Huge FitzSimmons shipper.
Lots of mental problems.
Sometimes I write.

Look! I’m alive!

I’m in the hospital, but I’m doing well.


Writing in my brain: Beautiful flowing sentences full of powerful phrases and enigmatically witty dialogue. 

Writing on the page: They did the thing and said some stuff. There was snark. 

Anonymous asked: You are a fucking bitch.



Well, that’s not hurtful at all.

Thank you. 

*snuggles* You’re one of the sweetest people I know. Don’t listen to that idiot.

I would take it as a compliment.


f.z.z.t. au (for laura)

soaking and shivering, jemma is pulled out of the glass-still sea just barely in time. the moroccan office is truly a pain, and her hair is dry by the time she and ward are processed through and finally, finally climbing the ramp again, the same from which they’d thrown themselves less than a day ago. fitz is not happy to see her. he is — he’s ecstatic that she lives. he’s not — what he has had in between the terse phone call coulson had taken to ensure her survival, is time to ruminate on the meaning of the words team and trust.

he hugs her tightly and then shuts himself up in his room. this time, though, she follows him. he looks at her with eyes red-rimmed and tells her that together is not a word he takes lightly; she puts her arms on his shoulders and tells him she’s sorry.

in the end, they break each other down — these two people, these two who have spent years looking at each other with the predisposition to believe that, no matter how far either might wander, they will always end up back at each other together — fall into each other and the greatness of self-made inevitability.