#i appreciate it so much bc i’m not getting out of my car on crutches ALSKALSLALSLALSLALSLAL

[bibleofficial]

target having the ‘deliver to ur car’ option for online orders has me SPOILED !!!

[biletdoux]

waiting: physical therapy | d.sc

Rating: G (in this part)

Genre + Tropes: non-idol!au, romance (angst, slice of life)

Warnings: mentions of a car accident

Length: 1.2k+

Summary: Sicheng is a creature of habit.

Note: it’s a little late, but i’m back!! i swear i’m working on my other works as well, i’ve just been a little caught up with school and work ;; this one is for @odentist​ and @adamfoolcry​ bc ilysm!! i know i’ve been absent, but you guys are in my thoughts always. thank you for putting up with me!!! it means a lot and i’ll work on being better at keeping in contact<3 also, i know not many people read my works, but i’m always super grateful toward the people who do <333

Masterlist // [Previous | Next]

part iv: physical therapy

Sicheng has physical therapy every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning from 09:00 to 11:00. He arrives at each session exactly 15 minutes early every time and although the receptionist who registers him varies depending on the day, Minho is always there to greet him with a bright smile. Sicheng would then set his stuff aside in a designated locker for the day and he’d start off the morning with some light stretches before the actual session started. This has been his routine for the past few months now.

Today is no different. 

“Sicheng,” Minho grins with a tap of his electronic watch. “Eight forty-five on the dot as usual.”

Sicheng shoots a small smile with an acknowledging nod of the head in reply as he rolls his wrists and starts loosening his ankles. His joints ache and creak in ways that bother him more than it should and his stiff muscles hiss in protest. Sicheng understands he should be grateful that he could at least walk and stretch on his own, but he can’t help but become bitter when he remembers his old lithe self. Minho is oblivious to Sicheng’s inner machinations as he mirrors him and does his own set of stretches. 

Sicheng is a dancer. Was. Is. Sicheng will be a dancer again. One day. Yes, one day. Definitely. Hopefully.

While at heart, Sicheng will always be a dancer, his body is broken and won’t move in ways that it once did. Minho helps build him back up two hours at a time, three days a week, but Sicheng knows his body will never go back to the way it used to be prior to the accident. 

Sicheng remembers waking up with a hazy mind and heavy limbs. The bleak whiteness of his room and bed sheets blinded him as he struggled to register his surroundings. The plastic nasal cannula delivered heated high flow oxygen through his body and the wires attached to his body alerted the nearby nurses of his rousing. They came in and took a set of vitals before talking to him sweetly, as to not alarm him too much, but his head ached and Sicheng still can’t recall much of what happened the first few days he came to. 

The doctors said a lot of things, but Sicheng extracted that he was lucky. 

Among other things, the impact left him with two broken ribs and a punctured lung. They told him he was transported to a nearby hospital just in time before his left lung completely collapsed, but his spleen had ruptured, requiring emergency surgery to prevent further internal bleeding. There was moderate trauma to his head, resulting in cerebral contusions and swelling, but they determined his central nervous system came out unscathed. Sicheng’s mind and recollection was still foggy and tattered, but they assured him that it would return. Perhaps in pieces, but one by one it should come back.

Sicheng was bedridden for over a month and required an additional month of intensive in-patient hospital rehabilitation from his injuries and deconditioning before he was even cleared for discharge and out-patient rehabilitation. The doctors were surprised by his progress and had a positive outlook on his prospect, but Sicheng knows. 

Things will never be the same.

Sicheng enrolled in the best out-patient rehabilitation his insurance provided for him and that was how he met Minho, a ray of sunshine and the epitome of positivity. Minho’s relentless encouragement lapped at Sicheng’s bitterness and eventually wore him down. Now Sicheng finds himself looking forward to their sessions together, despite having to face he’s no longer who he was.

“Are you ready?” Minho asks. “We’re going to work on strengthening today.” 

During his first session with Minho, Sicheng still wobbled on his feet. The hospital sent him home with a walker and pair of crutches, but Sicheng found it insulting when pirouettes and grand jetés used to come as second nature. Minho introduced himself with a fervor that had Sicheng wincing. He didn’t want to be here, especially when it meant entrusting his recovery with some happy-go-lucky sap. 

Sicheng gave Minho the cold shoulder the entire session and completely ignored any suggestions or advice. This went on for a few more times until Sicheng almost collapsed one day from pushing himself too hard despite Minho’s warnings. His legs were cramping and his lungs felt like they were going to burst. Sicheng nearly toppled over had it not been for Minho there ready to steady him at a moment's notice. Minho said nothing as Sicheng heaved in long and heavy breaths as his skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat. 

Minho was quiet and didn’t say much. Sicheng appreciated him for not rubbing too much salt in his wounds.

During the last twenty minutes of that session where Minho was helping Sicheng with stretches, he broke their strained silence.

“Sicheng, you have to be kind to yourself and allow yourself time and patience. I know it’s tough, but things will come back. The mind may forget, but the body always remembers.”

Sicheng didn’t say anything back, but he couldn’t find it in himself to scoff back like he would at any other tacky saying and ever since then, he grew to have a quiet respect and even tentative friendship with his physical therapist. 

Sicheng looks forward to Friday sessions the most. Usually they do strengthening most of the time and today is no different. It’s harder on his body than other sessions, but he enjoys the steady ache of his muscles afterward. He views it as a sign of progress and Sicheng takes in greedy gulps. 

Sicheng finishes today’s sessions on autopilot, barely noticing the minutes that flew by until it was time to stretch. Minho helps push and hold positions when Sicheng can’t and he’s grateful.

“Hey what’s up with you today?”

“Hm?” Sicheng is flat on his back and Minho is supporting his right knee to Sicheng’s chest. “What are you talking about?”

“Dunno,” Minho hums thoughtfully as he switches to stretch Sicheng’s left leg. “You just seem tired.”

“Oh. I’ve been having trouble sleeping I guess.”

“Will talking about it help?”

Sicheng ponders his offer for a minute before a soft grunt escapes his lips. His left leg is always stiffer than his right and Minho is pushing it today. “No, I don’t think so, but I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. Try to get good rest though, it’s crucial for recovery.”

Minho understands Sicheng enough to know exactly when and where to push, physically and personally. A comfortable quiet settles between them until the session is over. 

Sicheng cools down in the locker room before heading out and waving goodbye to Minho and the receptionist of the day. 

By 11:20, the sun is out and the streets are busy. Sicheng has to block out rays of light from his eyes as he looks up to see the buildings to decide what the next move for the day will be. Maybe some lunch? 

He ponders quietly to himself before noticing a tap on his shoulder and turns to see a girl.

“Sicheng, is that you?”

Note: oooof, this one isn’t as whimsical and fluffy as the other cause it has lots of exposition, but finally mores stuff is revealed about sicheng!! 

[pomegranates-and-blood]

The Holly And The Ivy

My Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Sigurd/Reader, Sigurd/Margrethe

Summary: “I had this idea where Sigurd (or any of the brothers really) were to marry a Christian, but their marriage is dry and more political than anything, but Ivar is fascinated by her attitude (being opposite of him) and her love for life and simple things. He hears the reader and who she's married to talking about how she loves Christmas and he shuts her down, but Ivar decides to let her pick out a tree from the forest and put it up in the Great Hall and decorate it any way she wants. And the ending would include a kiss under mistletoe? If you can work with it.”

I’m very sorry if I dissapoint you anon, but the story was easier or smoother for me to write as a Modern!AU. I really hope you don’t mind. I can try something in the actual time period still, if you are not happy with au’s.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Mentions of cheating, passing mentions of abusive relationships (not involving any of the relationsips in the tag btw), angst, my poor attempt at holiday fics or holiday spirit. Also, a part is not smut or explicit but getting closer to it than most of my work, so that too.

A/N: I really hope I don’t dissapoint whoever requested this. Also, I made this way more complicated than it needed to be, bc I always do, and for that I’m also sorry. Hope you like this, thank you for reading!

The title is from a Christmas carol, cause why not lol

Taglist: @1950schick @youbloodymadgenius​ (I realized you once asked to be tagged on my Vikings works and I forgot, sorry)

“When we are done with this trip we’ll go back home.” Sigurd points out one night as you both say goodnight, in some hotel somewhere in Norway.

“Home?”

“To my mother’s, in a week. Family time and all that.”

Before you are to leave for your own room, you call out, “For Christmas?”

The blond shakes his head, “Yule. You can celebrate your Christmas when we return.”

“That’ll be after the New Year!” You complain softly, offering a smile because you cannot help it.

“I will have to deal with Ivar and my mother, you can deal with this.” Sigurd sentences, the harshness startling you and prompting you to accept the words with a nod.

He mutters a goodnight again, hesitating for a moment on his bedroom door, as if questioning whether he should say sorry or not. You choose to relieve him of that choice, going into your own room and closing the door with a quiet click.

As if it were waiting for the door to close, your phone lights up on your nightstand.

How’s Oslo?

You type a quick response,

You could just ask me if we’ll be attending your mother’s celebrations, you know.

The response takes a while longer, and you cannot help the smile that pulls at your lips.

…Are you?

I expect all those lessons of yours with Floki to come to use. I’m going to need to learn about Yule, apparently.

So I’m supposed to teach you?

Who else?

Your fiancé. Is the reply you get, so fast you think he already knew what your reply was going to be before you even sent it. After a moment, before you can even think on what to answer, another message comes through. Nvm, my brother is useless. I’ll do it.

Your lips pull into a wide and stupid smile, and God, not even the shame at the quick beating of your heart or the warmth that spreads through you could make you be any less thankful for this, if anything. For him.

Thank you. Are you going to be there by Christmas?

This time the answer takes a while longer, and the indication that he is typing appears and disappears a few times.

I don’t know. Before you can ask anything, or send anything, a new message pops up. Princess, this doesn’t get any easier. I don’t know if I can.

Tears rise in your eyes because a part of you knows you’re meant to say goodbye at the end, and every time you are reminded, either by the pain in your own chest or Ivar’s words, that you are on borrowed time; you realize that end is close than you think.

Well, in that case, Merry Christmas, Ivar.

____

You find yourself being driven to that massive and fancy house by your fiancé.

You toy with your engagement ring as the car approaches the house. You know, rationally, that you have nothing to fear. The brothers have never been mean or hurtful -well, most of them haven’t-, and Aslaug has always been courteous and kind and…incredibly performative.

A part of you never ceased to feel like an outsider looking in. Between the pariah that a stupid business practice will be made into Sigurd’s wife, and the silent and soft woman they ignore as if she were another piece of furniture, you’d much rather be the latter.

“Heavy little thing, isn’t it?” Sigurd teases as he turns off the engine, motioning with his head to the rings on your left hand.

You don’t say anything in response, simply getting out of the car in silence. You know he meant well, he always does.

But a part of you that is hopeful and childish and still looks at the snow that starts to fall lightly over the ground as some miracle that means Christmas is upon us…that part of you cannot help but feel bitter about it all. Regretful, or, maybe, resentful.

You never imagined life would be this, engagement -marriage- would be this. You thought of happiness and warmth and fidelity.

Foolish hopes, really. The hopes of a child that watched her parents dance to the light of the Christmas lights, to the music of the soft music her father hummed. Nothing but foolish hopes.

So, when Sigurd steps out and hesitates in offering you his hand, you offer a smile and take his hand in yours, choosing to appreciate that at least the man you will be forced to marry is one you might call a friend, a partner, one day.

It is easy to forget, it is easy to let your heart be light and just enjoy the adorable giggles of Björn and Torvi’s children, the sympathetic smile of Margrethe, the warm and brotherly embrace of Hvitserk.

You are sipping on wine and watching Ubbe throw Asa over his head as she yells for him to throw her higher when a presence stands by your side and a wine glass clinks with your own in silent toast.

“I know you know about Sigurd and me,” Margrethe whispers, “And I want you to know I am sorry. But…I won’t leave him, not until he asks me to.”

If a year ago someone told you that you’d spent Christmas Eve being told by your fiancé’s mistress that she refuses to stop seeing him, you would have assumed the world turned on its head.

It did, but…you still find it in you to love this world that hurts you, this life that tests you.

You offer a smile, “I know you love him. It started as…”

“Gold-digging?” The blonde supplies, a sheepish grimace on her face.

“I wouldn’t be as unkind as to-…”

“You should. That’s what it was,” Her smile loses the edge, and she falters, “At first.”

You accept her words with a nod, and another sip of your wine.

“Then as long as you are discreet, I don’t mind. Keep him happy, Margrethe, he deserves it.”

You start to walk away when she stops you with a call of your name.

“And you don’t? Deserve to be happy, I mean.”

You hesitate, faltering for a few seconds too long. Her blue eyes are big and uncharacteristically honest as they look at you.

“I…”

You take your gaze off hers, because it feels like she will know something she shouldn’t, something you don’t want her to; but your eyes betray you, it seems.

“Oh, him. Well-kept secret, that one,” She states, and when you open your mouth to argue, Margrethe shakes her head, “It’s okay, I don’t…I don’t blame you. Even if I don’t understand at all how that came to be.”

“It’s…”

“Complicated?” The blonde supplies, and you allow yourself a smile, you loosen your shoulders and close your eyes with a deep breath.

“Ivar, he…understands me.”

“But you two are nothing alike,” She states, and at your shrug, concedes, “Maybe that’s why.”

“Maybe,” You offer, and after a breath, because bitter regret at being the thing that keeps her from the man she loves chokes you for a moment, “Margrethe, I…”

“Don’t you even think of apologizing to me,” She laughs, “Gods, woman, you truly are a soft thing, aren’t you?”

“I have the privilege of being it.” You offer with a kind smile, because you’ve seen the scars, because you remember her when she was more fragile.

Margrethe shakes her head, “The burden.” She corrects, and with a soft squeeze of her free hand on your arm, she walks away.

____

It’s on the day before Christmas that the last of the Lothbrok arrives. You walk down the stairs to a very early breakfast, and jump when the front door opens to reveal Ubbe and Ivar.

He came.

“You are up early.” Ubbe comments as he passes you by, dropping a kiss on your cheek.

You greet Ubbe absently, your eyes on his brother. Numbly, you hear him say something about telling Aslaug that Ivar has come home, and quick steps carrying him up the stairs.

Your lips curve into a smile, or at least they try to, “Hi.”

“Hello, Princess,” Ivar greets, what months ago would have been a smirk curving his lips. Now, now it’s more tired and worn than anything. “Just in time for your…Christmas, right?”

You nod, feeling the stupid urge to cry, “Yeah. Means a lot, you know.”

“Well, I could feel you pouting over the phone, love,” His eyes check the stairs before he moves aided by his crutch towards you with a wince of pain -the cold, you remind yourself, the cold making his legs ache-, and once he is before you, a hand that shouldn’t feel as tender as it does cups your cheek and brings your mouth to his. “I couldn’t leave you alone here. You always find ways to embarrass yourself.”

You chuckle, burrowing your head on his chest as you embrace him.

“I may have fucked up a few times,” You concede, eyes closed as you take in his scent, his warmth, “But I’m cute, I get away with a lot of things.”

____

As the timer on your phone dings, you get up from the couch, leaving a warm but strong drink behind, and make your way to the kitchen, ready to take out the sponge cake -no, a voice too alike Ivar corrects you, Bûche de Noël-.

Uneven steps behind you let you know of who walked in behind you, and you turn around with a slight frown on your brows, meaning to ask something before he interrupts you.

“He’s groping and kissing her in front of you, and you say nothing?” Ivar demands, anger shining clearly in his blue eyes.

“Sigurd and Margrethe?” You ask, and shake your head, “Why would I say anything?”

“You know about them.”

“Of course I do. He doesn’t hide it from me, and he shouldn’t hide it from his family. He loves her, and she loves him.”

“You don’t care that he’s humiliating you?” He presses, and you sigh.

“Everyone here knows how things truly are between Sigurd and me.”

Ivar’s mouth curls into a snarl, and cruelty spews from his lips, “Well, if you had let Ragnar know you had no problem letting your husband fuck whoever he wants, you might have been able to marry Björn, like your father wanted.”

You close your eyes, “Don’t be like this.”

“Like what, hm? Like someone that’s watching the woman he-…What am I supposed to be then, hm? What would make you happy?” He accuses, not losing the cruel edge in his voice even if you both know what he stopped himself from admitting. When you don’t answer, Ivar takes a deep and angry breath through his nose, “I’ve always been jealous of my brothers, you know this. Growing up their poor crippled brother is nothing to knowing Sigurd gets you and doesn’t even know what he-…what I’d do to be him.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Make him be the man you deserve!”

“He’s not the man I want,” You point out before you can keep the words trapped behind your lips. Ivar is inexplicably stunned by your words, it seems, and you lower your gaze. Resting your hands on the counter you drop your shoulders and shake your head, letting go of the previous argument and returning to…peace, or as close to it as one can get with Ivar. “Your brother deserves to be as happy as he can, with the woman he loves. It will not hurt me to see him with her. As long as-…”

“‘As long as it is discreet’, yes, I know. My mother and Ragnar have the same agreement.”

“It works for them, does it not?”

Ivar meets your gaze and doesn’t answer for a few moments, long enough that dread sets in your chest and questions arise in your mind.

Eventually, on the side of his jaw the clear tell of gritted teeth, he replies,

“Not as well as you think.”

“Well, Sigurd and I are friends, we…things will work out. They have to.”

“They have to, of course,” He mocks, moving his head as he rolls his eyes, “Anything to keep Ragnar and your father happy, hm?”

“Ivar…”

His eyes search yours, searching for the answer to a question he has not yet asked,

“I-If I asked you not to do this, if I…if I asked you for more time…” He leaves the words hanging between you, and you blink past helpless tears. He knows the answer, you know the answer.

Thankfully, you don’t have to remind him -and yourself- of the world you live in, of the lives you were meant to live, because the door to the kitchen opens and Aslaug walks through.

You keep your eyes firmly set on the tray before you, even though you can feel Ivar’s eyes on you, demanding an answer. When he realizes he will not get one, he grunts, a clenched fist hitting the counter once before he walks away.

“I’m sorry.” You offer the matriarch as she keeps her all-seeing eyes on you, but Aslaug offers a smile. A fake one, but a smile nonetheless.

“The cold gets to Ivar, it makes him irritable. It is not your fault.” She soothes, but the smile you offer her in thanks still trembles. You both know these are lies you are sharing with one another, and though it makes you falter and stumble, Aslaug moves gracefully from one lie to the next.

“I’ll-…” You point behind you, to the living room, but the woman shakes her head.

“Surely you have time to help me with this?” She asks. It feels like walking into a wolf’s den when you nod your head and approach her.

“Of course.”

She watches raptly as you assist her in preparing the Yule Log, and you focus on doing your best to keep your hands from trembling.

“For someone that doesn’t follow the Gods, you know a lot about tradition, girl.”

“I…It was the least I could do, learning about what is important to your family, to Sigurd.” You offer, and whatever she -who always has the look of someone that sees beyond what normal eyes can- can sense in your words makes Aslaug stop.

She turns to you, and surprises you with a hand on your cheek. The woman towards over you, but the gentleness in her touch, the warmth in her eyes, they help you to not feel threatened.

“Still loving the world that hurts you, sweet thing?”

“It’s all I know how to do.”

Aslaug’s smile is almost sad when she looks into your eyes, “To love, yes, I know. Wish I saw that sooner,” You don’t know what to answer to that, so you offer her only a shaky smile and a shrug. Aslaug chuckles gently, “And you love my son, don’t you?”

The terrifying thought that she knows what she’s doing when not saying any names, the realization nothing gets past her and neither did whatever is between you and Ivar, it all settles in your stomach with a dead weight.

Still, whether she asks about Sigurd or Ivar, the answer is the same.

“Yes.”

One as a friend, a partner, a man you can learn to respect and build a life alongside of. The other, as everything you ever wanted, as someone that will always make you wonder about the ‘what if’s.

She shakes off whatever takes a hold of her, and before you can ask what she means, why it pains her, she steps back from you and turns her back to you.

“You know, Ragnar isn’t the only one in this family with an eye for business. I was once in the same position you are now, the heiress to an empire,” Aslaug’s smile seems to thaw as she hands you a refilled glass of wine to match hers. Resting her backside on the counter behind her, she continues, “My parents were able to teach me a few valuable lessons before their death.

She grabs your left hand, stopping you. Her eyes look deeply into yours, but her thumb rolls your engagement ring on your finger.

“Like how to understand when I can’t make any more moves. And when I can change the wording in a deal to make it favor me.

Your lips part, you think to say something, but Aslaug stops you with a smile.

“Let’s hope you’ve learned the same lessons, my dear.”

____

Ubbe is dancing with Asa standing on his feet, and you watch with a smile on your face as the family enjoys time together, and celebrates the holidays in their own way.

A part of you misses the Christmas lights, the decorations you’d help your parents put up when you were a kid. A part of you misses how simple life was back then, how in this time of year you could forget there was a world past the snow drifting down and the warmth of a hearth and a home.

Ivar comes right up to you, but doesn’t sit next to you, choosing to remain standing.

“Grab your coat,” He orders, and at your confused frown, he rolls his eyes and amends, “Please.”

The most insincere please in the history of pleases, but you know you get more than most, so you don’t comment on it.

Still, you have to ask, “Why?”

“I-…a surprise,” He says, and insists you move with a gesture of his head, “Come on.”

You follow him to the small house the Lothbroks have by the pool, a cozy little home of big windows. When Ivar motions for you to go in ahead of him, a part of you is suspicious, but you still skip your way inside and try not to ask questions as to how it is so warm here when it should be vacant.

Ivar turns the lights on, and you find in the middle of the living room a Christmas tree.

The tree is bare, but still lively and familiar.

You turn to Ivar with tears in your eyes, because you cannot help it.

“You did this for me?”

“You love your Christmas,” He mumbles, embarrassed at the reaction his -to some, uncharacteristic- thoughtfulness got out of you. “I figured you deserved to have some of it with you here.”

“Did you buy Christmas lights?” You ask softly, almost moving up and down in the balls of your feet in excitement, eyeing the bags on a chair nearby.

Ivar chuckles, endeared, and nods, “Go ahead, Princess.”

You skip your way to the bags, quickly looking over the goods and already planning on how to decorate it, how to make it look pretty, how to make it yours.

You don’t truly know how long you spend on it, gleefully putting up Christmas lights, and little ornaments. During the whole time you spent excitedly decorating the tree, you can feel Ivar’s eyes on you, and when you look back at him you find him staring with a strange softness in his gaze.

You choose not to think too much on it, and instead ask his opinion on the decorations, that he gives gruffly and with a very poor attempt at making you believe that -either because Christmas grew on him, which you find very unlikely, or because of your own happiness- he isn’t happy to be here.

____

You smile at the warm and twinkling lights, and burrow closer to Ivar’s warmth, refusing to take your eyes off the dancing lights and refusing to put your feet back on the ground.

Refusing to step out of the fantasy that this could be your life.

Ivar shifts his position, and you lift your head from the juncture between his neck and shoulder and meet his eyes in question.

His eyes give away so much, always have, at least to you. And now they reflect the warm sparkle of the Christmas lights, and they reflect hesitation, fear, uncertainty, love.

Before you can ask what is wrong, Ivar leans in, his hand previously around you tangling in your hair as his lips claim yours.

His kiss is always demanding, but this time it holds desperation in the way Ivar begs for your lips to part with his own, it holds an urgency in the way his tongue dances with yours, it holds a ragged edge in the shaky breath that he lets out through his nose, it holds a goodbye in the way he ends the kiss as if forcing himself to pull away from you.

You try getting your breath under control and your voice to be yours again, but he’s so close, and warm, and yours; and all you want to do is kiss him again.

Kiss him again, and make the furrow in his brow, the pain in his eyes, go away. Kiss him again, and pretend you are not living on borrowed time.

So you do.

You kiss him, and take control of the kiss, and make him groan lightly against your mouth when you tug on his hair, and whimper his name against his own when you straddle him and feel him getting hard underneath you.

When your need for breath makes you part from his kiss, Ivar wastes no time trailing fervent kisses down your neck, panting breaths against the hot skin that he kisses and licks and bites.

You moan his name, forgetting everything but the touch of his lips on your skin, forgetting everything but the scent and taste and feel of him.

Either at the sound of your voice or the grind of your hips against his hardening cock, Ivar’s breath stutters and he breathes your name back at you, voice low.

His brow rests against your collarbone as he takes deep breaths, and your fingers toy at the hair that flows down to his shoulders.

“You know…” He murmurs, pressing a kiss that makes you shiver right on the dip between your collarbones, “There’s nothing I want more right now than marking this pretty neck of yours. Leaving you with…” His teeth scrape against your skin, a tease both for you and himself. Ivar does it a few more times, and moves up your neck again. Your breath shudders past your lips, and you tug on his hair to remind him of what he was saying. You always did love hearing him speak. For all the months you spend apart, his voice telling you what he’d do to you, what he’d have you do to him, is all that keeps you warm. Ivar chuckles, but continues, “Leaving you with my mark all over you, where everyone can see, so…so that they don’t doubt you’re mine.

His hands tighten on your waist, before they travel down, caressing your thighs as he sighs.

“But you’re not, are you? And I can’t…I can’t do any of that. I can’t-…”

You interrupt him before his thoughts can get ahead of him, before he can twist himself into knots about the situation you are both in.

“I am yours. Only yours.” You remind him softly, your lips by his ear. You lean back so you can meet his eyes, and seal your promise with a soft kiss over his lips.

Ivar’s eyes search yours when you pull back, with the same look as before. Uncertain, lost, tender and yet almost sad.

“Marry me.” He whispers, keeping his eyes on yours.

“What?” You squeak, eyes wide. He couldn’t have…he knows that…none of this makes any sense.

“Marry me instead of Sigurd,” He insists, and as if remembering the part he forgot, he curses and hurries to fetch something from his pocket. He offers you a simple but beautiful ring, and swallows, “I-I can make you happier than he ever could, I…I love you.

I know you can, you already do.

I love you too.

But you can’t say any of that, because your breaths are shallow and your head is filled with thoughts and…and you need space.

You scramble to stand, to put distance between the two of you. After a few controlled breaths, you return your eyes to Ivar, whose hand has now fallen back to his lap even if he still holds on to the delicate ring.

He grits his teeth, the obvious tell at the side of his jaw, and he seems to want to divert his eyes from you, but he only blinks and keeps certain eyes on you.

“Your father wants you to marry one of Ragnar’s sons, he doesn’t care who. I…have talked with my father, he agrees that if you want to, we can…” He licks his lips in a nervous gesture, “Mother says any backlash from breaking the engagement can be handled.”

“You’ve thought this through.”

“Of course I have, y-you’d be Sigurd’s wife if I didn’t think of something,” A twitch of anger, of uncertainty, of fear, on his face, and then he amends, “You still can be. But I want you to be able to choose.”

Choose me, is what he doesn’t say.

Your heart is lodged in your throat, and you try a few times before you can finally speak,

“Ivar, we haven’t…it’s been only a few months.”

“And it will not work out, that’s what you’re saying?” He huffs, defensive, “It won’t work out if you marry my brother either.”

“I-…this-…”

“Stop thinking of excuses,” He snaps, gritted teeth and hurt written in his eyes, “I’ll handle everything, no matter your answer. Just…just give me an answer, Princess.”

____

It is open ended cause there’s two ends to this, I wanted to leave the choice to you guys! So, follow the link for the epilogue of your choice:

Will you accept the proposal and be bound to Ivar, for better or worse?

Or will you stay with Sigurd, and be content with companionship and friendship?

Hope you liked this, even if it wasn’t very holiday-ey. I wish you all very happy holidays and a great (or decent, after 2020 I’m happy with decent) 2021!!

(Ik it’s like the 13th and I’m gonna be very much around here posting and bothering the whole lot of ya till the holidays and beyond, but holiday fic and all that, ‘twas the perfect time to send good wishes and all. Love ya!)

[domesticblisss]

Sorry, Wrong Number!

Timothy Thatcher x Female OFC Requested Prompts: Also from the meet cute list #47 Texting the wrong number but continuing the convo with Tim Thatcher. Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 1436 Warnings: Fluffity fluff fluff. Also broken bones, but no angst. Summary: Tim gets several text messages from an unknown number asking for help.

→ emmy

→ don’t freak out

→ i know it’s impossible to not freak out when someone tells you not to but listen

→ i’m fine

→ i am!!! really!!!

→ i might have broken my right ankle tho 😬

→ before you ask, i went skateboarding with that dumbass josh and he left as usual

→ i’m gonna get x-rays now

→ could you come and pick me up? i’m at the mercy general

→ lub uuuuuuuu 🥺💗🥰💖💘❤️💗🤍😬🥰😭🥺😍😘

Tim had just started his mid-afternoon training session and his phone went off with texts. 10 texts to be exact. All from an unknown number. 

He debated on whether or not he should answer but decided on replying since the person was clearly in distress. 

← Hello. I think you have reached the wrong number, there is no Emmy here. 

And he moved on with his training. Or at least he tried to. Thirty minutes since he had texted the person and not even a word back. 

← Hey, is everything ok?

Staring at his phone’s screen for what felt like ages, four new texts came in right when he was about to close it off. 

→ omg dude!!! i’m so sorry!

→ i just got a new phone and i lost most of my contact list bc i’m a dummy and fucked the backup up

→ def got the last digit wrong 

→ everything is fine, the ankle IS broken tho. thx for replying back and thx for your concern

← No problem. Hope you can reach your friend. Take care of that ankle. 

→ wow, you are very formal aren’t you?

→ that‘s so funny 😂😂😂

Tim frowned, wondering what was wrong with how he texted. “That’s just how I speak.” 

← I don’t understand what you are saying. Also what’s it with all the squares?

→ squares?

← You just sent “That’s so funny.” and three squares. What do they mean?

She looked at her phone, puzzled. 

→ uuuhhh, those are emojis? what kind of phone do you have?

← A flip phone. 

“WHAT?!” she screamed, forgetting she was at the E.R.  A nurse rushed to her bay to make sure everything was fine. Embarrassed, she apologised and assured everything was alright. Anna had to take deep breaths to recompose herself before replying. 

→ what? why? dude it’s 2016 who has a flip phone? also i’m anna btw

→ oh my god, am i hallucinating from the pain? are you even real?

← I have one and I am very real, miss. And my name is Timothy. Were you able to contact your friend?

→ yes, but she won’t be able to pick me up since she’s on her shift and she’s alone at the store

← And how are you getting home?

→ oh, i’ll figure something out

→ will probably hail an uber or something

← Hold on. I will be back in a few. 

Tim rushed his way to the emergency room, making a stop at a convenience store to get a ‘get well soon’ gift for a girl he had never even seen but had taken a sudden concern about. 

Arriving at the hospital, his presence was quickly noticed by the front desk receptionist. 

“Hello sir, how can I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Miss. I’m looking for Anna. She checked in a couple of hours ago with a suspected broken ankle.” Tim answered, his nerves getting the best of him, already knowing what was going to be asked next. 

“Oh, yes. Are you from her direct family?”

“Yes.” 

The polite receptionist noticed what he carried on his hands and needed no further details. 

“Follow through this corridor, the orthopaedic E.R. is on the first door to your left. The nurses will lead you to her.”

“Thank you, miss.”

The path from the front desk to her emergency bed was a cloudy one on his mind. 

“She will probably think I’m weird.”

“I barely know this girl.”

“But I couldn’t let her go home alone with a broken ankle.”

He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost bumped into the funny, pink haired nurse when she opened the curtain that separated Anna’s bed from the others in the room. 

“Anna! Look, your boyfriend is here!”

Shit. Tim was gone. The confused face coming from the beach blonde haired girl sitting in bed was the most beautiful one he had ever seen. 

“I’ll leave you two alone.” the nurse said, whispering “Lucky girl.” before leaving. 

Tim let out a small chuckle, quickly recovering when Anna cleared her throat. 

“Umm, I think you got the wrong person, dude.”

“Anna!” he stopped, his nervousness making his already loud voice louder than usual “sorry. I’m Tim. The guy you texted thinking it was Emmy.”

“Tim, hi! Oh my god, what are you doing here?”

“You said you were going home alone and I couldn’t let you do that with a broken ankle. Also these are for you.” he explained, handing her the gifts he got. 

“You really brought me flowers and a teddy bear? That’s– that’s very sweet of you.”

They looked at each other, taking in their new friend features. Shy smiles, glances to the side, small giggles turned into full blown laughter after they realised what was going on. 

“God, I’m so embarrassed!” she exclaimed between laughs. “Thank you so much for the gifts, and for coming. I didn’t think you would actually show up.”

“I didn’t think I was coming either. Can I?” he said, pointing to the chair besides her bed, only sitting after she nodded “It was on impulse and that’s new for me.”

“Thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

“How’s the ankle?”

“It’s fine,” she winced when she tried to move it to show it to Tim. “It’s a minor fracture. I think everyone decided to break something today so it’s kinda busy, I’m just waiting for my turn to get a cast.”

They talked for what felt like hours, getting to know each other. Tim was amused with her beauty, with how funny and quick witted she was, always having an answer on the tip of her tongue. Anna was enchanted with how shy this big, mean looking guy is, with the way his loud voice and booming laughter took over the whole room. 

Tim was in the middle of an explanation on how he lost his tooth when the sweet pink haired nurse showed up with news and a wheelchair. 

“Your time has finally arrived, dear. Hop up on your carriage and let’s go to the cast room, bring your personal belongings. Oh, your boyfriend can come too.”

Tim smiled with the nurse’s comment. Quick on helping Anna on getting down from bed, he swiftly picked her up bride style, and gently sat her down on the wheelchair. 

“Aww, you two look so cute together.”

“Thanks!” both said in union, awkwardly. 

Twenty minutes, a pink cast and a pair of crutches later, Tim wheels her to where his car is parked, with a promise of taking her home. He helps Anna sit on the front seat, securing her seatbelt. The closeness and intimacy of the moment makes Anna act on impulse, and she kisses him. A tiny, quick peck on his lips, one she ends as fast as it started when she felt Tim freeze. 

“I am so sorry, Tim.”

He grabs her chin as soon as she looks down ashamed, tilting it up to look her in the eyes. His thumb rubs her cheek, then her chin and finally her lips before he goes in for another kiss. It’s a gentle, shy kiss, that tasted like curiosity. Tim is the one to break up, only to ask something he had in mind since he saw her in that hospital bed.

“Do you want to go on a date?”

“Now?”

“I’ve got nowhere to go, do you?”

“Nope, let’s go.”

He pecks her lips again before closing the door of this car and running to make his way to the driver‘s seat. 

Anna giggles, not in a million years she would have thought a broken ankle and a wrong text would have gotten her a date with a cute dude. 

Tim is making his way out of the parking lot when Anna remembers one little detail. 

“Hey, do you really have a flip phone?”

“Yeah, here.” he tells her, one hand on the steering wheel as the other rummages through his pocket to grab the phone and gives it to her. 

“Oh my god, I’m back to 2002.”

[ninvic-rbs]

Day 22

Boy i’ve been waiting for this one. So i decided to do some really weird aus, meaning ive been rewatching some stuff and hallucinating lol. Okay so in order you have the bbc version of sherlock (10/10), the greatest showman (10/10) and money heist (11/10, strongly recommend). And then an old reapertale doodle bc ive seen literally zero reapertale grillster fanart and its so aesthetically pleasing i just had to

And as a little extra i guess, i wrote this thing for @silverskye13‘s bodyguard au, which has been pretty active lately, so lets keep the ball rolling. Please keep in mind that 1. i don’t really write and 2. this is the first time i try to write in english, so any feedback is appreciated. Enjoy, i guess

Gaster bent down to reload for the third time already. In his frenzy he almost fell out of his seat, or maybe that was the way the car was moving. Normally they wouldn't really have to run away, with Grillby being able to either kill or scare the others enough to be left alone. But whatever gang was so adamant on capturing the doctor had quickly figured out that normal magic attacks wouldn't get them anywhere. So now, the people on the car chasing behind them were wielding bright orange water guns. Which looked about as ridiculous as one might expect, but had proved efficient; if the way Grillby was hunched and clutching his chest with one hand was anything to go by. The elemental was driving, and he had given Gaster his gun and he was trying to lose them. It was the first time he was shooting with anything that wasn't his blasters; and he was quickly realizing that he had really bad aim when shooting with his hands and not his soul. Between that and how small the targets actually were from the distance, he hadn't hit a thing in the last ten minutes. He was getting frustrated, which didn't mix well with his growing anxiety for the elemental. Grillby looked like he was in agony; most of his shirt completely soaked and sticking to his body. From where he was, Gaster could see almost half of his face had been completely put out. And he wasn't even allowed to pass out. "How's that going?" Gaster could barely hear him above the howling of the wind around them. The elemental sounded tired. "I can't hit them! They're moving too much!" "S'a bunker nearby. We need some time... try to aim for the tires." The skeleton immediately lowered his aim. Even thought the target was considerably bigger, it still took him a few attempts before the tire exploded and the car suddenly started made a sharp turn right and out of the asphalt. That was such a good idea! How had he not thought of that before? He decided to blame his panicked state. Before he sat back down, he saw the vehicle come to a stop and the monsters inside immediately get to work on changing the tire. The skeleton knew it wouldn't stop them for long, but hopefully for long enough. He decided to focus his efforts now on helping the elemental as much as he could, before he realized that he had no idea how to heal that sort of thing. The only thing Grillby had had to recover from before had been exhaustion. How did you tend to a put out fire?! Should he pour gasoline over him? He didn't know! "Grillby, how can I heal this?" He asked, his anxiety for the other's life making his hands shake. "How can I heal you? What do I need?" He wished he could just use green magic. "Just... anything flammable. And liquid. That normally... works..." he was getting weaker. Suddenly, the car screeched to a stop, almost throwing Gaster off his seat. Before he had time to react, the elemental had already opened the door on his side and was painfully getting out, carrying the small bag that contained his belongings. The skeleton quickly followed him, remembering to pick up his own bag. When he caught up, he noticed Grillby could barely walk. Without thinking, he put his arm around the other's and let him use his body as a crutch; although the elemental barely noticed. "Are you okay?" which was a stupid question, of course. "Yeah" he slurred, as if it was fooling anyone. "S'not too far, but we can't leave the car near the entrance." Gaster nodded. Although they were only walking for a total of three minutes, it felt like a small eternity. The skeleton's anxiety at an all time high; constantly looking over his shoulders and checking if the gang had managed to catch up, and trying to keep Grillby steady; even if his walking speed was declining and he put more and more weight on Gaster as they advanced. When they finally stopped, the elemental slumped to the ground, and the skeleton would have thought he had passed out if it weren't because he had started digging around some bushes. Just when the skeleton was about to ask what he was doing, he heard the sound of metal, and in a few seconds a small hatch had opened before them on the ground. It was dark inside; the only discernible thing a ladder leading down to it. "You go first, s- Gaster." The skeleton wanted to argue, but he knew from experience it wouldn't get him anywhere. So he just nodded and climbed down as fast as he could, almost falling once. It wasn't as deep as it had seemed, and he still couldn't see any light switches or anything of the sort. But that didn't worry him right now; as he was looking up and anxiously waiting for the elemental to get to the floor so he could work on healing him. As Grillby started climbing the ladder down, he stopped a second to close the entrance behind them; and the mechanical whirring that followed assured the skeleton that no one was going to follow them down there. Slowly, Grillby made his way down. But when there were only two steps left he collapsed, and he would have fallen to the floor if it weren't for Gaster's lighting fast reflexes in grabbing him with blue and yelping in surprise. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no...!" he murmured in a panic, moving the elemental and settling him on the first surface he saw; which happened to be a couch in the nearest room. "What's... wrong?" Grillby's voice was barely a whisper. The skeleton quickly looked at him, only to have his soul-wrenching fear grow when he noticed that the elemental looked barely conscious. "Nonono, don't fall asleep! You hear me?! Hey, Grillby, c'mon, stay with me!" "...t hurts..." Gaster almost wanted to cry. He had never seen the elemental in such a weak state, and he had to act quickly if he wanted to keep him alive; because a quick stat check confirmed the alarming rate at which Grillby's life was fading. He prayed to every god he had ever heard of that there was some alcohol in the bunker. "I know, I know, I'm going to fix that. Just... stay here. Try not to move, and don't fall asleep." He had already turned around to leave when he felt a weak hold in his wrist. "P-please don't leave... it's cold... I'm scared, Gaster..." came an almost inaudible plea. The skeleton's soul could have broken right then and there. He felt a knot on his non-existent throat when he spoke again. "I'll be back in a minute, okay? Don't worry, I'll be right here if you need me." He softly let go of the elemental's hand and took off running without wasting another precious second. He quickly realized that the bunker was a bit more like a subterranean house than a refuge. It had too so many rooms; it was probably thought out to be lived in for at least a couple of months. He hoped they didn't have to stay that long. Without stopping for a second, the skeleton stumbled somewhere he suddenly realized was the kitchen. He almost fell twice in his rush to open every single cupboard; his hope growing when he found most of them were full of either nonperishable food or utensils. He finally found what looked like a minibar next to the fridge and immediately grabbed the biggest bottle he saw, which turned out to be whiskey. Within the next three seconds he was already back by Grillby's side, feeling a wave of relief when he didn't see only dust on the couch but still rushing to open the bottle, knowing how close the elemental actually was to it. The way his hands were shaking made him take a few more seconds than necessary. "H-hey, Grillby, are you awake?" Gaster was sure he wasn't, but he seemed to wake up at this. When he saw the open bottle, he took it without a word and started downing it desperately. The skeleton blinked, and before he could react the elemental had already drunk more than half of the liquid. He separated the bottle from his mouth and for a few seconds his flame flared up in deep blue colors before settling back down on reds and oranges that were duller than their normal color, but worlds better than how it had been before. And upon checking his stats, Gaster sighed a breath of relief at his slowly growing health. He sat on the couch next to Grillby's legs, suddenly feeling all the exhaustion of the day hit him at once. He could have fallen asleep right there, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the elemental just yet. The elemental that, when he looked up again, he realized was staring at him, even if groggily so. He immediately became worried again, and quickly asked; "Is everything okay? Does anything hurt?" But Grillby only continued staring. The skeleton was about to check his stats again when he finally spoke. "You shouldn't have to... do stuff like this. I'm sorry I'm so bad at my job." He was said it slowly, his voice barely a whisper. He looked like he was falling asleep. After a small pause, the elemental added, his voice even lower; "I wish I could make you happy." Gaster suddenly froze. He didn't know how to react. What had Grillby meant by that? Was that about his job? But he only had to keep him safe, nothing else. And he wasn't bad at it; Gaster was alive, wasn't he? But that other phrase... was... was that...? But there was just no way that was what was going on here... right? He felt his face grow hotter. But, if not that, then what had he meant?   "B-but that's not your job" was the only thing he could blurt out after a few seconds. Not that it was important, since, he noticed, the elemental had already dozed off. The skeleton wasn't sure what to do for a couple of seconds. Eventually he sighed and settled back down, getting as comfortable as he could. He tried not to think about what had just happened as he finally let himself drift off to sleep; the soft crackling of the fire next to him the only sound in the room.

[chariflare]

(jeweler ri//chard) i finished this show a while ago but i owe it a post. tbh i had a lot of feelings abt this show that i found difficult to sort out, possibly bc the way i’d been watching it (behind schedule, being super stressed until i took a holiday at the start of quarantine, Forgetting The Novel Was More Gay) hadn’t been ideal. i read some other reviews to try and make my brain do a thing so they’re linked when relevant

this mostly ended up being me discussing elements of the middle episodes i disliked, instead of the last episodes which i very much enjoyed, so i might make another post tmrw orz

begin le incoherent essay

note that i finished watching this show a month ago so hopefully there aren’t any factual inaccuracies here

i felt kinda frustrated with the show from e3-7... but loved e1 & e8-12. the main reason for that is that the episodes i loved were less episodic, and contained stuff relevant to the protagonists’ pasts and inner lives... but i also think i approached the series (as a whole) with the wrong mindset rip

there are a lot of things that are good abt having an anime but it seems like there were a couple of changes from the source material that made it more grating for me... i’m glad to hear that some of the stuff i disliked wasn’t in my head, and that i can consume versions of this story that aren’t like that (or that might not be, e.g. the manga)

briefly, about the last few eps, since i don’t want to discuss them further until i revisit them: richard’s family episodes (especially the scene where seigi & richard hugged, i.e. literally and physically finally meeting each other on the same level wrt emotional honesty) won the show for me. i do think they were worth watching the rest of the show for!!

opinions about the show EXCLUDING THE FIRST & FINAL EPISODES (e1, e8?-end):

speed: found it pretty slow - this is probably more due to personal taste/mood and the lack of action (with a lot of the show set in ~2 locations) than there being anything wrong with the pacing. (i would probably enjoy this style of story more as a manga)

episodes of the week: idk if there were other eps like this off the top of my head... but i do want to say that it felt like a bit of a stretch for the story (i.e. character lesson) about the cat to be completed in one episode. the dad straight up... made his son think he killed a cat or something.... i reFUSE TO BELIEVE HE LEARNED ANYTHING. IT’S BEEN MONTHS BUT I KEEP THINKING ABOUT THIS ONE

seigi: i found seigi’s constant faux-pas frustrating. he’s often used as a bit of a bludgeon/crutch to get the problem-of-the-week characters to get pissed off (and therefore the audience to learn the Lesson of the Week). he is a good boy though

I Fucked Up (TM): i believe i was informed that the original novel was more overtly gay. but my brain is uh, bad. due to forgetting this, i spent a lot of the middle of the show interpreting it as like. 2013-flashback-inducing sherlock (bbc)-style queerbaiting by the creators of the anime. unfortunately i don’t think this is an entirely baseless reading of some of the anime material, but it’s not the intention of the original work (read here about changes from the ln). if you read the article, you’ll note that there’s a moment in the anime (”i’ve never had a male lover”) which is framed as a Joke, which really peeves me off to think about ngl. can’t remember off the top of my head but i felt like there were a few more moments like that... i do think i was bringing my misinterpretations to my viewing of the show, but i still feel cheated out of the content from the novel

I Fucked Up 2 (TM): i forgot (or didn’t pick up on) an abysmal amount of stuff. according to what i’ve read, seigi’s parental issues was apparently foreshadowed... but the delay b/w me watching that ep and finishing the show means i forgot about it :>(

richard: to quote the same article, “the anime has toned down richard’s reactions to seigi, making him more stoic and less easily flustered”. this touches on another issue i had, a perfect, infallible richard makes sense from seigi’s pov (as richard is a mentor and love interest)... but idk whether it does from the viewer’s pov. if he has less visible “weaknesses” it makes it harder to feel attached to him as a character (and to sell the conclusion of his arc with seigi) .... but idk it’s also kind of, an interesting contrast, between unreadable black box Distinguished Adult richard and angry emotional england richard????? (i feel like i might’ve missed foreshadowing and misinterpreted the fact that richard’s bad boy backstory was still affecting his attitude, or had further details, instead of just being “behind him”)

misc. notes

big props to the asexuality speech from tanimoto (e8?)

big props for saying rich people are weird and suck. the fact that they interrogate the actual irl people who would be owning $$$ rocks does bring the jeweler concept above being pretty set-dressing

something that (also) flew over my head is that being obsessed with sweets (like richard) is a "””feminine””” trait

LOVE that richard hated the idea of even a temporary fake marriage to a woman so much that he fled the country, but he’s willing to just angrily sit in a car when he’s going to get “fake married” to seigi for (transparently contrived, but highly appreciated) plot reasons

something about seigi’s world (normal dude in jp) vs. richard’s world (rich, kinda fucky & weirdly competitive in a way that’s difficult for normal ppl to deal with, brit) that i don’t have the brainpower to write bc it’s 2:40am

i would once again like to emphasise the cruelty of giving a 6yo les mis for christmas

tl;dr there was a lot i liked about having this in an anime but i’m looking forward to revisiting it via the manga (which hopefully will be more gay lol)

[birdsofchristmas]

Chapter 1: The Lamp

Our story starts off in a more humble climate than others you may have heard, moreso than Manhatten, suburban chicago, the North Pole or a giant department store. The camera starts at my feet and pans upwards to a sign reading “East Hastings” in Vancouver’s iconic Downtown Eastside, revealing the Carnegie Hall in the background.

My first apartment in Vancouver is just around the corner on Cordova & Princess. Down the street in Gastown is the first restaurant I took a job doing dishes at, during my first Christmas in Vancouver. Incidentally, this would end up being the last house I lived in while I still had both my feet.

Not long after I moved to this interesting winter wonderland shared with cockroaches, rats, traffic noise, lineups towards a soup kitchen, and the occasional flooded basement a doctor said my right foot had had enough. My poor foot had done it’s best to support me for years after a childhood accident and it was time to send it to foot heaven. I wondered if foot heaven was the same as cat heaven, which is where my mom said my brown cat went to after it fell out of a 2 story window.

It shouldn’t be too surprising my right limb and I had to part ways- honestly I’m surprised it hadn’t gone sooner, or that it wasn’t joined by another appendage. You would be too if you’d seen some of the crazy winter antics my dad and my two brothers and sister got upto each year around december.

One year in the 90s saw our family cross country skiing when a blizzard brought the entire city of Nanaimo to a standstill. The marsh is perfectly safe, it’s frozen over he would say as we coasted confidently onto its icy surface. Or the time my dad tied a GT Racer sled to the trailer hitch of his 15 passenger van towing it on the backroads of mount benson, only stopping when he would notice the sled veering off towards a ditch.

Not long after losing the foot I also lost the apartment I was living in while trying against my sister’s advice to carry on as if things were normal.

At the time the housing crisis in Vancouver was in full swing, and when most folks weren’t either ice skating down on Robson or taking in the German Christmas market they were looking for a place to live for January.

They like me had done the best with the apartment they had- they had put plastic over their heritage windows to cut down on the BC hydro bill, they had placed the Christmas tree in front of the large hole in the drywall the last tenants had left, they had poured nearly half a bottle of pine extract into their scent diffusers to cover up the cigarette smell in the hallway, they had set up all manner of elaborate rat traps to avoid being contaminated by the plague, they had insisted to the landlord that, yes, those dark looking spots under the sink are black mold, all the while dreaming of finding a more ideal living situation.

To put it simply, it’s difficult trying to find one of these rumored nice apartments, much less trying to do so with only one foot, hopping from one viewing to the next trying to outrun the rest of the marathon of young professionals in search of the holy grails of affordable living.

At last I resigned, calling my parents half a month before Christmas to tell them about my housing woes. Well, just come home for the season, my dad said on the phone, it’ll just be for a few months until your foot man or whatever you call him makes you a new leg and you’ll be walking again in no time! Really, it’s what you should  done in the first place, come home and we’ll take care of you.

So on to the ferry I went with a backpack containing a modestly redacted version of my life in Vancouver, the rest of it residing in a friend’s garage for the winter. I was trying not to slip and fall with my single blundstone and crutches, somehow avoiding the 3 ferry sailing waits that would transpire in the days to follow.

As luck would have it I arrived just in time to help my mom set up her elaborate Christmas village- arranged with a stunning eye for detail and careful planning- most towns and cities in Canada would have a hard time comparing to the structural engineering marvel and ease of traffic infrastructure my mom had created.

There was hardly ever a traffic jam in “The Winter village of Avonlea”, and the crime rate was next to zero. “Over here we’ll put the post office, and across the way we’ll place the butcher adjacent to the bakery” she would instruct me, “so the postman will save time gathering groceries on his way home from work, and we’ll place the city hall on the corner of Bedford Halls Lane and Bing Boulevard.”

Oh and don’t get me started on the tree decorations. My dad was allowed to pick the tree out, and that was the full extent of his involvement. Every year it became the host to a multitude of angels, small wooden sleds, doves, owls, pigeons, even the occasional crow. There were glass spheres coated with gold, silver, and platinum. Snowglobes snowed every day of the week, lords leaping and ladies dancing in circles all the way to the shining pinnacle on top of the tree. Some years it was another larger angel, other years a star, one year it was curiously a picture of elvis.

When it came to Christmas decorating my mom was the queen of the ice castle. My dad was self-decidedly in charge of creating our seasonal chaos scenarios to prepare us for adulthood, while my mom was in charge of everything inside the house. You dared not alter the carefully planned set up in any way lest you awaken the demon Krampus.

That was about 6 years ago, and of course things have changed since then. I now have 4 legs instead of only 1. I have my actual leg, my brand new prosthetic leg, and a climbing leg and a running leg. You have every leg you’ll need to carry out a great bank heist, my sister-in-law joked. I would need to I figured in order to continue paying for them. All said and done the price of a leg is pretty well comparable to a brand new honda accord.

After a harrowing few years of recovering and moving back to Vancouver, going from one house to the next, and I was finally in a moderately stable fairly well priced townhouse. It was Christmas again and this year I was heading to the ferry to see my mom and dad who still lived on the island. I had a smaller backpack this time as well as a curiously shaped duffel bag with a surprise for mom. Looking at the bag you might think it was a pile of field hockey sticks, or a set of broken golf clubs. In reality it was one of my retired legs, refashioned with a black fishnet stocking, a black high heel and a detachable light and lampshape.

You see every few years the legs wear down and they need to be replaced. like a ford car or an apple computer these things don’t last long, even with casual use. Once they’re retired they make a surprisingly great basis for all kinds of creative art sculptures. Thus was born a beautiful lamp centerpiece to my mom’s carefully thought out Christmas decoration extravaganza, which I had assumed she would love.

Arriving at the house I almost slipped on every icy step to the front door. The sandpaper I’d nailed to the stairs when I first moved home had worn down from repeated use. It didn’t help I was half blinded by a recently updated series of LED lights surrounding every tree, shrub, corner of the house, and window. Even the snowpeople couldn’t escape the maniacal creeping LED vines.

The house inside was decorated equally as elaborately with little left to the imagination. I hugged my mom and dad, carefully moving my body in twists and turns to avoid knocking any of the holiday flourishes over, like those  weird people you see in grocery stores who try to sneak past you without touching you or making eye contact.

Since all the siblings have moved away home and founded small Christmas-minded colonies of their own my mom had gotten even more carried away with the decorations, making you feel like you were stepping into a densely forested North Pole mock up in a department store. She loved it, Dad appreciated it, and the grandkids were only allowed in with careful supervision.

“Well mom, I brought you a gift for your decorations” I said with a laugh opening the bag. I pulled out the awful, gloriously gaudy leg dressed in holiday cheer, in my mind a beautiful iconic recollection of the great holiday movies of old. I traipsed through the dense menagerie of holiday decorations and gingerly placed the lamp in the picture window, fully in view from the sidewalk.

Plugging it in the light sprung to life with a soft brownish glow emitted by an edison style bulb. My mom’s face was aghast at first, as if she had seen jacob marley ascending the staircase towards her room covered in chains.

Her expression then softened up a little bit and she said with a smile “Oh dear, that’s awful… just terrible”. My dad was laughing as he walked to the kitchen and back with 2 cans of Wildcat in hand. I pulled off my leg for the night and we sat under the glow of the lamp, the tree, the village, the decorations, and the christmas hearth log on channel 3 and talked cheerfully until I fell asleep on the couch.

The next morning I woke up at instinctively at 7am to see the morning sunrise reflect off Mount Benson and reached for my leg.

Now, one thing you might not realize about putting on a prosthetic leg is there’s a process to it, like putting together a desk from Ikea. It starts with either a polyurethane or silicone liner you roll onto your leg, followed by a gel sock covered in fabric or a few layers of wool socks before putting on the leg itself, in my case followed by rolling on another silicone sleeve that attaches the prosthetic to the rest of my leg holding it all together.

I stood up and walked towards the kitchen for a coffee, as I did I noticed something was off in the living room. The lampshade was missing. In its place in the reflection of the picture window I saw a red and white cylinder shape that ascended into a curve. While I was sleeping my mom had replaced my prosthetic leg lamp with a candy cane, and the lamp was nowhere to be found. “Hey Mom”, I shouted upstairs, “my lamp! Where did you put it?” “It’s in the trash out by the the curb” she shouted back, “out front.”

Just then a sanitation truck was pulling up beside the bins on the front sidewalk. One of the bins was overflowing with a familiar looking piece of footwear sticking out prominently from one side. It was my new $35,000 prosthetic leg with a brown leather blundstone still attached to it, being lifted up towards the crusher.

I lept for the door and ran down the stairs slipping on the icy porch! “ hey wait!” I shouted, “my foot!!!” As I ran my right foot was snagged by a lights cord and I fell flat onto my face in the snow, then snapped back. By the time I reached the sanitation worker he was laughing and he said, “hey, what’s with the fishnet?” I looked down, and adorned on my right side was the bottom half of the leg lamp I’d made for my mom, complete with a fishnet stocking, a black high heel, and a long brown extension cord.

By some weird twist of fate she confused the two and had thrown my good leg in the trash in a careless effort to rid her house of my hilariously ironic gift! I had tripped face first into the snow because the leg lamp was still plugged in!

[adamroper]

A Christmas Foot, Chapter 1: The Lamp

Our story starts off in a more humble climate than others you may have heard, moreso than Manhatten, suburban chicago, the North Pole or a giant department store. The camera starts at my feet and pans upwards to a sign reading “East Hastings” in Vancouver’s iconic Downtown Eastside, revealing the Carnegie Hall in the background.

My first apartment in Vancouver is just around the corner on Cordova & Princess. Down the street in Gastown is the first restaurant I took a job doing dishes at, during my first Christmas in Vancouver. Incidentally, this would end up being the last house I lived in while I still had both my feet.

Not long after I moved to this interesting winter wonderland shared with cockroaches, rats, traffic noise, lineups towards a soup kitchen, and the occasional flooded basement a doctor said my right foot had had enough. My poor foot had done it’s best to support me for years after a childhood accident and it was time to send it to foot heaven. I wondered if foot heaven was the same as cat heaven, which is where my mom said my brown cat went to after it fell out of a 2 story window.

It shouldn’t be too surprising my right limb and I had to part ways- honestly I’m surprised it hadn’t gone sooner, or that it wasn’t joined by another appendage. You would be too if you’d seen some of the crazy winter antics my dad and my two brothers and sister got upto each year around december.

One year in the 90s saw our family cross country skiing when a blizzard brought the entire city of Nanaimo to a standstill. The marsh is perfectly safe, it’s frozen over he would say as we coasted confidently onto its icy surface. Or the time my dad tied a GT Racer sled to the trailer hitch of his 15 passenger van towing it on the backroads of mount benson, only stopping when he would notice the sled veering off towards a ditch.

Not long after losing the foot I also lost the apartment I was living in while trying against my sister’s advice to carry on as if things were normal.

At the time the housing crisis in Vancouver was in full swing, and when most folks weren’t either ice skating down on Robson or taking in the German Christmas market they were looking for a place to live for January.

They like me had done the best with the apartment they had- they had put plastic over their heritage windows to cut down on the BC hydro bill, they had placed the Christmas tree in front of the large hole in the drywall the last tenants had left, they had poured nearly half a bottle of pine extract into their scent diffusers to cover up the cigarette smell in the hallway, they had set up all manner of elaborate rat traps to avoid being contaminated by the plague, they had insisted to the landlord that, yes, those dark looking spots under the sink are black mold, all the while dreaming of finding a more ideal living situation.

To put it simply, it’s difficult trying to find one of these rumored nice apartments, much less trying to do so with only one foot, hopping from one viewing to the next trying to outrun the rest of the marathon of young professionals in search of the holy grails of affordable living.

At last I resigned, calling my parents half a month before Christmas to tell them about my housing woes. Well, just come home for the season, my dad said on the phone, it’ll just be for a few months until your foot man or whatever you call him makes you a new leg and you’ll be walking again in no time! Really, it’s what you should  done in the first place, come home and we’ll take care of you.

So on to the ferry I went with a backpack containing a modestly redacted version of my life in Vancouver, the rest of it residing in a friend’s garage for the winter. I was trying not to slip and fall with my single blundstone and crutches, somehow avoiding the 3 ferry sailing waits that would transpire in the days to follow.

As luck would have it I arrived just in time to help my mom set up her elaborate Christmas village- arranged with a stunning eye for detail and careful planning- most towns and cities in Canada would have a hard time comparing to the structural engineering marvel and ease of traffic infrastructure my mom had created.

There was hardly ever a traffic jam in “The Winter village of Avonlea”, and the crime rate was next to zero. “Over here we’ll put the post office, and across the way we’ll place the butcher adjacent to the bakery” she would instruct me, “so the postman will save time gathering groceries on his way home from work, and we’ll place the city hall on the corner of Bedford Halls Lane and Bing Boulevard.”

Oh and don’t get me started on the tree decorations. My dad was allowed to pick the tree out, and that was the full extent of his involvement. Every year it became the host to a multitude of angels, small wooden sleds, doves, owls, pigeons, even the occasional crow. There were glass spheres coated with gold, silver, and platinum. Snowglobes snowed every day of the week, lords leaping and ladies dancing in circles all the way to the shining pinnacle on top of the tree. Some years it was another larger angel, other years a star, one year it was curiously a picture of elvis.

When it came to Christmas decorating my mom was the queen of the ice castle. My dad was self-decidedly in charge of creating our seasonal chaos scenarios to prepare us for adulthood, while my mom was in charge of everything inside the house. You dared not alter the carefully planned set up in any way lest you awaken the demon Krampus.

That was about 6 years ago, and of course things have changed since then. I now have 4 legs instead of only 1. I have my actual leg, my brand new prosthetic leg, and a climbing leg and a running leg. You have every leg you’ll need to carry out a great bank heist, my sister-in-law joked. I would need to I figured in order to continue paying for them. All said and done the price of a leg is pretty well comparable to a brand new honda accord.

After a harrowing few years of recovering and moving back to Vancouver, going from one house to the next, and I was finally in a moderately stable fairly well priced townhouse. It was Christmas again and this year I was heading to the ferry to see my mom and dad who still lived on the island. I had a smaller backpack this time as well as a curiously shaped duffel bag with a surprise for mom. Looking at the bag you might think it was a pile of field hockey sticks, or a set of broken golf clubs. In reality it was one of my retired legs, refashioned with a black fishnet stocking, a black high heel and a detachable light and lampshape.

You see every few years the legs wear down and they need to be replaced. like a ford car or an apple computer these things don't last long, even with casual use. Once they’re retired they make a surprisingly great basis for all kinds of creative art sculptures. Thus was born a beautiful lamp centerpiece to my mom’s carefully thought out Christmas decoration extravaganza, which I had assumed she would love.

Arriving at the house I almost slipped on every icy step to the front door. The sandpaper I’d nailed to the stairs when I first moved home had worn down from repeated use. It didn’t help I was half blinded by a recently updated series of LED lights surrounding every tree, shrub, corner of the house, and window. Even the snowpeople couldn’t escape the maniacal creeping LED vines.

The house inside was decorated equally as elaborately with little left to the imagination. I hugged my mom and dad, carefully moving my body in twists and turns to avoid knocking any of the holiday flourishes over, like those  weird people you see in grocery stores who try to sneak past you without touching you or making eye contact.

Since all the siblings have moved away home and founded small Christmas-minded colonies of their own my mom had gotten even more carried away with the decorations, making you feel like you were stepping into a densely forested North Pole mock up in a department store. She loved it, Dad appreciated it, and the grandkids were only allowed in with careful supervision.

“Well mom, I brought you a gift for your decorations” I said with a laugh opening the bag. I pulled out the awful, gloriously gaudy leg dressed in holiday cheer, in my mind a beautiful iconic recollection of the great holiday movies of old. I traipsed through the dense menagerie of holiday decorations and gingerly placed the lamp in the picture window, fully in view from the sidewalk.

Plugging it in the light sprung to life with a soft brownish glow emitted by an edison style bulb. My mom’s face was aghast at first, as if she had seen jacob marley ascending the staircase towards her room covered in chains.

Her expression then softened up a little bit and she said with a smile “Oh dear, that’s awful... just terrible”. My dad was laughing as he walked to the kitchen and back with 2 cans of Wildcat in hand. I pulled off my leg for the night and we sat under the glow of the lamp, the tree, the village, the decorations, and the christmas hearth log on channel 3 and talked cheerfully until I fell asleep on the couch.

The next morning I woke up at instinctively at 7am to see the morning sunrise reflect off Mount Benson and reached for my leg.

Now, one thing you might not realize about putting on a prosthetic leg is there's a process to it, like putting together a desk from Ikea. It starts with either a polyurethane or silicone liner you roll onto your leg, followed by a gel sock covered in fabric or a few layers of wool socks before putting on the leg itself, in my case followed by rolling on another silicone sleeve that attaches the prosthetic to the rest of my leg holding it all together.

I stood up and walked towards the kitchen for a coffee, as I did I noticed something was off in the living room. The lampshade was missing. In its place in the reflection of the picture window I saw a red and white cylinder shape that ascended into a curve. While I was sleeping my mom had replaced my prosthetic leg lamp with a candy cane, and the lamp was nowhere to be found. “Hey Mom”, I shouted upstairs, “my lamp! Where did you put it?” “It’s in the trash out by the the curb” she shouted back, “out front.”

Just then a sanitation truck was pulling up beside the bins on the front sidewalk. One of the bins was overflowing with a familiar looking piece of footwear sticking out prominently from one side. It was my new $35,000 prosthetic leg with a brown leather blundstone still attached to it, being lifted up towards the crusher.

I lept for the door and ran down the stairs slipping on the icy porch! “ hey wait!” I shouted, “my foot!!!” As I ran my right foot was snagged by a lights cord and I fell flat onto my face in the snow, then snapped back. By the time I reached the sanitation worker he was laughing and he said, “hey, what’s with the fishnet?” I looked down, and adorned on my right side was the bottom half of the leg lamp I’d made for my mom, complete with a fishnet stocking, a black high heel, and a long brown extension cord.

By some weird twist of fate she confused the two and had thrown my good leg in the trash in a careless effort to rid her house of my hilariously ironic gift! I had tripped face first into the snow because the leg lamp was still plugged in!