#How to Write a Good Fundraising Letter

[lettermailapi]

Example of a Good Fundraising Letter

If you’re writing a fundraising letter, you want to make sure it’s clear and easy to read. You can do that by avoiding jargon and overblown sales language, as well as using legible font sizes and keeping paragraphs short. It’s also a good idea to use a variety of font styles and colors, as well as underlining or bolding important words and phrases. These are all things that are considered best practice for web accessibility, so that every reader will be able to understand your call to action and donate.

Your fundraising letter should be about your audience, not your organization. Research shows that people are more moved by the plight of a specific individual or situation than they are by a general statement about need. For this reason, it’s important to use heartwarming stories that show your audience how their donations will help.

Don’t forget to thank your audience for their past support and encourage them to continue supporting your cause. This will help keep your organization top of mind when donors are thinking about how they can help their community. Macmillan Cancer Support, for example, did this by mentioning their fundraiser Geoff Stonebanks in their letter and thanking him for his efforts in raising money in the past.

When you’re ready to write your fundraising letter, it’s always a good idea to have someone else proofread it. Even the most careful writer can miss a mistake, and a fresh pair of eyes can be invaluable. Don’t forget to check spelling, grammar, and punctuation, as well – a missing or misplaced letter can throw off the entire message of your message.

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Letter Mail Api – Blogger

[writeletterapi]

Writing a Good Fundraising Appeal Letter

Whether your nonprofit has a big fundraising campaign or you're looking to get more out of your existing donors, writing a good fundraising appeal letter is one of the key steps in the process. The following are a few tips to help you write your next donor appeal letter:

It is important that your fundraising letter is not about you or your team - it's all about your cause. It is your job to communicate how the work that you do could not happen without the support of people like your donors.

Writing a short appeal letter is easier than you think. It's just about getting to the point, limiting jargon, and showing that you care about the people that your organization supports.

Using a multichannel approach with both direct mail and email is best for reaching your donors and ensuring that your message gets through to them. Studies show that older donors are more likely to give as a result of a multichannel campaign.

Start planning your year-end appeals well before the holiday season. Create a practical timeline and make sure that you have your whole team on board. This will mitigate a lot of stress when the season is in full swing. It will also be a great opportunity to test different formats and techniques. For example, you can try testing teasers on the outer envelope or including a pre-addressed and stamped envelope. This can save you a lot of money in postage costs.

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Write Letter Api – BLogger

[thepencilnerd]

Echo

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: Under the bright lights of a fundraising gala, what began as polite smiles and veiled jabs unravels into something far more intimate. Between rooftop confessions, quiet grief, and a night neither party can take back, something buried for years finally comes undone. warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, f!reader), blood and trauma in a hospital setting, description of medical procedures and deaths genre/notes: slow burn, frenemies to lovers (much banter), robby cameo + being a father figure, heavy angst + heavy fluff, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed idiots in love, non-linear timeline, one (1) very touch-starved man, abbot down bad for his s.o. and def has a pain kink, balcony sex + confessions, pwp word count: 9k a/n: love letter to grief, rooftop confessions, and all the things left unsaid (+ shameless, self-indulgent smut), basically i saw this dress on pinterest and i—

The hospital’s annual fundraiser was all overpriced wine and board member schmoozing—the kind of thing Jack Abbot usually avoided. He and Robby had spent the better part of the week arguing with Gloria about why they really didn’t need to be the ones attending.

“But who better to represent the emergency department than its finest?” Gloria had smiled with teeth. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer we reallocate your trauma bay supply order for next fiscal quarter?"

Abbot had muttered something under his breath. Robby had called it extortion. Gloria had walked away victorious.

“If she reassigns our trauma supply budget one more time, I swear to God I’m quitting,” Robby had muttered, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Right there with you, brother,” Jack had said dryly.

Which was how he ended up in a suit, lingering by the bar with his tie already loosened.

The gala was obscene in its extravagance. A live string quartet played near the grand staircase. Crystal chandeliers caught every glint of champagne. Rich donors floated from one hors d'oeuvre table to the next, laughing politely and stuffing their faces with canapés that probably cost more than a full day of supplies for the ER.

It made Jack sick.

Not the donations—he appreciated those. Hell, the hospital needed them. But the tone of it, the way money moved through the room like perfume: thick, cloying, and designed to mask something rotten underneath. The people here didn’t know what a trauma bay smelled like at 3 a.m. They didn’t care. They were here to write a check, slap their name on a wing, and pretend it made them saints.

Jack took a sip of his club soda and stared at the bottom of his glass.

He wanted to gouge his eyes out. He just wasn’t sure which fork to use.

Scanning the room, his eyes landed on Robby across the space, mid-conversation with a bejeweled donor who looked like she’d never set foot inside a hospital ward. Robby’s eyes caught Jack’s for the briefest second and widened—just enough to scream help me. Jack raised his glass and shot him a wink.

Then he saw you. He'd recognize your stride anywhere. 

What he definitely hadn’t expected was the red satin dress.

Floor-length, plunging back, slit high at the left thigh, the kind of fabric that caught the light like it was trying to start a fire. When you walked into the room, it was almost as though time stopped. You were across the room, charming some rich donor, laughing politely as he fumbled through a question about pediatric trauma outcomes.

Jack didn’t hear the question. He didn’t hear your answer either.

As you turned away from the donor, your bright smile dropped like a mask torn off. Your jaw clenched. You let out a tight breath through your nose, barely more than a sigh. It was the kind of reaction only someone who’d seen you under a hundred different kinds of stress might catch.

Then you looked up and locked eyes with him. You froze.

Goddamn did Jack Abbot look good in a suit.

Salt-and-pepper curls styled just enough to look deliberate, not overdone. The tux hugged his frame perfectly—sharp at the shoulders, tailored at the waist, cutting the kind of silhouette that belonged on a magazine cover instead of an ER floor. He’d even opted for a close shave, his normally stubbled facial hair absent. And his tie—loosened just a touch too much—left a sliver of his throat visible, collar open like he’d tried to behave and gave up halfway through the evening.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But neither of you looked away.

The first time you met Dr. Jack Abbot, you were fresh off your fourth twelve-hour day shift that week. For the first two years of your residency, you’d been under Robby’s wing—solid, day-shift training, plenty of first-time experiences, and a support system that kept you steady. But when it came time to switch rotations, it was Robby who recommended you move to nights.

"More fast-paced," he’d reasoned. "Higher stakes. They could use your skills. You’re ready."

You’d heard about Jack Abbot by then. Everyone had. Ex-military. Brilliant. Demanding. A damn good trauma attending, and an even tougher mentor. You were equal parts intrigued and warned.

The ED hallway was buzzing, but you didn’t miss the way Jack paused as you approached. He glanced at your badge, then at your posture—upright, composed, betraying none of the exhaustion you carried—and finally at the trauma board.

“Hope you’re fast,” was all he said, voice low and dry, like a test he didn’t expect you to pass.

Turns out, you were more than fast. You were precise. Efficient. Clinical.

When a GSW came in thirty minutes later—a young man with a single penetrating wound to the upper abdomen—you and Abbot stepped in together. He hung back just enough to supervise, giving you space to lead the resuscitation while staying close.

You scanned the vitals: hypotensive, tachycardic, altered mentation. “GSW to the upper abdomen, likely mesenteric involvement. Initial BP was 80/40 with HR in the 130s, GCS at 13 but trending downward. Type and crossmatch. Two units O-neg. Prep for a laparotomy?” you asked, assessing quickly as you reached for gloves. Abbot nodded once, already handing you a sterile gown without a word.

He didn’t stop you, but he didn’t let you coast either.

“What’s your plan if the pressure doesn’t stabilize after the second unit?” he asked as you both finished gowning up.

“Call for a third, reassess fluid responsiveness, consider vasopressors if no improvement,” you replied, already focused.

“And if there’s massive hemoperitoneum?”

“Prioritize source control. Suction, pack, find the bleeder.”

Jack gave a small, approving hum. Then you glanced back at him, sharp, poised. He was holding out the handle of a blade to you—steady, without fanfare.

“I’m not handling it,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blinked once, then reached for the blade. Gloved fingers curled around the handle as the rest of the room faded into peripheral noise. It was your show now—and he was trusting you to lead it.

The team moved quickly. You made the incision, suctioned blood, clamped the bleeder—a mesenteric vessel torn clean. Laparotomy pads soaked in seconds. Abbot kept an eye on the monitor, watching your hands. You found the source and controlled it, methodical and focused, with Jack’s quiet presence steady behind your shoulder.

Jack nodded once, the faintest glimmer of something like approval in his eyes. After the patient was wheeled off to the OR, gloves off and adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin, he tossed you a saline flush and a towel. The rest of the team was still moving in organized flurries, cleaning up the bay, resetting trays, pulling down blood-streaked drapes. You peeled off your gloves slowly, breath catching up to you now that the adrenaline was fading.

The smell of antiseptic, blood, and sweat clung to everything. Your scrub top was damp with effort. And still, Jack hadn’t said anything else. Just watched you like he was recalibrating something in his head. Taking the measure of you.

“Not bad,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Not bad?”

He smirked. “Guess we’ll keep you. Though I should probably check the return policy with Robby before the trial period ends.”

Then, lower—just for you: “Though going nipples to navel on that first cut? That’s no man’s land. Bit too risky of a procedure for me to do myself.”

You blinked, thrown off your axis, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or sincere—or both. “What?”

But Jack was already walking away, gloves off, like he hadn’t just left you standing there like a deer in headlights.

You weren’t expecting to see him either.

Jack Abbot in a tux. Sharp lapels. Cuffs neat. Hair styled but slightly tousled like he hadn’t quite figured out how to look formal without messing it up on purpose. Heat rose to your face, tinting it the color of the rosé being served tonight. 

Turning around, you reached for a flute of champagne to occupy your thoughts. He’d just crossed the room, weaving past a pair of donors discussing their latest golf fundraiser, his eyes never leaving you. The clink of glass and silver faded just enough for you to hear the soft brush of his dress shoes stop beside yours.

“Red,” he said, nodding toward your dress. "Didn’t think it was in your rotation." He caught the soft trace of your perfume just as you inhaled the quiet warmth of his cologne. 

You arched a brow. “Tux? Let me guess—last worn at prom?”

He huffed a laugh. The corner of his mouth tilted. "Wouldn't you like to know."

“Not really,” you smirked.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. "How’d Gloria rope you into this mess?"

You took a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue before replying, “She said the hospital needed a pretty face for the press photos.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you volunteered willingly, I assume?”

“I did. She said she wanted someone who wasn’t going to mention sock puppets in his opening speech.”

Jack tilted his head. "So you pointed her to literally anyone but me and Robby."

You smiled into your glass. “You and Robby are very pretty. Just not ‘donate-millions-of-dollars’ pretty.”

He cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

You both leaned back slightly, falling into a rare pocket of easy quiet.

“If I'm being honest,” he said after a breath, “these things make my skin crawl. Donors patting themselves on the back for saving lives they’ve never seen.”

“Agreed,” you murmured. “It’s like they want the moral gold star without the 2 a.m. trauma call. Or the third straight shift without sleep.”

Jack glanced sideways at you. “Or the resident paycheck that barely covers rent.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And definitely not the part where we spend a decade training, rack up six figures of debt, and still have to fight for safe staffing ratios.”

He nodded once, quiet. “But hey, at least they get their name etched onto a plaque of a hallway they'll get lost in.”

"God," you sighed. "I'd love to switch places with them for a day." 

Jack snorted. “Five minutes in a trauma bay and they’d be crying into their cufflinks.”

You were about to take another sip when you paused. “You realize you’re wearing cufflinks.”

“Which is why I’m drinking soda instead of champagne. Keeps me grounded.”

A quiet breath escaped you, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Your commitment to moral superiority is truly inspiring.”

He gave you a narrowed look, not quite smiling but close. “Someone’s gotta keep the place honest.” 

You smiled to yourself, looking down and shaking your head, before excusing yourself to go charm another cluster of donors. “See you around—Jack.”

You’d only ever said his first name once before.

He noticed.

Jack stood there a second too long, stunned, watching your retreating back like he wasn’t sure what just happened—or why it mattered so much.

The patient was coding. Jack was tied up in Room 3 with a liver lac. You were alone when Trauma 2 rolled in—blunt trauma, hypotensive, bleeding out.

You didn’t wait. “I need two large-bore IVs, rapid sequence intubation kit, and thoracotomy tray—stat,” you barked to the team, already moving. “Start the MTP now.”

You slid the laryngoscope in cleanly, tube placed with practiced precision.

“Vitals are dropping,” a nurse called out.

“I know,” you forced out. “Keep pushing the units.”

The tray snapped open beside you. You didn’t hesitate. Just in case.

Abbot walked in right as you pulled your hands back, already prepped.

His eyes flicked from the open thoracotomy tray to the line placement to your gloved hands, bloody up to the wrists. He froze mid-step.

Then, without missing another beat, he stepped in beside you. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice low and calm. He didn’t raise it. He never did when it really mattered.

His presence was immediate—like someone flipping a switch—and suddenly the entire bay adjusted to him, calibrated around the two of you.

You didn’t look at him. Just adjusted your grip and said, “Vitals holding. Pressure’s up.”

“Balloon’s a little high,” he murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear over the hum of monitors.

You didn’t flinch, but your pulse jumped. “Adjusted,” you said, fingers tightening slightly on the handle as you recalibrated, eyes glued to the screen.

A beat passed. Then another.

The pressure crept upward. Slowly. Steadily.

The patient stabilized.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, trying to ignore the chill of adrenaline threading down your spine. Jack was still watching you—too closely. And you couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed or both. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

When you finally looked up, his eyes locked with yours—steady, unreadable, searching like he was still deciding how angry he was allowed to be.

“You never should’ve done that without approval from an attending,” he said quietly, the words measured but firm, laced with something heavier beneath the surface.

You nodded, jaw clenched. “Understood.”

Jack stepped closer. Lowered his voice.

“But that was pretty badass. You just saved a life. Good job.”

Then he turned and left the trauma bay. The moment lingered—his words echoing in your ears louder than they should have.

Every pair of eyes seemed to shift away once he left, the noise of the trauma bay gradually returning to its usual rhythm. Monitors beeped. Carts wheeled past. Gloves peeled off with a quiet snap and hit the bin. Hands—steady during the crisis—now trembled faintly.

Pride lingered. So did fear. And you weren’t sure which feeling was winning.

Outside by the nurses' bay, Jack was leaning against the wall, one foot braced behind him, chart in hand but not moving. His gaze was distant—somewhere far beyond the clipboard. A crooked smirk ghosted across his lips, then faded as quickly as it had come. He was still thinking about what you'd done. How steady your hands had been. How much you'd grown.

He’d been impressed. He’d also been scared.

That kind of procedure… it wasn’t something he’d ever do lightly. And you? You hadn’t hesitated. Not out of recklessness, but because you’d known it was the right call. The only call.

"Ballsy," he muttered under his breath. "Damn near reckless."

But his chest swelled—quietly, privately—with something that felt a lot like pride.

The third time you ran into each other that night, it wasn’t by accident.

You were leaning against a balcony railing, champagne nearly gone. One glass hadn’t been enough to drown out the unbearable jargon and vapid conversations—but you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go overboard tonight. Just enough to appear socially well-versed. 

The night had cooled, the breeze brushing goosebumps along your bare arms. Jack found you there, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned, eyes catching on the subtle shiver that moved through your frame.

“You always hide from donors this early?” he asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You’d heard those footsteps enough times to recognize the rhythm—the soft, sure cadence of someone who never rushed but never wandered. A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it. Subtle. Reflexive. Familiar.

“Only the boring ones.”

He smirked and stepped beside you, pulling his jacket off with one fluid motion.

Before you could say anything, he draped it over your shoulders—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed your bare arm on the way down. The heat of him lingered even through the fabric. And then there was the scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and grounded by something warmer beneath it. The scent made your chest ache with something unnameable—familiar, steady, a little too easy to lean into. It curled in your lungs, lingered in the back of your throat. Your knees dipped slightly, an involuntary response you buried with practiced ease. You’d never admit that, of course. Not even to yourself.

“You’ll freeze,” he said, voice quiet, almost an afterthought.

You didn’t correct him. Just glanced up. He was already looking at you.

“You look good,” he said finally.

Your brow raised.

“In red,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t say thank you. Just looked at him. Let it sit there for a moment—heavy, a little too charged to touch.

"If you keep being nice to me, people are going to start wondering if the sodas were spiked."

That earned you a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriatingly subtle way he smiled when he actually meant it.

"Guess I'll have to ruin it with a sober insult later," he said.

You gave him a dry stare. "Looking forward to it."

The air between you tightened, warm and brittle. He shifted just slightly closer, like something unspoken pulled him there.

You shot him a sidelong glance, trying to smother the tension with humor. “Don’t you have some attractive widows to go butter up?”

His lips twitched. “Already secured donations from all of them,” he said, only half joking. Then, quieter, with a faint shrug: “None of them were interesting.”

That gave you pause.

“I prefer women with poor work-life balance and sharp comebacks.” He looked at you again, the curve of his mouth bordering on a real smile now. "You?"

"Hm," you hummed to yourself. "I prefer women with competitive streaks and sharp eyeliner. And men with stress-induced insomnia, commitment issues, and the emotional availability of a damp dishrag."

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. "Bold of you to describe my entire personality like it's a turn-on."

"If the shoe fits," you murmured, toying with your empty glass.

He looked at you then—really looked. Head tilted just enough to feel like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"It’s always the sharp ones," he said. "Cut deepest, don’t they?"

Your lips twitched. "Funny. I was just thinking the same about emotionally repressed men in positions of authority."

"Touché." 

But neither of you moved further.

Jack’s voice lowered, something quieter threading through. “You know, for what it’s worth… I notice. How hard you work. How much you give.”

That caught you off guard. The words settled in your chest, raw and warm. You swallowed around them.

“Then I hope you notice how often it gets overlooked,” you said, voice softer now. “By everyone else.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, something unreadable in them. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he would.

“Hey!”

Robby’s voice cut through the air like a 10-blade.

You turned, blinking back to the present. Robby's head was poking out of the curtains, waving a hand. “Sorry to interrupt your… mood lighting, but I need to help charm this silver fox donor who won’t stop talking about his golf handicap and yacht collection. Won’t stop asking for the 'hot doctor with attitude.' So naturally, I assumed he meant you.”

You glanced back at Jack, reluctant.

He gave you a nod, but didn’t say anything. Just watched you go.

Before you turned to leave, you slid the jacket from your shoulders and held it out to him. Jack stepped forward to take it, but his fingers brushed yours—warm, lingering, just a second longer than necessary. 

His jaw tightened for half a breath—barely perceptible—before he masked it, reaching to take the jacket with a small nod. His fingers brushed yours again as he pulled it into his arms. The warmth still clung to it—so did your scent. Subtle, familiar, something floral and grounding. It curled in his chest as he inhaled, slow and quiet, like he didn’t mean to. As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you—sharp, lingering, impossible to shake. Like he was still holding something back—he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

Once you were gone, he allowed himself to bring the jacket up to his face and breathe in lightly, letting the remaining trace of you settle in his lungs. It lingered—clean, unmistakable, and quietly devastating.

With each year, the line between rivalry and familiarity blurred just a little more.

It wasn’t just that you were the senior-most resident anymore—it was that you were his senior-most resident. The one who matched him pace for pace in trauma bays, who called out orders with the same clipped authority, who rolled your eyes at his sarcastic one-liners only to throw them right back at him.

Jack gave you a hard time. You gave it right back.

It started as cold professionalism. Then it turned sharp. Competitive. Then somehow... comfortable.

“Think you can manage this without slicing through the aorta this time?” Jack murmured once during a late night thoracotomy.

“Only if you don’t pass out from blood loss first, old man,” you replied smoothly.

“Old man,” he repeated under his breath. “Remind me why I let you lead in my trauma bay?”

“Because I’m the best.”

He didn’t respond. Just passed the next instrument with a soft, resigned smirk.

There was a night Shen caught you both bickering over a chart like a married couple.

"The guy had a fever and a murmur—of course I’m thinking endocarditis," you said, exasperated, scribbling into the margins.

"And I’m saying we still need to rule out pulmonary embolism first," Jack shot back, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

"I’m writing the note," you reminded him.

"Are you going to type it up for me too?"

"If you want it to be legible."

Jack scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

That’s when Shen passed by, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, "Just kiss already."

Neither of you responded. Jack’s pen stilled in his hand. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.

But later that night, as you leaned against the med station reviewing labs, he passed behind you, fingers grazing your lower back as he brushed by.

Casual. Too casual. And yet, your breath caught anyway.

You didn’t talk about it.

You never talked about it.

But it was there, all the same.

Back inside, the ballroom lights felt too bright. You smiled at a passing donor, glass still in hand, but your mind was still outside—on the breeze, on his jacket, on the way Jack had looked at you like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You found yourself drifting toward the edge of the room, eyes scanning unconsciously. Jack had disappeared into the crowd.

Or so you thought.

“Looking for me?”

You turned to see him at your side again, now holding two drinks—one club soda, one bubbling glass. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me trashed on overpriced spirits, Dr. Abbot?”

“I would, if this were alcohol.” He offered the glass to you. “It’s ginger ale.”

You eyed it suspiciously, then took it anyway. “Classy.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “You called me Jack earlier.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” The bubbles soothed your stomach, uneasy from all the talking and dizzy heights of empty small talk. 

The quiet pressed in, heavy and hesitant, neither of you quite ready to fill it—but neither willing to walk away. 

“Well, Dr. L/N,” he said, tone dipping into something light but curious, “how do you plan on spending the rest of your evening?”

You gave him a half-smile. “Getting some sleep. Or trying to.” You looked back out across the ballroom, then added, “I talked to Robby earlier—offered to be on-call for day shift tomorrow. Filling in for Langdon.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Aren't you supposed to be off?”

“Yup. So are you,” you said, glancing at him.

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t deny it. You both knew the pattern by now—same days off, same shifts. Neither of you had ever pointed it out.

“What else would I do on a Friday?” There was something brittle in the joke, something quieter under it. “Work keeps me occupied.” 

Jack watched you for a second longer, then said, softer this time, “You shouldn’t have to keep yourself occupied. It's okay to take a breather.”

You let out a dry breath of a laugh, the edge of a smile curling—biting, but small. “That’s rich coming from the only other person who works as many shifts as I do.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stepped a little closer.

“You could’ve said no to being on-call,” he said. “Could’ve said you had plans.”

“I do,” you retorted. “Sleep for three hours. Chug coffee. Go back.”

Jack tipped his head, like he was trying to read more into your tone than you meant to give away. “Y/N—”

The name stopped you cold. You took a half-step back before you could think better of it, reflexive and immediate, voice clipped and low. “Don’t.”

That caught him off guard.

“I—sorry,” he said, brows furrowing slightly. “I just—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, too quickly. 

Jack looked at you then, something close to understanding flickering in his eyes. As though he remembered, too. How could he forget? 

The first time he'd said your name.

Blood on your scrubs. Tears in your throat. A patient you couldn't save.

He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once, slowly, and let you go.

Then, just as his mouth parted to say something else—

“Dr. Abbot!” Gloria’s voice rang out from the other end of the ballroom, hand ushering him to come over. “The donor from Penn wants a word before he leaves!”

Jack clenched his jaw. His eyes lingered on yours.

“Rain check,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t answer, just gave a small nod as he walked away. And for a long moment after, you stayed where you were, ginger ale sweating in your hand.

You didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment you’d remember whenever someone asked when medicine stopped being just medicine.

The trauma call came in: car accident, two parents and a child, maybe 8 or 9. The parents were in rough shape but still awake, still responsive—moaning through cracked ribs and splintered glass. The kid, though—blunt force, GCS 3 on arrival. Completely unresponsive. You felt it in your gut before the vitals even came in. 

Jack was across the bay when the doors opened. He looked up once—nodded at you. “You’re lead. I'll stabilize the parents." 

You didn’t hesitate. Airway, trauma labs, two large-bore IVs. Portable chest. Fast scan. You called it all before the stretcher stopped moving.

The child’s body was limp. Small. Already pale. The pressure in your chest felt like a dam ready to burst. 

You intubated with steady hands, but your voice faltered—just slightly—when you called for epinephrine. Jack appeared beside you somewhere around the second round of compressions, gloves on, silent. Watching. Present.

“Vitals still unstable,” someone called from behind you. “BP 62 over palp. Pulse weak. We’re pushing TXA now.” At least he'd stabilized the parents, you thought. If he could save them, you could save their little girl. 

Four bags of blood and 18 minutes of chest compressions. The monitor stayed flat.

Still, you kept going. Pushing meds. Calling for another round. Someone offered to take over for compressions, murmured that you needed a break. You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

Then again, more firmly. “I’ve got it.”

No one tried to argue. You were lead. You had it.

Even as your arms began to ache. Even as the blood kept pooling, the compressions rhythmically jarring through your bones. You wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. The team was moving around you, quiet, reverent.

Then Jack stepped in closer.

“Monitor hasn't picked up a rhythm in 12 minutes,” he said gently. “We can't keep up with the blood loss. There's too much internal damage. You know this.”

You shook your head, barely perceptible, and kept going. Compressing, counting, calling for another round of epi.

Jack’s voice stayed level. “Anyone else would’ve been pronounced dead at the scene.”

You ignored him. Just a few more compressions and transfusions and she'd come back. 

Then—

“Y/N.”

That made you freeze.

Your name. His voice.

Your hands were still trembling against the child’s chest.

You looked at the monitor. Heard the continuous tone. Flatline.

No pulse.

“Call it,” Jack pleaded softly.

Your voice was quiet. Hoarse. Cold.

“Time of death, 03:17.”

You stepped back, stripped your gloves off slowly. Fingers stained with blood you couldn’t stop from spilling. Jack said nothing. He didn’t leave.

You swallowed hard, trying to force the tears down. To breathe through the break in your chest.

Jack didn’t touch you this time. He just stood there.

Let you fall apart, silently.

Then you ripped off your gloves and threw them hard into the bin, the sound louder than it had any right to be. You turned and stormed out of the trauma bay without looking back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

That was the first time he said your name.

And it pulled you back. You never forgot it.

Sometimes you wished you had.

Back inside, the music had changed.

You’d barely rejoined the crowd when the lights dimmed and the emcee called out for the first dance of the evening.

Across the ballroom, Jack saw you before you saw him. You were standing near the edge of the crowd, nursing the last of your drink, the weight of something invisible pressing into your posture.

But you weren’t alone. A tall man—one of the younger donors—had his hand on your arm, leaning in to say something. He offered you his hand.

Jack’s jaw tensed.

He didn’t move—at first. Just watched as you smiled politely, took the man's hand, let him lead you to the dance floor.

It was brief. Chaste. Just a dance. But Jack hated the way the guy's hand lingered at your waist. Hated how close he stood, how you nodded along to something he said, even if your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

A minute later, you gently swapped out with Robby, excusing yourself from your first partner. Robby took your hand with a flourish and spun you once like a game show host. You smiled for the first time in hours. 

"You okay?" he asked gently, settling into a slower sway with you.

You shrugged. "Long week."

Robby gave you a dad-look. "Anything in particular on your mind, or just the usual existential dread?"

A quiet laugh escaped, softer than you meant for it to. "Just the usual, I guess."

For a while, the two of you swayed in silence. Robby’s gaze stayed soft. "You’ve been a little quiet lately. Even more than usual. You sleeping okay? Eating?"

Instead of answering right away, your eyes drifted to his shoulder. "I’m fine."

"You always say that. Doesn’t mean I believe it."

A small, grateful smile curved your lips. Robby always knew how to make space—never too much, never too little. He left the door open without pushing you through it.

"You know I’ve got your back, right kid? You ever need to talk, about anything, even the stuff you think you’re not supposed to say out loud—come find me."

"Thanks, Robby. I mean it."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I know you do."

A voice cut in—low and smooth.

"Mind if I cut in?"

You turned.

Jack stood there, one hand extended. He didn’t look at Robby. He didn’t need to.

Robby chuckled under his breath and stepped aside. "She’s all yours."

Jack’s eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.

“Dance with me?” he asked, softer than you'd expected.

For a second, you didn’t answer. Your breath caught, mind still echoing with the last time you’d heard him say your name.

But then you nodded—slow, tentative—and slid your hand into his.

He guided you gently into step, the rhythm of the music slower than your pulse. His hand settled against your waist, warm and sure, like it had always belonged there. The other laced with yours, a silent tether.

You moved together with a surprising ease, like muscle memory forged in proximity, not practice. It wasn’t just a dance—it was a conversation. A quiet exchange, careful and cautious. Every shift of weight, every brush of fingers was a sentence neither of you dared speak aloud.

You didn’t look up right away. Couldn't. The proximity was dizzying. It wasn’t the champagne. It was him.

Jack’s voice came, low and even. “You always this good at pretending everything’s fine?”

You finally glanced up, something caught between a smile and a flinch playing on your face. “Only when I’m trying to impress a colleague.”

His mouth twitched, barely. “That why you always pull it together when I’m around?”

You didn’t answer.

Gliding across the floor, you felt like you were floating. And still, the weight of his hand at your waist grounded you.

You weren’t sure which was more dangerous: the silence, or the closeness.

“I used to think if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel any of it,” you said, voice barely above the swell of the music. “But some things catch up to you anyway.”

Jack’s grip shifted slightly, not tighter, just… more present. “Running works—until it doesn’t.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t run,” you said quietly.

He met your eyes. “No. You bury it. Same result, different damage.”

You exhaled through your nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Funny. Thought we were dancing, not diagnosing.”

“We can do both,” he said, dry but not unkind. “I go to therapy. You slow dance at charity galas.”

Your gaze flicked to his lips, then away. “Guess my way is cheaper since I'm not paying for any of the wine or dine.”

Jack’s hand at your waist didn’t budge. If anything, it steadied you more.

“Y/N,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. Like he was handing something over. Like he wanted you to take it.

Your shoulders tensed. Jaw muscles flexed. 

He noticed.

You looked up, met his gaze, and said, quieter than before but with unmistakable weight, “Jack, you’re walking on thin ice.”

He didn’t flinch. But something flickered in his expression—something equal parts affection and surrender.

You only used each other’s names when it mattered.

The only difference was: he loved it. You hated it.

The hospital had quieted for the night, but the kind of quiet that screamed underneath.

You assisted on his last case—another loss, but this one had cut deeper than usual. Maybe it was the way Jack had gone cold, all clinical control and efficiency… until the voice crack. Just a flicker. A tremor. He’d kept going, ordering transfusions, calling vitals, his tone even until it wasn’t. You saw it—behind the focused eyes, there was fear.

You were the one standing next to him when he finally called it.

You found him up there—on the roof—where the city lights couldn’t quite wash out the weight in his shoulders. Jack was staring out past the edge, hands in his coat pockets, the wind catching just enough to make his scrubs flutter at the hem.

You didn’t speak right away. Just stood a few paces behind him, letting your presence fill the space before your voice did.

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

Jack didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

“I had to wrap up some charting.”

A beat.

“They were a veteran,” he said. “Had a daughter who just got into college.”

You took a step closer. “That wasn’t your fault.”

He let out a quiet, humorless sound. “I know. Doesn’t help.”

You hesitated, then moved beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I must have had a reason at one time to keep coming back," he murmured, “but I can't think of it right now."

You didn’t have an answer.

But you said his name.

“Jack.”

It was the first time you’d said it out loud. Not Dr. Abbot. Not anything guarded. Just him.

He turned then, slowly.

“Don’t shut down on me,” you said. “Not tonight.”

The wind carried your words away, but he heard them. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his shoulders dropped just slightly.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he said, voice rough. 

“You don’t have to stay alone.”

He glanced at you then—just briefly, like eye contact might split him open.

You searched his face, thinking back to the moment in the trauma bay where he called it. Where his voice cracked but didn’t waver. Where his gloved hands were steady even though his eyes gave him away. You’d never seen him look like that before—so composed, so clinical, and still, so unmistakably human.

The memory stuck to your ribs.

“I know it’s not fair,” you said, voice low. “That we carry the worst of them home. That we never get to know if we were enough.”

Jack didn’t speak. But he didn’t move either. That was something. So you added, a little too soft, “But you are. You are enough.”

A long silence.

Then, to break it—because it felt like too much—you rolled your shoulder and said, “Robby’s gonna kick your ass if you jump off during his shift.”

Jack huffed, the sound barely audible but real.

“Come on,” you added, nodding toward the stairwell. “Let’s get off this roof before someone reports us for loitering.”

You didn't move.

Not yet.

Just stood there in silence, waiting—not because you needed him to follow, but because you weren’t going anywhere without him.

And Jack came. Eventually. Quiet and heavy and slow, the shuffle of his shoes steadying against the roof's concrete.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped beside you, close enough to share warmth but not break space.

Then you walked. Together. Not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to feel it. Close enough to stay.

The night had grown heavier.

Somehow, you and Jack had found your way back to the balcony—again. It was quieter out here, the city humming beneath you, wind tugging softly at your hair. Your skin still held the memory of his hand at your waist. The music inside was muffled now, like the two of you had stepped out of the narrative entirely.

Jack leaned against the railing, but his gaze never left you. Something about the way he was looking—like he’d been holding back something for far too long.

You crossed your arms, more to anchor yourself than anything. “You’re staring.”

“You said my name,” he replied, voice low.

Your throat tightened. “You started it.”

He pushed off the railing, slow and deliberate. “You know what I mean.”

You didn’t back away. But your voice came sharper this time, more breath than warning. “Don’t. Don’t start something neither of us can come back from.”

That gave him pause. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe everything—but bit it back. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jack said. “But I can't keep pretending this is nothing.”

With a quiet breath, he confessed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart tripped.

“I try,” he continued, voice cracking. “God, I’ve tried. But you show up in every shift. Every damn quiet moment. I hear your voice when I walk through those doors. I look for you at every trauma call. And when you’re not there, it’s worse.”

You didn’t speak.

“I’ve been through hell,” he went on, stepping closer, “seen things I still don’t have names for—but none of it scares me the way you do. Because this?” He gestured between you. “This is real. And if I say it out loud, I don’t get to pretend anymore.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He looked at you, eyes tired and wide open. “Say something. Please.”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant. “You're my attending, we’re not supposed to—”

“I don’t care.”

The silence cracked wide open between you.

You let out a breath—shaky, exasperated.

"Fuck," you said, voice breaking. "What do you want me to say? That I can't stop thinking about you either? That I see your eyes every time I close mine—your smile, rare as it is, stuck in my head like a damn echo? That I come home and swear I can still smell your cologne because it’s the only thing that brings me any sense of comfort?"

Your hands were trembling now. You didn’t stop—couldn't.

"Pretending this means nothing is easier than risking what happens if it actually matters. Because if it does—Jack—"

Jack caught you before you could even get the words out. His mouth was on yours, rough and unyielding, and you didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. You kissed him like you meant it, because fucking hell, did you mean it. 

When your back hit the wall beside the balcony doors with a quiet thud, he pressed closer, hands framing your jaw like you were something to be memorized.

There was nothing polite in the way you touched each other now. Just years of tension, unspoken things, and the desperate need to feel something real.

You didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

His lips trailed lower, brushing the hinge of your jaw before nipping gently at your neck. The sound you made—half breath, half shock—only seemed to spur him on.

“Then don’t pretend,” Jack whispered against your skin, voice rough and reverent. “Let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Your hands cradled the sides of his face, fingers brushing across his cheekbones. All these years spent by his side and you hadn’t taken the time to admire his freckles.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his—slower now, deeper. One of his hands slid down your back, splaying across the small of it as if anchoring you in place. The other tangled into your hair, careful but needing.

You gasped when his hips met yours again, your breath catching between kisses. He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

"I need you," you finally said.

And that was all he needed.

He rushed to close the curtains on the inside and lock the balcony doors before returning to you. 

Your world narrowed to the way his mouth reclaimed yours, the press of his body, the heat building like a fuse lit too close to the end. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving. But here, in the quiet shelter of the balcony, there was only this.

Jack dropped to his knees, the motion fluid. You sucked in a breath as his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, coaxing one leg upward until your heel hooked over his shoulder. Your foot pressed gently against the curve of his back.

He tugged at the hem of your dress. You were already holding the hem of your dress, bunching it at your hips with practiced ease. The lace of your underwear was delicate, barely in the way—he hooked a finger around the side, sliding it with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath hitch.

You were already soaked, and the way his eyes flicked up confirmed he knew it. He looked up at you once, eyes dark and unwavering, before leaning in.

His mouth was slow at first—exploring, learning you. The way your breath stuttered when his tongue found a sensitive spot, the way your fingers clenched in his hair. “You taste just as incredible as I imagined,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. When he inserted a finger and curled towards himself, you nearly buckled.

You didn’t mean to cry out, but it slipped past your lips, helpless and raw. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth, which made him smirk. He caught your elbow with his free hand, gently but insistently, pulling your hand away and intertwining your fingers into his hair. You gave his curls a tug and were met with a moan. It was impossible to hide the smug grin that painted your face.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. His voice dipped lower, rougher.

You felt the press of the marble wall cool behind you as your back arched. One hand flew to the wall, the other gripping his shoulder as he kept going—steadfast, focused, like you were the only thing that existed. Like this was something he'd been starving for.

And maybe you had been too. Because every sound, every gasp that left you was honest.

You hiked your knee higher, anchoring your heel along the dip of his back. The dress had long since stopped mattering.

Jack’s grip tightened, one hand digging into the curve of your ass as he anchored you against the wall. His other hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding inside you with precision, curling until your legs nearly gave out.

"Jack, I'm—" You moaned into your clenched teeth, the sound too loud, too needy—but he wanted it, taking it in like oxygen.

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as your breath came in shallow, stuttering waves. He didn’t let up. The rhythm was relentless, mouth and hand working in tandem, dragging you closer to the edge with every sweep, every flick, drinking you like water from a desert oasis. He stopped only when you tapped his cheek twice, silently begging for mercy. 

Your skin glistened, painted with heat. Before he pulled away, Jack leaned in again, his tongue tracing the trails of your release up your inner thigh with slow, savoring strokes. Each pass of his mouth made you twitch, gasp, overstimulated but unwilling to stop. He kissed the soft skin in their wake.

When he finally looked up, his face was just as wrecked, jaw set and glistening with you. And the look in his eyes when he glanced up—hungry, worshipful—was enough to ruin you.

His lips were parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. “God, you’re perfect.” His eyes lifted to meet yours with something close to divine awe.

It came out quiet—like a confession he'd finally allowed himself to say out loud.

You leaned down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He let out a low, contented sound against your mouth, one hand tightening around your thigh, the other still steadying your hip. You could feel the tension in him—tender, aching—as if the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold it close.

Your fingers slipped into your dress, pulling free a small foil square tucked just inside the cup of your bra. Jack blinked down at it, then back up at you, clearly caught off guard.

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

You shrugged, breathless. "Was holding it for a friend."

Jack smirked, eyes dragging down your body. "Sure you were."

You made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and pushing his pants down just enough.

“He talks too much,” you muttered, smirking.

You looked down.

And stopped.

He was perfect. Cut, trimmed, thick, just the right length. The kind of sight that made your breath hitch. Your hand slid along his length with a few firm pumps—just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.

You couldn't resist. Lowered to your knees, gave him a few languid licks, savoring the taste. He whimpered, his hand gently gripping your hair—but not pulling, not yet.

After a few more pumps, Jack pulled you up by the chin with a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasp.

“I’m not coming anywhere but inside you,” he growled against your lips.

You smiled, teasing. “Maybe next time, then.” Your fingers trailed down the front of his dress shirt, feeling the heat of his body even through the fabric—muscles taut and firm beneath your touch.

Then you turned, facing the wall—cheeks hot, breath short. One hand braced flat against the cool marble, the other gathering the bunched fabric of your dress. You looked over your shoulder, eyes dark with want.

Jack swore under his breath. He moved behind you in a blur, hands rough on your hips as he lined himself up. The heat of him pressed against you, teasing, maddening.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice lower than gravel.

You pushed back, just enough for him to sink in, slow and deliberate. He filled you up inch by inch, warm and hot and perfect, making you gasp as your forehead pressed to the wall.

His hands wrapped around your hips as he bottomed out, his mouth dragging along your neck, teeth grazing your skin until he whispered a sharp, broken "fuck"—more to himself than to you. Like he was trying not to explode.

You tried to move, just a little forward, a little back—restless with need—but his hands tightened.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Just—just give me a second. You feel fucking incredible.”

“Jack,” you whimpered.

If he clenched his teeth any harder, he might've popped his jaw. "Fuck, I love when you call me by my name."

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Please.”

That undid him.

He gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your supple flesh—just shy of bruising. The pain was delicious, grounding you to every thrust, every second of connection, hips rocking forward, slowly at first—deep, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch of you from the inside out. Each thrust sent a spark up your spine, your moans echoing softly. His mouth returned to your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel too good," he muttered, almost like it hurt. "Too good."

You tried to respond, but the words got lost somewhere in your throat as his pace picked up—harder, deeper, everything building.

Your hands flattened against the wall, bracing yourself as your body rocked with his rhythm. It was dizzying—overwhelming—in all the best ways. Every drag of his hips made your knees tremble, every grunt and growl in your ear pushed you closer to unraveling.

Without warning, he turned you around to face him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, chest heaving. He lifted your left leg with his right hand, supporting your thigh against his side as he surged forward again.

The angle had you seeing stars—vision spinning as he hit that spot inside you with maddening precision. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as your head dropped forward against his.

Your hands clasped behind his neck, holding tight, desperate to keep him there. You raked your fingers through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him moan—and dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck, leaving a faint trail of heat in their wake. His mouth found yours again—tongue hot, hungry—kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His left hand anchored you by the hip, grinding you against him as his rhythm deepened, pulling another cry from your throat.

There was nothing left but heat, hands, breath. And the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever wanted—needed.

"I'm yours," he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a truth. Raw and full and real.

Your lips brushed his, trembling. “And I’m yours.”

The moment cracked open between you. You kissed him—desperate, hungry, chasing the high you were both barely holding onto.

You felt yourself teetering, the peak just within reach. Jack looked like he was holding back, focusing on keeping every muscle drawn tight with restraint—putting your pleasure before his. But you needed him there with you, completely.

You leaned into his ear, breath hot. “I need you to cum for me, Jack.” His fingers dug deeper into your hip. "I need you to fill me up."  Your knee wrapped tighter around his torso, drawing him impossibly closer as you held him to you, clinging like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. You bit the curve of his neck, sharp and claiming.

That was all it took.

He let out a guttural sound, hips stuttering as he came undone, pulling you with him into a release that felt like freefall—earth-shattering and unrelenting.

Your release crashed through you moments after his, drawn out and all-consuming. Every nerve lit up, your body shaking with the intensity of it. It wasn’t like anything else—no drug, no high. Just him. You. This.

For a long beat, neither of you moved. Your breath came in broken gasps, foreheads pressed together, bodies trembling in the aftermath. Sweaty. Beautiful. And quiet.

Jack’s hand smoothed up your spine, grounding you. His lips brushed your temple, and the world finally began to settle back into place.

He gently brushed strands of damp hair from your face, fingers tender where they swept against your skin. The breeze caught a few pieces, but they clung to the sheen on your cheeks. When you finally let your leg down, your knees buckled slightly. Jack caught you without hesitation—arms strong, sure, keeping you steady as your weight shifted. You clung to him without thinking, hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. When you finally loosened your grip, he didn’t let go right away—his arms still braced around you like muscle memory, like instinct.

Pulling back, you realized what a disheveled mess the two of you were. 

You reached up and smoothed down the front of his shirt, fixing the lapels of his suit, tugging the hem of his jacket into place. Thankfully whatever hair gel he used was bulletproof, only a curl or two out of place. He brushed his fingers along your hairline, gently tucking back strands that had come loose, then adjusted the strap of your dress where it had slipped off your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, but heavy.

Clearing your throat, you tried to gather your thoughts. “I, uh…”

Jack’s eyes remained a little dazed, as if he was still anchoring himself to the moment.

A breath escaped you—half-laugh, half-exhale. “Tea. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine for tea.”

He blinked once, then his lips quirked.

“Tea?”

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “Or, like… whatever. Just to wind down. You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head once, slow. “Only if you’re not just holding it for a friend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re welcome anytime, Jack. You know that, right?”

His gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

You nodded once, awkward and earnest. “Cool. Good. Great.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You always this smooth after balcony sex?”

You shot him a glare filled with playful menace. "Depends. You always this cocky after someone invites you over for tea?”

He smiled—one of those rare ones, small and sideways. “Only when it’s not just for the tea.”

You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “But I’m yours, remember?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Return policy on that is… nonexistent, right?”

His smile widened just a touch. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Careful, Jack. That almost sounded romantic.”

He chuckled, then sobered just enough to meet your eyes. “Maybe it was.”

The breeze danced around you both again, brushing cool air against warm skin. Still, the embers between you remained.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his hand. “Let’s go before someone realizes we’ve been out here defiling the sacred balcony.”

He followed without hesitation. Fingers laced with yours.

This time, neither of you looked back. 

<3

[goodletterapis]

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[justmeinadaze]

Gunslinger (Eddie X Y/N)

A/N: So yeah this was my idea for Sam in Warfare but I didn't want to write for him just because he is a real person. Plus, I thought with Eddie there's more meat in his history. Idk but lol yeah kind of same elements in what happened to Sam happens to Eddie but this is more about the PTSD aspect of the aftermath. While writing I was listening to music and "Gunslinger" by Avenged Sevenfold came on which felt perfect for the story and the title <3

Warnings: Husband/Solider Eddie & Fem Wife Y/N, SMUT, light dirty talk, p in v, praise (good girl), aftercare always, FLUFF, these two definitely love each other and are high school sweethearts.

ANGST *plays angsty drums with angsty sticks in an angsty room*

This does primarily focus on PTSD, not just for a solider who got hurt but the partner of someone who has to experience the effects of a husband with PTSD. His injuries are mentioned but not delved into too deeply, he does have flashbacks, trouble sleeping, overstimulation with sound, etc. Reader does get the brunt of these, mentions of him accidentally choking her (brief), him trying to protect her while disassociating.

She talks about how much it hurts her to see him in pain.

They do talk about a letter he wrote to her if anything ever happened to him and he does read it to her. You will feel that because I felt it and I wrote the thing lol

My trauma isn't from the military but I utilized what I've experienced myself as well as from experience talking to friends who served. If you feel like this may trigger you I understand! Im angsty, I write angsty stuff. and sometimes I delve into certain angsty themes because it not only helps me to write it out but I know you guys experience things like this as well. You're not alone.

Please if you can, donate to any fundraisers that help vets like the Wounded Warrior Project. I worked for the VA for a few months when the pandemic started. You'd be surprised how long they wait for care.

Word Count: 4401

"Never let it show The pain I've grown to know 'Cause with all these things we do It don't matter when I'm coming home to you."

“What would you like for breakfast?”, you ask as you display both boxes of cereal you know he likes. 

“You ask me that like I won’t be eating either of those as breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the occasional snack.”, Eddie teases, his grin growing when you laugh and toss both boxes into the basket. 

When he got back from serving overseas, things had been incredibly rough. 

Hell, even before he got back, it was hard. His COs had called to tell you he was wounded in battle but wouldn’t tell you anything more. You begged for a flight to him as soon as possible and you were thankful they were able to get you to your husband without much resistance. 

He was in surgery when you landed and by the time you got to the hospital, he was asleep in a bed next to another passed out solider. 

You sobbed as you took in all the bandages and cuts along his body. 

The military didn’t tell you much, just that a bomb went off and Eddie got caught in the middle. They said he was a hero, trying to warn and push away as many of the others he could. 

Of course he did because that was Eddie Munson. 

 One of his friends who survived, told you the entire story about being held down in a house and a bomb going off. Your husband saw it coming when no one else did and warned his unit to run. 

When the smoke cleared, he was the one bleeding and screaming.

They said the only time he stopped was when he talked about you. 

“We told him everything would be ok and to hang on so we could have a chance to embarrass him in front of you.”, the man chuckles lightly. “He told us to give you this letter and if he didn’t make it for us to look after you.”

You never opened that letter telling yourself he made it even though you knew the real reason was it would kill you to hear what your husband believed his last words would be to you. 

After a month, the military discharged him from being overseas but allowed him later on to work as a mechanic for the cars and tanks on the military base. Once you were in the states, he became a part of a rigorous physical therapy routine, that got him back on his feet in no time even though now he moved a bit slower than before. 

The PTSD triggers were always different, more so how he reacted to them. 

The more time at passed the more jittery he became. You assumed that was because the more he got comfortable the less his guard was up. That didn’t remove the fact that for the first few months, his head was always on a swivel, checking for threats that weren’t there. 

You allowed him as much space and time to process that he needed but that never erased the effect it had on you. The nightmares that had him screaming left bruises on your skin when he would jump up and hit accidently hit your body. The night terrors that had him sleep walking into the living room holding an imaginary weapon as he murmured commands and “yes, sirs” to his team that were currently asleep within their own homes. 

The doctors told you not to wake him but when Eddie began shouting about a threat in the house, you couldn’t help yourself when your palm touched his shoulder and he grabbed your wrist to spin you around, smacking your back to the ground with his hands around your throat. 

You managed to get him awake and he sobbed on the floor beside you as he apologized repeatedly. 

The ramp up to a break down was always the hardest, not just because of how he was with you but how he was with himself. He would glare into a void while you talked during dinner or were watching a movie together in the living room. 

“And my mom mentioned that house again down the street from her. I told her we’re fine where we are but…”, you trail off as he absently nods. “Eddie? Are you ok?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”, he snaps as he throws his fork down onto the table. 

“I…you just…seemed distant…”

“I heard you, Y/N. Your mom for a ten thousandth time brought up how you should move closer to her because she thinks she’s being subtle about the fact that she thinks I can’t fucking take care of you!”

“Edward Munson, that’s not what I said and neither did she.”

“Oh please! Your mom has never fucking liked me and now that I’m fucking crazy she thinks she can finally convince you to—”

“You’re not crazy—”

“DON’T INTERRUPT ME WHEN I’M FUCKING—” He sees you jump causing him to blink as if realizing where he was and who he was talking to. “Sweetheart, I’m…fuck…I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know…I know, Eddie.”

Reaching for your arms, he guides you onto his lap and wraps his strong, muscular arms around you. 

“I’m sorry. I just…I’ve been in my own head these past few days, you know? I love you so much.”

His eyes follow the sway of your hips as you step forward and search for the next item on your list while he pushes the cart after you. 

The first time he met you in high school, he was mesmerized by those hips and never hid how sexy he thought you were. The more you both hung out the more he learned that your beautiful personality matched your gorgeous exterior and he knew fairly quickly that he would marry you one day. 

A year after you did tie the knot, he signed up for service and 6 months after was deployed. You tried to push away the pain of knowing he was leaving soon by having as much fun with him as possible. 

“Ok…are you sure about this?”

“No.”, he sighed playfully as he stared at himself into the mirror.

“Oh, come on, Munson, don’t be a baby!”, Steve shouts as he takes a sip from the bottle in his hand. 

“Fuck off, Harrington! Let’s see you cut off all your hair.” All your friends in the room laugh and Eddie exhales as he closes his eyes. “Ok, baby, do it.”

Everyone cheered after the first buzz of his hair was removed and by the time you were done, he had come to accept it, rising to his feet and raising his arms in victory as the younger kids in his friend group jumped up to give him a hug. 

That last night you were together was one of the hardest nights of your life, not just for you but for him. Eddie held you tightly in his embrace as his thumb continuously caressed your arm and his nose would occasionally inhale your smell, committing it to memory to take with him. 

“I don’t think we’ve slept alone in almost three years and before that you used to sneak into my trailer, remember?”, he smiles when you giggle. “I would hold you like this and kiss your skin… asking myself ‘Damn…what the fuck is this perfect angel doing with me?’”

“Eddie. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”, you lightly scold. “To me, you were perfect to. Except maybe the smoking…and the weed…and your sense of humor—”

“Ok, ok, calm down. Those are some of the TOP reasons you fell in love with me.” Rolling on to your back, your eyes take in his face before his lips gently press to yours. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you to, Eddie. Make sure to come back to me, ok? Don’t you dare leave me here to live my life without you.”

“I promise, pretty girl. I’ll do everything I can to come back to you.”

As you stop to stare at the cans in front of you, your husband comes around the cart and circles his arms around your waist from behind you. You can’t help but smile as you lean back against him and your arm circles his neck to run your fingers through the small bit of curls that had finally come through. 

“You are so fucking sexy when you stare at a can of peas.”

Your cackle makes him laugh as he hugs you tighter. 

“Thank you. I’ve been working on this new look called ‘domesticity’ and…”

Eddie chuckles harder as he lifts you off your feet and spins you around before dipping you so he could kiss your lips.

“I love you.”

“I love you to, freak.”

Another quick peck, another laugh. 

You enjoy these soft moments…why does chaos always seem to follow?

A loud bang echoes through the store, most likely a clerk dropping a box or someone knocking something heavy over. 

To Eddie though, it was like a bomb going off and without hesitation he shielded you with his body as he pushed you both to the ground. 

Your eyes assessed everything around you.

Your husband was crouching down on one knee with one arm secured around you and the other gripping the shelf in front of him with his head tucked down. 

“Eddie, baby—”

“Shhhh…shhhh…have to be quiet…”, he whispered, his eyes closed tight. “Can’t let them find us.”

“Sweetheart, everything’s ok—”

His large palm roughly clamped down on your mouth as he pulled you to his chest. 

“You have to be fucking quiet!”, he hisses. 

A stranger appears and places her palm delicately on his shoulder. 

“It’s ok, son. The threat is over. Can you confirm?”

With that command, his eyes snap open as he looks around him and even you can see he’s still on the battlefield mentally. 

“C-Confirmed. Hostiles no longer engaging. We need evac now.”

“For who, solider?”

“For…um…” 

You watch as he blinks, slowly taking in the situation as his chest heaves in panic. 

“For who, solider? I need to know who needs help.”, the woman repeats as her eyes comfortingly flick your way as she mouths the words it’s ok.

“Um…I think…my wife…I need to make sure she’s safe.”

“Ok, and if I may ask, when did your wife enlist?”

“She didn’t!”, Eddie snaps as if she just asked him a stupid question. 

“Ok, solider, then again if I may ask, how can I get her evac when she’s not there?”

You saw the momentary doubt flash through his irises before the softness returned and he looked down to realize how he was holding you. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m…I’m so sorry. Are you ok? Did I hurt you?”, he asks as he helps you to your feet.

“Thank you for what you just did.”, you say as you extend your hand out to the older woman who helps him off the ground. 

“Not a problem. My husband and I went to therapy for years and even now sometimes he still has to use what we learned to pull me out of the war.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”, Eddie murmurs as he uses both his hands to encapsulate and shake hers as well. 

“Not a problem at all. You have a beautiful wife who loves you very much.”

“Yeah…I’ve known her since we were kids. I carried her with me while I was there.”, he relayed without prompting as he pulled out his wallet and showed her the now wrinkled with time photo of you he always kept within. 

“Aw, look at you.”, she coos. “And you haven’t aged a day. I bet your kids look as gorgeous as their mother.”

“Oh, uh, no ma’am. No kids yet.”

“Hm.”, she nods knowingly as she shifts her gaze back to you. “Well, there’s still time. It’ll never be easy but definitely worth it should you decide to go down that route.”

#############

Eddie’s sigh filled the room before he firmly walked towards the tv in your bedroom to turn it off and placed himself in front of where you were on the mattress. 

“Everything alright?” Silently, he pushed a folded-up piece of paper in your hand. “What is this?”

“My letter I wrote to you. Before they moved us anywhere, I always wrote something to you just in case something happened to me.” Nodding, you smile in a thin line as you continue to hold it in your palm. “Read it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t, Eddie.”

“Fine. Then I can read it to you.”

“Edward—“, you growl as you start to try to stand but he pushes you back down and clings to your wrist. 

“I have it memorized. I read and reread it sometimes to make sure I was always conveying how I felt. I learned pretty quickly there weren’t enough words to fully express how much I love you.”

You jaw clenched as you tried to keep your emotions in check.

“Sweetheart, 

Tonight, they are sending us to a little town outside of hostile territory. I’m terrified but my Captain said nothing should go down. If it does and something happens to me, pretty girl, just know I love you with all my heart.” 

“Eddie…stop, ok? You don’t have to do this.”, you grumble as you try to get up again but his hand doesn’t budge. “Let me go, please.”

“From the moment I met you, baby, you changed my life. You never looked at me like I was trailer trash or ever once made me feel like a burden or a problem.”

As he spoke, you kept pulling trying to get free to no avail finally settling on punching and pushing at his chest. His voice never faltered as he continued. 

“You were (are) so beautiful with that tight leather skirt and Dio shirt that had me pushing Steve’s arm telling him ‘That’s the girl I’m gonna marry!’ During band practice, you would sit on my lap and run your fingers through my hair…I would lay my head on your chest and just smell your perfume. Whenever I think of home, that’s the first thing that comes to mind.

If you’re reading this, I’m probably gone…”

The fight in you stops and his hands cup your cheeks as you sob.

“…and I’m so sorry…so fucking sorry for breaking my promise. I said I’d come home to you but I want you to know I’m always with you, honey. In the music we listened to on our road trips to different places. In the wind when you sleep with the window open because you love the smell of the flowers outside. In my clothes I know you’ll wear because even now I bet you’re sleeping in my Hellfire t-shirt! 

I’ll even be there when you find someone new, maybe later down the line, and start a family.

That will be my only regret, pretty girl. Never having a family with you. I know you’ll be a wonderful mom. 

You were the perfect wife to a freak like me.”

Eddie tilts your forehead against his as he grabs your thighs and lifts you till your straddling his lap with your arms circling his neck. 

“Please know you’re always on my mind…even in those last moments…your face will be what I see. 

I love you,

Eddie.”

“I don’t like picturing you in pain…or thinking of my life without you. I hate that your mind takes you back there.”, you whimper as your thumb caresses his cheek. 

“I try to control it. Some days are a lot better than others.”

“I know, baby.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“No, Eddie—”

“I wish I could fully explain it…how my brain SEES…everything when it’s happening…”

“Eddie—”

“There was that loud pop and I could swear I was back on the street but instead of me bleeding it was you.” Silence befalls you both as you let him continue. “It doesn’t make rational sense for you to be there but…it does…nothing is rational when gun fire and explosions are happening around you… That woman touched me but it felt just my captain when he lets us know he’s there…right behind. She was talking but all I heard was radio chatter…

It was loud, Y/N, and it gets so overwhelming…all your senses are overloaded… Which is kind of odd because when—when it happened, I couldn’t really hear anything. All I could do was feel the pain…”

“They, while you were in surgery, told me they distracted you by trying to talk about me.”

Eddie chuckled then as his chocolate eyes meet yours. 

“Yeah, I remember that. I think I told them I would be pissed if your tattoo was gone.”

Grinning, you carefully lifted up his shirt and tossed it aside as your fingers traced over your name in ink along his chest along with the quote from the song he performed for you at the school talent show. 

“Y/N Y/L/N Munson

When I see you smile, I can face the world.”

Because of his injury, part of the LD in world was lighter than the rest.

His eyes close as you tilt down and allow your lips to tenderly kiss along his skin down his scar that trailed along his side to his stomach. Falling flat against the bed, he happily sighs as he pets your head.

“I’m not afraid of you, baby. I know you’re trying and working hard with your doctor. I know you don’t mean to… Eddie, I know you would never consciously hurt me.”

His stomach deflates underneath your mouth while your fingers gradually reach up to unbuckle his belt and lower his pants with his boxers. Your palm rubs along his thighs as the pads of your fingers bump along the darker scars and indents of the numerous incisions the surgeons sewed into him to save his life. 

“And you’re still as handsome as ever…with your muscles, tattoos, and the cute little pudge on your stomach—“, you tease as you poke his tummy, making him laugh before tugging you to his side and rolling on top of you. 

“Ooooookay, jerk. That’s what happens when your wife is a good cook.”, he jokes back as he softly kisses your lips. “How about, um, we give you some pudge?”

“Hey, I eat my food to.”, you giggle, lightly punching his arm. 

“No, I meant like filling your belly with something more than food.” It takes you a while to catch on but when you do you can’t help but blink at him as your eyebrows furrow together. “I mean, we don’t have to have a baby right now. I know with everything going on—”

Your lips cut him off as your take hold of the back of his neck to bring him to you. After flipping him onto his back, he yanks off your oversized shirt you had worn to bed and promptly attaches to your nipple as you hug his head to your chest. 

“Fuck, baby.”, you moan, grinding your hips against his while his palms glides down your back. 

Your husband’s expert tongue swirled around the bud as he made out with your breast and your eyes rolled as his cock pressed deliciously against the cotton blocking your core. 

“Eddie, please.”

Pushing up into a sitting position, he kissed you feverishly as his fingers pulled at the waistband of your panties making him grunt in frustration before deciding to just tear them so he could slide them off you without you having to let him go. 

“I’ll buy you more. Shit—come here, baby.”

You bit your bottom lip to contain the giddy giggle as he spun you around till you were underneath him once more. His arm twists between you both and the two of you mewled as he ran his mushroom tip between your folds. 

“Eddie, please…I need you.”

“You need me, sweetheart?”, he panted out, kissing your cheek when you vigorously nod. “Say it again, honey.”

“I need you, Eddie. I need to feel you inside me.”

As he guides his length into your entrance, you feel his tongue run along your neck as he sucks a hickey into your skin and your pussy clenches around him. 

“Fuuuuck…that’s my good girl. Always takes my dick so well.”

He finds a steady pace allowing skin to smack against skin as your legs and arms hold him as close to you as possible. 

Sex was never dull with Eddie, granted you had no one to compare it to since he was your first but he was continuously careful with you, praising you and making you feel loved. When he came back home, it took a while for you both to even be intimate again and when you were he was bit rougher than he had been. 

It took him a few months to notice but when he did it killed him. 

“Are you ok? Why are you grabbing your…did I hurt you?”

“It’s…it’s ok, baby.”

Eddie glared into the void before powerwalking to the freezer and coming back with an ice pack that he placed between your legs. 

“Did I hurt you? Tell me the truth, Y/N.”

“You…you’ve been a bit more aggressive with me than you used to be…”

“Fuck—”

“Eddie, it’s ok—”

“It’s not ok! Listen, we’re going to come up with a safe word. That way you can get my attention and I can immediately stop. I wish you had said something…”

“I didn’t want to hurt you or make you feel bad.”

“No, sweetheart, you could never…just…promise me that you’ll be more open about…everything. I’m still kind of figuring it all out again…life, you know?”

It took some time but you finally found your rhythm again. He was able to walk that line of soft and firm while making your eyes roll till you came screaming his name. 

“Just like that, Eddie, fuck.”

You whimper with need, glancing beside you to notice his fist grip the sheets as he rolls his hips pushing his cock deeper into you till you practically feel him in your stomach. 

“Cum, baby.”, he grunts into your ear. “Mmph—M’not gonna last much longer. You feel too good. S-So fucking tight.”

Your nails softly trail up his neck to the back of his head making him shudder in pleasure as his pant warms your skin. 

“Cum inside me.”

Your head turns toward him as his eyes shoot open and his pace falters for a moment. 

“Are you…are you sure?”

“More than ever, Eddie, please. Cum for me. Cum WITH me.”

You feel his face scrunch as he whines and his arms slide between you and the mattress to hold you close as his release paints your walls. Never feeling this from him before your pussy fluttered around him and his hooded eyes watched as the coil snapped within you. 

His hips were still lazily thrusting, giving you all he had as you both tried desperately to catch your breaths. 

“Are you ok?”, he whispered as you exhaustedly nodded. “I’ve never cum inside you before. It…it felt like heaven. Everything about you is heaven.”

It took him a moment but it was then he realized that you were trying to hold back tears. 

“Hey, hey, hey. What…what’s wrong? Fuck, I was too rough again, wasn’t I? I told you to tell me!”

As he starts to push up off your body, your limbs promptly hold him still. 

“No, you weren’t…weren’t too rough. I’m sorry I just…I love you so much.”, you cry. “I know you worry about how…how all this affects me but, baby, I hate how it affects you.”

You don’t see it but his eyes close as he sighs and his heart breaks. 

He hates seeing you in pain. 

He saw it when your parents scolded you for dating “the town freak” or when you were let go from your job in town because they needed to downsize. He saw it in your eyes when he told you he signed up for service and when he finally had to let you go to get on the plane to fly to what would be his new home overseas. 

He heard it in your voice when you two would talk over the computer and it would crack when you told him how much you missed him. He read it in your writing when you would send letters begging him to stay safe and reminding him how much you loved him. 

Eddie felt it when his fingers twitched, feeling something sweaty in his palm before opening his eyes to realize he was in the hospital with you clinging to his hand by his side. When you watched every wince during his physical therapy and afterward helped him with his stretches so his muscles would reawaken. 

When he had his night terrors and his hands flew to your throat… a new regret he could never take back…

Silently, your husband made sure you were secure around him as he lifted you up and carried you to the bathroom, whispering soft comforts in your ear as he pet your hair and started a bath. 

Once the porcelain was full, he tapped your shoulder and you let him go as you climbed in before he did the same placing himself behind you. Calloused palms rub your arms and shoulders as he leaves gentle kisses along your skin. 

“On Monday, I’ll talk to my doctor about what happened and about some other recommendations he may have when it comes to those triggers. I also want to talk to Wayne…tell him he’s going to be a grandpa soon.” 

Eddie smiles when he hears you giggle. 

“Y/N…thank you…for everything you do. I know you didn’t sign up for all this but, Jesus, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here. I love you so much to.”

Craning your neck, you kiss his lips as his arms pull you back against his chest. 

“I signed up a life with you, Eddie, and no matter what happens I’ll always be here for you…freak.”

You smile wide as he snorts out a laugh and playfully tickles your side. 

These were the moments you hung on to, the moments he was at peace and happy. Anything that follows, you’d handle together because he deserved that…to live his best life with his wife and future little family. 

#################

[the-fandom-is-now-my-life]

Let's go enjoy the sun and 55!

Hopefully I'm doing this correctly eksoqheb-

Let's go enjoy the sun!

Haru might have convinced you to help out for their fundraiser so let's see who are the three people who come to spend the evening in Jabberwock

Wc: ~1,8k

“Is everything ready?” Haru asks from the door of Jabberwock while he carries out a very homemade stand under his arm before setting it down. It's the equivalent to a child's lemonade stand but rather it read ‘jabberwock fundraiser’ in big black letters

“Are you honestly doing this?”

“We are really in need of money, ren!” He pouts before saying something to Towa who was humming in agreement.

“Why are you even here? You aren't even part of Jabberwock” Ren looks up from his raid to side eye you.

“Haru looked pretty depressed while he vented so I decided to help”

“Are you stupid or spineless?” a sigh leaves his lips and he doesn't wait for an answer before focusing again on his phone.

“Stop bothering them, Ren! At least I heard what you said so now you only have to wait on visitors and charge them”

“And you forced me to not take shifts to do what I do for my job?” 

Ignoring him Haru pulls a marker and writes down the prices.

500 yen for 30 minute foraging group tour with Towa

800 yen for 30 minute capybus ride with Haru

But when you reach your price for essentially frolicking around the hills and sunbathing your breath scapes your lungs

“So expensive”

“Don't undersell yourself!” Haru chimes and towa hums “I'm sure you will get us more earnings than you think!”

“That is like 2500 diamonds in Shock of clans” Ren comments, and it makes you remember when he spent 30 minutes thinking if buying diamonds was smart. Next he throws a sly smirk  “seems like someone else can take care of the cashier for me”

“Then you can go feed the salamanders! Such good thinking Ren!” Haru chimes.

“Forget it, I just remembered they weren't good at math"

“Hello, senpai” Sho smiles as he hands the money to Ren, who was still bitching about now having to pay proper attention to his job and not the game.

“oh? I didn't expect you to come by, Sho!” quickly you walk around the stand and hug him. Seeing he paid, you link both of your arms and start leading where Haru told you was your ‘station’.  

“and leave you with whatever pervert might come? After you helped around the truck some weirdos came asking when you would be there again” 

“Mhm, so you decided to be the weirdo?” You two walk down a path between some overgrown red cap mushrooms that were as tall as trees, this would be such a good place to record an Alice in wonderland movie.

“Here I come trying to save you from perverts and this is how I get treated?” Sho feigns being hurt, his hand slapping his chest “so what were you supposed to do?”

You throw yourself on the red blanket laying down on the floor before smiling knowing he would crack up “ I'm hosting a flower themed tea party” and your hand signals to the glass teapot with lotus designs and the matching lotus shaped teacups that hotarubi lent “and if you want I can make you a flower crown” without missing a beat he laughs “to be fair, I thought I would lead a tour or play cashier” 

“And they ended up having you serve tea?” You nod “and you didn't complain?” you nod again “well, are you going to pour me or what?” He sits down next to you, soon drinking the jasmine tea.

For the hour that he booked you two mostly chatted about how he was doing, how he was getting closer to Subaru, and how his food truck was going. It was so nice to be able to chat with Sho without Leo interrupting or him dividing his attention between cooking and receiving clients but every few minutes his phone would start buzzing making him frown until he checks who is sending the texts.

“Oi, smile” Sho raises the telephone and takes a photo of you making him a flower crown with some dandelions and wild flowers.

“keeping a photo for the memory? I would have fixed my hair if you were gonna to photograph me” 

“Leo is texting me nonstop, maybe this will stop him a bit” he puts down the phone and grabs one of the cookies that were on the plate, they are the typical chocolate chip cookies from the kiosk but that are a worthy accompaniment.

Not even a few minutes later Leo uploads a post on wickchat and Sho gets a notification, from his scowl you can guess he isn't happy. In his screen there is a story with a snarky comment mocking his friend and soon the comments flooded with people sympathizing with him.

damn, my friend bailed out of a hang out to go out with his crush who doesn't even like him

“That asshole” the comment and the cluck of his tongue slip without thinking, soon getting your attention from the almost finished craft.

“Is it that bad?” Curious, you take your own phone from your cardigan but before even being able to type Leo's user in the search bar Sho throws himself at you, arm quickly swatting away the phone. Effectively ensuring you didn't see the post but making him lose balance and fall over just in time for Ritsu and Ren walking in.

“Hey, YN, can you watch the stand for a sec? He wants to go on a tour and I can't find To-” his eyes widen when he sees the scene “what the…”

“If you  desire to file for sexual harassment I would be honored to be your lawyer in the proceedings”

“Wait a minute this isn't what it looks like!” 

“He just lost balance, there is no need to jump to conclusions”

“No need to feel ashamed, there are two visual witnesses to attest, I'm sure Darkwick will respond”

Soon enough, either because of embarrassment, Ren looking at him with thinly veiled disgust or Ritsu pushing you to file a restraining order, Sho leaves soon after entering jabberwock.

“Tsk, why would you bring me here?” Jin scratches the back of his head, icy blue eyes almost closed due to the sunlight he isn't used to.

“Hermits can be prone to vitamin D deficiency, and I saw this as the perfect opportunity for you to take some sun”

“Go to hell and die, asshole” Jin barks at him between clenched teeth but Thoma doesn't bother with him and goes to the stand.

“Morning, Thoma!” You wave as he gets closer

“inspector? I wasn't expecting to see you here”

“Yeah, Ren left me here while he led a first year to Towa’s tour” your hand points to the wooden slate with the three options and prices.

“Oh? I didn't hear that there were different tours” Thoma grabs his chin, looking over the proposals curiously. Behind him Jin is kicking dirt and cursing under his breath, if he could teleport with his sword why is he here still?

“Yep! Towa just left with the foraging party so he shouldn't return for a good few minutes, but Haru should be back soon”

“Hmm… I do see your name here, do you host a tour of your own?”

“It isn't quite like that” you laugh a bit “we decided that I shouldn't be alone with the anomalies just in case anything goes wrong. I just have a sort of tea party” 

“That does seem more like Jin's thing out of these options” Thoma mumbles lightly

“Oh, right now I'm taking care of the stand so I can't really entertain people” out of nowhere Ren’s hand lands on your shoulder, prompting you to give him his seat, last time you refused to he pulled his floatie around your torso so you couldn't move. He had a smile from ear to ear, sadistic brat.

“did you decide what you want to do?” Ren uses his customer service voice, barely different from his normal voice, just somehow more lifeless. If that was possible.

“we both will go with YN” Thoma pulls his wallet and pays. Ren hums while counting the money.

 Jin scoffs seated on the checkered blanket, a smirk on his lips “so you are going to be waiting on me again, servant”

You roll your eyes at his comment, even if this time you were technically serving him “yeah, yeah, it was indeed on the description” a soft smirk forms between your lips seeing a way to tease him. you turn around to face the teapot you ask “jasmine or black tea?” your hands fiddle with the lid, acting as if you were going to open it and put leaves in.

“Fine then, I want black tea”

“Wrong, it's jasmine” as you turn around to serve it and see his annoyed face and Thoma's amused one “this teapot never runs out of warm tea but it's always Jasmine” silently he complains but still drinks the tea, getting slightly more annoyed from the fact it tastes good, soft flowery flavor that leaves a nice sweetness on the tongue.

“Isn't that quite the useful anomaly?” Thoma muses, watching how slowly the liquid inside swirls from side to side and starts going up, filling itself again.

“I thought the same, Subaru was so nice for lending it to us for a day! He said to take it as Hotarubi’s support” you can remember clearly how he offered it before assuring that he didn't mean that he expected Jabberwock to help his dorm if anything happened! And that it wasn't like he was expecting anything like that and- luckily Haku popped in before his dorm leader had a panic attack.

“Isn't that nice of them? I'm sure we could use a source of warm drinks in Frostheim” 

“Haku told me that the wait list for it can get pretty long, around two months at a time” idly your hand brushes the grass, plucking a white flower growing close to the blanket and you bend the stem to make a small ring. Seeing Jin's pale hand resting on his lap you might as well give it to him but before you lean to the right and grab Jin's hand he moves it.

“Don't even think about it” like a cat with a too cuddly owner, he swipes his hand behind his back.

“Fine, Thoma give me your hand then” you lean forward but before you can grab Thoma's hand Jin snatches it “oh~? I thought you didn't want it”

He stuffs the ring in his pocket “Tsk what you give to your king can't be taken back even if you want to so stop whining”

When the time finished they both walked back to frostheim when Thoma hums softly a song.

“Do you want to die? bastard” when he flips him off the little white flower is in the next finger to the middle finger 

“Did I do something to anger you? It's just some notes” and he keeps humming the wedding march.

[shizucheese]

An open letter to @samreich and @dropoutdottv

I am writing this letter in response to the statement you posted yesterday, as well as the response of some within your community in response to Jewish people speaking out about it.

I have always admired Dropout for the inclusive space that you had created for marginalized people. Yesterday you showed that I and my fellow Jewish fans are not included in that. Everything I have been able to find shows that this was prompted by Noah Grossman and Rachel Bloom having been on your network recently. From my own research, Noah Grossman has not made any statement about the war in Gaza. Multiple people have pointed this out. The closest I have been able to find as evidence that Rachel Bloom is a “Zionist” is that performed at a fundraiser for a hospital in Tel Aviv. There is no evidence that I could find to indicate that either of them support the actions of the Israeli government in Gaza. You yourselves said in your own statement that to your knowledge no one who has appeared on Dropout has openly identified as a Zionist." What this means is that people saw you had people on your network who were Jewish and had even the slightest connection to Israel, and decided to accuse them of being “Zionists” and you of Platforming them.

Multiple Jewish members of your community have spoken out, explaining to you far better than I could why your response was incredibly antisemitic. I am begging you to listen to those members of your community, and do better. You cannot foster a community or space that is safe for everyone, particularly marginalized people, if you are also fostering a space where antisemitism goes unchecked.

Related to all of this, I want to take a moment to discuss the meaning and history of the word “Zionist.” A member of your Discord community voiced their frustration over your statement and how the word “Zionism” is being used. I will link it here, because I think they and a few others made some very good points that I intend to expand on here: https://www.reddit.com/r/dropout/comments/1gjjver/antizionism_antisemitism_from_a_longtime_fan_of/

I am going to include the response from the subreddit mod here: “This seems to be a reasonable and nuanced take so I don't want to dismiss it out of hand, but since you're using different definitions you're either intentionally or unintentionally creating strawmen arguments that to my knowledge no one here is supporting. If they are, please report it and it will be handled.

I'm definitely not an expert on what the definition of Zionism is or should be, but it's clear that Dropout's statement is not using the same definition you are here, so focusing entirely on the semantics isn't relevant to the actual issues being discussed.”

I realize the moderators of the dropout subreddit are likely not directly affiliated with you, and I will not hold you personally responsible for the words and actions of someone who is likely a fan basically doing volunteer work within your fan community, but their words and actions and the rhetoric that can be found in the subreddit in response to this Jewish person speaking out are indicative of the attitude and treatment of Jewish people that lead to this whole situation in the first place, and the kind of culture that statements like the one you made yesterday cultivate.

There are several problems with the statement the reddit mod made, and the mindset behind it.

The first major one, as many people in the replies pointed out, is that people from outside of a community have no right to tell people from within that community what a their own terminology means. Coopting a word from a culture and then talking over them when people from that culture speak out against it is incredibly problematic. For the record, because I and I know many other Jewish people have experienced this within the past year, if not longer than that: people from outside a marginalized group do not get to tell people from within that group what is and isn’t offensive to their group, or speak over them and tell them that something that people from within that marginalized group say is offensive isn’t actually offensive.

We say that it is important to elevate marginalized voices and not speak over them, so why is it that I’ve seen so much of this when Jewish people try to speak up about their own lived experiences?

Surely there is a way to elevate Palestinian voices and listen to their struggles without silencing Jewish ones?

The second major problem here is that the word “Zionist” has come to mean so many things to so many people that it is essentially meaningless. There is a reason I have largely put the word “Zionism” in quotes this entire time. As such, it is an incredibly bad faith argument to make to accuse a Jewish person speaking out about the use of the word “Zionism” and claim that “it is clear that Dropout’s statement is not using the same Definition as you are” and dismissing it as “semantics.” Especially when the definition of “Zionism” and the fact that it has been coopted by non-Jewish people to mean something different is so central to the conversation at hand?

For some people, “Zionism” is the belief that Jews have a right to self-determination and that Israel has a right to exist. For them, “Zionism” is a wide umbrella term that covers people from those who support a One State solution in favor of Israel and should rightfully be called out for it, to people who support a Two State solution and condemn what is happening in Gaza right now. This is the Jewish definition of the word, and the one that the OP of that subreddit post was using.

For others, “Zionist” means someone who uncritically supports what Israel is doing right now.

For others, “Zionist” means “Jew.” There is a long history of the word “Zionist,” being used by antisemites, and antisemites calling themselves “antizionist” when they are either trying to justify their bigotry or mask it to make it seem more palatable.

If you can take a statement an “antizionist” has made and replace the word “Zionist” with “Jew,” and they suddenly sound like they would have been right at home in WWII Germany, they are that third one and anything they say should be taken with far more criticism.

People who fall under the first and second definitions of "Zionist" also can be described as "Pro-Israel," and bad faith actors often interchangeably accuse Jewish people of being "Zionist" or "Pro-Israel" under the second definition when the reality is those people fall under the first definition and are disgusted by the actions of the Israeli government in Gaza.

So, here’s the problem: based on the complete lack of evidence that either Noah Grossman or Rachel Bloom are “Zionist” by the second definition stated here, it’s hard not to think that the people accusing Dropout of “platforming Zionists” are antisemites dressing up their antisemitism in progressive rhetoric and calling it "antizionism." They saw two Jewish people who had either stayed silent since the war started, or had at “worst” were involved with a fundraiser for a hospital, and labeled them “Zionists,” even though the actual views of both of these people are not actually known.

Your platform and two people who had appeared on it were subjected to an antisemitic campaign involving a threat of boycott, and your response was “to our knowledge, no individual who has appeared on Dropout has openly identified as a Zionist,” and then several paragraphs about the Palestinian people without even a hint of condemnation for the antisemitism at work here. Not even a single acknowledgement that being Jewish doesn’t automatically mean that someone is a “Zionist” by the second definition.

Also, like…the mod on your subreddit claimed it was “clear” which definition of “Zionist” was used in your statement, by which I assume they meant the second definition I provided. But I have personally been accused of being a “Zionist” for being in support of a two state solution, and I know for a fact—because I’ve seen it—that other Jewish people with the same beliefs have experienced this as well. Also there are people in the reblogs and tags of your Tumblr post claiming there are “Zionists in the reblogs” and “Zionists in the tags” when the closest thing I can find to “Zionism” is Jewish people calling out the antisemitism in the statement and the situation, and pointing out that the UNRWA, which you linked to in your post, has connections to Hamas, including members of their organization having been found to have been involved in the attacks on 10/7.

So no, “the definition of Zionism” is not clear here.

While we’re on the topic of Hamas, gentle reminder that Hamas was founded by people who wanted to cause a second Holocaust, their charter explicitly called for the hunting down of and murder of Jewish people as recently as 2017, (I will not link to it here, because there is a history of people getting penalized on social media for speaking out against hate speech by quoting it as if they were spreading that hate speech themselves, but it is easy enough to verify), and they still openly deny the Holocaust happened. To support, financially or otherwise, Hamas in any way is in fact to support Genocide.

When people came forward to express their disappointment in a derogatory word having been used in Breaking News and your Chris Grace special, you listened to them and made a statement addressing the issue and promising to do better. I am now asking for you to do the same for your Jewish fans: listen to what we are saying. Address it. Do better.

Also, before anyone tries to say “how can you say Dropout is Antisemitic when Sam Reich is Jewish?: --something I’ve already seen people do in the reblogs and tags of Dropout’s post and elsewhere—please do not use a Jewish person as a tool to silence other Jewish people. My one-year subscription to Dropout ends at the end of this month. If this has not been addressed by November 30, 2024, I will not be renewing my subscription and will be boycotting Dropout going forward. I urge anyone else who is disgusted by the antisemitism and silencing of Jewish voices on display here to do the same.

Thank you.

[eyes-are-watching]

Reminder for people who are interested in protesting but cannot go out in the streets: There are other forms of protest!

Educate/Inform: Write articles and essays, make slideshows, make videos, make a podcast! Get information out about your cause. Statistics; history; names of people who have been murdered or died, of people who are suffering, and how it happened; forms of protection for people protesting in the streets; lists of rights; how and where to join community spaces, find protests, events, and aid.

Artists: Make art! Political cartoons, murals and tributes to those who have fallen, collaborate with your informers and educators to make their presentations and articles more eye-catching. Photographers? Take photos of the violence, of the people affected, of the suffering, of the joy—expose it. Get it out there.

Contact Your Officials: Write emails and letters. Make phone calls. Make sure they know you are fired up, you are informed, and you will not stop fighting for change. If you have connections, utilize it. If you will be somewhere that you can safely talk to an official face-to-face, utilize that.

Tech Savvy People: Make websites and apps. Help your leaders in setting up online community spaces and ensuring safe communication. Get into anything and everything you can. Fuck up their technology.

Leading and Organizing: First of all, you don't have to be in the streets to lead. You don't have to be able-bodied. Let's get that out of the way. If you have the mind of a leader, if you're good at organization and management, utilize it. Make a team and tackle issues in your area, and if you have enough people shoot for bigger areas. Make community spaces. Organize protests, community events, and aid. Collaborate with other communities. Use your strength to bring people together. Make sure your community knows to take care of themselves, and to take a break before crashing. Know when to do that yourself.

Ambassadors: Help your leaders and your team. Be the public face for your community. Attend events, get into anything you can, be there whenever collaborations with other communities happen. Be able to pull strings. Help your leaders establish your community and your movement. Make sure people know who and what you support, and let them know how they can help.

Participate in Mutual Aid and Fundraising: This is important. If we cannot support those in need, we have already failed. You don't always have to support them financially. 1) Take time to very mutual aid posts and fundraisers. There are several posts that list verified fundraisers and mutual aid requests, and if you can't find anything do your own digging. 2) If you yourself cannot spare anything, SHARE, LIKE, and COMMENT under mutual aid posts. SHARE fundraisers.

Stay safe out there, and help where you know you can. Seriously, if you cannot handle the atmosphere of a protest in the streets, do not attend one. If you cannot scatter if you need to, do not attend one. Attending as an able-bodied person is dangerous, but your risk of injury or death is greatly upped if you are a physically disabled person going out there. Pitch in where you know you can.

We will make it through this. We will see a better tomorrow.

[munchkin1156]

HADM 6- Mumbo Jumbo

Well well well! Look at this! Another side thing for a three-shot I might post ever... Uh. Maybe. If I re-write it and finish it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

As always, thank you to @hermitadaymay for organizing this event! Everyone should go to their page and if they can donate to their fundraiser for the charity Gamers Outreach! (I forgot to do this the last couple times but oh well)

Tws: Mentions of drowning, mentions of (presumed) death, mentions of grief/mourning (oh and a tw for bad poetry because I did not have enough time to write a good prophecy)

. . .

Mumbo hadn't been sure what it meant when he'd been told he was the child of the prophecy. Partially because his best friend had just fallen in the river, and Mumbo couldn't see him and oh god what if he was drowning what if he drowned and he couldn't save hi- and partially because they hadn't been clear about what exactly that meant until he and Scar had long been dragged away from the river and Grian who was probably, who had probably drow-

Apparently, there had been a prophecy about the old king, or well, once he died. The prophecy they had received a few years after the old king had become the ruler. It had gone as followed:

"Through all the Realm secrets flow,

By the Kingdoms River you shall know,

The next in line upon the throne,

Once the King returns to bone,

But do not fret about your fate,

You shall live long, and have no hate,

So once time is near, journey the end,

Where the water and blood mix and blend."

Not the best rhyme Mumbo had ever heard, and it was a little gruesome if you thought about the meaning, but he couldn't really argue with what the prophet had said. Yet it didn't explain how they'd known it was him, and not, say, Scar, who was confident and charming, or one of the thugs who'd been attacking them, or- or Grian. They hadn't explained then, and they had never ended up explaining.

Mumbo had a sneaking suspicion they'd just picked him because he was convenient. But they hadn't backed down on it if so, even though he was nervous and awkward and lanky. In the beginning, he had been downright awful at all this ruling stuff. That was to be expected. He also kept asking where Grian was. He'd sort of been in denial about what had happened. Eventually, he gave up asking, and so did Scar.

Years went by, sadly enough. And he got better. And the kingdom loved him. Mumbo had never put kings down as the type to get fanmail, but either he was wrong or one in a million. Well, he technically was the chosen one, right? That did make him special in some way. Probably.

Usually there was someone hired to sift through all the letters and separate the ones claiming to be long lost relatives from the ones that were just drawings of him to the actual important ones he needed to read urgently. It was a whole process, and Mumbo was glad it wasn't him who had to do it, though he did feel bad for the person who did.

Maybe that's what made him different from the old king. That caring. But it didn't make him feel special. It was just basic decency to worry and make sure everything was alright. Right? It didn't make any sense why someone wouldn't do that. Scar did it, and his personality differed from Mumbo's in almost every way. He was confident where Mumbo was hesitant, and that was in most things. Mumbo didn't know where he'd be without Scar as his right hand man. His left side always remained empty, just in case. Anyway, no one but Grian could ever fill it, even if he never would come back.

He wrote a lot. To other kingdoms, about trade routes and keeping peace, to fans in response to the pictures, though no matter how much he tried to get through them, there always seemed to be more arriving. Mumbo had no idea why he was so popular, but at least it meant he hardly got death threats. Probably. If there had been some, it had never gotten to him, and been dealt with by the castle guard. It was such a strange life, this, compared to the one he used to live in. A street kid, stealing apples and tinkering with whatever odd devices he happened to get his hands on. Life had been so simple back then, and though it had been harder to get by, Mumbo also vaguely considered that he might have been happier. After all, he'd had both his friends.

Yet that was the way of the world. A world, not uncaring, but unable to stop turning. The mourning had to come to an end, and eventually Mumbo, as well as Scar, but he showed it in other ways, through paintings and smiles, continued without it. It took quite some time, obviously, and they still grieved when the memory was strong. But they had to accept it, because what other choice was there to take? So take it they did, and bore the burden that came with it.

Scar had always been more accepting than Mumbo, and "moved on", quicker. It wasn't by choice, he knew, but it was just how Scar was. Mumbo understood that. But he couldn't ever truly believe it himself. And that might've been a good thing. Especially on one day, when he was sorting through letters, because he didn't have anything else on and would feel bad to bother someone. Of course, he found a letter that stood out. There were plenty of those. This one stood out because of how much it didn't. It was written in scratchy handwriting, rushed and near illegible. The envelope was in a similar condition, not at all neat. Still, he tried to read it, if only out of politeness for whoever this stranger was. It was his duty as king to attempt to read the letters of his subjects, however boring or random or suspicious. Kind of. It was more of a self inflicted duty.

The contents of the letter were nothing like that. Shocking, maybe, horrifying, yes, but not boring, and certainly not a lie. It was too specific and rambling and chaotic and recognisable to be a lie.

Oh gods. He'd have to get Scar.

. . .

Oooooooooh exciting!!! :D Wonder what that letter was about, guess we'll never know unless I make that fic...

That throne is far too big for you Mumbo

Taglist: @i-am-beckyu, @da3dm, @faeiyn-cant-write, @boiled-ginger-ale, @local-squishmallow, @akatthatwants2sleep, @vocal-nyx-cords

Taglist for fics: @mushr00mgurl

[seat-safety-switch]

Dear Seventeen Magazine, I am writing in response to your "Girl Talk" article from the July 1996 issue. In it, you ask for stories about the most embarrassing dinner mistakes the reader has made. I hope that the delay in responding is not inconvenient for you. I have been incarcerated for awhile, and was thus unable to reply quickly.

My story begins with my arrival at Grosvenor Manor. I had been invited there by the Governor himself, as part of his quarterly fundraising. Putatively, to the media, he said that it would be for the new art museum, but in reality, we were there to back his re-election campaign. In particular, the Governor was worried about his chances up against "Wildcat" Tom McCaffrey, who had been right on his heels, so-called "self-funded" by his dealership network.

Being "new money," it was likely that I would be bullied by the other rich folks, but my mother had always raised me to stand up for myself. That's part of why I had the money at all, being the last surviving member of my special forces unit. We had stolen a large quantity of gold, art, weapons, drugs, and exotic animal remains from a local warlord and decided, rather than to turn it over to NATO, to simply sit on it ourselves until the war was off.

Naturally, it was worth millions of dollars. I had lived reasonably well, but still well-off, ever since. I bought a base-model Jaguar from a demolition derby claimer lot, and purchased a house with stereo speakers inside it, but sadly that house would never get to play Chumbawamba's famed Tubthumping in my possession. The events of that fateful night would guarantee it.

Remember how I told you that my mother raised me? My upbringing was a little rough. One of the things I never learned was how to deal with a tablecloth. I had tucked it into the waistband of my trousers, in order to prevent my lap from inadvertently receiving any spilled lobster bisque.

Unfortunately, when I got up to go to the washroom, I completely forgot to un-tuck it from my waistband, and I pulled the entire tablecloth over on the Senator's wife, scalding her with boiling-hot clam chowder and, yes, even more lobster bisque (they served it by the gallon.) There were some heated words, and things escalated from there.

Thank you for reading my letter! I look forward to picking up the new issue of Seventeen from the news-stand wherever I am currently hiding from my parole officer.

P.S. Did Space Jam end up being good? A lot of the other guys in prison talked about it, but the warden refused to play it for us.

[sunlaire]

@anthonymire 😭 yesssss please I love this

Okay okay so , did Sophia love crozier?? When she said "I've made a terrible mistake", is she talking about not openly returning his feelings while she had the chance or does she regret sending him into the arctic? If things were different and he were to return, would she have pursued him? Pls, I must know...

[tricia-fic-recs]

Fic Rec | TodoBaku Pt. 3

Part: [1], [2], [3]

Todoroki Shouto/Bakugou Katsuki (TodoBaku)

note: please mind the tags when you click on the links, some are rated E for explicit.

you're just (too perfect for my hands to hold) by underfallingflowerpetals ★

Shouto blinks at him. “Bakugou-senpai?” he says, like he’s not quite sure how the word is supposed to fit in his mouth.

Eighteen. Shouto is back to being fucking eighteen. Eighteen as in: before they even started dating. Eighteen as in: small and soft and unfairly adorable (all things Katsuki wouldn’t admit to in court). Eighteen as in: nine whole years younger than Katsuki is right now. He’s practically drowning in his regular clothes. His old high school uniform would probably fit him. Fuck.

“Don’t call me that,” Katsuki says.

pretty happy lyin' here with you (pretty good to feel somethin') by lelex★

they pass a jean jacket back and forth long enough for them to fall in love.

i want you (to want me) by shaekspears

He's up and gone in a hurry, casting a last disturbed glance back over his shoulder, and Todoroki stays very still, looking blankly at the sky.

Well, shit.

He thinks he may have missed a few things while redefining his feelings.

nothing lingers passively by iimo

Alpha Bakugou Katsuki is allergic to suppressants, and Todoroki Shouto is a Beta with a grudge. Together they strike a deal that swiftly exceeds anything they'd bargained for.

Five More Minutes by NearlyThornless

Bakugou takes the early train specifically because it's emptier, more peaceful. Until a pretty boy who lacks personal space awareness decides that apparently, Bakugou makes for a perfectly fine pillow, that is.

quietly yours by dinosuns

On the shores of this remote island, Shouto finds a shipwrecked pirate. But that is not all he comes to find.

!!Not Clickbait!! by quirklesswonder (TheSadisticMunchkin)

Katsuki and Shouto have been planning to overtake the (non-existent) mantle of the most viral villains of all time. They’ve got the charm, the looks, and most importantly the power that Gentle never had. They are a villainous duo that will take over the world, one video at a time.

you're so gorgeous (I can't say anything to your face) by todobakutodohours (snowandfire)

Katsuki pines for what he thinks he can’t have.

swallow the bullet, spit out love by reimagine_me

The thing about being a bodyguard to the youngest son of a mafia boss is that Katsuki doesn’t get a single day of rest.

aisle and error by dinosuns

No force on earth will stop them from getting married.

knit you a sweater (write you a love letter) by lelex ★

Katsuki buys stupid Deku the best Christmas present of all time, learns to knit purely out of spite, debunks the (totally bullshit) sweater curse, and gains a boyfriend in the process.

thank you for kissing me (please do it again) by todobakutodo hours (snowandfire)

Shouto doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say after Bakugou kisses him for the first time, so he says ‘Thank you.’

Exceptional Taste by chalk

Bakugou bought Todoroki a set of mystery tea blends for a class gift exchange, and Todoroki makes him try them with him.

Whoever guesses right wins.

all roads (straight to you) by lelex

On his flight to Auntie Inko's destination wedding, Katsuki meets his seatmate. He meets him again in an entirely different way not even twelve hours later.

you pull me in and i'm a little more brave by mothmanwashere

A date auction fundraiser to spice up the annual Hero Award Gala?

Sign Shouto up

a record of the wreckage by theglitterati

“He got hit by Memory Lane.”

“Who?”

“The woman with the pain quirk.”

Katsuki freezes. He didn’t bother learning the villains’ loser nicknames, but he did read the report on their quirks. Memory Lane forces her victims to relive all of the pain they’ve ever felt at once, in addition to transmitting a lesser version of it to everyone around them.

And Shouto has felt a lot of pain.

[writeletterapi]

How to Write a Fundraising Appeal Letter

Whether you’re writing an annual appeal letter, or just refreshing an existing one for a different project, it’s important to keep your donor’s needs and your organization’s goals in mind. It’s also worth thinking about how your donors are connected to your work – this can be a great way to create an emotional connection that will drive their generosity.

Creating an effective fundraising appeal begins with a strong offer. The best offers are clear and focused, and are backed up by facts (i.e., $17 will feed a hungry senior dog for a month; $50 brings us closer to the cure for childhood cancer).

The length of your appeal letter should be kept short and to-the-point. Longer letters may lose your audience’s attention if they are difficult to read. Ensure that your paragraphs are clearly defined and that there is minimal use of italics and bolding.

It is also a good idea to run your fundraising appeal letter through a grammar assistance platform, or with a professional editor before sending it out. This can help catch misspelled words, weak sentence structure, and misused commas, among other issues.

Lastly, it is helpful to craft a message that will be used across multiple channels. This helps ensure that your donor will see your message multiple times, in a way that is most likely to resonate with them. This can be done through email, social media, your website, and more.

SITES WE SUPPORT

Write Letter Api – BLogger

[sunnysidezblog]

I just saw the worst post comparing the donation drive of ao3 to donation campaigns for people in Gaza. The post basically boiled down to being angry that the ao3 fundraiser over-filled within a day but people won't pay to help people and Gaza with bullshit ass takes. Like they were guilt tripping you for spending YOUR money how YOU want to spend it. Incoming rant below, please read the whole thing if you're going to bash my ass in the comments.

I don't think these two are even comparable anyway. Like I'm not condoning doing nothing about genocide, but let people do what they fucking want man.

Donating to Ao3 isn't the same as all those charities for Gazan people anyway. Ao3 is a centralized, singular fundraiser for a nonprofit archive (very much like the internet archive) that was specifically founded to combat rampant censorship of fics (because of the fanfiction purges, especially on ff.net). This fundraiser happens every year, and they post where it will be allocated as well. The Gaza charities are thousands in number, and it's not guaranteed that these people are real or if the money will go to them. It is so much easier to see the impact on a singular fundraiser that happens yearly than it is to see on a million one-time go-fund-me's or PayPals. That's not even counting the scams that have made people wary.

Also, don't guilt trip people into donating. It's almost worse than not donating at all because you don't know people's situations. Things that make you feel good and human, like fanfiction, are a must in the current climate of the world. Otherwise all you will be is depressed and unable to help yourself, let alone other people. All work and no play will get you killed.

That's also to say that sometimes you have to worry about yourself before you can worry about other people. Making sure that you feel good, that you feel human, that you have something to cling to in a time of need where you might be in a depressing or in bad situation is a must. A hobby like writing, crafting, reading, etc is vital for the human spirit. Spending money on a fanfiction site like ao3, so that this site can continue being accessed for free so other people can share in the joy of creation and the joy of reading (a hobby that has become expensive lately) is not something that should be condemned. And because the archive is against censorship, many works that you wouldn't be able to post otherwise make it here. It contains things that could be illegal in some other countries, like being trans or gay, for example. It provides solace for people. Who are you to condemn that and take it away? Fanfiction has saved me in the darkest times of my life, and I will defend my right to have it until I don't even have breath in my lungs anymore. Who are you to tell me that I can't give back to something that has quite literally saved my life?

I'm from the US and that orange fuck in the white house I didn't vote for is making a dictatorship of my country and trying to take away MY RIGHTS as a Trans man and AFAB person. The SAVE act (the act that requires you to have the same name as whats on your birth cirtificate to vote) targets trans people AND married women and anyone else thats had a legal name change and it's already passed the house. Do you think I have time to worry about and donate to fundraisers overseas that aren't guaranteed to even reach the people in Gaza? I'd much rather spend 1 dollar on a nonprofit fanfiction site's optional fundraiser and then allocate my resources to other nonprofits in my country to try to help avoid ANOTHER genocide of people in MY OWN COUNTRY. You know, because the orange man is trying to deport citizens now, and it won't be long before my people and other minorities are massacred in the streets. Not like we haven't been already.

There are also other forms of activism other than charities and fundraisers. I could march in the streets of my country and write my legislators and send letters to my president repeatedly asking to stop support to Israel. I could fund reputable humanitarian aid programs rather than personal fundraisers. I could do on the ground work that you can't see with your guilt tripping eyes online. I could educate myself and others on what's happening. But again, doing this constantly isn't something that some people can afford to do. Whether it be their mental state, economic state, emotional state, etc. Don't assume you know everything about everybody and target people with shame for doing something to help themselves.

And because we live in a time where rapid censorship and hatred exists, it's all the more reason to keep nonprofits like ao3 alive. The phrases "dead dove: do not eat" and "don't like don't read" are very true there. If you read something that is properly tagged of your own volition then that is on YOU, dear reader. Ao3 has a sophisticated and extensive tagging system. You can filter out any tags or warnings you want to and they won't show up on your page. Learn how to use the tagging system.

The majority of works on ao3 are NOT sexist, are NOT child porn, are NOT zionist or racist or homophobic or transphobic or whatever other -ist or -phobe there is. The works on ao3 are the works of regular people who want to express their love for their favorite shows, or even to show off their own original works, and want to do so freely without fear of censorship.

I'm not condoning all those -ists or -phobes either. I too, agree child porn, racism, sexism, zionism, homophobia, transphobia, etc is bad. I don't think those works should have ever been written in my humble opinion. But I will always, and I mean always, defend people's rights to free speech. Especially in an age where censorship is rampant in the media and in the world. If you can strike down a work for say...explicit material? Then you can strike down a beautiful 100,000+ word fanfiction exploring the complex relationship between two adult age men simply because they held hands. And there's nothing you would be able to do about it because the website said you can't under the guise that you had "explicit material" in your work. Generalizing a group of people based on the minority is widely agreed to be bad, so why must you assume that all people that support ao3 support or condone child porn or racism or sexism or rape?

Free speech applies to everyone or it applies to no one. This is something that has been told to me and it rings true everywhere. I believe that free speech should be a given, and that everyone should have to right to this kind of speech even if they use it to say deplorable things.

Again, I'm not against donating to help gaza. I'm not against activism for a country going through one of the worst horrors imaginable. The genocide in Gaza is an horrific tragedy where cruelty is the whole point, and it shouldn't be happening. It should never happen to anyone ever. And I say this as someone who's country is very much starting to tip into that direction.

But again, I do not think that you can condemn people for not donating to those charities. There is nothing morally wrong about not donating to those millions of charities and choosing to donate something to an archive nonprofit instead. Especially if they are worrying about the state of their own government, if they are homeless and down on their luck in need of free entertainment, sick, or even doing other activism work other than just simply donating. Making sure that you are ok, even emotionally, before helping others is not morally wrong. Everyone needs something to cling to, and fanfiction could be that thing for some people. And that is not morally wrong.

(P.S. And even if they just don't want to donate to Gaza or be an activist, then that's fine too because it's *their* life. Guilt tripping them over something that they didn't feel compelled to do in the first place isn't going to make someone want to donate. All it's going to do is make them hate you and your cause. Anyone remember Jake Dolittle?? Case and point)

[goodletterapis]

Can I Print A Letter At The Post Office?

For individuals who do not have access to a printer, or who do not want to pay for one to be used occasionally, the Post Office may provide a solution. They offer a variety of printing and copying services, and can usually print on both standard paper or sticker paper. In addition to printing, the Post Office also offers a wide range of shipping services. Those who need to ship large packages should be sure to visit their website to find out how much the service costs, and whether or not they need a special label.

Can I Print A Letter At The Post Office

Yes, the USPS has a service called “click and ship” that allows you to create your own shipping labels from the comfort of your home. All you need is a computer with an internet connection and a compatible printer. You can either use a regular laser or inkjet printer, or a thermal label printer (these are specialized items and typically more expensive). Once you’ve created your label you can simply apply it to your envelope or package and drop it in a mail chute or in a blue box for carrier pickup, or take it to the post office counter.

For millions of people in the United States, the question of “what post office delivers my mail” never enters their minds. They live in small towns where there is only one post office, or they live in big cities that have a dozen post offices all competing for their business. The folks at the USPS realize that it can be difficult to know which post office serves your address, and they have developed an online tool that searches your physical street address and then displays which office does.

SITES WE SUPPORT

Good Letter Apis – Blogger

[lookingatacupoftea]

Too Many Layers?

Since the NG allegations (which I find very credible and disturbing and will not otherwise address in this post -- please see this roundup for more info and share to get the word out), I've been leaning more into fanworks and starting to let go of canon, particularly s2 and possible s3* canon.

I've also been taking a more critical eye to canon and revisiting my own interpretations of Good Omens the show. Here are the questions I've been rotating in my mind:

Can we trust NG to actually write a good ending for these beloved characters?

Is s2 more poorly written than I had previously acknowledged?

One of the most interesting things about Good Omens is the sheer number of themes and layers of text and subtext that it presents. I have been wont to think of these layers largely positively. Prior to recent events, I had repressed any fleeting concerns that this multiplicity of layers was so egregious as to be a weakness. But now I'm re-considering it.

In particular, the show presents heaven and hell in contradictory ways that are, in my opinion, the root of most of the vastly different takes. Is heaven Amazon or the KGB or the Catholic Church? Is hell better than, the same, or worse than heaven? Is being an angel or a demon a job, an identity, or both? I think you can see hints of all these possible interpretations in the show itself, and the ones you gravitate toward can dramatically change how you interpret the show and particularly Aziraphale's feelings and actions. Is this lack of clarity a purposeful mystery that will be resolved in s3, a reflection of the complexities of institutions and systems in the real world, or a sign of lazy writing?

I had thought my takes were right (don't we all?) because I thought I understood the purpose that drove NG and the smaller set of themes captured in the book that I thought were being expanded and tweaked but ultimately preserved in the TV show as a love letter to TP. (I recommend @nofomogirl's meta on the competing book and show canons, which does a very good job at capturing the discrepancies between them and the challenges one can have in integrating them).

But clearly NG is not the person I thought he was and so I feel much less certain than I did that I understand his purpose in GO the show. How far has he strayed from the characters and themes in the book? How much has he elevated his self-insert character, Crowley, over Aziraphale? To what extent is the TV show, especially s2, overstuffed with layers and themes and clues in order to appeal to as wide an audience as possible? To what extent are flaws in the writing papered over by the top-notch acting and dedication to detail shown by the crew? Will an NG-authored s3 effectively narrow and focus and resolve some of these contradictory layers or will it continue to be a bit of a (beautiful) mess?

I don't have an answer. On the one hand, all of these layers and subtexts make the show a fascinating one for analysis and a great jumping-off point for fanworks. On the other hand, maybe a show can be too packed with themes and texts and allusions, to the extent that it sacrifices clarity.

*I respect a variety of perspectives on the topic of whether there should be a s3 and, if so, whether one should watch it. This post isn't really about and I'd rather not debate it here. Here is one petition calling for NG's removal as GO showrunner and another calling for more investigation and for companies to pull back on working with him. I believe there are also plans in the works for a fandom fundraiser to support survivors of sexual violence.