#for a hot second it looked like I needed to be hospitalised and while its no longer that bad

[leftdestiny-posts]

Sometimes my legs are made out of iron and stone. And I can only look as everything passes by

[greenygreenland]

If I Were You Pt. 3: Fives x Reader

 ‘-Uhmmm yes and thank you for the request??? -Of kriffing COURSE I’ll do a pt 3! -I love asks, they make my day so thank you so much!! -the beginning is inspired by something that actually happened to me today (but it’s greatly exaggerated in this. promise.)

PREVIOUS PART

WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF DEATH, ABUSE, HOSPITALIZATION.

The first thing that hits your nose is a sharp scent, like toast that’s been overcooked. You frown to yourself, dropping your pencil on the dining table as Fives follows your gaze. “What’s that smell?” you inquire. He shoots up from the couch, darting into the kitchen with a low hiss. “Maker!” 

You frown. That can’t be good. “Fives, did you put something in the toaster?” You don’t get an answer straight away, and maybe it’s better that way. When it’s silent for too long, you get up from your seat, ignoring the screeching of your chair against the wooden floorboards. “Fives, don’t tell me you--”

Everything you assumed you’d see would have been so much better. Burnt toast. Water boiling over the sides of a pot. Overcooked ramen that’s too soggy to swallow. The bright flames licking at your stove and overflowing to the L-shaped counters is so much worse. How did this happen?, you wonder to yourself. Just what had Fives been up to while you were studying for an exam? 

He’s suddenly shouting at you to do something as he fans the fire. It grows in size and he’s screaming, but it’s hard to hear him over pounding in your head. That’s when you hear the smoke detector. That familiar beep beep beep beep sound that always went off unconventionally. You never guessed it could have been right, not until now. 

The words finally fall from your mouth: “Call 911!” 

“What’s the number?!” Fives cries. You speed past him, whipping out your phone and turning on the sink. The numbers displayed on the screen flash before your eyes, and as Fives dumps water over the hot flames, you calmly speak into your phone. It’s as if you’ve been trained for this, for a life-or-death situation that would most definitely break you in the long run. 

You were already broke as it was, paying for bills on your own and the college debt that left you waist-deep in nothing. After your mum had been hospitalised due to her condition, you’ve been on your own, with only Fives as that little bit of domestic support. He couldn’t work, not when he didn’t have a passport, proof of his citizenship, or really of his existence as a whole. 

After all, he was technically still a ‘fictional character’.

When the fire department arrive, you and Fives already have the fire out. It was a miracle that the fire hadn’t spread to the rest of your home, but still a complete loss for your poor stove and toaster. 

“I’m sorry...” 

You turn to Fives and cup his cheek. His eyes are downcast as you run your fingers against his smooth skin. He feels guilty, that much you can tell, but you can’t blame him. You simply don’t have the strength to when you are oh so tired. “I bet it was a malfunction in the machinery.” you quietly answer. ��It’s not your fault, love.” 

He meets your gaze with doe-like eyes that remind you just how young he is on the inside. “But I--”

You shut him down with a peck on the lips and link your hands in his. When the firemen are done inspecting the house for any possible flames you might’ve missed, you walk back inside and give your mum a ring. She doesn’t care much about the house. It’s all you and Fives that matters, just as any parent should think. You’re grateful she isn’t angry, and more so that she tells you insurance will cover everything just fine. 

The next week go smoothly. You pass your test with flying colours, your mum’s health is as stable as ever, and the house recovers with the help of insurance. The only issue you have left is the aching pain in your chest. 

Whenever you pass that stupid TV, all broken with the cracks and dark memories, it hurts. You know it shouldn’t when your father is locked away in jail, but it does, for what could have been. If your father weren’t such a jerk, then maybe you could have what you see on TV. The family where the father comes home with the mother after work, and they greet their children with smiles and hugs and kisses and ‘I love you’s that you’ll never be able to hear. 

Fives isn’t blind to the pain you carry. He sees it as clear as day, yet it’s almost impossible for him to make it go away. The most he can ever do is ease it, no matter how hard he tries. 

Today you’re wrapped in his arms on the couch with a Spotify playlist in the background blaring through a small speaker. It’s quiet, save for the faint melody of a song you never cared to learn the name of. 

“I’m sorry,” you suddenly say. Fives perks up at the solemn tone in your voice and brings you closer to his chest. “What are you sorry for?” You glance at the broken TV, then the empty house with a long sigh. “This.” You say it as if ‘this’ explains everything. It doesn’t, and Fives knits his brows together. 

“If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.” he says. “I can’t work, I don’t have an education. It’s not like I can join the military either when I’m not even supposed to exist here.” He rests his head on top of yours and your shoulders slump. “I wish I could help you more.” By ‘more’ you know he means ‘soothe the pain in your heart’. You don’t say anything though, and that’s because you’re still tired. 

You lean against his chest and close your eyes. His heartbeat is your bacta today. It helps to ease your mind knowing that he’s here every step of the way. He won’t leave you. Never.

Beep! Beep!

Your eyes snap open and you sit up. Fives hands you your vibrating phone, his secure arm still around your shoulders. You tap on the screen and place the speaker to your ear. “Hello?”

“Is this (Y/f/n)?”

“Yes.”

“You were the only contact on the list, so I thought it would be fitting to call. I’m really sorry, but (M/f/n) has passed at eleven fifty-two P.M. I’m sorry for your--” 

The phone slips out of your hands. You can’t bear to hear the rest because it hurts too much. After being on your own with the bills, the money, college--everything, it’s like a smack to the face, the final breaking point that sends you over the edge. 

Fives doesn’t need to hear your voice to know what happened. He’s seen that face too many times to count that it’s ingrained in his mind like the very tattoo on his forehead. Your eyes well and you practically throw your arms around him. “Fives...Fives...” 

“It’s okay.” he gently says. “I’m still here.” He is all you have left with your parents gone. You’ve been thrown into this wayside world, where nothing is perfect and nothing goes right, but Fives is here. He’s still here. 

You don’t remember closing your eyes, or falling asleep against Fives’s chest, but when you open your eyes, all that sticks is fear. The staple screeches of blaster fire and charges blare in your ears as you rake yourself off the dark ground. You aren’t wearing your PJs, but a nice pair of Jedi robes you were sure you hadn’t ever seen in your life. 

The bodies at your feet make you feel sick, and not because the lifeless corpses aren’t moving, but because you can practically feel the absence of warmth they were supposed to exude. 

“GET DOWN!”

Arms are around you again, and as dirt and grass and branches of odd plants fly past by, you tumble to the ground in a heap. It’s hard to see through the dark haze the planet provided, but you know it's Fives who saved you. That much you can tell by the pressure of his grip and the shake of his breath. He hauls you somewhere off to the side, a little further away from the front lines as his brothers barrel past him. 

“(Y/n).” He grips your shoulders. Hard. You stare up at his frantic eyes, bewildered, and frankly, scared. You could have died, or worse, ended up a mangled mess as you died a slow, painful death. “Where--what--we were just--?”

“I don’t know.” he says. “But I guess you’re a Jedi.” His gaze falls on the lightsaber swinging from your belt. “Can you...?” You unclip the cool metal that feels so right in your hands. It’s not too light, and not too heavy, as if it were tailored for you and only you. 

The mesmerising (colour) light of your saber shines upon your face as you thumb it on. Fives sends you a reassuring nod as he throws on his bucket and whips out a blaster. “You’re a fast learner, you can do this Cyar’ika." You take one glance at the explosions to your left and nearly freeze. You’re a fast learner? You can do this cyar’ika? What kind of nonsense was Fives spewing? 

Learning how to cook was different from fighting for your kriffing life. 

Fives doesn’t give you much time to think as you swing around you lightsaber. You’re running on pure muscle memory now, from all the times you had to run in gym, all the times you played around with your plastic lightsaber. Who knew any of that would come in handy? 

It’s a miracle you’re even able to block the incoming blaster bolts, as if you had done this for years and not five seconds. 

“(Y/n)!” 

Your shoulders tense. That wasn’t Fives, it was Anakin Skywalker. He blocks a few blaster bolts and motions for you to come to him. You do, slicing a droid down its middle like it were warm butter. “(Y/n),” Anakin says again, “where were you? I’ve been looking for you for the past fifteen minutes!”

“Uh...I...”

Anakin glances at the confused look on your face and you feel like you’ve just disappointed him. A frown bursts onto his face like he’s just seen the galaxy’s worst disappointment: you. “What’s wrong? Did you hit your head?” He doesn’t give you time to answer. He already knows you have no idea what’s going on, as if an invisible tie connected your thoughts to his. 

But of course he knew, he was a Jedi. 

Suddenly, his eyes widen. He nearly drops his lightsaber as he tackles you to the ground, panting, silently begging for time to be on his side. At first, you can’t feel anything, but as soon as your arm twitches, it’s there: a burn and sharp pain like you’ve never felt before. Anakin’s lips move, but you can’t hear a word that comes out of his mouth. 

You want to cry, to gasp out in pain, but it’s too much, and you black out. 

Pain. That’s the first thing you feel as you sit up with a low hiss. “Glad you’re awake Commander.” Your eyes are wide as you meet Kix’s comforting smile. Although you sense a flicker of joy, there’s a heavy weight on his shoulders you understand. He’s stressed, but not just about your condition, but his brothers’ and everyone else his heart could reach. He was a healer, just as you were supposed to be. 

“You took a nasty hit there, but you’ll be good as new.” he said. “Give it a few weeks or so.” You ripped your gaze from his and took in the sights of the hazy planet. After being thrust into the mayhem, you finally realise just where in the galaxy you were. “Kix, this is Umbara, right?” you inquire. He knits his brows together and you just know he’s beyond concerned for your health. 

“Yeah,” he slowly replies, “why?” You shrug, but he clearly doesn’t want to let you off the hook. Not when you’re needed on the battlefield for a campaign you know will go south. “No reason.” 

“I swear if you have amnesia...” He trails off and meets your eyes, as if searching for a sign to reassure him that he wouldn’t have another thing thrown on his plate. “Commander, if I may ask, do you remember what our mission is?” 

“To...capture the Umbaran base not too far from here?” 

Kix frowns. He’s disturbed, as if you told a gory horror story. For a second, you wonder why, but then it hits you like a rock in the face. Anakin saved you, and the orders you relayed just now hadn’t been announced until after his departure, when Krell arrived right after. “Wait, no--I mean--Kix, I can explain. Fives and I, we’re--” You try to sit up, but he forces you to sit back against a tree trunk. 

“I think you should sit down for a little.” he said. “Just...give it a minute Commander. Maybe you’re in shock.” 

“If you don’t mind me asking, where’s Fives?” Your open-ness with Kix surprises you, but you blame it on how many times you’ve re-watched the Clone Wars on Disney Plus as a distraction from your piling college debt. He frowns again just like before. “Fives? I haven’t seen him since--”

“(Y/n)!” 

Oh that voice. You could spot that even among his own brothers. “Fives!” you exclaim. He’s already at your side, staring at the bandage covering the wound on your shoulder. “How is it?” he inquires. You shrug. “I thought it would be worse, but it’s okay.” You’re fighting hard to keep from wincing and Fives can see it. “Kix did an outstanding job.” You nod towards the medic, who remains in his spot wide-eyed. 

Kix knows something is wrong. Since when were you and Fives so close? Let alone so...touchy? 

“Cyar’ika, you’re really bad at hiding that you’re in pain. I can see it.”

Kix’s jaw goes slack. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. He doesn’t say anything as Fives grasps your hand in his because he’s still processing everything. When had you both been in a relationship? When had this even happened? What did he have for breakfast this morning? His memory is all hazy and he knows something isn’t right. 

“Fives,” he slowly begins, “when...” Kix can’t bear to finish the sentence. If anyone found out, he could be court-martialled or even wiped of his memory or executed. He couldn’t let that happen to his brother. Not after Echo. Not after all the suffering he endured. 

Fives suddenly releases your hand. His expression goes blank as he meets Kix’s gaze. “Please, you can’t tell anyone.” There’s a graveness in his voice that matches the solemn tone of the planet, as if he’s expecting a lurking enemy around the bend. Kix wants to say more. He wants to lecture Fives and his Commander about how dangerous this predicament was, but he can’t. 

Not when they were looking at him like that. Like their lives depended on it.

“Alright.” he finally says. “I promise.” 

When Kix gives the ‘okay’ sign for (Y/n) to get up, she follows Fives out from behind the cover of the trees. Kix eyes the closeness of their hands, the way their shoulders seem to brush every now and then, and the whispers lost to the wind. 

“I can’t believe this...” he mumbles to himself. He rips his gaze away from his friends and walks over to check on the wounded.

You aren’t sure what to do as you pass a few members of the 501st. Some salute you while others continue their tasks. Everything you thought you knew about this arc suddenly goes down the drain. What was going on? Did Anakin already leave? Who were you to these men? To this world? 

“(Y/n)!” 

Anakin jogs over to your side, placing a hand on your uninjured shoulder comfortingly. He furrows his brows as you knit your own as a subtle sign of confusion. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says. “Kix told me you’d be fine. He said it was just a graze.” Anakin pauses for a moment and frowns. “What’s wrong? I sense your confusion.” 

Wonderful. He senses your confusion. 

“I...” You glance at Fives, but he’s just as clueless as you. Anakin’s hand leaves your shoulder and wraps around a lightsaber on his belt. He hands the beautiful hilt to you, that frown still plastered on his lips. “You know, if anything is wrong, you can always tell me. I’m your master, I’m supposed to help you.”

Wait, what? 

“It’s kind of my job.” 

You almost have the urge to smile, but that last bit about him being your master just hits you in the wrong way. Did that mean you stole Ahsoka’s role? It’s suddenly hard to look Anakin in the eye. Even though he was trying to make you feel better, it only made you feel worse. 

Anakin’s lips twitch upward into a reassuring smile and he breaks from your side. “By the way, we move out in the next fifteen minutes.” 

The next hour is a complete hell of blaster fire, grenades, and death. You’ve never fought one day in your life, and a part of you wishes you hadn’t. What you know will haunt you forever are the screams of those who fight a war they never had a say in. 

After a group of Y-wing bombers swoop in as assistance, Krell comes planetside. He’s taller in real life and much more intimidating than the screen could ever capture. A lingering coldness seems to sink in your bones as he waltzes out of the gunship. You glance at Anakin, but he’s already greeting Krell with a grateful look on his face you just want to slap away. 

“Master Krell,” he says. “Thanks for the air support.” Krell inclines his head respectfully. “Indeed General. The locals have proven to be more resourceful than we anticipated.” Something inside you tells you to stay alert. It might have been the Force, but you can’t tell. Krell’s very presence seemed to cloud your mind and you could only assume this was the power of the Dark Side. 

It was so much worse than described in the books or movies and shows. The sensation left you feeling cold and overwhelmed with fear you’ve never felt before. It seemed today, you were learning more than your puny brain could handle.

Anakin raises a brow at Krell. “But that’s not the reason for your visit.” Krell shakes his head. “No. The Council has ordered you back to Coruscant, effective immediately.” Anakin’s brows shoot upward. You can feel the surprise and blatant worry without having to see his face. “What?” he exclaims. “Wh-why?”

Krell crosses his arms across his chest. “I’m afraid a request has been made by the Supreme Chancellor and the council obliged. That is all they would tell me.” You purse your lips together and glance at Anakin, who in turn glances at you. “Well I can’t just leave my men and my padawan.”

“I’ll be taking over in the interim.” answers Krell. His tone comes out rather pushy, like he’s practically itching to take charge and put the 501st to death. The mere thought of what would happen after Anakin’s leave makes you shrink back. It’s a silent plea to your master not to go, but as everyone around here knows, orders are orders, even if they’re questionable. 

Rex glances at you and then Anakin’s troubled expression. “Don’t worry about a thing, Sir.” he dutifully says. “We’ll have the city under Republic control by the time you’re back.” Anakin takes it upon himself to introduce the Captain to Krell, who in turn gives a simple ‘good to hear that’ and wishes Skywalker well. 

Anakin turns to you and offers a comforting smile. For a moment, it makes the cold recede into warmth and love and light. “I know you’ll do fine.” He pats your shoulder in a silent telling to relax. “Master Krell, know that my padawan is more than capable both on and off the battlefield.”

“Of course.” You can’t tell if he’s sneering or not. His face is practically glued in a never ending scowl. “I will keep that in mind.” Anakin gives you one last nod and marches off to the gunship. You watch as it soars away, further and further until it’s hidden beneath the thick fog of the planet. 

Rex makes his way over to Krell’s side. He says something, but you aren’t paying attention--well, until Krell speaks. 

“I find it very interesting, Captain,” he begins, “that you are able to recognise the value of honour for a clone.” Your eyes widen. Oh the nerve. 

“Stand at attention when I address you.” Krell adds. Rex’s shoulders stiffen and it takes all your willpower not to scream. You glance at the other boys silently watching the exchange with bated breath. They followed Rex’s display, keeping their shoulders back and heads tilted at a perfect ninety-degree angle. You frown to yourself as Krell looks down upon your men. “With all due respect Master Krell--” 

He glances at you like you’re nothing more than the dirt beneath his feet. “No respect is due when you are interrupting me, Padawan (L/n). It would do you well to know where your place stands.” You open your mouth to say something, but Krell is already talking again. “Have all platoons ready to move out immediately.” He marches somewhere far from your sights and you really don’t care where in the galaxy he’s going as long as it’s away from you. “That is all.”

Fives sends you a look that you can’t even begin to explain. You sigh and it takes all your willpower not to say something snarky. Krell’s appearance was expected along with his terrible display of violence, but it wouldn’t have ever occurred to either of you that you’d be here to see it.

“He’s more of a jerk than I thought...” you whisper to yourself. Rex knits how brows together. He looks like he wants to chime in, but the swift flash of conflict in his heart tells him otherwise. It just wasn’t what a soldier was supposed to do. You were no soldier though, much less a Jedi Padawan at that. 

Why should that matter? If you were here, on Umbara where all the wrongs could never be fixed by the rights, then you couldn’t think about not knowing what to do. Here, you were someone, not a nobody struggling through college or scraping by with whatever dollars you could spare. Here, you had people who relied on you to lead them to victory. To another day. 

These men, these boys--they were bound to suffer a fate they had no say in because of the chips, because of Palpatine, because of all the corruption you saw on screen. Now, all this was more than a show. You were in it with living, breathing people. You wouldn’t let them down. 

“Rex.” You turn to face him and lower your voice. Even if you’ve never spoke to him, interacted with him, or even looked him in the eyes like you do now, you speak to him like a friend, as if you’ve known him for all the years the war raged on. 

“I don’t trust Master Krell.” you quietly begin. “I know you’ve heard good things about his...accomplishments, but that doesn’t mean we can follow him blindly into battle. If something’s up with his tactics, I won’t hesitate to change them. I’m not very good at that though, so I’m relying on you to help me.” 

He doesn’t even hesitate to nod. “Yes, Sir. You have my word.” His trust and loyalty to you outranks the amount he’d give to Krell on every single level possible. It’s something you thought you’d never see--devotion to a single cause, a single person, in the face of battle. The only other person you had seen such loyalty in is Fives, but now, you’re beginning to understand the pattern, or rather, culture. 

You heave in a deep breath and break from his intense gaze. “Thank you Rex, I really...I really appreciate it.” He seems to understand your unease and puts it upon himself to round up the platoons. “Alright boys!” he shouts. “You heard the Commander! Come on, let’s get a move on!”

Good man, that Rex.

--- 

Marching. That is what you’ve been doing for the past five hours, and if you remember correctly, you’ll be at it for another ten. It was a miracle you weren’t as worn as you could have been, but you guessed it was because of Fives’s energy. It kept you in step, in line with the rest of your men.

“So I say to her, baby you--”

Cue a long line of sighs and groans. “What is with you vod?” inquires Jesse. “You’re not charming Hardcase.” Kix bumps shoulders with Jesse. “Neither are you. Your cheesy jokes scare people away.” Hardcase sends Kix a funny look. “Not like you’re any better Mr. Pretty Boy, you don’t even carry lotion on you.” 

Hardcase, Jesse and Fives burst into a tough fit of giggles. Kix goes silent for a moment, heaving in a sharp breath before actually laughing. You gape at him. It’s impossible to even begin imagining the stress he’s under after seeing so many of his brothers die in his arms. He’s a medic, but with that comes a responsibility greater than holding up the sky. 

“You’re right about that.” Kix admits with another chuckle. “But at least I can read five textbooks in my spare time without getting bored.” Fives rolls his eyes and you almost smile. “Like that’s anything to brag about. Our Commander here can probably read ten.” You glance at Fives, who you can just tell is grinning madly under that bucket. “No I can’t.”

“Uh, yeah you can.” he sassily replies. “Throw a few reports on top of it and a due date, too. She’s amazing.” You glance at Kix, sensing his curiosity that seems to bloom as soon as your eyes meet his. Hardcase and Jesse are quick to catch on, glancing between you and Fives like it were a tennis match. 

“Hmm... Something’s not right here.” Jesse comments, peering at Fives. You want to glare at your boyfriend, but how can you stay mad at him? He’s absolutely right about you and you know it. 

Kix sends you both a look that clearly says, ‘are you gonna tell them?’. Now you glance at Fives, who then glances at you, which finally makes you turn to Kix and then the two curious boys. Jesse suddenly stumbles over a rock, not because he’s clumsy, but because he’s shocked. 

Oh no.

“Not to be intrusive, but are you...?” Jesse tapped the air, as if connecting the dots. “No way. No way. Does anyone, you know, know?” Everyone eyes Rex, who’s only a couple meters up front. As if written in a book, Rex turns to look over his shoulder, his gaze so happening to zero on you and Fives. 

“Why are you such a loud mouth Jesse?!” Fives whisper-screamed. You face-palm. “That wouldn’t have happened in the first place if we had, I don’t know, whispered?”

“How was I supposed to know? I didn’t think I was actually--”

“Quiet back there.” Rex’s steady voice orders. He slows his pace to match your own, tilting his line of view towards the group of rigid boys. “If you keep that up, you’ll find out a lot faster that not everyone is good at keeping secrets.” And with that, he nods your way, picking up the pace to settle back in his old spot.

Hardcase looks between his brothers and you. “I still don’t get it.” 

You smile at him weakly. It’s all you can muster. Fives’s hand brushes yours; a silent sign of comfort. You look up at him, and even with that bucket, you know he’s smiling like you put all the stars up in the sky. All you know in that moment is if you were him, and he were you, neither of you would survive. 

The galaxy is big, but the universe is wide.

DON’T FORGET TO REBLOG (so this can reach more people!) TIP JAR

[sparksinger]

lionheart

lionheart is finally finished and is up on both ao3 and fanfiction.net! 

ao3 lionheart

fanfiction.net lionheart

rating: mature 

content/trigger warnings: suicide mention, pregancy, childbirth, stillbirth. 

summary: optimus prime travels into space to find his creators while cordelia prepares for the arrival of her baby. what he discovers will change them both forever. 

________________________________________________________________

“Our story binds us Like right and wrong Your hand in mine Marching to the beat of the storm”

‘lionheart’ – demi lovato

A steady tattoo was beating inside Cordelia Prime’s skull.  It felt as if there was a vice attached to her head, squeezing it until she thought it would explode.  Inside her mind, she screamed.

Silver hands whirred and rested on her face; an oasis of cool paradise against the fire that seemed intent on devouring her.

“Lia?  Are you in pain?”

She struggled to open her green eyes.  Through her eyelids, she could see the faint shadow of Optimus Prime’s large frame looming over her.  She felt his weight settle next to her on the bed.  Since she’d been ill, Optimus had activated his holoform and had not left her side.

She brought a hand up to her face, that one action an Olympic effort.  It was as if there were 50-pound weight attached to each of her limbs and joints, and to move anyone of them seemed just as likely as humanity making it back to the moon.

Optimus was careful not to disturb the clear IV line going into the back of Cordelia’s left hand as he moved to sit beside her on the bed.

Her usually cream skin was devoid of any colour, not even the faint flush that was usually present in her freckled cheeks.  She sat up without warning and lurched forward, coughing.  Optimus realised what she needed and grabbed the bowl from where it sat beside the bed, simultaneously tidying her auburn hair off her face.

She propped herself up weakly on one elbow as she threw up into the proffered bowl.  She spat out shiny, stringy bile and eyed the contents of the bowl with thinly disguised disgust.  She took a small sip from the glass of water Optimus offered her and swilled it around her mouth before spitting it into the bowl.

She settled back against the pillows, the beat in her head reminiscent of war drums.

Optimus looked at her, his blue optics grave with worry and concern.  He gently pressed the back of his hand to her brow and simulated a sigh.

“Your fever is 101.6 degrees Fahrenheit.”  Wordlessly she reached for his hand and locked her fingers loosely around his.

Another shiver made its way through her body, causing her to involuntarily curl into the foetal position.

“That’s it.”  Optimus declared.  “I’m calling Jenny.”  Cordelia heard the quiet click that signalled the activation of his comm line.

She heard but did not listen to what Optimus was saying to Jenny.  All she cared about was being able to eat something or to even simply move without emptying her stomach at every opportunity.

The discovery of her pregnancy had been shocking enough, but three weeks on, Cordelia was beginning to grow accustomed to the idea.

At her twelve-week scan, when she’d vomited for the sixth time in under an hour, the technician had called a senior doctor in to examine her and he had diagnosed her with hyperemesis graviderum on the spot.

Cordelia kept hold of Optimus’ hand as he quietly chatted to Jenny.

“Yes, if you could come as soon as you can, that would be most appreciated.  No, I don’t think she needs hospitalisation.  The IV you set up yesterday seems to be doing the trick, but her fever is 101.6.  I’ll send Drift to come and collect you.”

He disconnected his comm line with a quiet click.  Cordelia found it within herself to open her eyes.  Optimus’ face was etched with concern, his lip plates turned down in a worried grimace.

He stroked her face gently, using the cool of his hand to abate some of the fire within her cheeks.

“How are you feeling little one?”

“Rough.”  Cordelia’s voice was dry and croaky from throwing up so much.  “Who would have thought that something so small could cause so much aggravation?”  Optimus chuckled and placed his hand over the small bulge that was present in her abdomen.

Cordelia smiled and put her own hand over his, interlocking their fingers.  “She’s not got the best timing, but I want her, so, so much.  I can’t explain it.”

Optimus raised an optic ridge.  “’She?’” Cordelia shrugged and smiled to herself.

“I don’t know why…I just see a girl when I picture her.”

“Is it something you wish to find out?  The gender?”  She shook her head.

“No.  Let’s leave it as a surprise.  Life needs a little mystery, don’t you think?”  He smiled in answer.

Abruptly, the steady drum behind Cordelia’s skull upped in its intensity.  She clutched at her head and scrunched her eyes tightly shut, trying to shut out the pain.

“What time is Jenny getting here?”  She asked through gritted teeth.

“Soon little one, I promise.  I’ve sent Drift to collect her.”

Cordelia nodded and rubbed the back of her hand over her forehead a few times.  “Okay.  Ugh, I’m sorry.”  Optimus lowered himself so that he was kneeling against the bed, bringing their faces level with each other.

“Sorry for what?  Lia, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

She made a loose gesture to the immediate surroundings.  Optimus waved her worry away and stood in one fluid motion.  “Jenny has arrived.  I will go and let her in.  I will be right back little one.”  He bent to brush his lip plates carefully along her hairline.

She felt the faint puff of air as he dissipated his holoform to meet Jenny downstairs.

As Cordelia waited for Optimus and Jenny to come upstairs, her thoughts found their way to the kindly midwife.

Jenny’s services had been provided by Joshua Joyce as a way of appeasing his own guilt.  The ranch had also been paid for in full, as well as Cordelia’s medical expenses and that of any children she had, for the rest of her life.

Jenny was a spirited woman in her early forties with a kick-ass attitude.  She was a slim, petite woman with a short, graduated honey-brown bob accentuated by chocolate brown eyes.

At their first meeting, Jenny had put Cordelia at ease right away.

“Hi hon, let me tell you this straight away, I am here to work for you and only you, okay?”

Cordelia smiled at the memory, reaching over to itch the back of her left hand where the plaster securing the IV cannula had begun to irritate her.

The bedroom door opened as Optimus and Jenny stepped through.  Jenny had been informed about Optimus and all the other Autobots and had taken it all in her stride.

Jenny made her way over to the bed, setting her bag down on the floor.

“Hey hon, the big guy tells me you’re not feeling too hot today.  Let’s have a look at you, shall we?  Can you sit up for me chick?”

Cordelia started to shuffle herself up into a sitting position, but Optimus hurried over to help.  He slipped his hands underneath her arms and effortlessly lifted her so that she was sitting comfortably up against the pillows.  His hands lingered for a few seconds before he pulled away.

“Is that okay for you Lia?”

She nodded and smiled at him weakly.  “It’s great, thanks Optimus.”  Jenny turned to look at Optimus.

“Hey, I could use a cup of coffee if you don’t mind?”  Optimus faltered for a second before smoothing his features into a warm smile.

“Of course, Jenny, Lia, I’ll get you some more water.”  Instead of simply deactivating his holoform and reactivating it downstairs, he walked slowly over to the bedroom door, shutting it quietly behind him.

Cordelia listened as his footsteps grew fainter and fainter as he made his way down the stairs.  She turned her gaze onto Jenny, who was busy digging various medical items out of her bag.

“He really adores you, doesn’t he?”  She secured a blood pressure cuff around the top of Cordelia’s thin arm, sticking her stethoscope underneath it before she began to work the pump.

“Yeah.  I’m lucky to have him.  He’s…he’s saved my life over and over, never asking anything in return.”  Her eyes took on a slightly glazed expression.

She wriggled her fingers as the cuff began to loosen on her arm.  Jenny chewed her lip thoughtfully.

“Hmm.  86 over 58.  Not too great Lia – a bit lower than I’d like to see.”  Cordelia lifted her gaze to meet Jenny’s.

“Is it something to be worried about?”

“Not worried as in, ‘you need to be in hospital,’ but worried as in ‘this needs to be a higher figure given the fact that you are sixteen weeks pregnant’”.”

“Okay, so how do we get it to where it needs to be?”

“Medication if necessary, but I want to avoid that where possible.  I brought some medication for your hyperemesis graviderum because you can’t keep getting all your nutrients from intravenous fluids.  When was the last time you actually had something to eat?”

Cordelia snorted, “what, ate something and kept it down?  About three days ago.”

Jenny sighed.  “We need to treat your hyperemesis gravidarum first if we’re going to improve your blood pressure.  You need to be able to eat and keep it down.”

“Trust me, it’s not for the want of trying,” Cordelia sighed and toyed absent-mindedly with the IV line.  “I’m literally eating the blandest food I can think of – I mean yesterday I had boiled rice and chicken, no salt, no pepper and within fifteen minutes it had reappeared.”

Optimus returned through the bedroom door; a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a plate of rich tea biscuits in the other.  It was all Cordelia could do not to rip the plate from his grasp and stuff them all into her mouth in one go.

Jenny accepted the mug from Optimus’ proffered hand and took a deep swig before setting it down on the bedside table.  “So, what we discussed while you were downstairs –“

Optimus held up a hand.  “No need to repeat yourself Jenny.  We need to find an effective treatment for Cordelia’s hyperemesis gravidarum before we can begin to effectively treat her hypotension.”

Jenny whistled.  “Impressive, were you a doctor on Cybertron?”

“No,” Optimus said with a small shake of his head.  “However, I take any ailment that Cordelia may suffer from very seriously and thus make it my priority to learn as much about these conditions as I can.”

She smiled and tucked the blood pressure machine and cuff back into its little case.  “Fair enough.”   She turned her attention back to Cordelia.  “I’ve brought some medication for your nausea, okay?”  She produced a box from her breast pocket.  “This is Zofran.  It’s one of the stronger anti-nausea medications on the market, but one that my patients have claimed is among the more effective.  And yes, it is safe to use while you are pregnant.”

“How many can I take a day?”

“I’m going to start you on a lower dosage, but you can take three tablets within a twenty-four-hour period, but you must leave at least a four-hour gap between doses.”

Optimus swiped the box up from where it lay on the rumpled bed covers and opened it, withdrawing the little leaflet inside.  He looked at the first side for all of two seconds before flipping it over in a move so fast that it hurt Cordelia’s eyes just to look.

Jenny raised a brow.  “You read all that?”

Optimus offered her a wry smile and folded the leaflet neatly and slid it back into the box.  “All in here,” he said, tapping the side of his helm.

“Again, I’m impressed.  Now – Lia.  I want you to start taking these today and let me know how you’re getting on with them.  You’re to ring me if you get any worse or have a reaction to the medication.  Is there anything else you want to go through with me?”

Cordelia took a deep breath.  “Yeah.  I wanted to discuss birthing plans.”

Optimus stood and brought a chair over to the side of the bed.  He seated himself in it, leaning forwards on his knees with his hands clasped together.

Cordelia looked to Optimus for a little reassurance and he gave her one of his ‘meant for her only’ smiles that didn’t quite reach his mouth.

“I don’t want to have the baby in hospital.”  Seeing that Jenny was about to respond, she held up a hand.  “I don’t want to give birth in the hospital, because let’s face it, this isn’t exactly a ‘normal’ situation, is it?  As soon as I walk through any hospital doors, all of my control will be taken away.”  She turned to face Optimus.  “The world’s media know about you all now, the secret is out, and my face with it.  Once they find out that I’m pregnant, the rumours and the hearsay will start.  Staff at the hospital will be made aware of our…relationship, and I know that you would personally examine the history and possible threat of every single member of staff that would be coming into contact with me.”

Optimus made a noise similar to a throat being cleared and wiped his fingers over the corner of his mouth, as if wiping away an imaginary stain.

“Lia, I will stand by you, however or wherever you choose to have this baby.  I’ve got your back little one, now and always.”

Jenny smiled.  “Okay, well so long as you don’t encounter any serious complications through this pregnancy, I don’t see any reason why you can’t have a home birth.  I do have a question of my own though.”

Cordelia arranged her hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck.  “Sure, what do you wanna ask?”

“Will you let me deliver your baby?”

A wide smile broke onto Cordelia’s face, lighting up all of her features.  Her eyes tilted upwards; her dark freckles prominent on the pale canvas that was her alabaster skin.  “Of course!  I wouldn’t have anybody else obviously.  Optimus, you’ll be there too, right?”

His optics grew misty as he leaned forward and grazed her cheek lightly with his knuckles.  “Little one, it would be my absolute honour.  Thank you.”

Jenny slapped her hands down on her thighs and rose from the bed.  “Great!  That’s settled then.  I’ll get the paperwork in motion and email the details to you.  Does that sound okay?”

“It sounds great Jenny, thank you so much.”  She leaned down and pecked Cordelia’s cheek, leaving behind a waft of floral perfume.

“No problem at all hon.  Please, don’t hesitate to call me if you have any concerns whatsoever.”  She gathered her things together and made her way over to the door.

Optimus got up and graciously took her bags, hanging them casually over his left shoulder.  “Ooh!  Tall, dark, handsome and a gentleman!  You wanna hang onto him nice and tight hon!”

Cordelia felt blood rush up her neck and flood her cheeks with heat.  Optimus shot her a ‘help me’ look as he escorted Jenny to the front door.

Cordelia smiled to herself and popped one of the Zofran tablets out of its blister and swallowed it down with a tiny bit of water.  She waited for the usual gag reflex to kick in, but nothing happened.

Let’s not walk before we can run Lia, she thought to herself.

She pushed the covers off her body and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.  Her pyjama trousers hung loosely on her protuberant hips.  She smiled wryly to herself.  Great, I’ve actually lost weight while I’m pregnant.  She wondered how many women would want to look how she did at sixteen weeks pregnant.  If only they wouldn’t mind living with the constant nausea.

Optimus reappeared then, nudging the bedroom door shut with his hip.  His optics widened and his mouth dropped open in a surprised ‘o’ when he saw Cordelia half in, half out of the bed.  It would have been funny if she had the energy to laugh.

He hurried over and detached the IV line from the cannula on the back of her hand.  “Lia, what are you thinking?  You-“

“I’m fine Optimus, please.  I’ve got to wash or have a bath or something.  I’ve been laying in that bed for two days and I feel absolutely disgusting.  Even if I just wash my hair.”

Optimus’ hydraulic joints hissed air out from between their housings – a sure sign that he was frustrated.  He ground his lip plates together, working hard to bury his frustration.  “Then please, allow me to assist you.  Please?”

She burst out laughing.  “Oh my God, are you actually pouting at me right now?”  He dropped his gaze from hers and she saw the corners of his mouth twitch.  She draped an arm around his neck.  “Go on then big guy, we both know you’re not gonna let me walk to the bathroom.”

He crossed his optics at her – his version of poking a tongue out.  He moved so that his left arm was secure around her back and shoulders, sliding his other arm underneath her knees.

He lifted her carefully, holding her against his chest, supporting all her weight with his upper body alone.  He walked carefully, not swinging her at all.  He turned sideways to pass through the en-suite, gently placing her down into the wicker chair that sat parallel to the bath.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah.  I think that pill is beginning to kick in.  I feel a little groggy, but I don’t think I’m gonna throw up.”  She paused, scratching the back of her neck.  “But...I do feel really shaky on my feet – Optimus, can I ask you something?”

He knelt, resting his hands on her knees and bringing their eyes level.  “Of course, you know you can ask me anything at any time.”

His voice was so sincere and so full of love that it made Cordelia’s throat ache.  She reached up and ran her fingers lightly over one of his ear finials.  He leaned into her touch, almost purring.

“Can you…can you help me?  I mean with washing and dressing.  I don’t think I’m gonna be able to do it on my own.”

“Lia, of course I will help you.  And please, don’t be embarrassed about asking me to do so.”

She stared at him, incredulity present in her green eyes.  “How did you know?”

Optimus chuckled, a warm vibrant sound that warmed Cordelia’s heart.  “Because I know you better than you know yourself.  Seeing you in any state will never, ever change my attitude towards you or affect my love for you.  I will love you come what may, Cordelia Prime.  Through thick and thin, you have my Spark.  Now and always.”

“I’m just worried about…about you seeing me naked.  I don’t want to change things between us.  I mean, I love you more than I have ever loved anyone or anything, but I don’t love you romantically, and I know you don’t love me romantically and –” he placed a finger over her lips, silencing her.

“Easy little one.  You’re panicking.  Seeing you…naked as you put it, will not change my feelings for you.  You are right – I do not love you romantically, so seeing you in any state of undress will not affect me.  But, if it really makes you feel uncomfortable, why don’t you put your swimming attire on?”

Cordelia smiled and shrugged.  “You’re right.  It’s stupid to feel insecure.  I mean, Adam and Eve were okay about it, even if only for a little while.”

Optimus raised a metallic brow.  “Adam and Eve?  Oh, you are referring to ‘Genesis’, the first book in the Holy Bible.  I’ll start the bath.  I’m not going to let it get too deep just in case you begin to feel unwell.”  He got up and flicked the hot and cold taps on, holding one finger under the pouring water until he was satisfied with the temperature.  “Do you want to test it?”  He turned to look at her and she felt that all that was missing from the picture was a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose.

“No.  I trust you big guy.”  She watched Optimus as he searched through the bathroom, grabbing shampoo, conditioner, bubble bath and body wash.

He lined them all up along the edge of the bath.  Then he went into the cupboard under the sink and pulled out an elegant glass vase.

“What do you need that for?”  Cordelia asked, taking her hair out of the bun, and shaking it loose about her shoulders.

“It is for rinsing off your hair.  I don’t think that it is a good idea for you to get into the shower just yet.”  He turned the taps off and the water settled with a thick blanket of foamy bubbles resting on top.

Lavender and jasmine scents filled the room as Cordelia began to remove her clothes.  She slid her top off and left it in a rumpled heap on the floor.  Optimus respectfully turned away from her, his hands clasped behind his back.

She eased her trousers down over her hips and wriggled them off without needing to fully lift herself off the chair.  She got to her feet and promptly lost her balance, falling back into the chair with a soft plop.

“Damnit,” she muttered under her breath.

Optimus appeared wordlessly at her side and lifted her easily into his armoured arms.  He kept his blue optics on her face as he moved over to the bath, never once lowering them.

He stepped over the lip of the bath, lowering one foot into it as he did so.  He lowered her carefully into the water and as she was completely immersed in the warm water, she realised that the bubbles covered every intimate part of her body.

The water was simply delicious.  It caressed her tense muscles like the soft touch of an old friend.  She sat up against the wall of the bath, her legs stretched out in front of her.

Optimus filled the vase and poured the water carefully over her head.  He reached over and retrieved the shampoo bottle, deftly removing the cap and squirting some into the palm of the opposite hand.  He worked it up into a lather and started rubbing it slowly into her scalp.  He worked in slow circles, slowly growing bigger and bigger as he made his way from the crown of her head down to the nape of her neck.  No words were exchanged between them because they had already said all that had needed to be said.

She leaned backwards into the ecstasy that was his touch, relishing in the simplicity of it.  He ran his hands through her hair, working the shampoo into every strand.  “I love your hair, it’s so soft.  It takes on an entirely different texture when it’s wet.”

Cordelia snorted, turning to face him.  “Do you realise what you just said?”

He met her gaze with a perfect poker face.  “I’m perfectly aware of what I just said.”  His optics tilted upwards in one of his wry grins.  She chuckled and turned back around.

Optimus rinsed her hair, holding his hand over her brow so that the bubbles from the shampoo wouldn’t go into her eyes.  While Optimus was working the conditioner through the ends of her hair, Cordelia began to wash with the honey and vanilla scented body wash.  She grabbed the flannel and worked it over and under her arms and legs before washing in between her legs.

Optimus rinsed the last of the conditioner from her hair.  “Are you ready to get out little one?”

“Yeah.  I feel so much better already.  It’s amazing what a bath can do.”  He helped her out of the bath and wrapped a fluffy blue towel around her shoulders.

He darted into the bedroom and returned seconds later with a fresh t-shirt, underwear and sweatpants.  Cordelia used his proffered arm to balance while she quickly dried and dressed herself.  She wrapped her wet hair into the towel and turned to face Optimus.

“May I dry your hair?”  Cordelia went into the dressing table drawer and pulled out the hairdryer and a round brush.

“Sure!  Knock yourself out.”  She sat down in the chair he so graciously pulled out for her.

She watched his reflection in the mirror, the way his hands gently rubbed the worst of the damp out of her hair with the towel.  He began to guide the brush in smooth strokes through her dark hair, brushing back the shorter pieces of hair that had been her fringe a month ago.

She’d decided to let it grow out.  Being pregnant seemed to have kicked her hair growth into overdrive, and she’d put on two inches in the last six weeks alone.  Not to mention it was much thicker and shinier than it had ever been before.

He turned the hairdryer on and separated the hair into sections, his optics intent on the task at hand.  She watched as he brushed her hair down and under.

Twenty minutes later, he took out the section clip and let her hair fall in loose auburn waves about her shoulders.  He arranged it so that some was sitting evenly on her shoulders.  She looked at him in the mirror.

“Well, I’ll just have to start calling you Vidal Sassoon!”  At his confused expression, she waved her hand dismissively.  “Don’t worry; it doesn’t matter.”

She pushed the chair out from beneath her and moved to gingerly stand.  Optimus’ hands hovered nervously near her arms, ready to catch her should she need him.  At that moment, her stomach decided to emit a thunderous rumble.  “Oh my God, I’m so hungry.”  Optimus swept her up into his arms.

“Allow me to rectify that then,” he said with a wink.  He carried her down the stairs and set her down on the plush leather couch.  “What takes your fancy?”  He clapped his hands together, his metal palms making a soft pinging sound.

“Hmm…something salty?”

“I think I may have just the thing – a cheese and bacon omelette?”  Cordelia’s mouth started to water.

“Oh my God, yes please.  That sounds amazing.”

He grinned at her and then set to work in the kitchen.  Cordelia rose slowly up off the couch and made her way slowly through to the kitchen.

She sat herself in one of the oak dining chairs and leaned forward on her knees, watching Optimus as he prepped the necessary ingredients for her omelette.

He tapped three eggs open with his index finger and poured them into a jug.  He produced a whisk and began to stir the eggs in a whir of red, blue and silver.  The frying pan on the hob began to spit lightly.  He placed the jug down on the worktop and tossed in the bacon and tomato, seasoning it with salt and pepper.  He poured in the eggs and added a splash of milk.  The contents of the pan sizzled when he added the grated cheese.

The ingredients began to bind together, and just as Cordelia thought it was done, Optimus swiped the pan off the hob and stuck it under the grill.

“That’s the secret; it gets cooked evenly on the top and the bottom.  It also disperses the flavour more effectively.”  He grasped the pan and slid the omelette out of it and onto a plate with more flourish than even the most qualified chef.

He set it down before her with a glass of water.  “Bon appetit!”  He proclaimed, theatrically kissing his fingers with a soft click of his lip plates.

“Oh my God Optimus, you are such a dork,” she said as she dug her fork into the yellow mixture.  She popped a mouthful in, and it was gooey and mushy in all the right places.  The flavours exploded in her mouth, the strong taste of salt from the bacon and the sweet tangy taste from the tomatoes.

She finished it in record time, placing her knife and fork down on the plate.  She waited nervously for the usual feeling of nausea to claw its way up her throat, but nothing came.  Optimus cleared the table and began washing up.

“Did you enjoy that little one?”

She nodded.  “Yes, thank you.  It was absolutely delicious.”

“Are you feeling nauseous at all?”

“No thankfully.  I think those pills are doing the trick.”

“That is marvellous.  I’m so glad they are making a difference already.”  He dried the frying pan and hung it back up on the rack above the sink.

Optimus walked over to the couch and sat down on it, patting the vacant space next to him.  “Do you want to watch The Green Mile?”  In answer, Cordelia grabbed the thick blanket from the back of the couch and draped it around herself before sitting against Optimus.

His arms moved to fit her body and he sat with his chin resting gently on top of her head.  His left hand found its way down to the faint bulge in her abdomen, resting loosely on top.

Suddenly, Cordelia felt a fluttering sensation behind her naval.  She and Optimus shot into sitting positions at the same time.

His face was full of wonder.  “Did you just…”

“Feel that?”  She finished, slightly breathless.

Each of their faces broke into a wide smile and they embraced each other, rejoicing in the first movements of Cordelia’s baby.

[adoubleshotdepresso]

And so it began.

I saw the light, and decided to be born. Not really, but I assume that’s how it goes.

hi, hello, my name is Em. There’s a few more letters to the name, but all my friends call me Em, so I thought it was appropriate to introduce myself as that, to you, the reader, whoever you are and wherever the hell you may be.

I was born in 1993, in Busan, South Korea. And that’s basically all I know regarding where I’m from. I was put up for adoption, and my parents adopted me when I was 12 weeks old. I don’t really have much to say about my time abroad, mostly because I was an infant and don’t remember, but also because it doesn’t make me who I am, and has not had any influence on who I am today.

So, adoption hey. You’d be surprised how many people you know are actually adopted. I know a handful myself, and I think it’s a pretty amazing thing. The first question I always come across is; “Do you think you’ll ever want to go back?” And “do you miss or want to find your biological parents?”. And look, depending on the day and how I’m feeling, the answers may vary. Slightly. But realistically, the answer is absolutely not. I have the best family anyone could ever imagine, and my parents are my best friends. I have an older sister who was also adopted from South Korea, Seoul. She’s 6 years my senior and is also one of my best friends.

My family is tight, yo. And we’ve always been that way. My mum is the most dedicated person you will ever meet. She puts her heart and soul into absolutely everything she does. I might be completely biased here, but I’ve never met someone who loves her family so fiercely and would do absolutely everything possible to make sure we are happy and well. She’s always the first person I call when I feel myself go under. She’s a pretty great woman. I know I can always count on her to be there for me and my family no matter what, and one day I hope to repay everything she’s given to me.

I’m so lucky to have a father like mine. He has always supported my decisions and even though some of them have been dumb, he’s never judged me for them. I mean, I get the whole “I told you so” every now and then, but that’s understandable. When I first started having issues with my mental health, dad didn’t really understand what I was going through, as he never really grew up with it nor had any involvement in the area either. But as I got older he really made an effort to understand me more, and ended up being my biggest support beam in my adult life. He’s the sort of person who tells you “I’m just a message away” and actually means it. At my lowest times, it’s nice to know he’s always got my back.

I have one sibling, my oldest sister, who is YOU GUESSED IT, one of my best friends. Our relationship has not always been easy, and there have been times when we wanted to rip each others eyeballs out, but now we’re both a bit older and understand each other better, we couldn’t be closer than we are now. She moved overseas for a while, met the love of her life and married him while still living in America. I went over there a couple of times to visit her, and to be a part of her special day, She’s been back home for a couple of years now, and though we don’t see each other frequently, I know I can talk to her about my struggles too. She’s had her fair share of mental problems, and she still gets through every day, and for that, she’s my god damn hero.

Now we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way, lets get into it. My childhood was pretty normal to be honest. My parents both had stable jobs, weren’t addicts or assholes whatsoever, so we always had food, hot water and a sweet bed to sleep in. Between my parents and their parents, we always had somewhere to go and never had to use babysitters or after school care, which is pretty extraordinary.

Primary school was whatever. And that’s about it. Girls are assholes, and boys were the most fascinating thing in the world. It was average, nothing that bad happened, and nothing spectacular happened either. But shit got real when high school started. For the first year of high school I attended a fancy private all girls here in town, and that was honestly the worst. Not the worst of my life, but for “back then” Em, it was pretty damn bad. I dealt with the usually bullying thing, and I think that’s when all my problems started. Which is kind of crazy because I was probably only about 13 years old when I started to develop depression and anxiety disorders.

Not only did I lose trust in my “friends and peers”, I also lost faith in the teachers and the other adults who were supposed to be there for their students, and to protect them while on school grounds. Well, what a load of shit that was. After holding out for a year, my parents finally agreed I needed to move schools. I was accepted into another private school, but this time it was a co-ed school, and much smaller in size. All in all, it was a pretty good school, but unfortunately I was a very had teenager to please, and hated every single second I had to be there

I started skipping school, chucking sickies every week and avoiding homework, study and assignments. I found it very hard to concentrate, and because of the first year of high school education for myself was an absolute damn nightmare, I had zero interest in my education. I started smoking cigarettes and nicotine at some point in this time, and found it hilarious to drink until I vomited on myself. Looking back now, I should have realised it was something more than adolescent behaviour problems, but what kid goes, “wow, I’m extra cranky today, I must have clinical depression!”. So I kept on being an asshole to everyone around me, not caring about my studies and doing whatever the heck I wanted to do, which included going to parties, seeing boys and lying to my parents. I would tell them I’d be staying with a friend, but lets be real, I was really at a party, getting hammered and kissing lots of boys.

So, high school eventually came to an end. It felt like it was going for an eternity, but I look back now and I wonder where the time had gone. And I think that’s when I realised I was having some real mental health problems. I had a full time job at a chemist, and stayed there for many years, 10 to be exact. I loved my job for a very long time, and stayed there up until a couple of years ago. I don’t think it helped my mental stability, and close to where I resigned, I felt myself crying and having panic attacks in the back room of my work place. I wanted to call in sick every day, rather than go into work and have to face customers and certain staff. I wouldn’t blame work for what happened to me in the end, but I’m sure it didn’t really help either.

That brings us the last few years of my life. And did SHIT GET REAL, my friend. I’ve had the worst days of my life, but have also experienced some of the best. Some of the worst you say? How much time do you have? There’s been a few doozies, that’s for sure. I was in a relationship that started off beautiful, but ended up being the absolute downfall of my mental stability. So many things contributed to my depression, but I dare say the break up, and the loss of my grandmother definitely was the icing on the cake.

I’m not going to point fingers and blame someone else for what happened, but okay I am. The break up I experienced was enough for me to want to die. Literally. My grandma who I was very close with was dying, and my ex didn’t really care. We used to fight all the time, even at the beginning of our relationship, but it only got worse. And even evenB when I thought it wouldn’t get worse, it definitely did. I started drinking a lot, and abusing prescription medication, Valium mostly, but also some sleeping medication too. One day, I was feeling very low, and begged my ex to come back home. I told him every 10 minutes he didn’t respond to my calls or text, I’d take another pill. And I did. I also felt like it was necessary to extinguish cigarettes on myself. The physical pains of the burn was a welcoming distraction to the storm raging inside my head.

After that, it was all a blur. I overdosed a couple of times, some I was able to manage myself, but two more times to come I would need medical attention. The first time I was hospitalised, I called a bunch of friends for help because I thought I was about to die. I don’t remember making the call, and I hardly remember leaving my home in ambulance. Once I gained consciousness again, I was forced to go see a therapist even when I declined. And let’s just say, therapy is not my thing. I have tried again and again to go, and to find that connection with a therapist but never really got remotely close enough to ever trusting one.

The last few years have definitely had its up and downs. I bought a house a few years ago, the house my grandparents owned when I was growing up, and not long after I moved in, I met my parter. I had known him for a couple of years before we started seeing each other, and not long after that, I asked him to move in. It was only a few months into our relationship, but it felt right. You know when you know and I can’t really explain much more than that.

I’m not going to sit here and lie to you and say everything gets easier when you’re older, and your problems you experienced before seem to fade away, I’m here to tell you the truth what it’s like to live with a severe depressive and anxiety disorder. Not every day is easy, and sometimes, the bad days feel like they’re never going to end. It’s easy for some people to hop online, and talk about how easy it was to get out of their own heads, and all you have to do is look on the bright side of life.

Because no. It’s never as golden as what influencers try and tell you, and it’s definitely not as glamorous as you see and read online. Some of the worst days I have experienced have made me feel like there is no possible way out. So, hold onto your seatbelts, and grab your Kleenex, because shit is about to get real.

[archiefm]

         ... claws my way up from hell once more and vomits onto the dash.... hello. its nora. i used to write rory bergstrom, but if u were here before that u might remember me as greta or alma putnam or..... som1 else.... an endless carousel of trash children..... this is finn, who i actually wrote for an early version of this rp abt 5yrs back now...... grits teeth..... so forgive me if im rusty i havent written him in a long time but seein honey boy gave me a lotta finn muse n im keen to get Back On The Horse yeehaww...

DYLAN O’BRIEN / CIS-MALE — don’t look now, but is that finn o’callaghan i see? the 25 year old criminology and forensic studies student is in their graduate year of study year and he is a rochester alum. i hear they can be judicious, adroit, morose and cynical, so maybe keep that in mind. i bet he will make a name for themselves living off-campus. ( nora. 24. gmt. she/her )

shakes my tin can a humble pinterest, ma’am....

finn has a bio pasted at the bottom (n written in like.... 2015.... gross) but it’s long  so if u don’t wanna read it here’s the sparknotes summary..... anyway this was written years ago n a lot of it seems really cliche and lame now but..... we accept the trash we think we deserve

grumpy, ugly sweater wearing, tech-savvy grandpa

very dry sense of humour and embraces nihilism. 

if ron swanson and april ludgate had a baby it would be finn

he was raised in derry, just south of dublin.

from a big family. elder sister called sinead. he also has a younger sister (aoife), a younger brother (colm), and a collie named lassie because his father lovs cliches (finn hates cliches but loves his dog). 

his father was a pub landlord and his mother worked at the market sellin fruit n veg when they met but got a job as a medical receptionist when she had kids cos it meant she cld be there with them in the day and work nights.

his parents met when they were p young and fiesty and rushed into marriage cos they were catholic n just wanted to have sex. his family were literally dirt-poor, but they had a lot of love i guess

hmmmmm his relationship w his father wasn’t the best cos i can’t write character who have healthy relationships w their parents throws up a peace sign. yh, had a pretty emotionally distant, alcoholic violent father n so gets a lot of his bad habits i.e. drinking as a coping mechanism and poor anger management from him BUT anyway

as a kid he was never very motivated in class, he always had a nervous itch to be off somewhere doing something else. struggled under government austerity bcso there just wasn’t the resources to support low income families where the kids had learning difficulties n needed support. fuck the tories am i right 

his mum suggested he try sports to help w his restless energy but he was never any good at football so he took up boxing and tap dance instead. he took to tap dancing like a fish to fuckin water. as adhd n found this as a really good way to use his excess energy in a creative way

had a few run ins with the police in his early teens for spray painting and graffiti, but he straightened himself out n now actually considering becoming a detective inspector??? cops are pigs.

he had a youtube channel where he posted videos of him tapdancing and breakdancing as a kid, basically would be a tiktok boy nowadays, n had like... a small fanbase in his early teens. attended several open auditions unsuccessfully, until he was finally cast in billy eliot when he was fifteen.

during billy eliot he began dating an italian dancer called nina. they became dance partners soon after and toured across the republic with various different shows (inc riverdance lol the classic irish stereotype). their relationship was p toxic tbh, they were both very hot tempered people and just used to argue and fight all the time.

he went semi-pro at tap dancing, and nina couldn’t stand being second best so she moved back to italy with her family. ignored his texts, phone calls, etc, eventually he was driven to the point where he used his savings to buy a plane ticket, showed up at her house and she was like wtf?? freaked out and filed a restraining order accusing him of stalking.

he was fined for harassment and then returned home to derry, but after the incident with nina he quit dancing for good and finished his leaving cert before heading to university in the US to get as far away from nina and his past life as poss. and basically since he quit dancing to study forensics (death kink. finn cant get enough of that morgue. just walks around sayin beat u) he’s become a massive grump and jsut doesn’t see the good in people any more.

u’ll find finn in an old man bar drinking whiskey bc he is in fact an old man at heart or sat on his roof smoking a joint, drawing wolves and lions and skeletons and shit, playing call of duty or getting blazed or at the corner of the room in a house party ignoring everyone and scrolling through twitter. is a massive e-boy. always up-to-date on memes and internet slang. has reddit as an app on his phone

not very good at communication. rather than solve his issues by talking, he’d prefer to just solve them through fighting or running away from his problems hence why he has come halfway across the world to get away from an issue which probs cld have been solved w a few apology emails.

takes a lot to phase him, but when his beserk button gets pressed he can become a bit pugnacious like an angry lil rottweiler. in his undergrad he was in a few fist fights but doesn’t really do tht any more as he doesn’t condone violence.

 in the previous version of this rp he was hospitalised like 5 times. pls, give my son a break. stop tryin to kill him. he literaly got a bottle smashed over his head and bled out all over his favourite angora rug that was the only light of his life

works at the campus coffee shop n always whines about how he’s a slave to capitalism. always smells of coffee

lives off campus with an elderly woman named Marianne, and basically gets reduced rent bcos he makes her dinner / keeps her company. they have a great bond

fan of karl marx. v big on socialism

insomniac with chronic nosebleeds

cynical about everything. too much of a fight club character 4 his own good n has his head up tyler durden’s sphincter

always confused or annoyed

statistics

basic information

full name: finnegan seamus o'callaghan nickname(s): finn age: 25 astrological sign: aries hometown: derry, ireland occupation: phd student / former street entertainer fatal flaw: cynicism positives: self-reliant, street smart, relaxed, intelligent, spontaneous, brave, independent, reliable, trustworthy, loyal. negatives: hostile, impulsive, stubborn, brooding, pugnacious, untrusting, cynical, enigmatic, reserved.

physical

colouring: medium hair colour: dark brown, almost black eye colour: brown height: 5’9” weight: 69kg build: tall, athletic voice: subtle irish accent, low, smooth. dominant hand: left scar(s): one on the left side of his ribs from a knife wound that he doesn’t remember getting cos he was drunk distinguishing marks: freckles, tattoo of a wolf howling at a moon allergies: pollen and the full spectrum of human emotion alcohol tolerance: high drunken behaviour: he becomes friendlier, far more conversational than when sober, flirtier, and generally more self-confident.

psychological

dreams/goals: self-fulfilment, travel the globe, experience life in its most alive and technicoloured version, make documentary films, help the vulnerable in society, grow as a human being.

skills: jack-of-all-trades, very fast runner, good at thieving things, talented tap dancer, good in crisis situations, dab-hand at mechanics, musically-intelligent, can throw a mean right hook and very capable of defending himself, can roll a cigarette, memorises quotes and passages of literature with ease, can light a match with his teeth.

likes: the smell of the earth after rain, poetry, cigarettes, shakespeare, whiskey, tattoos, travelling, ac/dc, deep conversations, leather jackets, open spaces, the smell of petrol, early noughties ‘emo phase’ anthems.

dislikes:  the government, parties, rules, donald trump, children, apple products, weddings, people in general, small talk, dependency, loneliness, pop music, public transport, justin timberlake, uncertainty.fears: fear itself, drowning alignment: true neutral mbti: istp – “while their mechanical tendencies can make them appear simple at a glance, istps are actually quite enigmatic. friendly but very private, calm but suddenly spontaneous, extremely curious but unable to stay focused on formal studies, istp personalities can be a challenge to predict, even by their friends and loved ones. istps can seem very loyal and steady for a while, but they tend to build up a store of impulsive energy that explodes without warning, taking their interests in bold new directions.” (via 16personalities.com)

full bio (lame as fuck written years ago..... pleathe...)

tw homophobia

born in quigley’s pub on the backstreets of sunny dublin, young finnegan o'callaghan was thrown kicking and screaming into the rowdy suburbs of irish drinking culture. the son of a landlord and a fishwife, he never had much in the way of earnings, but there was never a dull moment in his lively estate, where asbo’s thrived, but community spirit conquered. at school, finn was pegged as lazy and unmotivated, though truly his dyslexia made it hard for the boy to learn in the same environment of his peers and only made him more closed-off in class. struggling with anger management, finn moved from school to school, unable to fit the cookie-cutter mould that school enforced on him, though whilst academic studies were of little interest to the boy, he soon found his true passions lay in recreational activities. immersed into the joys of sport from as young as four, finn was an ardent munster fan and anticipated nothing more than the day he could finally fit into his brother’s old pair of rugby boots.

his calling finally came unexpectedly, not in the form of rugger, but through dance. to learn to express himself in a non-academic way, he began tap dancing, finding therapy in the beat of his soles against the cracked kitchen tiles (much to his mother’s disgrace). it wasn’t a conscious choice, finn just realised one day that dance was something that made him feel. a king of the streets, finn made his fortune on those cobbled pavements – dancing and drawing to earn his keep. by default, finn became a street artist, each penny he earned from his chalk drawings saved in a jam jar towards buying his first pair of tap shoes. though many of his less-than-amiable neighbours called him a nancy and a gaybo, finn refused to quit at his somewhat ‘unconventional’ hobby, for the young scrapper found energy, life, and released anger through the rhythm of tap. soon he branched out into street dance, hip hop, break dancing, lyrical, his days spent smacking his scuffed feet against the broken patio into the night.

when he was thirteen he took up boxing, and as expected, his newfound ‘macho’ pastime conflicted with his dancing. the boxers called him ‘soft’; the dancers called him ‘inelegant’. he felt like two different people; having to choose between interests was like being handed a knife and asked to which half of himself he wished to cut away. he couldn’t afford professional training in dance, with most schools based in england and limited scholarships available. instead, he made the street his studio, racking up a small fanbase on youtube. when he was fifteen he made his debut in billy eliot at the olympia theatre in dublin. enter nina de souza, talented, beautiful and italian; ballet dancer, operatic singer, genius whiz kid, and spoiled brat. she was selfish, conceited, hell bent on getting her own way, and every director’s nightmare. finn fell for her like a house of cards. he’d always had a soft spot for girls who meant trouble. and so their hellish courtship began.

by the time they were seventeen, the two young swans had danced in every playhouse across the republic. they were known in theatres across the country for their tempestuous personalities, their raging arguments with one another, their tendency to drop out of shows altogether without any notice, yet the money kept rolling in and the audiences continued to grow. for three years, their families continued to put up with their hysterical fights followed by passionate reconciliations. he was too possessive, and she was too wild. their carcrash of a relationship finally came to a catastrophic halt when nina broke off the whole affair and returned to italy with her family. for months finn tried to contact her, yet his phone calls, texts, facebook messages were always ignored, until finally he was driven to drastic measures and used his savings to get a plane to her home town. when finn turned up uninvited at nina’s house she freaked out – and rightly so – she contacted her agent, accused him of stalking her, and had a restraining order placed against him. finn was arrested, held in a station overnight, and charged with harassment before he was allowed to return to dublin.

after the incident with nina, finn lost the fight in his eyes. he became far more hostile, far less likely to retaliate with his own fists, and picked fights not for the thrill of feeling his own fists pummel another into a wall, but for the sensation of his own brittle bones cracking. he dropped his tap shoes in a dumpster, stopped talking to his friends, followed his father’s advice and went back to school to complete his leaving certificate. a few short months later, and finn was packing his bags, saying his bittersweet goodbyes, and travelling half-way across the globe to be as far away as possible from his past self, his mess of a life, and most of all nina. it seemed somehow ironic that the boy who had been cautioned by the garda so much during his youth for spray painting, busking without a liscence, and raucous parties would become the grumpy, aloof overseas student studying a degree in criminology; that his once reckless spirit could be crushed so easily. 

of all things that finn could be called, straightforward would never be one of them. ever since his first days in atticus, the boy was pegged as hostile, hot-headed, cynical, rude. he seemed to spend more time in his thoughts than engaging in conversation. like a ticking time-bomb, finn’s anger was of the calm kind, liable to explode without a moment’s noticed. his unpredictable personality make him something of an enigma to those who aren’t amiable with the lad, though hostile as he may appear, he harvests a good heart. loyalty lies at the centre of his affections, and whilst his friends are few in number, he makes a lifelong partner. somewhere within finn, there’s still some fight left, but mostly he has recognised that his hedonistic lifestyle did little to leave him fulfilled – mostly, it just emptied him out – and over his three years at university has resigned himself to a nihilistic predicament.

        if u wanna plot with me pls pls pls im me or like this post!! i am always game for plots i love em so excited to write with you all here r some ideas

study buddies. finn is now a phd student so has to start takin shit seriously. he gon be in the library every day doing that independent study. if he had ppl who were also regular library goers n they get each other coffees to save time.... tht wld be sweet

ppl who love techno dj sets and going super hard on the weekends!!! fuck yea

friends with benefits. exes on bad terms. ppl he tried to date but couldnt because he’s always emotionally hung up on someone else. spicy hook up plots

ppl he met touring?? maybe ppl who were also in the entertainment industry..... anyone got a character who is ex circus hit me up

does anyone else study criminology / forensics / criminal psych / law? phd students sometimes lecture so he cld be an assistant lecturer / tutor if ur character is in a younger year

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

finn goes to the skatepark and all the young boys there think he’s a gradnpa which he is! 

[celestinovietti]

toro rosso is problematic. in this essay, i will

Okay, first off, I have to say - Toro Rosso looked promising at first. They were a team who gave juniors a chance, one that never really got involved in the major drama that the others played into. But the news today of Brendon Hartley being ousted and knowing his days were numbered are nothing new anymore. Since Sebastian Vettel’s departure, the team has become a bloated awful parody of a team who have a revolving door policy in which they’ve had more drivers than I’ve had hot dinners. They have a habit of snapping up young talent and if their last name is not Vettel, Ricciardo or Verstappen, they will inevitably be tossed aside for the next big thing in junior formula. (Assistance from @mistressemmedi, who pointed out some of the shit to me).

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to read the press and know that Franz and Gerhard  are pushing like hell to get rid of me and Tonio,” (x) Sound familiar? Well, these are the words of Scott Speed, one of Toro Rosso’s original drivers back in 2007, a year after the team was created. He and Vitantonio Liuzzi were the first of many drivers who would occupy the same position for years to come. Their first season was rife with rumours that they wouldn’t last more than a season, with Berger openly courting Sebastien Bourdais and Sebastian Vettel. Speed was the first to be tossed away, followed by Liuzzi in 2007 when he was displaced by Bourdais.  We hit Vettelmania, and he became the first driver to be promoted to Red Bull (and remains the only one who hasn’t had his career ripped into tatters). The two Sebastiens - Bourdais and Buemi - took up the mantle. But it didn’t take long before the fairytale soured. Bourdais was the first driver to be fired with immediate effect in 2009. "Dietrich Mateschitz was at the Nurburgring but he did not speak with me. He did not call me. Everything was done by SMS, which to me has no style," (x) That’s right. They fired Bourdais by humble text message. Bourdais would go on to threaten the team with legal action for the way he was dismissed - and he won as Toro Rosso had already selected their next victim, Jaime Alguersauri.  It looked promising for the young Spaniard. The first season passed without much problem. He managed to beat teammate Buemi by the end of his second season with the team, and it seemed that they were set on retaining him for his third season, only for a familiar pattern to emerge - “Two days later, I received a phone call saying that they were not counting on me. They were two phone calls no longer than two minutes each.” (x) Alguersauri had turned down a race seat at another team, believing that his Toro Rosso race seat was safe. He left the team the same way the others had before him, underappreciated and discarded, it’s probably one of the reasons that he retired from motorsport at the age of just 25.  Buemi was also released, but went quietly enough that he retained his Red Bull athlete status, he still races with the logo on his Formula E helmet, but the reputation he carved at Toro Rosso haunted him for years until he rebuilt himself as a successful WEC and FE driver. They were replaced by two drivers you all will know very well - Jean-Eric Vergne and Daniel Ricciardo. Ricciardo of course ended up at Red Bull before he realised that it’s just like the shitshow at Toro Rosso, only more professional, but it’s Jev we’re going to focus on.  Jev’s confidence took a hit when Ricciardo was promoted to the senior team. Jev said that he had known for some time that he wasn’t going to get the seat and fed the media a bunch of PR about having an amazing season. Daniil Kvyat was moved into the vacant seat alongside Jev and that’s when things began to make a turn for the worse. Jev ended up losing so much weight he was hospitalised. Although, this isn’t entirely Toro Rosso’s fault so much as the FIA who come up with the weight limitations, Jev felt pressured by seeing how small his teammate was. The team wanted him to be lighter, to push himself to these limitations.  "The weight difference between myself and my teammate was making me lose four-tenths [of a second per lap],” (x) His confidence never really recovered from the incident and when Daniil was promoted to the Red Bull team in the 2015 season, Jev once more found his confidence shattered. Thankfully, he has forged a successful career in FE but it took a few years to rebuild that confidence he lost at Toro Rosso.  Moving onto Daniil Kvyat. His problems began at Red Bull, where he was demoted back to Toro Rosso  in which the infamous and very disturbing videos surfaced of Dany at the German GP. They’re very uncomfortable to watch and show a broken man. The problems didn’t stop after the demotion. Daniil was never appreciated at the team. They lost all faith in him and he was replaced TWICE in the season - first to allow Pierre Gasly, the new junior they were grooming, into the team and when Carlos decided that Red Bull wrecking his career wasn’t worth it, he was shipped in again, only to be replaced by Brendon. And we all know what happened to Brendon.  It’s not just the drivers who have managed to get into the ranks though. The Red Bull junior team is massively flawed and leaves many of its drivers stranded with no support. I know that it is impossible to fulfil everyone’s needs but you only have to look at their roster - Antonio Felix da Costa (who has spoke about the pressures he was under as a Red Bull driver and how difficult it was to see Daniil Kyvat, his teammate get the seat over him), Tom Dillmann who was dropped immediately after a poor start to the season and Alex Lynn, who left after he was overlooked for a race seat in 2015 who have all gone on to forge successful careers in other series to realise it’s NOT the driver’s ability, it’s the team’s inability to provide opportunities and believe in them. It’s a cutthroat industry, and while it does produce the likes of Max Verstappen and Sebastian Vettel, there’s a lot of drivers who are forgotten, intentionally ignored and their spirits broken, all because they didn’t fit into the Red Bull machine of success. Brendon Hartley is just one of the latter, and I am certain he will not be the last.

[gotatext]

claws my way out of the dirt like the goblin i am ..... hello thots, its nora, once again bringing you a revamped version of a muse i played yonks ago n some of u may have even written against... here is her pinterest.....

this is margaret greta, she’s a whole can of trauma spaghetti plastered over with a toothy grin and a lot of dad jokes. the only reason she’s in gifford really is bcos shes been put there as part of a witness protection program cos lots of police r monitoring livingstone so its deemed relatively safe.... haha... anyway she changes major all the time. she started off doing fine art but since then she’s done modules in architecture, film, bio-chemistry and is now dabbling in medicine. 

CIS-FEMALE — ever hear people say GRETA O’DRISCOLL looks a lot like DIANA SILVERS? I think SHE is about 21, so it doesn’t really work. The MEDICINE major is a SOPHOMORE that is from DEADWOOD, SOUTH DAKOTA. They can be +CHARMING, but they can also be -EVASIVE. I think GEE might be SHEEP. They are living in YATES. ( nora. 23. gmt. she/her )

this bitch is the most restless creature u ever seen. before she came to livingstone, she’d lived in 8 different cities in 3 years. 

was adopted as an infant. had two foster moms and two older sisters so always surrounded by women. lived in a boarding house, very much like the one in 20th century women, with lodgers coming in and out all the time, mostly artsy young women because her gay moms were both high school teachers trying to set up their own arts collective. one of her moms left when she was 4, n she doesn’t really remember her.

while living with entirely women made her super into catlin moran and the guilty feminist, as a teenager she often let boys walk all over her bc she just craved male attention jst bcos she’d never really experienced it. saw it as something aspirational, like sitting in the back of chad’s second-hand truck while he drove you to macdonalds and offered you and his five friends with identical haircuts weed was the height of being cool to greta, she wanted to be their dream girl, even if it meant compromising her beliefs

bubbly bitch but also massive snake. metaphorically and literally, always shedding her skin. loyal to few, ruled by none, out for herself, babey!! every place she goes, she becomes a new character, someone who’s a figment of her imagination, as if each city is repertory theatre and she’s a character actress, so as a result som ppl think she’s called rita, some ppl know her as margot, she just flicks through identities like nobodies business.

goes through phases of being intensely feminist and tweeting “men are trash i don’t need them” before flipping into being lonely and needy n wanting male attention again. tends to gravitate towards men who are just pieces of shit tbh like her friends are always like hun.... pick a nice boy..... but no.... she’ll go for the boxer with several arrest records for gbh or the small-town drug dealer just trying to hook her onto pills for a little extra cash, or the reformed sinner who thinks he’s being protective by reading all her texts and always knowing where she is..... n she always finds a way to spin it so that they Just Care About Her and aren’t a p.o.s 

left school at 18 n didn’t go to uni, moved in w her boyfriend of the time instead, but soon got bored, n then went backpacking around the states making money in the casinos by being a shot girl (yeehaw) and trying to make it as a mysterious 1920s widow with a smoky voice, a dark secret n a heart of gold, looking for love in the big city. all she found was producers and acting agents who’d promise her stardom n actually just fuck her in a motel n then ignore her calls.

TW domestic violence, TW gun, her watershed moment came when she met luke in sioux falls while she was playing bass for a country n blues band. he was a few years older and had a car, and they kind of went from seeing each other to being that super intense couple who are just necking all the time. 

they got engaged like 3 months after they met n rented a flat together, much to her family’s annoyance but she was 19 so there wasn’t much they could do. their relationship was super super intense though, often really heightened and when they fought it could become quite violent, but she’d pass it off as just him being really passionate. 

one of their fights got really heated and greta threatened him with the gun he kept in the glove box of his vauxhall corsa, but the safety was off and she accidentally shot him. she pleaded self defence in the trial n cos of the amount of times she’d been hospitalised for various concussions n things like ‘fallling down the stairs’ the police were like yea... pretty watertight evidence that he was a bastard who [chicago voice] had it coming..... also this happened in 2017, he was mixed race and greta is white so naturally the police totally took her side. she’s now under witness protection, rehoused in livingstone as a sports-scholarship student, due to the amount of police involvement in the area, it would mean should one of luke’s family members try to track her down, she’d be relatively safe

 massive sports fanatic. plays tennis. on the cheer team. was a track superstar in her high school. honestly just that sporty bitch, you’ll see her doing lines at a party at half four and then on your way to your 9am lecture you see her running across the park like a fresh fucking daisy who is this bitch

pretty easy to get along with (provided you don’t anger, provoke or question her too much) because she WANTS your character to be enthralled by her and will do whatever it takes to win them over. she wants everyone to love her

is That Girl who always knows where the parties are, and is always there, on the sofa, talking about institutionalised racism and trying to coerce you into a game of beer pong that she’ll definitely win. doesn’t really have one solid group of friends, just kind of on good terms with everyone and social butterflies about

has changed her major so many times. decision? who is she. currently studying medicine, but doesn’t rlly enjoy it. she’s very unmotivated and lazy and probably wouldn’t ahve bothered going to uni if she hadn’t been placed in one by a witness protection program. will probably change on to history or gender studies soon n just make up the extra credits by volunteering

 massive feminist. low key quite scared of powerful men bcos of her ex. wants to start a female only lesbian commune bc she misses her childhood in a south dakota boarding house and has endless support for women. honestly annoyed that she is attracted to men, would so be 100% gay if it was a choice. cuffs her jeans and can’t drive. is That bisexual. skateboards. wears backwards caps.  i hate her

plays bass guitar, has a teal green fender and it is her BABY. it’s covered in stickers about saving the planet and ending fracking and going vegan. she’s in an all-female punk band w agnes (n mayb jade i think) n they play gigs every now n then in grotty club basements full of druggy sweaty college kids

PERSONALITY: easy-going, sociable, observant, blunt, amiable, nihilistic, self-serving, laid back, independent, unmotivated, charming, lazy, impulsive, alluring. ESTP and a leo

LIKES: art, music, john wayne movies, black mirror, philosophy,  cowboy chic culture, DC comics, arcade games, candyfloss, deep red lipstick, marijuana, dogs, karaoke, Kate Moss, late-night strolls, zip-lining, chemistry, suspenders, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, cold coffee, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, boiler house DJ sets, magnolias, decorative lamps, worn-out furniture, twangy electric guitars.

DISLIKES: bananas, coffee, Woody Allen, mental mathematics, children, Trump, institutionalised misogyny, the imaginary future, french literature, Wes Anderson films, spoken word poetry, the general mentality of cheerleading squads (despite being on one)

aesthetics:

a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, mom jeans, a beaten up pair of adidas, denim jackets, strawberry laces, knee-highs, chapped lips, peeling sticky plasters, split knuckles, bruises you try to cover with concealer, stick and poke tattoos, hot coffee, sleep caught in your eyes on a lazy afternoon, kissing girls, cigarette smoke shrouding you like a veil, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, leonine arch of your back and that stellar smile that says ‘you have no idea who you’re dealing with’, a rucksack permanently packed for the move, a streak of red across your lips, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your mom wouldn’t take you, kate moss posters lining the walls of a teenage bedroom, his name scrawled in rage across the pages of a diary, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes. 

wanted plots: since greta literally can’t differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships, and girls from the cheer team who she’s like, weirdly intimate with like the shower together but its not a Thing cos the other girls straight, and I want like, fellow medicine students who are like?? how is this bitch still passing?? i swear she goes out every night?? she works part time at a fast food restaurant, i want a mate that just goes and sits in there talking to her until her manager gets angry. ppl she did a few modules with before changing course and somehow sort of remaining in touch with, like she did a few art modules, a bit of film, n some architecture before switching to medicine, though she’ll probs switch course again soon. ppl who she runs track with. someone she’s trying to make a zine with. here’s a list of plots on her old blog if u want any of them w her.

would love plots of any type, throw them all at me please, i cnt wait to interact w all of u. like this if u want me to message you about connections / plots! xo

full biography if u can be bothered

trigger warnings: drugs, domestic abuse, gun.

you never meant for it to happen. you’d heard the stories, of girls who let their man walk all over them, and thought to yourself “i’ll never be one of those girls…” the kind that eat low-fat yoghurt and drink slim fast to shred a few extra pounds because he said she was getting round in the tummy, or the ones who spent their evenings tied to a kitchen sink drinking wine while him and the boys played poker, wishing god, if only I could get out of here. not you, not you raised by strong women, four bright shining beacons. single mother with her hard-as-nails attitude and her stony glares, elder sisters (twins) one ginger, one blonde, one doctor, one lawyer, both determined to take a bullet to the brain and a hammer to the patriarchy before they let a man touch them without asking. you were always so inferior, so insecure and small, like a bird (like a sparrow) with blonde plaits down your back sucking tropicana whilst your busom buds sucked dick, their lips permanently ripe with stories of their sexual exploits, fake tan and glittered nails whilst you sat in the unbroken egg of virginity wondering what it was like to be loved. one day you found out.

lily milligan’s parents gone and a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. you’d never had a sip before that night. band t-shirts, denim shorts and the split soles of rotten converse that you refuse to let go of, you still clutched with both hands to your youth, but in a tube top now (borrowed from alice carmichael who had a sister in college) and a short tennis skirt, your feet not in trainers but in thigh-high boots. uncomfy as hell but lily said you needed to look sexy. you didn’t know if you wanted to be sexy. you didn’t know what kind of girl you were, if you were even a girl at all. but robbie looked at you like he knew exactly who you were, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and his lips had the pink cupid’s bow of a movie star, and his hair was dark locks, curling like a mane. his hands were soft, and suddenly on your waist, and after three more shots his lips were on yours and his name was the only sound in your head and on your lips as you lost it in lily’s college sister’s bedroom beneath the glare of a T-Pain poster. you bled for what seemed like hours, his hand still in yours, kissing on the sofa as truth tellers and dare devils continued to spin a bottle of unprecedented youth. you thought it was love. robbie was the one. he loved you, you knew it, how else could someone be so soft? but soon he grew bored, scrunched up your paper heart and set it alight. then came the tears, the hatred, the ‘fuck robbie, in fact, fuck all boys.’ and that you did.

you were known for being easy. any boy could be yours for a night, as long as he promised to love you for those few short breaths and pants before you cried yourself to sleep. you felt poisoned, but poisonous as well, as if by ensnaring these young boys you were gaining power over them, and not the other way around. soon it started to work. they’d want more, but you’d deny them it, sick of sucking off silly schoolboys, they’d call you a tease, a vixen. maybe you were, but you couldn’t help but want older men. you got the history teacher first time, him bending you over his desk to sneak a hand up your tennis skirt as the after-school clubs carried on next door, unawares. love didn’t exist, not for you. it was nothing but a game for pretty young girls to play, bubble gum in their canines and a hand tugging at the hem of their cheer skirt.

there was so much anger inside of your small body, ‘beware of boys and their hook-like words’. hockey helped. there was something formidable about the feeling of a stick like a weapon in your hands and the thwack it made against thighs in the heat of a scrum - “slipped, sorry!” - you’d utter with a snakeskin smile, millicent quinn knowing that you’d hit her on purpose because she shagged robbie at that party last week. she couldn’t prove it, cobbled acne on her forehead turning green with disgust. ben came into your life like a car crash. two years your senior, with a baseball jacket and shoulders like a god. he became your personal hero. on the pitch, he was lethal. together, you could bring anyone to their ruin. each day after last period he’d be waiting in his car. you’d leap into his arms like a girl-half starved, love me, love me, love me, your heated kisses the envy of every junior girl. he was yours for three blissful years, utterly yours, and you were his, his star-spangled girl, and he was your knight - you were both the same, playing games, always difficult to predict. it was a shock to all when he proposed, high-school sweethearts find love in south dakota.

the engagement was a bittersweet affair; three months – you barely out of your gingham print skirts and into a graduation gown, him, a surly quarterback towering above your sisters, cigarette at his lips and a scowl like a fart in a lift. they hated him. so did you. but you were eighteen and in love, and he fitted the cookie cutter mould. everyone wanted him, and you had him. you had him and you were happy, happy, happy, and he loved you. he said he’d give you the world, anything you wanted hand-picked and given to you. instead, he gave you a jack russell terrier and a flat you couldn’t swing a cat in, wallpaper peeling like the rotten bits inside of you, the bits that only he knew. and you got tireder and tireder of the sad excuse of a life he’d picked out for you, him out doing god knows what to pay the bills, and you dancing on tables to pave your way to stardom, and this was love, this was real, until the shine wore off and your fresh-faced, dimple-cheeked cheerleader facade faded and the ugliness started to reveal itself, the whining, the petulance, the sharp-tempered cruelty, the mind games, the need to always win, win, win. he was dull, he was boring, he was nothing like the boy the girls had said he was and no chiselled six pack could hide his lack of anything remotely interesting, your patience wearing thin until it snapped like rubber, a rucksack on your back, running shoes on your feet and the joint bank account emptied into your eighth grade birthday wallet.

you built your small fortunes working the casinos of sioux falls, a crimson dress and an attitude to match. bookish archie with his little dipper freckles was fun for a month, before he became just as dull and dreary as the rest. a three hour bus and you were in minneapolis, bright eyed and bushy tailed, fresh meat ready for the pickings. a hostel here, a friendly co-worker’s sofa there as you made what you could by taking off your clothes and shaking your ass like you were back in pep squad, doing what you did best. you met your fair share of creeps, and soon it was back on the road to escape a wide-eyed stalker and a restless itch for more. milwaukee, chicago, you made the roads your own. log cabins and lodgings, and the occasional motel, a beaten up pick up truck purchased at a scrap merchants – you got a few miles out of it before it bit the dust, and when you finally set it alight after nights spent lounging across the driver’s seat, a parka tucked over you as a duvet, you were sad to see it go. you’re nomadic by fault, never attaching to place, people or things, creating a new personality in every place you go like a character actress; each town is a different repertory theatre, and you’re the star. a compulsive liar, you even fib about your own name, to some you’re ellen, nineteen, bookish, a law student who likes smoking and cosmos. to someone else you’re rita, you’re twenty five and look young for your age, like smoking, comics and fucking in public places.

in the bright lights of michigan, you found charlie, sweet charlie, too good for you, though you let him spoil you while he thought you were the small town girl of his dreams. next came abigail, who was fun until the jealously kicked in, and then luke, gorgeous luke, dangerous, exciting, who despite his temper, despite the fights, despite bruises down your spine and your teeth marks on his arms, loved you with the strength of a wild fire. there was destruction in your wishbones, a savageness from the field, from the pitch and now somehow in his arms, you were godly. he was cruel, he was careless, and he refused to fall at your feet like so many other boys had, which only you made you want him all the more. you were rage incarnate. you hated him so fiercely you thought you might kill him, so he played the only card you wouldn’t predict; proposed.

the house you shared was a backstreet flat in detroit, you making your name as a downtown singer while he footed the bill with pills. they had a drug for anything these days, to dull the senses, to pick them up, to drive you to insanity or pull you out of the madness hole. the two of you lived like criminals on the run (you never told him that you were, living out your days as the enigma he wanted you to be), you with your voice like caramel and fishnet legs. you were his and his alone until his hand was at your throat and the gun was in your hands screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, until a bullet stoppered his brain, crimson staining linoleum as you cast yourself out like lucifer. self defence was decreed the moment they saw your violet neck, black tears and headlight eyes and mind screaming red, red, red like the pom-poms you shook so willingly in school and the insides of his skull. you were gone, and “you” was born, renamed “greta”, boxed, shipped-out, and next-day delivered to livingstone where under witness protection you were a student, blank slate, fresh-faced in a place where no one knew your name, doing what you always did and starting again.

[randombtsprincessa]

Asylum || 1

Author: Randombtsprincessa

Characters: Kim Namjoon x Reader

Summary: After the death of your best friend, you are little more than a shell of who you were. Transferred to a Shelter, you meet a man who teaches you that maybe there is more to live for. 

Warning: This is going to be dark story. Lots of mentions of Hospitals, Death, Mental Illnesses, Drugs, etc. If any of the following Warnings bother you, please don’t read. Reader Discretion Advised.

Warning in-Chapter: Car Accident, Hospitalisation, Character Death.

The night was silent, almost deafeningly so as the cold weather made almost everyone seek shelter within the warmth of their own homes. Almost everyone, as there were still people walking about at night, thinking, probably enjoying the cold breeze, as they thought about things personal to them.

As one such person turned a street corner, she stopped, her eyes widening, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp before with quick steps she hurried closer to what had pulled her out of her mind.

On the other side of the street, lay a car, on its roof, the tires still.

The woman rushed in closer to inspect the horrifying scene. The windows were smashed inside, delicate glass layering the floor and the interior like snow. The windshield had somehow survived.

Even as the woman fumbled into her coat pocket for her phone, she could hear the low, pained groan coming from inside the vehicle.

Dialing for the ambulance she held up the phone to her ear, crouching down to see who was inside.

It was a girl and a boy, young, too young to be trapped in the car on a night like this, she decided as the operator answered. In a flurry, she relayed the details of what had happened, who it involved and where they were. The operator told her to stay alert and with the injured and that an ambulance was fifteen minutes from where they were before hanging up.

The woman slipped the phone back in her pocket before looking at the person closest to her. They were both hanging loosely by their seatbelts, indicating they hadn’t been wilding about on the night streets if they were responsible enough to put their seatbelts on.

The girl, her hand fallen out of the window was the one whimpering, her eyes fluttering as her cut and bleeding face twitched in pain.

“Shh…you’ll be fine, you’ll be ok, I promise…” the woman said helplessly.

She knew there was a chance they might not make it but she tried not to think about that. They weren’t all that hurt even if they were both bleeding and not in the most comfortable position but she couldn’t bring herself to touch them, fearing she’d do more harm than good.

The girl stirred again, making the woman fear she’d fall off but then the girl opened her eyes, a panicky dazed look in her eyes. She looked around wildly, before fixing the woman with her hazy gaze.

“I called an ambulance, you’ll be fine.” The woman reassured immediately but the girl was shaking, her hand moving as if she would pull it in closer to herself but she winced at the action and then let it go, instead tears soon joined the blood streaks, pooling near her nose line.

“I’m scared,” she whispered brokenly and the woman felt her heart break at the sheer terror in it. “I know, we’ll get you out soon…don’t worry…”

Without another word the girl turned her head towards the passenger, her sobs increasing.

“Kook…” she whispered.

“Jungkook, please, wake up…please,” she began to earnestly cry when the woman heard the ambulance approaching.

“You’ll be fine. The ambulance is here.” She said one last time but all she got from the girl was another whisper of her friend’s name…

The gurneys rattled down the halls, nurses and doctors yelling out instructions to each other as the girl and boy were pushed to separate operating theatres.

The woman who’d ridden with them was questioned closely before the families began to arrive, worried and scared.

“My son…what happened to my son?” the boy’s mother asked as the father wrapped an arm around his wife, looking drawn. They were soon joined by more questions put off until one of the doctors announced the end result.

Pain was the first thing I felt, after that cold and then the feeling of being constricted…

My eyes fluttered open to an uncomfortably bright light and too much white. I flinched instinctively, shutting my eyes tightly before opening them again, slower this time.

All around me I could hear mindless beeps, drips and there was also a burning smell of disinfectant and medicine in my nostrils…

Was I in a…hospital?

I looked around as much as I could without straining my neck when I realized it was put in a brace and that my arm was bound to my body while both my legs were in a cast.

The large scared whimper that escaped me was soon followed by hot tears.

I wanted out; I wanted to sit up…what was happening? Where was everyone?

I began to struggled against the wires and tubes wrapped around me but pain immediately shot up through my body, making me cry even harder.

“Miss Y/L/N, you’re awake!”

I looked up to see a black haired man in a doctor’s coat standing in the doorway, his eyes widening when he saw the displaced instruments around me. He immediately rushed in, gently relocating me higher up on the bed before putting everything back how it was.

“Forgive me, I didn’t think you’d wake up that fast…you need your rest after what you’ve been through.” He said, moving the end of the bed and picking up a clip board. “Miss Y/N, Y/L/N…my name is Dr. Seokjin, you may call me Jin.” He smiled kindly at me.

“What…what happened?” I croaked.

The doctor bit his lip, the smile becoming a little forced but it stayed on as he watched me. “You were in an accident. A rather nasty one, I might add, you’re…lucky…to be alive. Do you remember anything from it?” he asked.

I blinked rapidly as my mind tried to rewind itself, thinking of hours prior.

“You’re such a moron.”

Jungkook laughed, nudging my shoulder. “You would know,” he chortled.

“Hey, I’m not the one who decided to actually go up on the dare. It was silly, you should’ve just said no. You didn’t actually have to it.” I said.

“Aww, is wee little Y/N jealous I made out with a hot girl?” he asked.

“No but, Wee little Y/N is definitely going to kick your ass if you keep spouting crap.” I rolled my eyes.

There was a pause, silent and comfortable.

“You know,” he began, “I wouldn’t mind…if you were a little…jealous.” He said.

I shot him a look, “What?”

“You know, we’ve been best friends for a while now and we get teased a lot anyways.”

“Jungkook…”

“So, why not just make it real?”

“You can’t be serious. When did this happen?” I yelled.

“It’s ok if you don’t want to, I mean, I get it, I can be a dork sometimes and,”

“Answer my fucking question, Jeon.”

He sighed.

“A few months ago…”

I waited.

“14 months ago,”

“That’s more than a year, Kook.” I whispered.

“I know, I’m sorry, I was just scared.”

I turned to look at him. My best friend, Jeon Jungkook, was telling me he had liked me for more than a year. How had I missed that? Of course, he never made it obvious. The handsome, rabbit-like muscular boy had always been happy-go-lucky, rarely serious and only occasionally protective. He had never said anything when I dated…which wasn’t all that much and he had gone on plenty dates himself…what had changed?

“You need to watch the road, Y/N.” he said. I quickly looked to the front.

“I am,”

“No, you weren’t, you were staring at me,” he said, smirking over at me.

“No I wasn’t,” I spat out, turning to give him the dirtiest look I could manage but in that split second, he turned his face to look at the road and then everything slowed down.

His eyes popped wide open, mouth falling to scream out, “Y/N look out!” and his hands shot out to grab at the wheel.

I didn’t even see it coming before a with a loud crash, the car went tumbling, hitting its edge off at the light pole and skidding off the side of the pavement, turning and turning till all I could hear was the sound of metal hitting asphalt, glass smashing and then nothing…

“Miss Y/L/N…Y/N; are you ok? Do you remember?” Jin’s voice brought me back but hot tears had already welled up again, pooling near my eyes.

“My…friend…my best friend, he was with me in the car…Jungkook, how is he? How badly is he hurt? Can I see him?” I asked desperately.

Dr. Jin cleared his throat, clicking his pen as he blatantly ignored my question.

“Well, I see you’re coherent enough; I will call your relatives and you can see them, ok? Rest well,” he said, moving to the door.

“Dr. Seokjin, my friend…” I called again.

He sighed. “I really don’t think this is the time you should be stressing yourself, Y/N. you need to focus on healing yourself.” He said.

“Goddamn it, just tell me, how bad is he?” I asked, my voice rising hysterically.

Oh my god, it couldn’t be that bad could it? We were both wearing seatbelts. He couldn’t be that badly hurt. He couldn’t…please, God, he shouldn’t…

Jin chewed on the inside of his cheek as he contemplated before turning to look at me, the grim look in his eyes already making my heart slide down to the pit of my stomach.

“I am very sorry, Miss Y/N but Jeon Jungkook passed away two hours ago.”

[wilderwestqueen]

A Pinch of Sugar and a Dash of Spite - Chapter Three

“Astrid Hofferson has better things to do than ruin your life.”

“Yeah? You could’ve fooled me.”

Hiccup Haddock’s just trying to sell coffee and stumble through presentations about Shakespeare, but one persistent rude customer keeps ruining his day. Astrid Hofferson would be the top of her class if it weren’t for one golden boy barista that needs to be taken down a notch.  

[Coffee Shop AU] [Enemies-To-Lovers]

IN THIS CHAPTER: Hiccup retaliates. 

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Start from the beginning

[AO3] [FF.NET]

death threats are a customer service 

Since the day that Astrid had marched into Bean & Gone for the first time, intent on making Hiccup's life an absolute misery, he'd started to notice her everywhere. She didn't just show up for her daily dose of diabetes or for the seminars and lectures they shared, no, she seemed to pop up in every aspect of Hiccup's life. The cafeteria was no longer safe - she was there every lunch time, gabbing away to her friends as she ate. He'd taken to sneaking his portion of fries and eating them in a dark corner of the library, far away from her.

One morning, he'd found her waiting alone at the bus stop, and he'd ducked behind the bus shelter so that she wouldn't see him - and promptly, missed the bus. He'd had to wait for the next one, which didn't come until he'd been suitably drenched by the rain. He'd walked into his lecture fifteen minutes late, dripping with water, everyone's eyes on him as he opened the door. Embarrassment coursed through him, hot and heavy on his cheeks, not helped by the fact that Astrid's eyes tracked him as he got into his seat, a smug grin on her face.

She'd been at the weekly pub quiz he always went to, she'd been in the gym when he went to use a treadmill, and he'd seen her more than a few times at the local club, dancing and screaming with her friends.

"It's not funny," Hiccup grumbled. "She's following me everywhere. It's like she's decided that making life miserable for me at work isn't enough, and now she's got to find other ways to torture me."

Fishlegs rolled his eyes. "She's not trying to torture you."

"She is. Why else would she show up everywhere I am?"

"What has she done to you outside of the drink thing?" Fishlegs asked.

Hiccup opened his mouth, ready to tell Fishlegs all of the ways that Astrid had been trying to ruin his life, and then realised that he didn't have anything to say. He was going to bring up the seminars they shared, but, despite challenging every point that he made, Astrid was remarkably restrained in those. Maybe it had something to do with the adult supervision – she couldn't be too awful in front of the lecturers.

"Well. Nothing, really," he conceded.

"Exactly."

"But that doesn't mean she won't!" Hiccup crossed his arms. "It's like she's watching me. Waiting for the perfect moment to do something awful."

Fishlegs snorted. "She's not a super villain, Hiccup. Astrid Hofferson has better things to do than dedicate her life to ruining yours."

"Could've fooled me," Hiccup muttered.

He had reached breaking point. Technically, he'd reached breaking point a day ago, and the day before that, and the day before that, but this time, he'd really hit breaking point. So much so that he was about to break something else. He should have been used to Astrid's antics by now, but the way she'd walked in today, smarmy smile on her face as she gave her order - a venti mango black tea lemonade with 24 pumps of mango - had him grinding his teeth together.

"Busy today, we're backed up with orders," he'd bit out after he'd typed her drink in, "take a seat, and we'll bring your drink to you."

"I'll be at my usual table," Astrid said, with a smile that utterly masked what an evil witch sent straight from hell she was.

"Oh, I'm sure you will," he muttered.

He relayed the conversation to Fishlegs and Snotlout while he prepared the disgusting drink, his teeth gritted the whole time.

"Y'know, there's a simple solution to your problem," Snotlout said, looking up from his phone for a moment.

He was sitting on an upturned crate on the floor beneath the counter, barely even pretending to work, as usual.

"What?" Hiccup grumbled, crumpling a napkin between his fists, while he waited for the machine.

"Retaliate."

"Retaliate how?" Hiccup said, and then wrinkled his nose as he finished making a drink. "Ugh. This has got to be one of the worst."

He waved it in Snotlout's face, only for his cousin to smack it out of the way. "Get that away, it's vomit central."

Fishlegs twisted away from the counter to look over for a second, his face screwing up. "…She hasn't, like, thrown up from one of these yet, has she?" he said, his forehead wrinkling. "Because that is going to push her over the line."

"Please, the woman has an iron stomach," Hiccup said, heading out onto the shop floor, drink in hand, before something on the corner of the counter caught his eye, and he stopped.

Snotlout watched him, as he stood, frozen in space. "What do you need, an invitation?"

"No," Hiccup said, taking a fistful of salt packets from the jar on the counter, "but I think I've got an idea."

He took the drink back into the kitchen. Fishlegs watched him go, his brows furrowing together as realisation set in.

"Hiccup, no," Fishlegs said and abandoned the counter, ignoring his customer's cry of frustration. "You can't do that."

"Oh, he can do this," Snotlout said with unrestrained glee. This was apparently entertaining enough for him to look up from his phone. "I'm so proud of you, Hiccup!"

Hiccup grimaced at the idea, but that uncomfortable thought wasn't enough to stop him, as he brandished the salt packets on high.

"Think about what Gobber would say!" Fishlegs said, hopping anxiously from foot to foot. "This is a health violation. What if she has allergies?!"

Hiccup tipped his head back and let out a long groan, slamming the salt packets back on the table, before marching out from behind the counter and storming towards Astrid's table.

She looked up at him and blinked. "Henry?"

Henry. Hiccup's jaw set on edge.

"Do you have any allergies?"

Astrid's lips curled upwards in the most irritating way. "You what?" she said.

"Allergies," he repeated, "do you have any allergies?"

"No."

"Diabetes?" he said. "I mean, I'm gonna assume that you don't have diabetes judging by what you drink—"

Astrid rolled her eyes. "I don't have diabetes, Henry. Now, what—"

"Any foods that might cause hospitalisation or anaphylactic shock?"

"—No, now what are you—"

"Good," Hiccup snapped, twisting on his heel and heading back to the counter.

He grabbed the salt packets up from the table, ripped them open, and dumped every last drop into the drink, before taking it back out to the tables and slamming it in front of Astrid.

When he joined Snotlout and Fishlegs back behind the counter, they were watching the scene, intently, ignoring the queue that was starting to leak out of the front door.

"I thought you didn't approve of this," Hiccup mumbled as he passed Fishlegs.

"It's like a car crash," Fishlegs said, "you know it's wrong, but you just can't help but take a look."

They watched as Astrid lifted the drink to her lips. It couldn't have been for more than a second, but for them, it seemed to happen in slow motion. She took a long deep gulp of the drink, and then froze.

"She's gonna spew," Snotlout stage-whispered.

She didn't spew. She turned slowly, her expression unreadable as she stared them all down. All three of them stilled, like deer in headlights.

And then she smiled.

Looking them dead in the eye, she lifted the cup to her lips and downed the whole thing, lifting her little finger like she'd come straight out of Jane Austen. She drained every last drop and then scrunched up the plastic cup with one hand, wiping her lips with the other.

The three of them remained frozen still.

She got up from her seat, tossed the crumpled cup into the nearest bin, threw a wink over at the boys behind the counter, and then marched out the door.

"Wow," Snotlout said, after a long pause, "that girl is something else."

"I'm going to throw up," Astrid moaned, before retching into the toilet.

"Wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been trying to mess with Hiccup," Heather said, examining her fingernails.

She was sitting cross-legged outside of the toilet door, a smile tugging on her lips. Astrid had found her outside of Bean & Gone, took her by the arm and told her in no uncertain terms that there was about to be an emergency and she was needed in the bathroom right away. She'd been tempted to ask exactly why Astrid needed her in there with her but trying to stop Astrid Hofferson from doing something she'd already set her mind to was like trying to stop a moving train in its tracks.

"Haven't you been listening?" Astrid whined. "Henry's the one that dumped all that salt in."

"You added 24 pumps of mango to a mango black tea lemonade. You were going to throw up anyway," Heather said, "and you didn't have to drink it."

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

"Pride."

Heather snorted. "It goes before a fall."

"You're not funny," Astrid grumbled.

Heather rested her head back on the toilet door, taking a pause before turning her head to the side and saying, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"The crazy drink orders."

"I told you, so I can ruin Henry Haddock's day," Astrid said.

Heather rolled her eyes. "You've never actually explained to me exactly what Hiccup did to you."

Astrid sighed, dropping down on the floor and resting her head next to the toilet bowl. "He's Vaughn-Stretton's favourite."

Heather frowned. "You know he can't help that."

"I know," she said, sticking her lower lip out into a pout, "but I can't mess with Vaughn-Shithead, so I have to mess with him instead."

There was a pause, silence filling the bathroom. "You know," Heather said, her tongue swiping across her lips, "Hiccup's really not that bad."

She almost fell backwards when Astrid yanked the door open, but she caught herself in time, managing to duck as Astrid marched over her form towards the sink.

"Not that bad?" Astrid hissed, wrenching the tap on so hard she almost pulled it off. "He laps up Stretton's praise, laps it right up. He loves it. Has to be coerced to speak in class, he's so cocky, he thinks he can rely on essays alone, participation be damned. He knows he's the favourite, so he doesn't even bother to try. And do you remember that time he put salt in my drink?"

"He did that because you were messing with him."

"He did that because he's a jerk."

Heather shook her head, getting up off the floor and joining Astrid at the sink. "No. I don't think you hate him as much as you claim to."

"And why is that?"

"You don't get anything out of this, really. Seriously, Astrid, you're wasting a hell of a lot of money to buy crazy drinks that taste disgusting. You don't gain anything. Except," Heather said, a gleam in her eye as a grin spread across her face, "it means you get to see him every day."

Astrid gaped at her, opening her mouth wide and jabbing her finger out as if she was about to say something of the greatest magnitude. Then, she snapped her mouth shut and stormed out of the door.

If Hiccup thought that Astrid was everywhere before his stunt with the salt and the drink, then he was very, very wrong.

It seemed that his retaliation had opened the floodgates. It wasn't just in Bean & Gone that she bothered him now, it was everywhere: it didn't matter where Hiccup went, he could be sure that Astrid Hofferson was lurking not far behind. Class had become a battle of wills - he'd rarely spoken in class before, too afraid that he was going to say the wrong thing and get laughed at, but now, he had to speak. Astrid challenged him on every point, undermined every single one of his answers and heckled him during his practice presentations.

Hiccup was starting to wonder what he wouldn't give to get away from Astrid Hofferson.

But the worst time had undoubtedly been at one of Tuff's infamous house parties.

How she even knew Tuffnut - Snotlout's permanently stoned best friend - was beyond him, but there she was, chatting merrily to one of Tuff's friends in the corner of his living room. Hiccup groaned and would have walked out if he wasn't seeking refuge from Snotlout. His cousin had been bugging him to join them in a drinking contest, and he had no desire to close the evening by puking his guts out on the street, no matter how many times Snotlout insisted that it was the only way to end a night.

Instead, Hiccup hovered awkwardly between the living room and the kitchen, clutching a drink and getting ready to duck out of Astrid's sight if she looked his way, doing his best not to touch anything. Tuff's house made Hiccup's skin crawl a little bit. The whole place seemed to never lose its haze of marijuana fog, and that weed smell clung to everything; he'd have to wash his clothes when he got home, even if he hadn't touched any of the joints that Tuffnut had offered. Hiccup had never been a hypochondriac, but whenever he was in Tuffnut's flat, he had the strong urge to scrub the whole place down with anti-bacterial spray.

"Sweet party, right?"

Hiccup jumped as Tuffnut clapped a hand on his back. He'd been too lost in his thoughts to notice him appear behind him.

"It's not bad," Hiccup said, although just moments before he'd been fantasising about all the other places he'd rather be.

He took a sip of his drink. It was disgusting - vodka, mixed with some kind of sugary drink - but it felt good going down, and the only way he'd survive this was if he was drunk.

Tuffnut looped an arm around Hiccup's shoulders. "What are you doing hiding all the way over here?"

"Avoiding Astrid," he said, jabbing his thumb over to where she was standing in the living room, making conversation with two of her friends.

On cue, Astrid tipped her head back and laughed at a joke. It had to be one of the worst laughs Hiccup had ever heard - more of a cackle, really, like some kind of witch. And her voice, Christ, Hiccup was sure that he had never heard a voice quite so grating as hers.

Tuffnut followed Hiccup's gaze. "You like her, or something?"

Hiccup's eyes bugged out at the way Tuffnut had misread the situation. "No, I—"

"I get it, she's pretty hot, right?" Tuffnut said.

Hiccup flushed a bright red. "No. I mean, I guess, but that's not—"

"She's my sister's roommate, man, I could put in a good word for you."

"Absolutely not."

Tuffnut watched him for a second, eyebrows raised. "You should talk to her, instead of just standing creepily in a corner," Tuffnut said, and then raised his voice. "Yo, Astrid!"

"Wait!" Hiccup hissed, grabbing at the arm that Tuffnut was using to beckon Astrid over. "Don't!"

It was too late. Astrid was already walking over.

"This is my friend, Hiccup," Tuffnut said, nudging Hiccup in the arm.

There was nowhere to run. Hiccup briefly considered darting back into the kitchen and throwing himself out of the window.

Astrid was looking between the two of them with that stupid smug grin of hers.

"He thinks you're hot."

Hiccup just about combusted.

With his mouth gaping wide open, and his eyes flitting between the smirks that Astrid and her friends were tossing his way, he did the only thing he could think of, and fled.

A few days later, after he'd relayed the story in full, Fishlegs and Snotlout roared with laughter.

It was funny enough for Snotlout to look up from his phone, wiping tears from his eyes. He grasped Hiccup's shoulder to keep himself steady as he clutched his stomach. "See, this is why you need to go to parties more often," he said. "Tuffnut is such a legend…"

Hiccup scowled. "It's not funny."

"It's pretty funny, man."

"It's not," Hiccup insisted. "I don't know why she has to show up everywhere I am. It's like she's stalking me."

Fishlegs snorted, looking Hiccup up at down with a knowing smile. "I think you like that she messes with you. I think you're hoping to see her outside of work."

"Bullshit," he said, through clenched teeth. "You've cracked."

"If you say so."

"I can't stand her, how is that difficult to understand?"

Fishlegs rocked back and forth on his feet. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

Hiccup felt the frustration hot on his cheeks. "I don't have to listen to this," he said, storming out towards the kitchen door.

"It's from Hamlet!" Fishlegs called after him. "How are you going to beat Astrid in class if you don't know that?"

Hiccup slammed the door behind him, ignoring the sound of their laughter.

The day didn't get any better, and Hiccup's mood soured even more still when Astrid strolled up to the counter at Bean & Gone on his later shift.

"Good evening," she sang, cheerfully.

"Is it?" Hiccup said, gruffly.

The last thing he needed was Astrid Hofferson in a good mood. Not that Astrid Hofferson in a bad mood was any better. In fact, Hiccup didn't want Astrid Hofferson in any mood anywhere near him.

"Well?" Hiccup said. "What do you want?"

She did her standard thinking routine, rocking back and forward on her feet, staring up at the menu board while she stroked her chin. "What would you recommend?"

"A healthy dose of cyanide," Hiccup said, deadpan.

"Are death threats a part of the customer service handbook?"

"It's just part of my natural charm," Hiccup said. "Are you going to order?"

There was a long pause, while Astrid just looked at him, her eyes narrowed. "A venti coffee with ten Splenda packets and whipped cream."

"Ten?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No," Hiccup said. "I just fear for your doctor."

He made the drink. "Four pounds, please."

"What, I don't get a discount?"

Hiccup frowned. "Why would I give you a discount?"

A grin spread across Astrid's face, two dimples pinching her cheeks, as she leaned across the table, her fist propping her chin up, "because you think I'm hot."

Hiccup's face turned crimson, and he slammed the drink down onto the counter, liquid sloshing out of it, onto the table top. Another mess that he'd have to clean up.

"I hope you get diabetes and die," he spat viciously.

Astrid grinned. "This is why I come here," she said. "The service is just wonderful."

She turned on her heel and swept out of the shop, leaving Hiccup to fume.

She was the last customer of the day, and as soon as the door had swung behind her, Hiccup tore off his apron, marching out from behind the counter, into the coffee shop itself.

"I swear to God, one day I'm going to slip arsenic into her drink," Hiccup hissed, slamming his apron down onto one of the tables. "If she comes in here one more time, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions."

He stopped in his tracks after not getting a response from either Fishlegs or Snotlout and scanned the room to find the two of them kneeling on one of the tables in the corner, their noses pressed flat against the window, looking out into the street opposite. Hiccup raised his eyebrows, but he'd seen weirder things from the two of them, and he was still irritated that he hadn't got a reaction out of either of them.

"I mean it," he tried again, folding his arms, "I've had it with her."

"Oh, stop being so melodramatic," Fishlegs said, finally turning around to acknowledge him. "Get up here, you need to see this."

Hiccup pouted, but obliged, climbing up onto the table into the space between the two boys.

"Where would you get arsenic from, anyway?" Fishlegs said.

"I don't know," Hiccup grumbled, still pouting. "The deep web."

"Both of you, shut up and look," Snotlout said, jabbing Hiccup in the ribs with his elbow.

Hiccup looked. There was a big van out on the street, in front of the store opposite. The shop had been vacant for the whole time the three of them had been working there, boarded up and used mostly as an illegal advertising space for whatever dingy, underground gig was happening in their university town next.

But now, when Hiccup squinted, the low-light making it difficult for him to see, he could just about make out that the boards had been wrenched off and the posters pulled away. There were two men pulling something out of the van and into the shop, but he couldn't make out what it was.

"Someone's moving in next door?" Hiccup asked.

Snotlout scowled. "Yeah, no shit."

Hiccup ignored him. "What do you think it's going to be?"

"No idea," Fishlegs said. "It's hard to tell. They only just started moving in."

Over the next few days, the employees of Bean & Gone watched as, gradually, the vacant shop next door came to life.

It wasn't until a week later that the penny dropped. Fishlegs and Hiccup came in early for their morning shift, dead tired and fighting off yawns as they began their day. In fact, they were so busy trying to keep themselves awake as they switched on appliances and made the shop ready for business, that it wasn't until thirty minutes into their shift that they noticed the sign above the vacant shop had been painted.

Al's Espressos, it read, in gold fancy lettering.

It was a rival coffee shop.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter 

[muhyousafsalfi]

Why are so many people getting a meat allergy?

Becoming allergic to meat turns your life upside down. Known as alpha-gal allergy, the condition dictates what you can eat, wear, how you relax, and even which medicines are safe. Is research finally starting to catch up?

It is early morning in early summer, and I am tracing my way through the woods of central North Carolina, steering cautiously around S-curves and braking hard when what looks like a small rise turns into a narrow bridge. I am on my way to meet Tami McGraw, who lives with her husband and the youngest of their kids in a sprawling development of old trees and wide lawns just south of Chapel Hill. Before I reach her, McGraw emails. She wants to feed me when I get there:

“Would you like to try emu?” she asks. “Or perhaps some duck?”

These are not normal breakfast offerings. But for years, nothing about McGraw’s life has been normal. She cannot eat beef or pork, or drink milk or eat cheese or snack on a gelatine-containing dessert without feeling her throat close and her blood pressure drop. Wearing a wool sweater raises hives on her skin; inhaling the fumes of bacon sizzling on a stove will knock her to the ground. Everywhere she goes, she carries an array of tablets that can beat back an allergy attack, and an auto-injecting EpiPen that can jolt her system out of anaphylactic shock.

McGraw is allergic to the meat of mammals and everything else that comes from them: dairy products, wool and fibre, gelatine from their hooves, char from their bones. This syndrome affects some thousands of people in the USA and an uncertain but likely larger number worldwide, and after a decade of research, scientists have begun to understand what causes it. It is created by the bite of a tick, picked up on a hike or brushed against in a garden, or hitchhiking on the fur of a pet that was roaming outside.

The illness, which generally goes by the name ‘alpha-gal allergy’ after the component of meat that triggers it, is a trial that McGraw and her family are still learning to cope with. In much the same way, medicine is grappling with it too. Allergies occur when our immune systems perceive something that ought to be familiar as foreign. For scientists, alpha-gal is forcing a remapping of basic tenets of immunology: how allergies occur, how they are triggered, whom they put in danger and when.

For those affected, alpha-gal is transforming the landscapes they live in, turning the reliable comforts of home ­– the plants in their gardens, the food on their plates — into an uncertain terrain of risk.

In 1987, Dr Sheryl van Nunen was confronted with a puzzle. She was the head of the allergy department at a regional hospital in the suburbs of Sydney, Australia, and had a reputation among her colleagues for sorting out mysterious episodes of anaphylaxis. This time, a man had been sent to see her who kept waking up, in the middle of the night, in the grip of some profound reaction.

Van Nunen knew at once that this was out of the ordinary, since most allergic reactions happen quickly after exposure instead of hours later. She also knew that only a few allergens affect people after they have gone to bed. (Latex, for instance — someone sensitive to it who has sex using a latex condom might fall asleep and wake up in the midst of an allergy attack.) She checked the man for the obvious irritants and, when those tests came up negative, took a thorough look at his medical history and did a skin test for everything he had eaten and touched in the hours before bedtime. The only potential allergen that returned a positive result was meat.

This was weird (and dismaying, in barbecue-loving Australia). But it was the only such case Van Nunen had ever seen. She coached the patient on how to avoid the meals that seemed to be triggering his reactions, put it down mentally to the unpredictability of the human immune system, and moved on.

Then a few more such patients came her way. There were six additional ones across the 1990s; by 2003, she had seen at least 70, all with the same problem, all apparently affected by meat they had eaten a few hours before. Groping for an explanation, she lengthened the list of questions she asked, quizzing the patients about whether they or their families had ever reacted to anything else: detergents, fabrics, plants in their gardens, insects on the plants.

“And invariably, these people would say to me: ‘I haven’t been bitten by a bee or a wasp, but I’ve had lots of tick bites,” Van Nunen recalls.

In her memory, Tami McGraw’s symptoms began after 2010. That was the year she and her husband Tom, a retired surgeon, spied a housing bargain in North Carolina, a development next to a nature reserve whose builder had priced the big houses to sell. The leafy spread of streams and woodland pockets was everything she wanted in a home. She didn’t realise that it offered everything that deer and birds and rodents, the main hosts of ticks, want as well.

She remembers one tick that attached to her scalp, raising such a welt the spot was red for months afterwards, and a swarm of baby ticks that climbed her legs and had to be scrubbed off in a hot bath laced with bleach. Unpredictably, at odd intervals, she began to get dizzy and sick.

“I’d have unexplained allergic reactions, and I’d break out in hives and my blood pressure would go crazy,” she told me. The necklines of all her T-shirts were stretched, because she tugged at them to relieve the feeling she couldn’t take a deep breath. She trekked to an array of doctors who diagnosed her with asthma or early menopause or a tumour on her pituitary gland. They prescribed antibiotics and inhalers and steroids. They sent her for MRI scans, pulmonary function tests, echocardiograms of her heart. Nothing yielded a result.

Looking back, she realises she missed clues as to the source of her problem. She always seemed to need to use an asthma inhaler on Wednesdays — the day she spent hours in her car, delivering steaming-hot dinners for Meals on Wheels. She would feel short of breath, and need to visit an urgent-care clinic, on Saturdays — which always started, in her household, with a big breakfast of eggs and sausages.

Then a close friend had a scary episode, going for a run, arriving home and passing out on the hot concrete of her driveway. Once she was recovered, McGraw quizzed her. Her friend said: “They thought I got stung by a bee while I was running. But now they think maybe I have a red-meat allergy.”

McGraw remembers her first reaction was: That’s crazy. Her second was: Maybe I have that too.

She Googled, and then she asked her doctor to order a little-known blood test that would show if her immune system was reacting to a component of mammal meat. The test result was so strongly positive, her doctor called her at home to tell her to step away from the stove.

That should have been the end of her problems. Instead it launched her on an odyssey of discovering just how much mammal material is present in everyday life. One time, she took capsules of liquid painkiller and woke up in the middle of the night, itching and covered in hives provoked by the drug’s gelatine covering.

When she bought an unfamiliar lip balm, the lanolin in it made her mouth peel and blister. She planned to spend an afternoon gardening, spreading fertiliser and planting flowers, but passed out on the grass and had to be revived with an EpiPen. She had reacted to manure and bone meal that were enrichments in bagged compost she had bought.

She struggled with the attacks’ unpredictability, and even more with the impact on her family. “I think I’m getting better, and then I realise I’m not,” she says. “I’m more knowledgeable about what I can and can’t do.”

The discovery of new diseases often follows a pattern. Scattered patients realise they are experiencing strange symptoms. They find each other, face to face in a neighbourhood or across the world on the internet. They bring their experience to medicine, and medicine is sceptical. And then, after some period of pain and recalcitrance, medicine admits that, in fact, the patients were right.

That is the story of the discovery of CFS/ME and Lyme disease, among others. But it is not the story of alpha-gal allergy. An odd set of coincidences brought the bizarre illness to the attention of researchers almost as soon as it occurred.

The story begins with a cancer drug called cetuximab, which came onto the market in 2004. Cetuximab is a protein grown in cells taken from mice. For any new drug, there are likely to be a few people that react badly to it, and that was true for cetuximab. In its earliest trials, one or two of every 100 cancer patients who got it infused into their veins had a hypersensitivity reaction: their blood pressure dropped and they had difficulty breathing.

That 1–2 per cent stayed consistent as cetuximab was given to larger and larger groups. And then there was an aberration. In clinics in North Carolina and Tennessee, 25 of 88 recipients were hypersensitive to the drug, with some so sick they needed emergency shots of epinephrine and hospitalisation. At about the same time, a patient who was receiving a first dose of cetuximab in a cancer clinic in Bentonville, Arkansas, collapsed and died.

The manufacturers, ImClone and Bristol-Myers Squibb, checked every obvious thing about the trial: the drug’s ingredients, the cleanliness of the manufacturing plants, even the practices at the medical centres where cetuximab had been administered. Nothing stood out. The most that researchers could guess at the time was that the unlucky recipients might have some kind of mouse allergy.

Then the first coincidence occurred: a nurse whose husband worked at the Bentonville clinic mentioned the death to Dr Tina Hatley, an immunologist in private practice in Bentonville. Hatley had recently finished postgraduate training at the University of Virginia’s allergy centre, and she mentioned the death to her former supervisor, Dr Thomas Platts-Mills.

The bad responses to the drug looked like allergic reactions, and they were common enough — and far enough from the manufacturer’s expectations — to be an intriguing research opportunity.

Platts-Mills pulled together a team, looping in Hatley and several current research fellows as well. Fairly quickly, they discovered the source of the problem. People were reacting to the drug because they had a pre-existing sensitivity, indicated by a high level of antibodies (called immunoglobulin E, or IgE for short) to a sugar that is present in the muscles of most mammals, though not in humans or other primates. The name of the sugar was galactose-alpha-1,3-galactose, known for short as alpha-gal.

Alpha-gal is familiar to many scientists because it is responsible for an enduring disappointment: its ability to trigger intense immune reactions is the reason that organs taken from animals have never successfully been transplanted into people. The puzzle was why the drug recipients were reacting to it. To have an allergic reaction, someone needs to have been primed with a prior exposure to a substance — but the trial recipients who reacted badly were all on their first dose of cetuximab.

Team members scrutinised the patients and their families for anything that could explain the problem. The reactions appeared regional — patients in Arkansas and North Carolina and Tennessee experienced the hypersensitivity, but ones in Boston and northern California did not. They investigated parasites, moulds and diseases that occur only in pockets of the USA.

Then Dr Christine Chung, a Nashville researcher recruited to the team, stumbled on an intriguing clue. Almost one in five of the patients enrolled at a cancer clinic at her hospital had high levels of IgE to alpha-gal. But when she checked those patients’ near neighbours, treating them as a control group — that is, people who lived their lives in the same way, but did not have cancer and had no reason to have received the drug — almost one in five had antibodies to alpha-gal as well.

Almost a decade later, that correlation still makes Platts-Mills chuckle. The alpha-gal reaction “had nothing to do with cancer,” he says. “It had everything to do with rural Tennessee.”

The question then became: what in rural Tennessee could trigger a reaction like this? The answer arose from a second coincidence. Dr Jacob Hosen, a researcher in Platts-Mills’s lab, stumbled across a map drawn by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) showing the prevalence of an infection called Rocky Mountain spotted fever. It exactly overlapped the hot spots where the cetuximab reactions had occurred.

Rocky Mountain spotted fever is transmitted by the bite of a tick: Amblyomma americanum, one of the most common ticks in south-eastern USA. It’s known as the lone star tick for a blotch of white on the back of the female’s body.

The researchers wondered — if the mystery reactions shared a footprint with a disease, and ticks caused the disease, could ticks be linked to the reactions too?

It was an intriguing hypothesis, and was reinforced by a new set of patients who came trickling into Platts-Mills’s clinic at about the same time. They were all adults, and that was odd to start with, because allergies tend to show up in childhood. They had never had an allergic reaction before, but now they were experiencing allergy symptoms: swelling, hives and in the worst cases anaphylactic shock. They too had high levels of IgE antibodies to alpha-gal.

None of them, though, were cancer patients. They told the physicians that they had no proof of what was causing their reactions — but more than a few of them sensed it had something to do with eating meat.

Dr Scott Commins, another postgraduate fellow in Platts-Mills’s group, took it upon himself to phone every new patient to ask whether they’d ever suffered a tick bite. “I think 94.6 per cent of them answered affirmatively,” he says. “And the other few per cent would say, ‘You know, I’m outdoors all the time. I can’t remember an actual tick that was attached, but I know I’d get bites.’”

Meat from mammals inevitably contains alpha-gal — so in already sensitised individuals, eating meat might constitute a second exposure, in the same way infusing cetuximab had been.

If tick bites had sensitised them, then the alpha-gal reaction might be a food allergy as well as a drug reaction. But the connection was speculative, and cementing cause and effect would take one final, extraordinary coincidence.

As it happens, Platts-Mills likes to hike. One weekend he took off across the central Virginia hills, tramping through grassy underbrush. He came home five hours later, peeled off his boots and socks, and discovered his legs and feet were speckled with tiny dots. They looked like ground pepper, but they were dug into his skin — he had to use a dull knife to scrape them off — and they itched something fierce. He saved a few, and sent them to an entomologist. They were the larval form of lone star ticks.

This, he realised, was an opportunity. As soon as the work week started, he had his lab team draw his blood and check his IgE levels. They were low to start with, and then week by week began to climb. Platts-Mills is English — his father was a Member of Parliament — and in the midst of having his IgE tracked, he went to an event at the Royal Society of Medicine in London. “And at that point,” he says cheerfully, “I ate two lamb chops and drank two glasses of wine.”

In the middle of the night, he woke up covered in hives.

The lone star tick doesn’t receive much attention in the USA. It’s the black-legged tick, Ixodes scapularis, that has the dubious honour of being the most well-known, as it’s the carrier of Lyme disease, which causes an estimated 300,000 cases of illness in the USA each year.

The lone star tick doesn’t transmit Lyme disease, but is the vector for other serious illnesses, including Q fever, ehrlichiosis, Heartland virus, Bourbon virus and tularaemia, an infection so serious that the US government classifies the bacteria that cause it as a potential agent of bioterrorism.

While Lyme clusters in the north-east and the northern Midwest, the diseases carried by Amblyomma stretch from the coast of Maine to the tip of Florida, the Atlantic to the middle of Texas, and the southern shores of the Great Lakes all the way to the Mexican border.

And that range appears to be expanding. “The northern edge of where these ticks are abundant is moving,” says Dr Rick Ostfeld, a disease ecologist at the Cary Institute of Ecosystem Studies, north of New York City. “It is now well-established further north, into Michigan, Pennsylvania, New York and well up into New England.

“Climate change is likely playing a role in the northward expansion,” Ostfeld adds, but acknowledges that we don’t know what else could also be contributing.

It’s a universal complaint among tick scientists that we don’t know as much about ticks as we should. Tick-transmitted illnesses are more common in the USA than mosquito-borne ones — according to the CDC’s most recent accounting, in 2017 tickborne diseases were 2.6 times more common than when the agency began counting in 2004 — yet it’s mosquitoes that receive the most public health attention and funding, from national surveillance programmes to local mosquito-control campaigns. (In fact, the CDC was founded in 1942 because of mosquito-borne disease; its original title was the Office of Malaria Control in War Areas.)

What is known about where ticks live, what they feed on, and how they are affected by changes in land use and climate has mostly been assembled out of the findings of scientists fighting for scarce research funding.

It’s impossible to talk to physicians encountering alpha-gal cases without hearing that something has changed to make the tick that transmits it more common — even though they don’t know what that something might be.

The lone star tick is a sturdy, stealthy predator. It isn’t picky about conditions — it tolerates the damp of Atlantic beaches, and its western expansion only stopped when it ran up against the Texas desert — and it’s content to feed from dozens of animals, from mice all the way up the tree of life.

It loves birds, which might have helped it move north so rapidly, and it has a special lust for the white-tailed deer that have colonised American suburbs. And, unlike most ticks, it bites humans in all three stages of its lifecycle: as an adult, as a nymph and as the poppy seed-sized larvae that attacked Platt-Mills, which linger on grass stalks in clusters and spring off hundreds at a time.

Ticks detect scent with organs embedded in their first pair of legs, and what they’re sniffing for is carbon dioxide, the exhaled breath of an animal full of warm oxygenated blood. When lone star ticks catch wind of it, they take off. “The Lyme disease tick is a slow tick,” says Dr William Nicholson, a microbiologist at the CDC. “Amblyomma will run to you.”

There has been so little research into alpha-gal allergy that scientists can’t agree on exactly what stage of the bite starts victims’ sensitisation. It is possible that a fragment of a previous blood meal, from a mouse, bird or deer, lingers in a tick’s guts and works its way up through its mouth and into its human victim. It’s also possible that some still-unidentified compound in tick saliva is chemically close enough to alpha-gal to produce the same effect.

One aspect of its epidemiology is becoming clear, though. The allergy isn’t only caused by the lone star tick.

In Australia, Van Nunen (who is now a clinical associate professor at the University of Sydney School of Medicine) couldn’t understand how her patients’ tick bites solved the mystery of their meat allergy. But she could see something else. The beaches that fringe the coast north and south of Sydney are rife with ticks. If bites from them were putting people at risk of a profound allergy, she felt compelled to get the word out.

In 2007, Van Nunen wrote up a description of 25 meat-allergic patients whose reactions she had confirmed with a skin-prick test. All but two had had severe skin reactions to a tick bite; more than half had suffered severe anaphylaxis. That abstract formed the basis of a talk she gave later that year to an Australian medical association, which was then indexed — but not published in full — in an Australian medical journal. It took until 2009 for the Virginia group to catch up to it, after they had already published their first alert.

That was unfortunate, because the crucial detail in Van Nunen’s research wasn’t just that her cases were earlier than the first round of American ones. It was that they were caused by bites from a different tick: Ixodes holocyclus, called the paralysis tick. Alpha-gal allergy was not just an odd occurrence in one part of the USA. It had occurred in the opposite hemisphere, making it literally a global problem.

And so it has proved. Alpha-gal reactions linked to tick bites have now been found in the UK, France, Spain, Germany, Italy, Switzerland, Japan, South Korea, Sweden, Norway, Panama, Brazil, Côte d’Ivoire and South Africa. These cases trace back to at least six additional tick species. (An online map on which patients list themselves includes over a dozen more countries.)

Wherever ticks bite people — everywhere other than the Arctic and Antarctic — alpha-gal allergy has been recorded. In Belgium, patients reacted badly to a drug produced in rabbit cells. In the Italian Alps, men who went hunting in the forests were more at risk than women who stayed in their village. In Germany, the most reactive food was a traditional delicacy, pork kidneys. In Sweden, it was moose.

Van Nunen herself has now seen more than 1,200 patients. “The next busiest clinic, about 350,” she says. Those cases have all occurred in two decades, less than the span of a single human generation. As in America, the surge leaves Van Nunen mystified as to what the cause might be. She reasons that the rise cannot be due to something in her patients; neither genetic nor epigenetic change could occur so quickly.

“It has to be environmental,” she says.

It’s a sunny early morning at the University of North Carolina Medical Center in Chapel Hill. Commins, who moved here in 2016 to become an associate professor, has 11 patients to see before the end of the day. Seven of them have alpha-gal allergy.

Laura Stirling, 51, is fretting over a list of questions. She does not live nearby; she flew down from Maryland, drawn by Commins’s reputation. In 2016, she found a fat lone star tick attached to her, and afterwards had fierce indigestion whenever she ate or smelled pork — a challenge, because her husband likes to tinker with a smoker on weekends. In 2017, she was bitten again, and her symptoms worsened to midnight hives and lightheadedness that sent her to her doctor’s office. She immediately cut all meat and dairy from her diet. A year later, she wants to know if she can add anything back.

“Can I eat dairy?” she asks. “Can I cook dairy? Can I eat it if it doesn’t have animal rennet in it?” She pauses. “I’ve been symptom-free, because I don’t take risks.”

Commins walks her through a protocol he’s developed, a method for adding back mammal products one dose at a time. He has a hypothesis that alpha-gal reactions are linked to the fat content of food; that might explain why they take so many hours to occur, because the body processes fat via a slower metabolic pathway than protein or carbs.

He recommends that patients start with a spoonful of grated dry cheese, because its fat content is low, and graduate by slow steps up to full-fat yogurt and milk and then to ice cream. If those foods don’t provoke reactions, he suggests tiny doses of lean meat, starting with deli ham.

Stirling lights up at that. “I dream of charcuterie,” she sighs.

Because Commins was part of Platt-Mills’s earliest research, he has been seeing alpha-gal patients for more than a decade now. He estimates he has treated more than 900 men and women; five new patients arrive every week. He has coached a significant number of them back to eating some mammal products and managing their exposures to the things they can’t handle, so their worst experience is hunting for an emergency Benadryl, not being rushed to the ER.

Not every patient can do this. Julie LeSueur, who is 45 and lives in Richmond, Virginia, has been monitored by Platts-Mills for four years. (He is one of several doctors she has seen for the condition, after years of severe stomach issues escalated to repeated attacks of anaphylaxis that put her in hospital. One physician, frustrated she wasn’t getting better, told her: “This is all in your head.”)

What started as an allergy to meat expanded into reactions to anything with an animal connection, including gelatine in medications and animal products in cosmetics, and then to sensitising her immune system to an array of other irritants, from nuts to mould. She buys vegan soap and shampoo, has prescriptions formulated by a compounding pharmacy, and mostly works from home to avoid unintended exposures. Reluctantly, she cut back a hobby that meant the world to her: fostering animals that have been rescued from abuse.

“I’m at home all the time now,” she tells me by phone. “I’m lucky to get off the couch.”

Commins and Platts-Mills named alpha-gal allergy a decade ago, and Van Nunen saw her first patient 20 years before that. A lab test for the allergy, the one that Tami McGraw received, has been on the market since 2010. (Platts-Mills and Tina Hatley, now Merritt, share the patent.) That makes it hard to understand why patients still struggle to be diagnosed and understand the limits of what they can eat or allow themselves to be exposed to. But alpha-gal allergy defies some of the bedrock tenets of immunology.

Food allergies are overwhelmingly caused by proteins, tend to surface in childhood and usually trigger symptoms quickly after a food is consumed. Alpha-gal is a sugar; alpha-gal patients tolerate meat for years before their reactions begin; and alpha-gal reactions take hours to occur. Plus, the range of reactions is far beyond what’s normal: not only skin reactions in mild cases and anaphylaxis in the most serious, but piercing stomach pain, abdominal cramps and diarrhoea as well.

But alpha-gal reactions are definitely an allergy, given patients’ results on the same skin and IgE tests that immunologists use to determine allergies to other foods. That leads both Van Nunen and Commins to wonder whether the syndrome will help to reshape allergy science, broadening the understanding of what constitutes an allergy response and leading to new concepts of how allergies are triggered.

Merritt, who estimates she has seen more than 500 patients with alpha-gal allergy, has it herself; she has had bad reactions to meat all her life, since being bitten by seed ticks at Girl Scout camp, and was re-sensitised by a lone star tick bite last year. She is sensitive enough to react not only to meat, but to other products derived from mammal tissues — and as she has discovered, they are threaded throughout modern life.

The unrecognised dangers aren’t only sweaters and soaps and face creams. Medical products with an animal origin include the clotting drug heparin, derived from pork intestines and cow lung; pancreatic enzymes and thyroid supplements; medicines that include magnesium stearate as an inert filler; vaccines grown in certain cell lines; and other vaccines, and intravenous fluids, that contain gelatine.

“We have enormous difficulty advising people about this,” Van Nunen says. “Sometimes you have to sit down for seven hours, write seven emails and have four telephone conversations to be able to say to a 23-year-old woman who’s about to travel: ‘Yes, you may have this brand of Japanese encephalitis vaccine because they do not use bovine material. The vaccine is made in [cells from] the African green monkey and I have looked up that monkey and it does not contain alpha-gal.’”

Some replacement heart values are grown in pigs; they may cause alpha-gal sensitisation that could trigger an allergy attack later. And cardiac patients who have alpha-gal allergy seem to use up replacement heart valves more quickly than normal, putting them at risk of heart failure until they can get a replacement.

There’s also a growing sense that alpha-gal may be an occupational hazard. Last year, researchers in Spain treated three farm workers who developed hives and swelling and had difficulty breathing after being splashed with amniotic fluid while they were helping calves to be born. All three of them — a 36-year-old woman, a 56-year-old woman and a 53-year-old man — already knew they had alpha-gal sensitivity, but had never imagined that skin contact would be risky.

Commins has treated hunters who developed reactions after being splashed with blood after field dressing deer; those cases raise the possibility that meat-processing workers could be at risk. In the two main Facebook groups where patients gather, it’s common to hear school cafeteria workers fret about reactions from breathing the fumes of meat cooking.

Last summer, researchers working with Commins reported that people with alpha-gal allergy may have greater allergic reactions to the stings of bees and wasps, potentially endangering landscapers and other outdoor workers.

It’s hard to know how many people may be sensitised to alpha-gal without knowing it. A project at the National Institutes of Health (NIH) that studies unexplained occurrences of anaphylaxis found last year that 9 per cent of the cases weren’t unexplained after all: they were alpha-gal patients whose sensitivity had never been diagnosed.

Platts-Mills points out that the prevalence of high levels of alpha-gal IgE in his earliest studies was up to 20 per cent in some communities, “but that was absolutely not the prevalence of allergic reactions to meat,” he says. “So there are clearly plenty of people out there who’ve got the antibody but don’t have this syndrome.”

What this all means is that there are almost certainly people for whom a meat-containing meal or medical intervention could trigger an alpha-gal reaction of unknown severity.

There may be further peril awaiting them. In June, Platts-Mills and other researchers revealed that more than a quarter of patients who came to the University of Virginia’s medical centre for cardiac catheterisation, to clear out life-threatening blood-vessel blockages, were sensitised to alpha-gal without knowing it.

The patients with the undetected allergy had more arterial plaque than the ones without, and, most worrisome to the researchers, their plaques were of a type that is more likely to break away from the arterial wall and cause heart attacks and strokes. Though the research is early — done in one group of 118 patients, in a known hotspot for alpha-gal — Platts-Mills worries it presages a risk for heart disease that is larger than anyone expects.

When a new disease surfaces in the USA, it’s usually the CDC that investigates, pouring epidemiologists and data scientists into the field to track down connections and bring back samples for lab analysis. But investigation of alpha-gal is caught in a bureaucratic quirk of federal science. The CDC is responsible for infections spread by insects and arthropods — but alpha-gal syndrome is not an infection. That makes it the responsibility of NIH — which has abundant lab scientists, but no shoe-leather disease detectives.

NIH does seem to be taking an interest. In June 2018, it hosted an invitation-only one-day IgE-mediated Meat Allergy Workshop; in the past, such meetings have indicated the giant agency is considering launching a research programme. But just reading the workshop’s programme provides a hint of how new alpha-gal research is; participants called the problem by multiple different names, displaying that there isn’t even yet any agreed nomenclature for it. Similarly, the US-run universal search engine for journal articles, PubMed, indexes papers on alpha-gal under “allergy to galactose-alpha-1,3-galactose”, “mammalian meat allergy”, “delayed red meat allergy”, “galactose-α-1,3-galactose syndrome” and more.

Platts-Mills was one of the workshop’s invited speakers and gave the opening statement. Commins was there as well, along with researchers from New York, Germany, South Africa and Sweden.

Dr Marshall Plaut, who convened the meeting and is now chief of the Food Allergy, Atopic Dermatitis, and Allergic Mechanisms Section at NIH’s National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, describes it as the earliest step in possibly committing to a research programme. (Platts-Mills and Commins have already received some NIH funding.) “It signals that NIH has some interest in understanding more about the disease,” he says. “There are a lot of things that need to be understood.”

In August, Commins gave a talk on alpha-gal allergy at the International Conference on Emerging Infectious Diseases, a conference held every two or so years and sponsored by the CDC that often surfaces the earliest signals of illnesses that are destined to become big problems.

The CDC’s director of foodborne illness was in the audience; so was its director of vector-borne diseases, the department that deals with ticks. Afterwards, they both zoomed up to ask him questions. “I kind of had the impression this was just a weird, small thing,” Dr Lyle Petersen, the vector-borne director, told him. “But this seems like kind of a big deal.”

With NIH and the CDC paying attention, research into alpha-gal might be reaching a threshold, a moment at which isolated investigations might coalesce into answers. For the patients, who feel isolated too, that can’t come soon enough.

[airydiction-blog]

...and still it comes...

IV.

A couple of weeks of manic work, ‘normal’ life and the day to day grind of everything NOT glamorous about my job, and I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking. The object of more than a few private solo moments over recent days is back halfway across the world, being his insanely talented, gregarious, charming self somewhere catered, assisted and warm. In the meantime, I’m here in a bloody arctic London, questioning my sanity.

My mood hasn’t been helped by the letter that arrived on my doormat this morning. A letter from my solicitor, telling me in pretty stark terms that my husband – the one currently in a secure psychiatric unit – is still unwilling to discuss the terms of a divorce. It’s no great surprise, honestly – this has been going on for two years now, since he was put in there for his own safety, and mine. Since he held me up against the kitchen wall with a knife to my throat, then tried, unsuccessfully, to gut me. In any sane world he’d be in a high security prison, but he had good lawyers who knew how to play things and so, he was declared in need of psychiatric rehabilitation, rather than plain fucking bastard evil.

So it’s a low day – and a grey one. I’m reviewing my continuity notes when I hear the little ping of a notification on my phone. Scrabbling through scattered piles of shirts in various states of filthiness I find it…and there’s no stopping the smile that spreads across my face on seeing a picture of Tom with a half-assembled and untrimmed fake moustache surrounding his pursed kissy-lips with the words ‘wish you were here’ typed across his forehead. It’s quickly followed up with a message… 

 And the day, somehow, all of a sudden, gets a little bit less arctic, a little bit less grey. As an added bonus, the fleeting thought of ‘maybe I should tell Tom about Daniel…’ has passed and been consigned to the ‘no need’ heap for a little longer.

 9pm rolls around and of course, a ‘call’, in the world of a 20-something, is not a call, it’s a FaceTime. And so, as my phone bleeps at me I curse my frizzed-from-a-quick-shower pineapple head and lack of mascara – but I obviously have to answer it anyway. I quickly find I needn’t have worried too much about appearances, as I gaze over the miles at Tom’s nostrils, buried somewhere in a pale pink hoodie. It has to be said, however, that the sight of his sleepy eyes and lopsided grin is exactly what I needed. I think briefly again that I’m going to have to fill him in at some point – but when is that point, in a not-quite-relationship that probably shouldn’t be happening anyway…?

 Before either of us realise it, two hours have passed of us talking about everything and nothing, about what’s on the telly, how our respective shoots are going…his excitement about his current job is infectious, even though it’s obvious he’s completely knackered. Every now and then we lapse into silence for a minute, and it’s nothing – nothing at all. Then one of us will look back at the phone and find the other is there, just watching – and we’ll crack each other up and off we go again. This is so easy. It’s freaking me out in a tiny place in the back of my head.

“You look supercute, by the way. I miss your mad hair…” he says, with a little laugh. “Three more weeks left,” he adds, rubbing his eyes a little. “Three more weeks then home. Can’t wait.”

“Seems like you need the break…” I reply.

“You are in London then, yeah?” he suddenly asks. “Oh my god tell me you’re around when I get back…” – he sits up a bit, tensing.

Wow. That’s new – and, weirdly, not entirely unwelcome.

“Yep,” I reply with a little smile I can’t really hide. “Definitely around.”

He visibly relaxes…maybe even blushes a little, and I’m reminded of his youth when he assumes a kinda ‘shit I need to be cool FFS’ expression. Before letting out a laugh and blowing his cover.

“That’s good,” he says, “that’s really good. I’ve really missed getting my hands on you…” – and that look is back, his eyes even darker than usual over the phone screen.

“Yeah, I’ve missed that too,” is all I say. Because Christ alive, I really have, and if I start waxing lyrical about it, I’ll end up telling him all the things I’m going to do to him when he’s back home then I probably won’t stop until it’s time for work again in the morning and quite frankly, it’ll ruin the surprise. “Listen, I’d better get to bed if I’m gonna be of any use to anyone tomorrow.”

“Yeah yeah, course – sorry…sweet dreams yeah? Can’t believe we’ve been on for this long…”

“Really good to see you though,” I reply. “Really good.”

He grins – a huge, warm one – “Yeah…you too. Night beautiful.”

And that’s it. I’m lost. What the fuck has this boy done to me? And when do I tell him about Dan?

 _____________________________________________________________

 Those three weeks are done – longer than they felt like they should have been in some ways, and flown by in others. Trying to figure out how to tell your not-really-boyfriend-but-definitely-main-make-that-only-squeeze about your securely hospitalised husband, while trying to do a manically irregular full-time job, research potentially life-changing career moves, indulging in delicious but ultimately exhausting time-zone juggling calls with the definitely-main-squeeze, and remembering to eat and sleep, does funny things with your perception of time.

And so it’s with a buzzing intercom and an exclaimed “SHIT!” that I remember it’s Tuesday, Tom’s been home for two days with his family, and tonight’s the night he said he was definitely coming over to (and I quote) “snog the arse off me and eat pizza”. The flat’s its usual mix of tidy, together adultness and little piles of chaos  - while I’m leaning more towards the latter, a couple of pencils sticking out of my scruffy hair and definitely no La Perlas in sight. Working from home = braless joy, am I right or am I right? Oh well.

A quick trot to the front door, the most beautiful grin in a blue hoodie and I’m wrapped in the most delicious hug, a warm citrussy scent filling my head. It’s funny how a single person can become this entire force of nature that just wraps itself round you and makes everything that little bit better. I could very easily – scarily so – get used to this.

Tom’s lips find mine and the hug gets the tiniest bit tighter. I shouldn’t have missed those lips this much, but it doesn’t take long to remember just how good he is at this bit – a little moan rumbles in his throat and his hand finds my cheek, pulling my mouth more firmly to his own. It’s bloody heavenly and my arms wrap around him to keep him there.

We come up for air for a sec, foreheads resting against each other… “Blimey,” he says, breathing heavily. “Needed that.” I smile indulgently, and before I know it he’s got me by the hand, pulling me towards the bedroom.

“Blimey is right, you’re bloody keen!” I say, laughing at the focused look on his gorgeous face.

“Well it has been about a million years since I last got my hands on you, be fair,” he replies, smiling back. He really isn’t wasting any time, and his hands get straight under my t-shirt - not even batting an eyelid at the lack of bra, for which he of course gets extra brownie points - pulling it up and over my head before moving down to my jeans. He pauses once my head’s free of the shirt and just looks at me, just for a couple of seconds, before returning his attention to my jeans and trying to kiss me again all at the same time.

Fortunately, probably for both of us, the jeans are baggies and slip very willingly to the floor. “You,” Tom says, looking right into my eyes in a very deliberate manner – “on the bed, now.”

“Hang on,” I reply, failing miserably to stop myself from grinning. “Who’s the grown up around here?”

With a little laugh he plants his hands firmly on my hips and pushes me back so my legs hit the edge of the bed. “I said, on the bed.” I sit down, far from elegantly, but he keeps pushing, just a little. “Lie back,” he instructs. I can see how dark his eyes are, and notice how snug his joggers are getting…he’s standing over me and my eyes keep straying…I lie back.

And he kneels – kneels facing the edge of the bed. My belly flips as his hands smooth along from my knees up my thighs, and he slips his hands under the soft cotton of my knickers, easing them down my legs and off. With a little smile playing on his lips, he bends ever so slightly at the waist, and again he pushes…pushes my knees apart, and shifts forwards a little between my legs. He pauses, glancing at a smooth, straight scar just above my right hip, tracing it with a finger as he leans down to plant a little lazy kiss in the crook of my thigh. I lift my head slightly, judiciously grabbing a pillow to prop it up when I see his curls and those dark, wide eyes looking back up my body at me. This isn’t a view I want to miss.

He lifts my legs onto his shoulders and leans forward so damn slowly it’s excruciating. I can feel his breath on my thighs, and with a gentle pull on my hips he sinks his face between my legs.

His touch is soft – surprisingly, given his earlier approach…but there isn’t a single bit of me that wants to complain about that. Hot breath and tentative touches make my head swim more than a bit, and I lean back on the pillow, grabbing handfuls of the covers. His tongue is lazy, tracing its way up and down my lips, pausing for a second to circle my clit. I catch my breath with a little twitch of my hips – so he stays there, twirling and teasing, holding my hips firm so I can’t escape his touch. He really needn’t worry about that bit. Somewhere in the very back of my mind, a tiny little germ of a thought wonders how the hell he got so…accomplished…at this. He’s never seemed like a player, like a bloke who would have slept around enough to get the practice – even if the opportunities were there. That germ of a thought soon passes when one particular twirl of his tongue and graze of his teeth send a shiver from the base of my spine up to my shoulders, and a groan escapes me as my back arches off the bed. With one hand still bunching up the covers, the other strays down to twine in his curls, putting the smallest amount of pressure on the back of his head. The twitches and tingles already building where his mouth is on me get an extra boost, as the bassy moan he gives in response to my pressing his head to me sends the most delicious vibrations through my skin.

I barely feel his arm snaking away from around my hip, so when his fingers join his tongue it sends another jolt through me and I gasp. I lift my head, and all I can see is his mass of curls and his flexing shoulder, holding me to him. I can’t look away despite the rising heat of what I know is going to be one fucking hell of a release…and as he comes up for a breath those damn eyes meet mine. They don’t break contact as he lowers his mouth back down to join his fingers and with one, two, three more nibbles I can’t stop it even if I wanted to. I come hard, my hands grabbing fistfuls of sheet and my ribs grabbing lungfuls of air as my thighs…well at this point they could be crushing Tom’s skull and I wouldn’t be able to stop them. He doesn’t let up, his fingers still stroking and his tongue still twirling – until at last my legs let him go and every muscle in me relaxes. Luckily, I haven’t crushed his skull, and as I realise he’s breathing almost as heavily as I am, he places a trail of kisses up my belly, my ribs, my breasts and my neck until he’s slinked all the way up the bed to lie next to me.

It’s a while before we speak, and when we do I find it hard to create a coherent string of words and he talks over the top of me, so it’s back to low level giggling and just revelling in the touch of warm skin on warm skin.

“So…” he says, after a minute or two. “Was that alright?”

I can’t quite believe he’s in any doubt after my display – but I nod, nonetheless – “Yes, Tom, that was definitely alright. Although I’m a bit gobsmacked at how you’re that good at it at so tender an age?”

He answers my grin with one of his own. “Am I? Nice! Hmm…dunno. I guess…maybe you just make it easy. I mean…y’know…you just seem to know what you want, more than girls more my age do, if that makes sense? And the best bit is,” he continues, leaning in and kissing me softly, languidly – “that you don’t mind telling me – like, a little shift of your leg, your hand on my head,” a little eyebrow raise to go with that bit – “or a fucking delicious” – kiss – “growly” – kiss – “moan” – kiss – “and it all tells me what you need…” More kisses.

“So…in the spirit of learning…” I say – he raises his eyebrows a little and grins… “Here’s a little something you might...um…wanna try at some point – y’know your webshooter hand?” He nods with a little frown, obviously a bit non-plussed, and who can blame him. “OK, so do it then…” He does.

“Right…those two fingers against your palm – raise them up so they’re ninety degrees to it…” – he does. “Now curl them, just at the ends.” He does. “BINGO,” I finish, with a little wink and a stretch back onto the pillows.

“Wow…really?” he says. “Like, really??”

“Mmhmm,” I reply, already looking forward to some trial runs.

“Blimey. So I’ve been doing that all this time and never even knew it. Damn. Transferable skills for the win, eh?”

“Damn right,” I say, lazily reclining with my very happy eyes closed, and I can feel the fucking grin spreading across my face.

“Well…no time like the present I reckon…” he replies, and I can hear his grin in those words…

Is this guy for real? He can’t be real. I’m fucking dreaming, and this guy is NOT real. But he is, his lips are, and they’re on me. Again.

[imsfire2]

WIP meme

Do This: List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or as little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on: writing, art, gifsets, whatever.

I was tagged by @thenewleeland - thank you very much!

And, ahem, you asked for it...

(I will add a read-more after a bit, since there is rather a lot of this.  Don’t panic...).

Fan fic – all Rogue One at the present time

In a dark time, the eye begins to see

AU in which Cassian is an artist and Jyn is sent by Saw Gerrera to model for him as a cover to get into the Imperial Archives on Corellia.  Angst, feels, smut, action and drama.  WIP – currently writing chapter 38 in draft, with the published text on AO3 now up to chapter 35.  

Keeping faith

AU in which Cassian and Jyn survived Scarif and are still with the Alliance, but are separated during the battle of Hoth.  Jyn is taken prisoner and then discovers she is pregnant, and angst and many feels ensue. WIP – currently on just over 9,000 words in draft with the published text on AO3 standing at just over 6,000.

Hot and wet

Rebelcaptain one-shot that won’t behave; primarily feels, not as smutty as the title suggests!

In your eyes

Rebelcaptain one-shot, a follow-up to A little more information (which was itself a follow-up to one of the Paths of hurt and darkness stories, On attachment elsewhere).  Cassian is hospitalised following a suicide attempt, post-battle of Endor.  Serious angst and feels.

The Hope of Lyonesse

Only just got started on this, basically it’s still at the planning stage, and it may be a monster as there’s a lot of material to work with.  Rogue One/Arthurian legend/other Celtic legends mash-up AU.  Cassian is Tristan, Jyn is Isolde, Draven is Mark of Cornwall, Chirrut and Baze are the last two acolytes of the Order of Merlin, Bodhi Rook is a character who fuses the roles of Bedwyr and Brangäne.  Mon Mothma is King Arthur, and is a rather more active figure than usual.  The Rebel Alliance is the seven Celtic nations, Albion, Cornwall, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, Lyonesse and Galicia; they have a system of loose alliances and treaties cemented by dynastic marriages, and are trying to work together to fight off invasion on two fronts.  The Empire is an unholy alliance between the Saxon invaders coming from the east and the magic-wielding Formorians of Hy-Braseal invading by sea from the west.  Tarkin and Krennic are Saxons, Vader is the Lord of the Isle of the Torrent.  Other SW characters being slotted in gradually. Warning: Do not expect a happy ending.

Captain Andor lives for a day

Only just got started on this, too!  Total contrast to the above.  A Rogue One/Miss Pettigrew AU.  Late 1930’s setting, with jazz music, cocktails and romance for all.  Expect fluff and feels with just an undertone of angst (because some of the protagonists are not stupid and are aware of politics).  

Original fiction

The Bargain of Liberty (working title)

Just got started on this, so don’t look for it anytime soon!  Especially as, being original fic, it won’t be going on AO3.

Historical fantasy set in a sixteenth century AU in which the Spanish did not succeed in conquering the native kingdoms of Central and South America.  Consequently the balance of power across the world is totally different. In London, Dr John Dee has worked a great act of magic, the eponymous Bargain of Liberty, to ensure the freedom of his beloved sovereign, Elizabeth of England, and her people, and to enable her to marry her true love, her cousin Mary Stewart, Queen of Scots.  A work of magic which has had unexpected ramifications.  As our story begins, two British spies, Emilia Tanqueray and Kit Marlowe, and a mestizo Aztec sleeper agent, Javián Cuauhtémoc Sanchez, set out together to thwart the plans of the Inquisition.  The Inquisition’s goals are to overthrow the Emperor Axayacatl the second of Mexico, and to send an Armada to invade the island of Britain…

Also sitting in my Dropbox, Pt 1: Uncompleted original fiction

The taker of daughters

This is a rewrite and expansion of an earlier Hansel and Gretel: Witch-hunters fan-fic.  Significant character changes and hefty filling-in of background.  A steampunk historical fantasy using characters from various ballet versions of folk tales, set in the aftermath of a great war between the High and Low Kingdoms of Faerie and the Middle World of Humankind.  Main character is now Klara Stahlbaum (from The Nutcracker), other characters are her brother, who I’ve named Anton because I don’t like the name Fritz, a Firebird, an OFC who is a human/Firebird mongrel, the Lilac Fairy, and a pregnant giantess.  The main antagonist, the Taker of Daughters, is Kostschei the Terrible.  Currently at just over 77.000 words.  I’m not sure if this is working, though.  I’m having what I can only call tonal problems and struggling to find a balance between the darker and the less-dark elements of the story. So it may end up being abandoned altogether.

The Smiling Assassin

This was a NaNoWriMo project from 2014; a thriller about a retired MI6 agent working for a small London charity, who gets pulled back into his old world when a friend from the past asks him for a favour.  It backfired at around 36,000 words when I realised the plot was not only derivative as all hell but also really sucked!  

Fortitude

A Sci-Fi story about first contact with a telepathic alien species; needs re-writing a lot, but the basic storyline is still good.

A dream of death

My “no-zombies zombie apocalypse” story.  Yeah, that.

Midnight in the Café Tana

An urban fantasy about a local government employee who is a practising witch, and her attempts to help her ex who has fallen victim to a psychic vampire.

Nohomer

A Sci-Fi piece mixing a love story inspired by Pelleas et Melisande with a background of social conflict between rich and poor in a far-off future of Rampant Intergalactic Capitalism.

The war is over

A Sci-Fi story inspired by the core ideas from my very first ever fan-fic, which was a sequel to Return of the Jedi written when I was a teenager. Key plot points are A) the Emperor is dead and the beleaguered Evil Empire is on the verge of losing the galactic civil war, looking for ways to fight back and sabotage their enemies, and B) any Emperor worth his salt is bound to have a son-and-heir tucked away somewhere.

Also sitting in my Dropbox, Pt 2: Completed original fiction

The Healers

A magic realist historical fantasy Western; a faith healer who really can heal rescues a member of the Jesse James gang from certain death and hires him to ride shotgun with her. They travel through 1880’s Missouri having assorted adventures, healing various people and one another and trying not to get killed by various other people who want to bring him to justice, while falling in love.  Features lots of gritty local colour, dirt, violence, whores, blood, sex, angst and feels.  I had a ball writing this and it’s probably my best piece of full-length original fic so far.

The Secret Country

Urban fantasy with people who have real magical powers/superpowers trying desperately not to get found out and caught by a government agency determined to make use of them as weapons.  Flawed as a piece of writing, but quite an exciting read if you can get past a few sticky patches.

The eternal love of Gabriel Yeats

A slightly bonkers magic realist historical fantasy, featuring time travel, reincarnation, doomed romance and a lot of major character death.  Very fond of this one too though it has its issues as a piece of novel writing – it’s much too episodic and has a big structural flaw which I never managed to solve successfully.

Ramundi’s sisters

A historical romance about an artist and his three sisters in early C20th rural Sicily.  Very angsty and feels-y, with thwarted love and lots of unhappiness for everyone.  This was my first full-length novel and although I think I’ve improved a lot since as a writer then I’m still fond of it because I remember the thrill of writing it and having it flow.

[iamapoopmuffin]

Michael’s Week At Work So Far

[To be updated if anything else horrible happens this week]

So, it’s a show week this week. Opening night Wednesday, performing the next few days (though I'm not in on the Friday since because medical issues) and since we’re now approaching heatwave territory, the heat has been getting to us. So some nice, nasty things that have happened.

Monday

During a run, someone leaned on a fire escape door and it opened. Fire alarm went off as a result. We had to stop rehearsals for over an hour.

One man went to hospital with severe chest pains and vomiting. An ambulance had to be called.

Best friend collapsed. Was fully conscious and refused medical attention because he deals really badly with heat, and collapses a lot in summer, and has done for a long long time, and because it happens a lot he insisted he was fine. Friend Archie sat by him while he recovered and sprayed him with water.

I collapsed (well, my legs gave out) once from medical condition caused fatigue, and fell asleep twice due to the same thing. Luckily never while I was needed (and nobody noticed my legs give out, if they had it would’ve been embarrassing)

There were a lot of water fights and people randomly dousing themselves with water. We got shouted at.

We were told not to practice the dance on the upper rig because it was where the lights made things even more hot than anywhere else in the room. We were told this after waiting in the increased heat level for a good 20 minutes while they got things ready below. We were all pissed off.

All fans were broken. Director asked for fans from I don’t know who, some higher up of some kind. Request was refused.

One of the leads smashed into me as I was bent over (I was meant to be straight standing by this point, but I had to go up third of eight because it was in canon, and person 1 had not yet gone up and never did). I got a bruised arse and he ended up sprawled on the ground. A true professional, he never stopped singing.

My costume tore across the knee when I sat down.

Tuesday

During a run, a woman playing a principle role passed out and had a heatstroke-induced seizure. As she fell, she fell against a fire escape door, setting off the alarm. I was in the green room with Best Friend at the time, but we both went down when we heard the alarm. An ambulance had to be called. Tech peeps said everything was fine and it was just a brief blackout about 5 seconds before panic-running to call for the ambulance.

Best friend left his asthma inhaler in the wings. Best friend had an asthma attack. We were not allowed into the theatre/backstage to retrieve the inhaler (even though he was obviously struggling) because that was where principle role lady had had her seizure, and she was still there, though she was sitting up and saying she felt better. Best friend ended up going to hospital and seizure girl stayed at work. Both are fine now.

Fire alarm went off again when someone closed the fire escape door.

Somebody fell off the rigging, which was scripted, but he was supposed to be caught. He almost wasn’t because one of the people supposed to catch him went to hospital the day before with severe chest pains and vomiting. Somebody ran in at the last minute. Not sure guy on rigging even noticed.

A girl started feeling too nauseous to continue, partially because she hadn’t eaten all day. She claimed it was because she didn’t have a chance to eat.

We got fans from whoever refused them before because of principle’s collapse.

Nobody could concentrate fully on the rehearsal after all this shit. Except principle girl who was hella rad throughout.

Wednesday

All people who were hospitalised previously returned to work today.

A piece of small moving set lost a wheel while people were on it. No injuries were sustained. This was at the beginning of a run. Rest of run was done without it, improvising travelling wherever it was used before.

Fire exit doors were opened. Alarm did not go off.

We got a fucktonne of fans.

Someone left while still mic’d up. We can only assume she took mic 3 on an epic adventure filled with dragons and giants who are also tree people.

My costume tore again. I think it’s too small.

I purposely dehydrated myself so I wouldn’t be desperate for the toilet during song 5. I say dehydrated, I usually don’t drink much (it takes me hours to finish one drink unless I’m really thirsty) and it had no adverse affects...

A principle singer and a lead actor both decided they didn’t want to take part after all. Principle singer was because she was feeling extremely ill. Neither said anything to anyone other than fellow actors and both went on anyway.

1 minute before the curtain was due to go up, mic 6 broke. It was repaired in a quick botch job and the arrangement was made that when the main person who needed it for his main song needed it, if it broke agai, someone else would have to sacrifice their mic to him.

Immediately after botch job, every odd-numbered mic broke. Some never came back.

Not drinking did not work and I needed to go during song 7. Luckily I was not in song 7.

Mics kept failing mid-song.

During one dance, literally only one person remembered an entire chorus worth of choreography. Everyone else in that section held a position they weren’t meant to hold. Girl that remembered everything looked like an idiot.

A piece of backdrop fell. A sliver of backstage was visible to the audience. We honestly failed to notice for a while.

A principle singer started vomiting profusely outside the fire exit.

Towards the end of the interval, someone asked me to pass some props from the prop table. Or rather, they asked if someone would, and everyone looked at me because I was closest to the table, though someone else was stood in the way so I couldn’t move to the part of the table the wanted props were on and had to awkwardly lean (good thing I’m tall af). Because of this and my dyspraxia, I misjudged my grip and position of my hands and did not pick everything up in one go. Girl who asked for props was okay with that. Girl stood in the way flipped her shit. Started shouting at me for not picking everything up in one go despite knowing damn well I’m dyspraxic, and knowing I have severe and untreated anxiety and PTSD. She was just looking for someone to take her shitty mood out on. I had a panic attack (but not a hyperventilation one which is a new experience for me) and could still dance but could not sing or change my facial expression and probably looked super terrified and like I was about to cry. It hit its worst after we were backstage after the curtain call. TL;DR, I spent the entire second half of the show having a panic attack.

Turned out mics were failing because of mobile phone interference within the theatre.

People, supposed professionals, were shouting backstage.

There was supposed to be a runner for people going to the green room to free up space backstage for those who needed to be onstage soon. The runner was to go up and tell those waiting in the GM what numbers were coming up. Runner sat in one place for the entirety of the play and did not do their job.

Thursday

Staging repaired, Lead that didn’t want to go on yesterday got over his anxiety attack, weather was a lot cooler...All was well. Until the fire nation attacked.

Best friend’s voice had gone hoarse. He got so stressed by this that he threw a water bottle at the rig that formed some of the set.

Overbooking happened. Admin error.

Mic 5 failed.

People kept walking through the one piece of curtain we were specifically told not to walk through.

Something fell off the onstage rig. Twice.

Best friend’s voice started to go during song 7 (his first solo of the play). Dewey plays main villain. He has several solos in several songs in this rock opera musical. He was so obviously hoarse and struggling in the later songs. I felt so bad for him.

Two people had to duck out due to feeling very ill.

Two people burst into tears after a song. Dewey and I were in the green room at the time and so have no idea what happened. We at first thought a lead actress had been injured because the moment she came off someone was with her, sitting her down and giving her water, but she was fine. All we heard was ‘something went wrong’, but it was a small enough something that other actors and actresses were complaining about the crying actresses. I assume the stress just got to them.

Mic 3 failed.

Person who remembered the dance everyone else forgot yesterday did not do the dance section everyone forgot. Nobody else did that section either. Everyone held the position they were not supposed to hold.

Dewey’s voice is now completely blown out. Understudy will have to take villain role tomorrow.

I will not be at work on Friday.