for more than a couple days without eating everything in the house in one massive binge.

I’m not particularly athletic now, but I want to feel myself lose what little muscle mass and stamina I have, powerless to stop it from happening. I want to get so winded walking from my couch to the kitchen to get a snack that I have to just sit in the kitchen floor to stuff myself, too tired and weak to stand back up and walk my food to the couch. I want to binge uncontrollably and then pass out surrounded by wrappers and crumbs, without even being able to muster up the energy to drag myself to the bed. I want to get so fat and lazy and out of shape that I can’t walk up the stairs at all, my body would just be too heavy and flabby to lift my weight up them. I want to be so weak that lifting the television remote is a struggle.

I want to get so fat I can’t see my own feet, or even my thighs past my massive hanging belly. Too fat to masturbate, too fat to walk more than ten feet at a time, so fat that my arm flab prevents me from putting my hands together because i just cant reach all the way around my huge gut. So fat that I have to have clothes tailor made for me, because no company makes clothes THAT large. So fat that I have to eat twenty course meals in one sitting to even feel not hungry, and that I have to eat even more in order to feel full. 

I want to be imprisoned by my own gluttony and obesity, unable to do anything about it. 

One more thought (but by no means the last) on the subject of John Watson

You know when you’re head over heels in love with someone and you find all of their little quirks endearing even though you pretend to be irritated by them, or even when you are irritated by then, it somehow stops mattering anyway? But then something goes wrong - you realise it’s never going to happen and that no matter how many other people you date (or even marry), you’re never going to stop feeling that way, and then all of those quirks suddenly become things that make you fly into a rage, whether or not they’re really deserved? 

That’s John’s deal. 

JOYCE BYERS TALKING TO ELEVEN BEFORE SHE WENT INTO THE WATER WAS SOMETHING I DID NOT NEED RIGHT NOW OR EVER OKAY SHE’S NEVER KNOWN THE COMFORT OF A PARENT’S VOICE IN THE DARK TELLING HER IT’S GONNA BE OK OR HAD AN ADULT ACTUALLY GIVE TWO SHITS ABOUT HER FOR THE RIGHT REASONS I AM SOBBING SO HARD RIGHT NOW
Joyce whispering “I got you” while holding Eleven and hugging her just

More Ravenclaw!Keith: 

Keith is a model Hogwarts student. He’s not only the top of his House, he’s the top of his class year. He aces all the tests, his homework is perfect, his projects and presentations are interesting, he practically lives in the library. All the professors love him. They haven’t seen a student this academically devoted and magically talented since Gryffindor’s Hermoine Granger from years past. Slytherins writhe with jealousy (one in particular, who is determined to beat him no matter what). Ravenclaw professors’ chests swell with pride when they look at all the House points he alone has accumulated. Keith is truly the pride of the Rowena Ravenclaw name.

Students: You do realize Keith got into Ravenclaw because he believes in aliens, right?

After your first time.

Request:  Can you do a Bts reaction after your first time with them

A/N: I did something similar to this before, but it’s not exactly the same xD

Keep reading

Forgive me Father - Priest!Dean Winchester x Reader

Title: Forgive me Father

Pairing: Priest!Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: About 5,750 

Warnings: Angst, Breaking of Vows, Priest!Dean (that says a lot), implied smut, heated moments

Prompt: Reader is the daughter of a preacher herself but she finds herself unable to stop all those sinful thoughts when she meets the newest priest in town. And it all gets so much worse when it turns into love. Will it be the kind of love that will destroy her or not? 

Your eyes were shut as your hands were clasped in front of you. Your lips were in a tight line as you willed yourself so hard to focus, to not think about anything else, only because you wanted to mean this forgiveness you were asking. As if you would ever get it with all those thoughts and feelings you had for him.

Him. Father Dean Winchester.

And the mere word that you had to call him with made these feelings wrong on every level. Back then when your mother talked to you about meeting your true love you thought that it would be an amazing feeling. The skipping heartbeats, the sweaty palms and the stuttering would be only a few of the traits. And the moment you locked eyes, it sounded cheesy, it would feel like the word had stopped spinning. But with you there was one more thing. It felt like your word had comecrumbling down the moment you locked eyes with his.

You had always thought that when it came to true love that you would feel amazing and not like… this. Plagued by guilt, oh so much guilt, for feeling the way you did for him and utter fear of what could come out of that. Because you were scared beyond belief, not so much at the feelings but… at who the person you felt so for was. Especially when you knew you shouldn’t see him in that way. And the fear mixed with the guilt and it all came rushing to you and you felt so overwhelmed that the only thing you wanted to do was cry all day and night, not that you partially weren’t already, for feeling the way you did. You wanted to plead for forgiveness but other than doubting anybody was listening you knew you didn’t deserve it.

“Don’t try to pressure yourself.” a soothing yet rough voice broke the silence and you opened your eyes, turning your head to look at who it was. Not that you would expect anybody else at this time and when the church was actually empty.

Keep reading

Morning, Sunshine.

Cas doesn’t really hear the words. They aren’t said with any seriousness, anyway. He can’t focus on anything other than finding Lucifer, and any jokes or endearments are a waste of time right now. He simply files it away to be analyzed later.

If there is a later.

********

Morning, Sunshine.

Cas really hears the words now, suddenly remembering a few years ago when Dean said them for the first time. They had been teasing then, but there’s something softer in Dean’s tone now, a little more weight behind it. Cas smiles in return, unable to stop his reaction, and Dean seems satisfied with that.

Cas pretends that he’s completely satisfied, too.

********

Morning, Sunshine.

Cas groans. He’s still getting used to being human, and he hates getting up in the morning. He’d spend all day in bed if he could. But Dean’s grinning at him almost apologetically, and Cas knows he’s going to have to leave the bed soon.

He pulls Dean back under the covers anyway, and Dean indulges him, settles back in for a few more minutes of warm skin and tangled legs and hands gently stroking hair.

********

Morning, Sunshine.

Cas has heard that phrase every morning for almost thirty years now.

It’s still the best part of each day.

Don’t you love it when...

Your fabulous diva is more than willing to cut a bitch

For a friend said bitch messed with TuT

BECAUSE I DO

Hyper empathy’s function in abuse and trauma

When the victim’s high empathy is either manipulated or generated by the abuser standing up for yourself or leaving the abusive situation is really hard.

Empathizing with the abuser who has used for example sob stories as a way to manipulate the victim’s concious makes the victim feel like they have no right to judge the abuser or demand the same kind of respect they would with other people. In other words victim’s boundaries start to blur which is not their fault.

Victims can find that they’re unable to stop empathizing with their abuser which makes it difficult for the victim to get into safety since they have hard time accepting that they are being abused. It’s common that the victim makes excuses for the abuser’s behaviour in order to explain the situation to themselves and other people.

Even after the abuse the empathy towards the abuser can make it hard to recover if the victim is unable to let go of the toxic guilt generated by the abuser because they believe that nothing was abuser’s fault but theirs instead. Recognizing abusive behaviour, learning about it and rejecting the abuser’s world view are a great way of starting to heal.