request: I'm thinking about fall and watching a sunset with Santi. maybe it's just starting to cool down and the days are getting shorter and...that's all I've got lol 😆
pairing: santi garcia x f!reader
wc: 1,854
contents: best friends to lovers, angst, fluff, get together fic, simp!santi, kissing
an: i feel a little rusty writing santi after so long so be nice to me 😭 hope you enjoy this @campingwiththecharmings and sorry it took me so long to get it out to you <3
oscar isaac characters masterlist
Maybe if you just look at the melting colors of the sun it won’t hurt so badly to have him here. Your friendship, your feelings about Santiago have always been difficult— you want him more than anything, and in the same breath you want him gone.
But he’s here now, and your heart can’t help but cherish every drop of time together you get. So here you are, dragging him outside to watch the sunset, forcing him to take in the beauty of something he seems to take for granted with every mission he accepts.
The air smells like smoke and leaves, sharp in your lungs as you tug Santiago by the sleeve toward the porch.
“Come on,” you say, laughing at the way he drags his feet. “You’re gonna miss it.”
He mutters something under his breath, a complaint of some sort probably, obeying you anyway.
That’s how it always is.
You’re the one who points things out, who insists on noticing and appreciating the world while he pretends he’s above it. Pretends, but never resists.
The sky is a blaze of fire when you sit down on the steps, a blanket tucked around your shoulders. He lowers himself beside you, forearms resting on his aching knees, gaze following yours toward the horizon.
The two of you are quiet for a while, soaking it all in. There’s a soft flutter to your heart beat as you let your mind wander, pretending this is real. That you and Santiago could be something besides best friends. When you dare a peek at him out of the corner of your eye, you see a look you’ve seen many times before. His brows are scrunched together, nose just slightly wrinkled. It’s not the look you’ve grown to be concerned about— the one where his eyes glaze over, where his body tenses and his breath hitches every so slightly. It’s…perplexed.
You lean over, knocking his shoulder with your own, pulling him out of whatever world he’d gone to.
“You’ve got that look again,” you say softly. “Like you’re about to solve world hunger instead of just watching a sunset.”
He huffs, mouth tugging like he might smile, but doesn’t. And he doesn’t answer right away. Silence hums between you heavier than usual but you don’t try to close it. It’s in these moments you’ve found that he’ll say something that has meaning.
Finally, he says, “I made a decision.”
That gets your attention. You stare at him now, the slope of his profile sharp in the dying light. “Yeah? What kind of decision?”
“I’m staying stateside for a while. Few years, maybe more. No more bouncing back and forth, I’m just— I’m tired,” he admits.
Your eyebrows lift in disbelief. The Santiago Garcia is staying stateside. Anchoring himself. You try to stop your mind before it even starts. It revs anyway.
“You? Staying in one place? Settling down, giving yourself some reprieve? Is there a girl I don’t know about?” you ask, trying to keep the edge out of your voice.
He looks pointedly at anything but you, a soft flush in his cheeks. His voice is sandy, cautious in a way you’ve never heard when he speaks again. “Settling down for the girl you do know about. If she’ll settle for it.”
Something catches in your chest. The blanket slips a little as you shift farther away, not wanting to make any assumptions. “What do you mean by that?” your voice is deathly quiet.
Santiago is typically smooth, he’s sauve and you’ve seen him say all the right things. And right now he’s anything but as you watch him swallow nervously, exhaling like every word of vulnerability is costing him something.
“I’m done running from this. From what it could be I— I want to try. With you.”
Your throat tightens. You’ve wanted this, wanted him, for so long—but you’ve also been the one carrying the weight of wanting, of the unspoken thing between you while he kept you at arm’s length. “You can’t just say that after all this time. You’ve always known how I feel, and you never—”
“I know,” he cuts in, his voice rough but steadier this time. Resolved. “I know, but, honey, you didn’t want me like this. Not really. I couldn’t do that to you, being across the world, one bullet away from…” he trails off, letting his eyes return to the skyline. “What kind of man would I be if I made you a widow? If I promised you something, and left you here alone? A shit one. Shittier than I am now.”
“Santi, you don’t have to—“
“Sweetheart, I do. If I’m gonna give it up, I’ve gotta give it all up. And there’s nobody who’s worth more. I always wanted you, thought about you,” he reaches for you then, cupping your face in his hand.
His palm is rough but warm, infused with everything you’ve ever wanted. You feel like the earth is spending, and close your eyes in an attempt to ground yourself. “This is…this is a lot.”
“Tell me to back off, and I will,” he says, voice dropping as he leans in, thumb brushing slowly against your jaw. “But if you feel even half of what I do, then let me show you.”
You let his thumb drag slow along your jaw, every careful stroke saying more than the words. For a breath you consider the easy route—close your eyes, lean in, let the ache that’s lived under your ribs for years unclench. But years have taught you better than to hand him everything on the first admission.
“You can’t just show up and say you’re staying and expect me to… to hand you my heart like it’s been sitting on a shelf waiting,” you say, voice small but steady. The blanket pools between your knees. The sky is a bruise of purple now, the last gold bleeding away.
He swallows hard, the set of his jaw so sharp it hurts to watch. “I know,” he says, and the apology in it is almost tangible. “I know I’ve been a selfish—” He stops, shakes his head like he’s flinging away a thought. “I don’t get to make it easy for you. I get that. I only get to be better.”
You press your lips together. “Better is a lot of words, Santiago. Do something that proves you mean them.”
There it is. The small, reasonable request you’ve been practicing in your head for years. You expected him to bristle, to argue that his whole life should count, or to promise theatrics he’d never keep. Instead his face collapses into something raw and real.
“You want me to grovel?” His brow quirks with a humorless sort of grin. “Because I can grovel.”
It should be ridiculous. It should make you laugh. But his next words tumble out in a rush, humble and sharp. Nothing like the Santi you’ve known for years, but everything you’ve ever wanted from him. Everything you know he could be if stopped running.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you wait. I’m sorry I left you with a heart that had to harden around the edges just to keep from breaking. I’m sorry I treated you like a luxury I could have if the timing was perfect. There’s no perfect, and I used that as an excuse. I don’t want to use anything as an excuse anymore. I want to be the man who shows up. I want to do the boring, small things that prove I’m staying—wake up on time to make you coffee, pick up whatever’s left at the grocery, be shit at taking directions to your mom’s house but still try every Sunday. I want to be the kind of man who calls when he says he will. If you need me to show you, I’ll show you twenty times over. Tell me what you need and I’ll tell you how I’ll do it.”
He’s saying concrete things; mundane, domestic promises that feel like armor against the chaos of his old life. The list is ridiculous and perfect and makes your chest ache because it’s everything you never let yourself hope for.
You let out a laugh that’s more breath than sound, and it startles you how soft it makes you feel. “That’s a long list for someone who used to live out of a duffel.”
“And I’ll make it longer.” He leans in, the blanket rustling as he closes the inches with the kind of certainty that leaves no room for second-guessing. “But if you want me to prove it first, tell me how. I’ll do it. I’ll do it all.”
You study his face, the honest lines, the way his eyes are asking for permission and offering everything at once. You nudge your shoulder against his. “Start with Sunday,” you say. “And call in the morning. And…and be where you say you’ll be.”
“I will,” he says, low and immediate. “I’ll be there. Every damn time.”
He doesn’t wait for a longer litany of tests. His hand tilts your chin up and his mouth finds yours with no hesitance—no tentative brushing away like apology. He kisses you like a man who’s kept a map of you in his head and finally has permission to navigate. It’s rough at the edges but exact in the places that matter, all promise and claiming, and when he deepens it you feel the years between you crack open like old wood giving way.
The kiss is fierce and steady; it makes you forget to weigh the future for a moment, forget that you’re supposed to be cautious. His other hand finds the base of your throat, anchoring you as if you might drift, and you give in—not because you’ve been convinced by words alone, but because his body, his heat, his absolute certainty say what he’s not yet proven with actions: that he wants you, all of you.
When he parts, his forehead comes to yours. “I’ll keep proving it,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin. “Not for show. For you. For us.”
You let out a long, shaky breath and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, letting the softness you had been guarding unfurl just a fraction. “Okay,” you say finally. “Start with Sunday.”
He smiles then, no shade of irony, no deflection. Just Santi. “I’ll be here Sunday. 8 a.m.”
“9 a.m., not all of us want to wake up at the crack of dawn.”
He chuckles but concedes. “9 a.m.”
The sun has gone. Night wraps the porch around you, and he slips his hand into yours, a tangible promise. It’s small, ordinary, and utterly devastating all at once. You press your fingers against his palm, feeling callus and warmth. The steady thrum of someone who intends to stay.
“Good,” you murmur, and when he answers by kissing you again—this time slower, sure—you let yourself fold into it.
Because sometimes the only way forward is to let the one who finally came home hold you while the colors drain from the sky.
frank "I know you can, but let me help you" castle
fem reader, 1359 words. frank with a hyper independent reader that’s often reluctant to accept his help. he aims to serve
You're excessively independent, maybe to a fault. You like to do things for yourself, by yourself — that's just the way you are. You've become so used to doing everything on your own, that when Frank came into the picture, you found yourself struggling to adjust to this new and foreign dynamic. It had become rather difficult to calibrate yourself to such a vastly polar change.
Frank's not much good with expressing himself. Words of earnest emotion are tricky for him, he doesn't like to do it. He's not someone that can vocally communicate feelings, someone that can say exactly what they're thinking in that regard. He much prefers to show it, prove it by doing things — doing things for you so that you know what he often fails to convey.
He knows you to be someone that values independency. And while he doesn't try to change that per say, he does try to alter it, doing so subtly and gradually so as to get you to let up just a little bit of your self-appointed control.
It was a bit of a task: to find a solution that allows him to prove his love by serving you, while somehow managing to uphold the sense of independence you're so clearly caught up on. It was about a compromise, helping you without diminishing you.
He learnt that you respond particularly well to a phrase, a simple little saying that permits his help: "I know you can, but let me help you," or alternating strains of it, depending on where he sees fit. But the premise of it remains the same each time: you're capable, but you shouldn't always have to be.
It varies, when and where he says those few little words to you. Often, it's when he's trying to be chivalrous and gentlemanly. Though, trying is hardly the word, he doesn't need to do that — it's natural to him, only you're not always so typically keen on it.
Like that one time when he came home to you groaning and mumbling curses from the bedroom; he thought the worst of it, naturally. And when he stepped in with his gun drawn, he immediately lowers it — the sight of you sitting on the floor amongst furniture parts the reason for retracting his weapon. You're on the floor amongst pieces of wood, screws and instructional papers, all of which scattered around in what he imagines to be from a moments frustration.
"What you got there?" he had said, voice sort of amused from his placement in the doorframe.
"It's supposed to be a dresser," you said, eyes closed so as to avoid the pile of illogical mess surrounding you. You received the incorrect parts, you were sure of it.
"Never would'a thought that, baby," he teased, in which he recognised instantly to be a mistake. You weren't in the mood for that. "Jus' playin' with you, sweetheart," he said as he stepped into your shared bedroom, pushing his sleeves up. "Lemme give it a go."
"I can do it," you reached for the instructions on the floor, hindering him from his help. "I just need a minute."
"Yeah baby, I know," he nodded, sitting on his knees across from you.
"I can do it," you repeated, putting particular emphasis on your ability to see this project through.
"Didn't say'ya couldn't," he picks up a piece of wood, matching it with another almost immediately. "What?" he said, meeting your eyes that were boring into his — he couldn't be serious, he did that so quickly. "You gon' give me that or you gon' keep being a goddamn pain in my ass?" he eyed up the instructions, one upping your defensive tries with gentle abrasion.
You tightened your hold on the directions, firming your ground. "The second."
He stood with his usual groan, heading for the door when you stop him with repeated calls of his name.
"Yeah that's what I thought," he turned back and took the instructions from your outward, extended hold. He stepped over the piles of wood planks and metal screws to meet you on your side this time. He paused and as he lowered himself down onto his knees again, he pressed a kiss on your hairline. "Jus' try'na help you, baby. Stop givin' me a hard time."
Or when he tries to carry your shopping bags, much less when he actually tries to pay for it.
Often, he joins you when you go shopping, keeping you company —keeping you safe— for when you flick through rails of clothes or skim shelves of collectibles. He'd tag along, stalking behind you almost as he watches you pick through items that momentarily catch your attention. He would always vocally question whether the hangers of clothes were too heavy to be lugging around or if the multiple little items in your hands were too awkward to hold, but you'd always decline his offers, pretending you need to have them all in your hand so you can make up your mind on them. And as that almost never works, he'd instead be preemptively adding up the prices in his head, trying to figure out the total so he can have the cash ready by the time you get served.
He would intervene, sticking out a handful of cash to the worker, stern inflexible look on his face. Of course, they wouldn't ignore his tries, not with an expression like that. They'd take his money and ring you up, stuffing the receipt in the bag. And when you'd try to take the bag, he'd get in there first; large hand taking up all space of the handle.
You'd walk towards the exit together, your mouth forcibly zipped until you reach a place of somewhat quiet outside the store. You hand would be pandering his, attempting to take the bags from his hold.
"Cut it out, these're my things. Jus' bought 'em," he'd pull himself away, small smirk on his face.
"Frank," you'd giggle faintly, closing the distance as you further your tries. "Come on."
"Nah," he'd shake his head, slipping his other, free arm behind you, hand on the small of your back as he leads you away from the store. "You're jus' gon' say 'thank you', and that's it, yeah? No more 'bout it."
"Can I at least pay towards it?"
"Nah, you gotta let me do sum' nice and be quiet 'bout it," he would say, pulling you into his side so he can press a kiss to your temple.
"I don't like that."
"Yeah, I know, baby," he'd chuckle. "You're too goddamn proud."
And sometimes, when you're feelings particularly weak with sickness and internal grime, he'd think you to finally be infirm enough to allow his help without so much as a discourse or disagreement. Only that's not true, even defeatedly laid in bed under a mountain of blankets, you'd still try to pretend that you can take care of yourself. Which of course, isn't the slightest bit true.
You would try to move about, hobbling out of the bedroom only to be stopped by a wall —Frank— there's no other way to describe him. He'd turn you around, eyes stern as he gestures you back to bed. He'd shake his head, arms folded so as to broaden himself further.
"Ain't happenin'," he'd say, almost like a tut. "Bed," he would have said, word simple and effective — direct.
You wouldn't be completely willing to accept, but you'd be a little more forthcoming than usual: a small mumbled comment under your breath being your only form of dispute before you drop yourself back into bed. He'd then walk over, footsteps heavy as he meets you on your side of your shared bed.
"Jus' lemme take care of you, yeah?" he'd comment, tucking you in the covers. "Makin' it so goddamn difficult," he would have brushed his knuckles over your cheek, caressing the side of your face with as light a touch as he could muster.
With most, Frank's patience runs thin, but with you, he'll repeat himself forever if it would mean he can help take care of you.
… his little miss independent.
⎯ ☆ ⎯
was from my frank frenzy the other week where all i wrote was frank frank frank. got a couple more so good luck
Summary; you’re bed bound with a cold, and unbeknownst to you, your neighbor noticed.
Pairing: DDS3!Dex x sick!reader
WC/Tags: 1,990 / hurt/comfort, Dex has a crush, soup feeding, forehead kisses, fluff
A/N: day 7 of June of Doom, prompt ‘can you hear me?’ @juneofdoom title from ‘soft boy’ by Deore.
“Can you hear me?”
You blink once, shifting your head and it aches. Eyes closing, you make a moaning sound and exhale, the flem in your lungs rattling.
The fever has you in its terrible clutches, it has for nearly three days. You’re clammy yet cold, shaking with fatigue and you’re thrown up twice. You hate being sick, you feel useless and this has been the worst yet.
That isn’t what sends fear down your spine though. What makes your eyes shoot open, is the fact that you live alone.
You know the man looking down at you, you see him every so often in the mail room or in passing. He’s your neighbor, and he should not be in your house.
“Dex?” You mumble, trying to sit up but you slump. He smiles, nodding.
“Hi there.”
“What’re you doing here?”
His brows knit. “I heard you were sick.”
“How’d you hear that?” You mumble, but you can’t find it in you to really care. You’re too dizzy to focus, to take note of the fact that he broke in.
Dex kneels beside the couch, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, minty. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead and doesn’t flinch at how hot it is.
“I checked on you yesterday,” he says quietly. “You didn’t answer. I knocked.”
Three times. You remember now, the pounding through your fever haze.
He stood outside for fifteen minutes like a damn ghost before deciding to use his key. He had a key made two months ago. Just in case.
“Right.” You mutter, and you wonder how awful you must look, hair matted and teeth unbrushed.
“Can I help?” Dex asks, and why is he so close? You don’t know him all that well, aside from the occasional hello.
But Dex knows you.
He has since the moment you moved in.
From your favorite tv show to which pizza parlor you prefer, Dex has you cataloged, organizing you in his mind like a research paper he isn’t done writing. He reaches out and brushes a sweaty strand of hair from your temple. His touch is cool, steady. Without asking, he slips an arm behind your back and lifts you slightly to prop the couch cushion under you. Then he pulls a thin blanket from the armrest and drapes it over you.
You’re too weak to protest.
He moves quietly, like someone who’s memorized where everything lives: water bottle in fridge, medicine cabinet, laundry hamper with the dirty hoodie removed.
No one told him any of this. He knows, but you don’t note any of this. You’re too busy trying to push the nausea down.
“Take these.” He presses two ibuprofen pills into your hand. You sigh, trying to sit up and only have do so. He hands you a glass of water and after several tries, you’re able to swallow them.
“Dex.”
“Mm?” He takes the glass back.
“Can I have my phone?” He gives you a look of confusion and you add, “I-i was going to DoorDash some food.”
Dex’s jaw tightens, just slightly, as if the word DoorDash personally offended him. He takes your phone from the coffee table, charged, screen cracked at the corner, and unlocks it with a swipe. He memorized your passcode weeks ago after you left it out on a package.
Instead of handing it over, he opens DoorDash and stares at the menu for two seconds before shutting it off.
“I’m cooking,” he says simply, no negotiation in his tone.
You open your mouth to argue, you’re sick, not helpless but then remember: last time you ate cold ramen? You cried halfway through because nothing tasted right and everything hurt.
“I don’t have much in the fridge.” You watch him walk to your fridge, leaning down as he opens it. He looks too big, too broad in your one bedroom one bath apartment.
“Good thing I do,” he mutters, closing it. “Be right back.”
Dex disappears through your front door, your unlocked, barely-closed front door, and you hear his heavy footsteps down the hallway.
Nearly an hour later, you aren’t sure because you think you fell asleep, he returns with a paper bag in one hand and a six-pack of water under his arm. The label on the bag says Whole Foods, but that’s not what surprises you.
It’s what is inside.
Chicken soup, obviously hot. Fresh garlic bread still warm in foil. A small container of plain yogurt for easy digestion.
He didn’t just grab anything, he brought things you liked. And brought enough to feed two people for dinner and breakfast tomorrow morning too. Without looking at you, Dex pulls out containers from the fridge like he owns it, and starts heating things up quietly on your tiny stove. You sit up, wincing a little, and clear your throat.
“Um, Dex?”
“Yes?” He replies without stopping, refilling your fridge with other items, and tossing out old ones that were obviously going bad.
“What’re you doing?”
Dex pauses, a half-empty container of wilted lettuce in hand. He glances at you, and raises one brow.
“Cleaning your fridge,” he says like it’s obvious. “It smells like death.” He tosses the rotten food into a trash bag and grabs an unopened carton of eggs from his Whole Foods haul, placing them neatly on the shelf. He turns back to you with that quiet intensity, the kind that makes your feverish brain stutter, and asks: “When was the last time someone took care of you?”
You just stare at him for a few moments before laying back down. “What’s that matter?”
Dex shuts the fridge door a little too hard. The sound makes you flinch.
He walks over, the movement slow, like he’s deciding something heavy. Kneeling again beside the couch, he studies your face, the pale skin, dark circles under your eyes, and exhales through his nose.
“It matters,” he says simply. Then: “Loneliness is the worst kind of sickness.”
His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, lower than when saying hi in passing or good morning at the mailbox.
Without asking permission this time, because clearly asking isn't his style, Dex leans down and presses a cool kiss to your forehead, the first real human contact that wasn't just medical since this whole fever started three days ago.
When he straightens he doesn’t say anything, walking back to the kitchen and opening your cupboard. You watch him wordlessly, shocked and trying to figure out if your brain had made that up.
Dex pours the soup into the bowl, and brings it to you, settling it on your coffee table with a slice of the warmed bread. He nods to it.
“Try to eat as much as you can.”
You exhale through your nose before sitting up, flexing your fingers on the couch cushions. It smells good, and looks delicious, but you aren’t sure if you really want it.
“I’m not…really hungry,” you whisper, eyes flicking up to his. “But I really appreciate this.”
Dex doesn’t scold. Doesn’t sigh dramatically or make a face. He just nods, sits down on the floor right in front of you, on your dirty laundry pile, like it means nothing and picks up the spoon.
Without asking again, he scoops a small amount of soup and holds it out to you, like feeding a sick bird.
The steam rises between you two, warm and fragrant with thyme and chicken broth. His eyes are patient but firm, the same look he gives his throwing knives before launching them at 120 mph: precise focus on the target ahead. Right now? The target is you eating.
“I-” a laugh, albeit weak, bubbles from your throat. “What the hell are you doing?”
Dex blinks. Then, for the first time since he broke into your apartment, a tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Feeding you,” he says flatly, as if it’s obvious. Like this is normal behavior for neighbors who’ve exchanged two sentences in six months.
He lifts the spoon again, still warm soup balanced perfectly, and brings it closer to your lips. The steam fogs slightly between you both.
The absurdity hits: Dex Poindexter, silent neighbor with lethal aim and zero social life, is on your living room floor about to hand-feed you chicken soup like a Victorian nursemaid. You’d laugh if you had more energy.
Tentatively, you lean forward, open your jaw and take a sip. It’s warm but doesn’t burn, and you chew, sitting back. He watches you, dipping the spoon and holding out another.
Dex doesn’t say a word. Just keeps going, scooping, lifting, offering.
Each bite is small. Careful. He adjusts the spoon angle slightly when you tilt your head wrong, like he’s recalibrating to hit the perfect landing spot in your mouth. The soup is really good, homemade broth with soft carrots and chunks of white meat that melt on your tongue. The garlic bread gives it depth; rich and buttery despite being eaten through a fever haze.
He eats nothing himself though, not one bite for him while he tends to you like this is his sole mission right now: get food into you even if it takes twenty spoons at a time. It feels safe here on this ratty couch with Dex kneeling on dirty socks like some kind of weirdly sexy guardian angel.
When you finish, you lean back, letting your eyes flutter as you chew the last spoonful. Put the spoon in an empty bowl and set it aside, reaching for your water cup, and holding it out. You take it, and take a sip.
Dex takes the empty bowl without a sound, setting it on the coffee table. Then he reaches for your water cup, still half-full, and gently pries it from your shaky hands.
He lifts it to your lips instead, holding steady as you sip. The coolness of the water soothes your dry throat, and Dex watches every tiny movement: how you swallow, how your lashes lower with exhaustion.
When you pull back slightly, he puts it down, and sits in front of you again.
“Need anything else?” He asks in a quiet voice. You shake your head, and he nods.
“Um, thank you,” you murmur. “For the food. I’ll pay you back.”
Dex’s expression darkens, just slightly, like you just insulted his entire bloodline.
“No,” he says simply. Firmly. He leans forward and brushes a knuckle over your cheekbone, checking for fever again but not pulling away this time. His hand lingers near your jaw before dropping back to his thigh. “I don’t want money. I don’t want anything from you.” Another quiet moment passes between the hum of the fridge and distant city sounds outside. “Can I stay? Just… till you sleep?”
“You…want to sleep with me?”
Dex’s ears go pink. “No-! No, I meant, stay, check on you. Til you get back to sleep.”
You consider this, consider him, for the first time looking uncomfortable in your apartment. Your chin tilts, and you smile at him. “Alright. If you want.”
Dex exhales relief and you realize, he actually looked nervous for a second, and nods. He stands up, readjusts the blanket neatly before spreading it over you like tucking in a child. Then he picks up your legs and sits carefully on the other side of the couch, the one usually reserved for your lower half. He pulls his long frame into a half-reclining position so that his back is against an armrest but facing toward you.
No closer than necessary, he watches as your breathing slows with sleep’s pull returning stronger now that food is in your stomach and medicine kicking in. His hand is resting on your ankle as you drift, and if it wasn’t the most insane turn of events, you think you could get used to Dex in your space.
the thing about growing up with siblings in an abusive household is that ultimately you're each other's jail wardens and whipping boys and that does things to you no matter how much you sincerely love each other and understand why it happened the way it did and wish you could have been big and strong enough to save both of you
it's just inevitably going to be difficult to reconcile the love you feel for the other half of a bear trap clamped around both your legs. is the thing.
Pre-menstrual depression is always depicted as like "He He! I had a box of icecream bars and cried while watching the Titanic!" But in reality, it's more like, "I'm standing the edge of an abyss. There is nothing good inside of me, I'm filled with rage and desperation."
It's crazy that being told how to deal with that is never a part of anyone's menstrual sex education.
This has already been said in the notes, but if PMS causes extreme depression and even suicidal ideation, that is in fact something that most people do not experience and it can be treated
Like for the majority it really is "oh i'm hungrier and moodier than usual"
^this should be a part of sex education so the point still stands
I went to my doctor after I was walking to work one morning and saw a bus coming and actually took a step to throw myself in front of it before I pulled myself together. Later that day I started bleeding and was literally like someone flipped a switch and I didn't feel suicidal anymore. Which made me feel like I was loosing my mind because who goes from 'I want to throw myself in front of a bus' to 'I'm perfectly fine' just like that? I did some research, I went to the doctor and described my feelings, he looked me in the eye and gently asked what I thought it was, I said I'd read about PMDD and I thought it might be that, he said 'I think so too' and wrote a prescription.
If, before you get your period, you feel furiously angry, suicidal, irritated by every tiny thing to the point you want to murder someone, stuck in a black hole you'll never escape from. If you are experiencing extreme emotions for what seems like no good reason, especially if you get your period and those extreme emotions just go away. You're probably not just PMSing , you may have PMS's feral big sister PMDD and it's treatable.
Also this is something that can develop as you get older. So if you used to get normal PMS but what I wrote above sounds more like your norm now then don't just write it off as regular PMS.
ALSO! If you start having those feelings and suspect you’re heading towards perimenopause, talk to your doctor.
Basically, if you have a uterus and you start having extreme mood swings every month, that’s not actually normal, go talk to a medical professional. Don’t grit your teeth and suffer through it.
We're here, we're queer, we're really fucking tired so we're just gonna go straight to biting instead of feigning polite confusion if you're gonna be a bigot this time, just so you know.
Please know this sites hashtagging system is categorical and NOT clout based
Aka if I look up the “Wendell and Wild” tag, I should find clips, media, art and posts related to Wendell and wild ONLY. Same with any other random tag searched
If I spy a selfie, a random neighborhood, or any other kind of “insta” post trying to take likes for a popular hashtag, I’m reporting you for spam. Most other long term users will too and your acct will be fast tracked as a spam blogger and blocked.
You will not ruin the last non corporate site for us, especially by trying to treat this site like influencers matter. If you get popular, it’s bc you’re a clown w a skill not bc your hot or rich or skinny, got it?
#holy shit at people in the notes this isn't 'tyrannical' it's basic courtesy AND against the tos #the spam report button is easily accessible for this exact reason #cross tagging is absolutely reportable spam according to tos so just don't do it #it also doesn't get you any more notes it just pisses people off
People (me) will report you for this (I will). If you are spamming the tags, someone (again, me) will click the little report button (and I will enjoy doing it) every time they (I) see your unrelated posts clogging their (my) search.
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