#this week has been so exhausting from the constant tooth pain

[pinkgelatin]

Being dads is exhausting. And how do you deal with exhaustion? Cuddles! This time with a tiny fic under the cut ❤️

Teething

Salim got up from the carpet and dusted off his knees. How in the world did the remote end up under the tv stand, he'd never understand, but that was indeed where he found it. The vcr whirred as it rewinded the tape. He hoped he'd find the moment they stopped watching the movie last night, rudely interrupted by a shrill cry and loud wailing. The doctor warned him that teething could have many symptoms, but Salim quietly wished that constant crying and sleepless nights wouldn't be as bad as they were when the first tooth poked out. If only he knew how wrong he'd be.

This night was Jason's turn to attend to Zain when he simply refused to fall back asleep. Salim felt for their baby boy, he really did, and both of them tried anything they could to ease Zain's pain and discomfort, but with few things available, and even fewer of them working, they had only one way of dealing with a teething baby. Patience.

Unfortunately said patience has been wearing thin over the last couple days. So much so, both Salim and Jason have become snappy and irritated. Last night Jason proposed watching a dumb movie to "debrain" themselves, which Salim eagerly agreed to. Not that they succeeded. After they dealt with their little interruption, Salim ended up nodding off on one end of the couch, and woke up in the morning to Jason curled up and lightly snoring on the other.

There was hope however. While half an hour ago Zain had been crying his little heart out yet again, at this point things seemed pretty calm. The only sound Salim could hear was Jason quietly singing a lullaby. 

Salim smiled to himself as he moved a couple of Zain's toys out of the way, then stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment, focusing more on the lullaby. Who knew Jason of all people would have a great singing voice and an array of lullabies stashed somewhere in his brain. And that Zain would react so well to them. Their boy wasn't the only one who did so either. Salim loved Jason's voice just as much, and hearing it off in the distance with a soft pillow under his head was enough to lull him into a trance. 

"Their boy," Salim's mind honed in on that particular phrase. Zain was their boy now, not just his anymore, and that made his heart swell with love and affection for the man in the other room. Jason accepted Zain as his own pretty much immediately, surprising himself most of all. He was a blessing in many more ways than one, and Salim would never be able to give enough thanks to whatever power had brought them together, be it pure chance, or something more mystical. 

He snapped back to reality when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You didn't just fall asleep on me, did you?" Jason teased, but the bags under his eyes told Salim just how much he'd like to do the same. Zain wasn't the only thing keeping them up at night. The nightmares were still vivid and frequent as well, even weeks after that awful day, and both of them had a feeling they wouldn't let up anytime soon.

"Almost," Salim stretched slightly and sighed. "Mission successful, I take it?"

Jason chuckled and gave him a mock salute, "The tiny wailing beast has been pacified with a lullaby and lots of cuddles. And that new teething gel the doc gave us. Now scooch."  

Salim felt a knee nudge his side, but didn't move a muscle. He was way too comfortable for that. Though moving could have saved his stomach and slowly scarring chest from being crushed by the full weight of an ex-Marine.

Even if Jason seemed to purposefully avoid his wound, Salim still gasped and groaned in surprise, "That hurt, habibi."

Jason simply shrugged and sneaked his arms around Salim's torso, "Should've moved."

Salim grumbled some more, but reached for the blanket anyway, and soon they were both snug and cozy. "I rewinded the tape already. I think I got the right spot."

"With how early you conked out we might as well watch the whole thing," Jason took the remote from Salim's hand and pressed the button to rewind the tape fully, ignoring any protests. 

With the most exaggerated eye roll he could manage Salim pushed himself deeper into the pillow and set his mind on focusing on the movie this time. As long as there would be no interruptions that is. He instinctively kept listening for any distressed sounds coming from Zain's room, but after hearing none he let himself relax. 

It was about halfway through the movie when he proudly announced, "See? I told you I'd watch it this time." Only he didn't get any kind of response. 

Salim craned his neck to glance at Jason's face and let out a low chuckle. 

With eyes closed, and mouth slack Jason was asleep on top of him. Probably has been for a while as well, judging by the crease on his cheek and one arm hanging loose off the side of the couch.

Salim paused the movie. The house was quiet, save for Jason's even breathing and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. Zain seemed to still be asleep, and the neighborhood cocooned them in quiet darkness, making the night perfect for catching up on some much needed rest.

"Oh well," Salim thought, and let his own eyes slip shut. "Take the little blessings as they come." They could try again tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. They had all the time in the world.

[aastarions]

this weekend i’m gonna start working on chapter 5 of stay gold me thinks

[nectarous]

TOOTHSOME ⇋ OJIRO ARAN X F!READER.

TAGS: strangers to soulmates. suggestive themes [no smut]. constant changes of pov. slowburn fluff with angst ending.

W/C: 3.3K

SUMMARY: a simple study of intimate bonds and tasting love.

⇦ SEWER SOULMATE SYNDROME COLLAB MASTERLIST ♡

there’s something about the world that’s absolutely and wholly dull. waking up to blistering rays glaring through open windows, working at a lackluster club, coming home to your barebones apartment that you’ve never bothered decorating. you only look forward to collapsing into a steaming bath, dreading the fact you’ll have to repeat this all over again once the sun starts to peek up from the horizon.

it’s what’s deserving of such an uninspiring, miserable personality. you’re not interested in much outside of the bubble you crafted. you’re indifferent to the fickle things; love, bonds, and that mouthful of flavor when you meet your soulmate for the first time. it doesn’t interest you in any capacity. 

you know that there’s a lot to be desired with you. your people skills need tinkering and while your work ethics are respectable enough, all you can think to describe yourself is boring.

you’re interested in surviving and supporting yourself. living long enough to enjoy yourself, but short enough to not have to work hard—you’ve never been interested in the company and passing affections of others.

the idea of a soulmate is a delicate one to some, daft to others. you’re more indifferent on the topic, leaning closer to disdain, about the idea of a fated second half. 

how naïve you are for thinking that you’re lucky enough to escape it, unaware that in a short twelve months, it’ll only take one stranger to ruin your perception of love, of the world, of yourself. 

just like everyone else, you’ve been taught about soulmates, raised around the idea that finding them would finally open you up. from an outsider's perspective, you understand how they work, how they feel. you’ve spotted that glazed over look in their eyes more times than you care to count. you’ve witnessed soulmates bumping into each other for the first time, seen how eyes light up, and heard the crashing of heart beats from across rooms. you swore you could hear them salivate at the taste of each other’s presence. 

you’re certain that’s something you’ll never experience. you hope you’ll never meet them, hope that they're dead or far away in some other continent, or that they’re as much as a homebody as you are. you covet to be in the majority that never meet their soulmate, and have to settle for yourself and 

you’ve made it this far alone. why bother searching for your other half now?

• • •

even at 27, aran’s still hopeful he’ll find the person he’s supposed to spend his life with. it’s a silly little fantasy, one that has settled deep in his core, meeting the love of his life and instinctively knowing. all through his teenage years, he’s been teased for being a hopeless romantic. but who could blame him? what’s more serene, more absolute than the idea of finding the person who will love you for who you are, for the rest of your life?

his romanticism has mellowed out over the years, and he’s become a reasonable man with a successful career and lifelong friends and a dog he spends a fortune on every month. he’ll let life take its course, pray for the best, and continue on.

everyone has a soulmate. he hopes it’s only a matter of time before he meets his. but it’s not a necessity for him.

• • •

the first time you see him, your soulmate, is outside some onigiri shop, bathed in the purple shadows of sunset. you instantly turn the other way, stumbling into some random convenience store and ignoring that lightheadedness, and the urge to gag at the rich flavor soaking into your mouth, hoping he doesn’t feel your proximity. 

all of a sudden, you’re not that hungry anymore.

• • •

aran feels it. his knees grow weak, his heart swells twice as big, there’s a pressure in his sinuses that almost has him stumbling back. and then that feeling’s gone. when he looks around, no ones there, but the residual feelings still linger.

this is the taste of aran’s soulmate. he always expected love to taste like bubblegum or the strawberry mochi he used to split with his sister. he expected to savor the color pink, or red, delicate colors that remind him of spring and joy.

instead, there’s a bitter, heavy metallic soaking into his mouth; like antimony and lemon rinds. it clashes against his taste buds causing his face to scrunch up in distaste.

it tastes like gray.

• • •

the overwhelming taste in your mouth is pastel green, tooth-decaying sweet, and tart. it drips down your throat, makes your gums and your heart ache and throb. it feels like you’re going to choke right here, in the snack section of a convenience store.

granny smiths, heavy molasses and acerbic echoes of sumac sticks to the insides of your cheeks. the emotions so saturated it starts to burrow deep in your teeth.

you hate how warm it makes you feel.

• • •

you recognize him immediately when you’re flicking through the channels waiting for your dinner to reheat. of course the universe decides to pair you up with a fucking olympic volleyball player with amazing things going for him. you can’t change the channel, can’t ignore that he looks a little too good panting and covered in sweat. his voice rumbles smooth, his eyes glimmer, his quiet chuckle makes you throb. 

you’ve been laying in bed and trying to push out the sneaking thoughts of him, trying to erase the green flavor that creeps back in ever since. 

it’s been two weeks since you’ve been anywhere near that shop. the fear that you’ll bump into him again is… overwhelming. but you’re exhausted, working through the day for the second time this week. and of course, you forgot your umbrella at home, forcing you to run through the muggy rain in a ratty shirt and soggy sneakers. 

you told yourself you’d take the long way home, but now that cutting through this block will get you out of the rain faster, knowing it’ll get you back home in time to catch that cooking show while you take a bath, tempts you too much.

but of course, nothing that life hands you seems to go your way.

and of course he’s out there again. out of all days. you hope he’s not some mindless sap that waits outside of the shop everyday, aching for the chance to bump into his soulmate and live happily ever after. that might be the only thing that would make this soulmate bond even more painful.

you really should’ve just gone the long way home.

he looks happy and, you begrudgingly admit to yourself as you wait for the crosswalk to turn green, even more handsome than on your tv. big. he’s on the phone, protected from the rain under the shop’s awning. the taste of green’s already oozing it’s way back in.

apparently, that perspective ability you admired while watching one of his first matches bleeds outside the court too, because he immediately makes eye contact with you. eyes widen, he hangs up immediately, and his hand raises in a wave.

and the first thing you can do is run.

• • •

he can sense that his soulmate’s near, that sharp tinny taste overpowering the onigiri osamu forced him to finish. it has his nose crinkling up before he whips his head up, staring at a girl. his heart soars a bit, finally he gets to meet you, before crashing down upon seeing that expression of horror on your dripping face, before you trip your way into some alley. he doesn’t second guess running into the sheets of rain, not hesitating at the sudden chill of rain.

he can tell that you’re scared, terrified, disgusted at the idea of having a soulmate. is it because of him?

the taste of each other is overwhelming, gunmetal grating and foiled and loud crashing into his. can barely swallow it down, eyes rolling back. 

you can’t handle the onslaught of pungent syrupy sour, it’s soaking into your head more than the rain. it makes you hunched over and soaked, retching bile and the remnants of breakfast, you want to die.

you want to tell him to fuck off, let you drown in apples, in the vomit and the rain, but he’s insistent. he keeps a polite distance, a safe distance, from you. arms flex in his soaking pale t-shirt while he looks at you like some kind of wounded, rabid animal.   

“let’s get you warmed up, ok?”

that tart taste eats away at the rancid bile in your mouth, and you hate to admit that his charcoal eyes start to slowly thaw you.

you’re a mess of chattering teeth, goose pimpled skin. your nipples are poking stiff peaks into your shirt and your fingers are shaking, but he politely ignores both, stepping over the puddle of vomit to pick up your dropped bag, hot hand on the small of your back as he leads you in through the back entrance of the onigiri shop.

two identical faces, the only thing separating them is the shock of pale blond hair, are watching you from a distance as aran presses soft cotton into your arms and leads you into the locker room. they both feign boredom as you shuffle by them, but even in your bleak state, you can’t ignore that interested glimmer in their eyes from behind the register.

the sound of slopping clothes dropping against the cold tile makes your skin crawl, your eyes sting, and your head ache like it was just banged into the concrete. you don’t know whether to be humiliated or thankful, unsettled or grateful that ojiro aran’s actually nice. such a simple word. just these last 10 minutes has proved his heart of gold and, as you tread back into the main room, you think you’re going to cry.

no one talks as you collapse and curl up on one of the farthest seats, as you start to lose yourself in the sounds of thunder and the stifled radio, the cold bleeding it’s way into your brain. you can start to feel yourself dissociating, vision starting to blur, losing yourself in the numb. 

the delicate placing of six onigiri snaps you out of it, aran’s look of concern makes you curve over your knees as you drag the plate closer. his eyes tickle at your soul, baring deep into your bones, as if he can see how much you're hurting, how much you don’t care. compared to him, you look like a drenched rat, hair still damp and feet bare. 

you really might cry. 

because it hurts. the thought that he’d treat you good like this, every day, for the rest of his life. you can tell he’s kind, the way he sets down a cup of tea and brings you some food. the way he offers you a change of clothes. he’s a gentleman, and you feel pity for him, that he’s attached to you. 

the tilt of your lips in gratitude probably translates more as a grimace than a smile.

he waits until after you finish eating to start talking, “i’m ojiro aran.”

“i know,” you respond back. “that volleyball player.”

your droning voice doesn’t make him flinch back as you hope.

“i hope i’m not overstepping, but i can tell that you’re not the happiest with — ” finally he hesitates, flicking the sugar packets, eyes tracing over your face. you make it a point to not return the eye contact. 

“look. i’m not sure if it’s because of me, or you’re not happy with the idea of soulmates in general.” he overlooks the way your fingers twitch around your mug. “and i’m not going to force you to do anything, because i can tell that you’re on edge right now.”

he lowers himself so he’s not towering over you, balancing on his toes, still toying with the condiments on your table.

“to tell you the truth, i’m a bit of a romantic,” something sweet starts slipping into his voice. “i can tell that you aren’t. we don’t have to rush into anything, say the word and we can forget we ever met. but i think this can work out. we just need to pace to our comfort levels.”

and as you stare into his eyes, him squatting in front of you and holding your still shaking hands, the utter care, eyes almost pleading, and a soft smile that he’s emitting, it makes you feel peace for the first time. the stains of melancholy in your bones start to fade, and pastel green leaks from the sides of your cheeks making the corners of your lips involuntarily twitch up.

maybe, just maybe this’ll work out.

• • •

it’s been months, and aran’s learnt more about you than you know. he’s picked up that you despise physical affection just as much as the rain, but that you crave the heat from his body.

he thinks about you constantly. he replays your ‘dates that aren’t dates’ on repeat at practice, printing your face in his head on his morning runs, and he welcomes that metallic bitter that comes with you before he goes to sleep.

you’re standoffishness is soft and appealing at first glance, like antimony you taste like. the more time he’s in your presence, the more that lack of intimacy burns at his eyes, and his lungs. his hands sting with rejection every time you inch and shrug away from his touch or grimace when he laughs at your half-jokes. he knows there’s a separate woman bedded underneath. he saw her at the restaurant, he sees it whenever you watch the sunset. he notices it most behind the closed doors of his apartment. 

he’s come to appreciate your hands. your hands convey the things you’re too nervous to say. he can feel the adoration pulsing underneath the fragile skin in your fingers and your wrists, whispering the things you can’t always say out loud. they speak to your sense of comfort with him, the vulnerability you only show with him. the way they sneak under his shirt to run down his smooth back when you're cold, only to pull back and hope he didn’t catch your slip up. 

he notices the chipped polish that you pick at when you're stressed over deadlines. how your hands shrink in comparison to every part of him, tracing the callouses and scars from decades worth of volleyball. he loves how you bring his hands up to kiss on his knuckles after hours in bed, before you make up excuses as to why you can’t spend the night.

much to your annoyance, it makes him want to try that much harder. 

• • •

love. a complicated, sinister, four letter word you never thought you were built for. you think about it a lot, in tandem with aran. probably too much to be healthy. he’s the first thing you think of when you wake up, plaguing  your mind as you work, and leaving you always wondering what time he goes to sleep.

it's embarrassing. the three hours you spend with him every weekend has turned you into some sort of sap, haunted with his musky scent, that soft smile and that embarrassing craving for him to pat your head again. like your some fucking puppy. and you swear, that syrupy green apple taste is stained into your taste buds, it’s seeped into your bones and ruined you.

the last thing he deserves is you. you know that. but he doesn’t think that, he’s letting that metallic taste run him around lovesick. he makes you feel blistered; every touch and adoring glance burns into your flesh in permanent, achy reminders. he has your number, knows where you live. but he respects you and the distance you’ve placed.

he’s getting too comfortable too quickly, and he keeps surprising you with how patient he is. he’s adaptive, tenderhearted, almost philanthropic with the way he took in the charity case of you. 

it didn’t pan out the way you expected the first few months. you expected failure, for him to snap at your constant rejections and complaints. apparently, experiences with his childhood friends prepared him for you.

he's too helpful of a person, wanting to talk about feelings and cooking you food when you didn’t ask for it. it scared you, how fast he accepted this soulmate thing, how fast he was able to care. his hugs lasted too long. he's suffocating you in adoration and care, and you can tell he’s almost to the point of being in love with you.

poor aran. you’ve been destined to be with this man, who’s been destined to be alone since birth, all because the universe promised you to him. 

you know you’re going to destroy this beautiful bond that the universe crafted. you’re bitter and mean and unable to open yourself up to him; he almost knows nothing about you, and you know almost everything about him. you know how his younger sister wants to become a physical therapist, how the owner of that little onigiri shop has been one of his best friends for almost two decades. and you know his favorite food’s ritz crackers, that he’s a morning person. he loves dogs and hates horror films, and his two greatest joys are his family and volleyball.

there’s an unspoken hint that he wants you to join the former.

and it’s unfair; who wouldn’t fall in love with that scar on his neck. you try to focus on his bad parts, of which he only has one. his stupid dog, adzuki. that mammoth of a german sheperd that follows you around, places it’s paws on your lap when you come over for dinner.

he laughs every time you grimace at him, looks like we both have a weak spot for you.

• • •

you shatter his heart on the first year anniversary since you’ve been bonded. you were already dangling by a heart string, and that little band of gold and red he gifts you is where you force yourself to draw the line. 

all you can think about is how you need to abandon him before either of you get too attached. you’re teetering on the edge of ignoring your gut instincts, of collapsing into him, wanting to let him see the shattered pieces inside you. but then he’ll do something as mundane as calling you over for dinner, and you remember.

he terrifies you. 

there’s a reason you haven’t spent the night again. the intimacy of you and him, and his ugly dog, and that picture frame of your date at the beach hung right next to one of his family portraits. 

he loves too much and too hard, he’s too intense. he makes your skin prickle in hot fireworks, the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight with unease. he’s beautifully passionate about everything he lays his eyes on. he lives life to the fullest and all of a sudden, you want that too. he makes you crave domesticity, waking up next to warm umber hands tracing patterns in your skin, cooking breakfast together, a house in tokyo. a wedding band on your finger.  

this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

you remember the dulling of gray eyes, and his hunched over figure bathed in the ashy violet rays of the sun setting. you try to hold onto that flavor of green before you swallow it for the last time, saliva and tears welling up, before you press one last kiss on his cheek before stepping out. pastel green fades to emerald fades to black. you can’t taste apples or sumac anymore.

no, as much as you wanted to be, you weren’t built for love.

[maybedefinitely404]

Day 10: Dukexiety

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 10: You are born with a birthmark, similar to a tattoo, that is shared by your soulmate.

Content warnings: allusions to past suicidal thoughts, just bad mental health past in general, vague bullying, swimming pools, past isolation, minor injury (broken ribs), general anxiety and self deprecation.

Word count: 3.9k

I was very low on time, and very exhausted from work, so I tried something new! I first discovered the concept of ‘bullet fics’ from @illogicallyinclined ‘s hockey au, GO CHECK IT OUT!!! (It’s living in my head rent free for a couple months now)

Virgil, Patton, Logan, and Roman have been friends for as long as they can remember. The first three met at a neighborhood barbecue when they were just a couple years old, and since they all live on the same block, became each other’s go to play buddies. They all stuck together in their first years of school together, the unbreakable trio, and then they met Roman. Or, Roman was pulled into their clutches and was therefore part of the group now. Patton saw him getting bullied across the playground and ran in to help, and now Roman is ‘eternally in their debt’. But they like him, so his extravagance is okay. 

They hung out constantly, all throughout middle and highschool, and they graduated together. It was a big moment for all of them; Patton, who almost got left a grade behind several times (his dyslexia went undiagnosed for several years and he was simply categorized as ‘dumb’), Virgil, who almost didn’t make it due to a mental health crisis, Logan, who was pressured heavily by his parents to move up a grade and had to fight tooth and nail to stay with his friends, and Roman, who’s bullying problems didn’t exactly lessen through the years, and was more than relieved to be leaving that behind. 

That summer, they pledge (mostly by Roman’s pleading) to try and do something fun every day. While Logan says this is improbable and Virgil groans at the thought of spending every day socializing, Patton is excited for the idea and “it’s two against two so you have to at least try!”

“That logic doesn’t make sense-” “Shut it, teach, just let us have this.”

So far, they’ve gone to the amusement park just out of town, gone to the park too many times to count, visited their local arcade that they hadn’t even stepped foot into since middle school, and tie-dyed a variety of clothing items in Patton’s backyard. Today, Patton is forcing them all to go to the pool, despite Logan claiming that they’re “feces infested, germ nesting grounds” and Virgil’s argument that “he burns like an unwatched pot of milk, how can you expect this from me”, Patton’s little puppy eyes do them all in.

Unfortunately, just as they’re leaving for the pool, Roman gets a call. At first it’s civil, and then his voice raises, and then he’s hanging up and throwing his phone onto his seat from where he’s standing next to the open car door. Angrily, he tells his friends that his mom got called into work and his dad’s on a business trip, so they need to take his brother with them.

At first, this raises some confusion.

“I was not under the impression that you had a little brother.”

“How old is he? Either way, I say, the more the merrier!”

Virgil is not thrilled at the idea of babysitting, since kids generally don’t like him, but he doesn’t voice his displeasure. 

Roman has to admit, with much embarrassment, that it’s actually his twin, who is just so chaotically irresponsible that he has lost Home Alone Privileges. He’s broken the TV, accidentally started fires, and lost their dog one too many times and his parents said no more. 

So he drives all the way back to his house, the three friends crammed into the back seat of his two door sedan (because the seats are A Pain to raise and lower and it makes more sense to give said brother the front seat instead of rearranging when they get him), grumbling under his breath about his stupid brother, stupid work, stupid stupid stupid-

Virgil is apt to agree with him, because if being around his three closest friends is enough interaction to mentally exhaust him, adding a new person to the mess is so much worse. He’s generally unexcited to meet this new person… until they pull up to the driveway.

And holy heck. 

This man is GORGEOUS. 

It takes a second for him to realize it’s Roman’s brother, because despite his first assumption, the two are not identical. They’re very similar, obviously related, for sure, but they are surprisingly easy to tell apart, and it’s not just because of the silver streak in the brother’s hair.

Which he should not find as hot as he does.

After Roman insists said brother does need to go get a bathing suit and no you can not go swimming in your jeans, he jumps into the passenger seat and, with as much energy as Roman has at Full Potential, introduces himself as Remus to the backseat audience. 

Patton and Logan both say small hello’s, but Virgil is just stuck.

Dear lord. Princey, why have you been hiding him from me?

When they get to the pool, Virgil makes a complete fool of himself getting out of the car. He trips on his seatbelt, landing directly in Remus’ arms, and looks up to see this devil man grinning at him with all the hubris of a greek god. Before he can say anything, Virgil pushes himself up and rolls his eyes (all while internally screaming) and walks away, joining Patton and Logan where they are just entering the main gate. 

He can’t help it; when in proximity of cuteness, his emergency mode is “be a dick”.

But it only gets worse from there.

When Virgil has an umbrella properly set up above a chair so he can save his skin from the sun (“I burn like unwatched milk on a stove. I’m not going in.”) and is comfortably situated with his phone and iced coffee, Remus steps in front of him to take his shirt off. 

He’s pretty sure Remus didn’t even mean to. It just… happened to be directly in his line of sight. 

As soon as the shirt is above his head, Virgil chokes on his drink, squirting iced coffee out of his nose and going into a coughing fit. Patton rubs his back while Roman tries not to laugh (and fails miserably), all while Remus is just watching him. Confused. (Logan is in the change rooms, because he insists on not wearing his bathing suit unless he is actively about to swim)

There’s more than just the sun issue that prevents Virgil from swimming. While his friend’s soulmarks are relatively small (Roman has a little one on his neck, Logan and Patton have a shared one just above their ankles), Virgil’s is a huge splotch that covers his entire side, reaching from just above his top rib to where his waistband usually lies. It’s all squiggles and lumps; Virgil once compared it to a storm cloud, but the lightning streaks were tentacles. It’s all in all, just… A Mess. And he doesn’t really like it. No one he’s ever met has had a soulmark like that, and he hates standing out.

When Remus takes off his shirt, in all his muscled glory, Virgil can’t miss the matching soulmark that trails down Remus’ side. It’s his, no doubt about it, but… that can’t be right, can it? Remus is so… full of life, dangerous, the epitome of chaotic; he’s everything Virgil is not. More so, he’s terrified of what Remus must think of him. He’s nothing special, he’s just an anxious ball of angst. What if he’s disappointed in who the universe decided to stick him with? 

After he’s done choking on iced coffee, and Logan is back from the change room, he realizes Remus is long gone, in the deep end of the pool trying to gather as many foam noodles as he can. They check that Virgil is alright, and when he merely gives them a shaky thumbs up, they take it at face value and dive in. Except Logan, who uses the steps like a mature adult, you children. 

He lets the rest of his coffee sit in the sun, until the sun melts all the ice cubes and it’s lukewarm to touch and overall, just gross, because suddenly he has no appetite. Yeah, this guy is gorgeous and he’s hopelessly gay for him, but... soulmate? That’s a lot for anyone to take in, much less someone with forty seven different kinds of anxiety. /j

If Virgil was uneasy taking his shirt off before, he sure as hell isn’t doing it now. No matter how much Patton and Roman plead with him, he stays glued to his chair, eyes flickering from his friends playing Marco Polo to watching his soulmate Remus. He’s turned the pool noodles into a giant raft and is trying to balance on it, like an absolute idiot.

An extremely good looking idiot. 

Virgil can’t help but notice that… he’s all alone. Roman, Patton, and Logan barely even throw him the occasional glance, much less invite him to hang out with them in the water. Worse than that, he seems relatively fine with it. It could just be that he doesn’t want to intrude on his brother’s friend group, but Remus doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to have those boundaries. Which kind of insinuates that he’s used to being alone, and Virgil can’t help but empathize. 

He notices it a lot, actually. The group meeting Remus also coincides with Roman and Virgil becoming more close; less of a frenemy relationship, and more of an actual friendship. Patton is delighted, because this means the three of them get to hang out at Roman’s huge place more often without their constant bickering (because when it got bad at one of their houses, Virgil’s was never more than a ten minute walk away when Roman finally pushed his last button. Here, they were all stuck.)

And every time they go over, he can’t help but notice the loud music coming from Remus’ room, or the man just sitting on the couch watching TV (which he tends to do shirtless, which does not help Virgil at all), or irritating Roman’s parrot. All in all, doing things alone. It strikes a chord in Virgil’s heart, which is something he’d never admit to another person.

Maybe that’s why, in the following week when Roman has the grand idea to go on a mountain hike, Virgil quietly asks if they could invite Remus. At first, Roman is adamant. “He’ll just ruin things, he doesn’t appreciate nature, he’s annoying!” But Patton claims “The more the merrier” and Logan doesn’t have any particular stance, so he begrudgingly invites Remus.

Who very excitedly accepts. 

The trail Roman visited is quite a ways out of town, so they cram back into his tiny car and start the drive. Patton claimed shotgun, so him and Roman have derailed into an animated conversation about cartoons, while Logan just pops in his earbuds and leans his head against the window. For the longest time, Remus and Virgil sit in awkward silence, because neither of them could get a word in edgewise to the front seat conversation even if they tried, and they don’t… really… know what to say… to each other. 

It’s Remus who finally breaks the silence (shocker).

“Roman tells more you’re the one who wanted to invite me.”

“Yeah, well, you seemed lonely. And… I mean, you’re Roman’s brother. Can you really be that bad?”

He means it as a joke, but he sees the light in Remus’ eyes die slightly. The tone of his voice doesn’t falter though, remaining as joyful and quirky as always. 

“I’m a lot more fun than Roman. People just don’t like to see it that way.”

“Setting your kitchen curtains on fire is fun?”

“If you were there, you’d understand!”

And they keep talking, maybe trailing into borderline flirting, for the whole ride. Virgil is surprised at the lack of tenseness in his shoulders, because though Remus is loud and a little unsettling, he is incredibly patient when Virgil has trouble forming his sentences and doesn’t interrupt him when he’s talking; an incredible help to someone with crippling anxiety. Underneath his exterior, he’s actually… incredibly soft? What?

By the time they pull up to the trail, Remus is actually starting to grow on Virgil. Since Patton and Roman are still so into their debate, and Logan seems content listening to his music (or podcast, but who really knows), they continue talking as the hike starts. The shorter boy can’t help but glance at the other every few seconds, seeing their soulmark just peeking past the edge of his baggy tank top. If Remus notices, he says nothing. 

And he learns Remus was bullied a lot through school, just like Roman was, but instead of finding a group that supported him, he broke off as a lone wolf. He came off scary or maybe just a little bit crazy to anyone he tried to befriend, since his social skills were pretty lacking due to disuse and his incredible lack of filter, so he learned early that staying alone hurt less. And in that time, he just became more and more… Like That… because he literally never had peers to mature with. 

The hike is a long one. Remus is pretty eager to spill his guts, probably since he was never able to before, so Virgil feels obligated to do the same. He tells Remus about his anxiety, about his mental health issues during school, about his home life and his hobbies, and the fact that there are more people around just fades into the background. It could as well be just them, and Virgil starts to wish it was. 

So of course, that’s when everything goes to shit.

A mountain biker comes ripping down the path, too quick to even process, and Virgil is caught off guard. Of course, he’s not walking near the edge of the path, because he has some shred of common sense, but the bike speeding by him causes him to flinch and stumble to the side; an instinctual reaction. Except his instincts decided to not remember until the last second that he’s at the edge of the trail.

It’s almost like happening in slow motion, his foot goes over the edge, and he doesn’t realize what’s about to happen until his other foot is already off the ground, ready to take that next step back, and he’s falling. Luckily (as lucky as one can be in this situation), it’s not a straight drop, just a decently long, steep slope that’s essentially just a bunch of rocks and weeds. 

He hears his friends scream his name, sees a hand fly out to catch him, and it just snags the edge of his jacket before he’s freefalling for a split moment. One heart stopping, never ending, eternal and all too short moment of weightlessness where he twists his body, hoping to try and brace himself, and then he meets the slope.

Hard.

His breath leaves him in a wheeze and he distinctly hears a loud snap. Through his pain addled brain, he tries to stop his slide further down by grabbing anything; rocks, roots, dirt. It’s useless.

He stops naturally, on a small ledge several meters from the top before the slope continues. For a moment, he can only lay there, trying to breathe through the intense pain flaring through him pretty much everywhere, not to mention the sheer levels of pure panic numbing his thoughts. He stares at the clouds, watching them as they float by, each breath spreading fire through his torso but at the same time strangely numb.

And then, “VIRGIL!”

His eyes shoot open (wait, when did he close them?) to see Remus’ concerned face above his. If the messied state of his outfit is any indication, this man just slid down the slope to catch up to him. His hands are hovering above Virgil, scared to touch, but more scared that Virgil is going to keep falling.

“Fuck,” is Virgil’s eloquent response. He tries to take a deep breath, tries to do his breathing pattern to calm his nerves, but NOPE. Wrong move. 

He immediately gasps and his hands fly to his ribs, another flair of pain shooting up them. Remus’ hands grab his, pulling them away from his torso, holding them securely. “I think you have some broken ribs. That was… one hell of a fall. We need to get you back up to the trail though, okay?”

Virgil can only nod his head, allowing Remus to help him stand, biting his lip so hard to keep from crying out that his lip splits. It hurts.

Trust Logan to come up with ideas on the fly. The biker must have stopped when he realized Virgil had fallen (at least he didn’t just keep driving), because when Virgil opened his tear filled eyes, there was a bike tire just a few feet from his face. He followed the frame of the bike, up to where Roman was holding the other wheel and standing precariously on the slope. Logan is clinging onto his hand, one foot on the slope and one on the actual trail, and if Virgil has to guess, the biker and Patton are just out of sight, keeping Logan steady. 

Virgil knows it’s going to hurt before Remus even warns him that it will, watching the taller man get a good grip on the bike wheel, before holding Virgil’s wrist with as much force that can muster without actively cutting off circulation. Virgil holds onto his wrist in return, Remus gives a shout to go ahead, and the human/bike chain they’ve created begins to pull them up. 

And oh lord, if Virgil thought just laying down was painful, tripping and stumbling up a steep incline is another world altogether. This time, biting his lip doesn’t work and he lets out a few muffled cries as the team works together, Remus squeezing his wrist every time a choked sound escapes his lips, mind too full of pure agony to even curse.

When they finally step foot onto the trail again, Virgil is in tears, and he is too far gone to even care. The biker is incredibly apologetic, offering his contact information and bidding them adieu when they insist that they’re okay now, and takes off, at an admittedly much slower pace than he was at before. 

Logan, the only one of them with proper (and extensive) first aid training, forces Virgil to sit, giving him time to find a position that puts as little pressure on his ribs as possible, before crouching in front of him.

“Let me check if they’re broken.”

His hand reaches out towards Virgil’s shirt and all the alarm bells start BLARING. No. No, no, no, no, no. Before he can restrain himself, he reaches out and slaps Logan’s hand away, sending another wave of pain through him. The pain doesn’t matter though, not in comparison to Logan possibly revealing his soulmark. 

Logan doesn’t understand this reaction properly (when does he ever), so he tries again.

“Virgil, I need to check the extent of the damage. A cracked rib means you can still make it back to the car. A broken rib would require emergency services and probable air lifting to prevent further damage, like a punctured lung.”

“Fine,” Virgil hisses through clenched teeth, bitterly understanding his logic, “Just… don’t take the shirt off.”

He tries to say it to only Logan, but it’s clear the other’s heard it by the way they exchange confused glances. Yes, they’ve never seen Virgil without a shirt, except they’d always pegged that up to insecurities. Wouldn’t those take a back seat in a possible medical emergency? 

Logan complies, however, and slides his hand under the hem of his shirt without moving the fabric. He runs his hands slowly up each rib, concentrating heavily, until he reaches one midway up and Virgil yelps, instinctively flinching backwards.

Startled by the reaction (it’s his first time actually administering first aid like this, give him a break), Logan jumps back, forgetting his hand is still under Virgil’s shirt.

His hand moves up.

Virgil moves back.

And the hem of his shirt rises up his chest for just a moment.

A moment’s all that’s needed, though. When you notice something that you’ve seen yourself a hundred times over, admiring this way and that in the mirror to commit it to memory, it only takes a glance to recognize it.

Remus only needed that split second of the shirt riding up to notice the lower half of the soulmark, and he definitely did notice it, if the way his jaw drops is anything to go off of. Virgil winces again, not from pain this time, and looks down at his shoes, abhorring the awkward silence that ensues.

The other three don’t understand, watching the two of them with varying levels of confusion, until Remus blurts:

“Are you my soulmate?”

And everything clicks into place. Virgil nods mutely, still not looking up, afraid of his reaction. Would he be upset Virgil kept it a secret? Would he be disappointed? Would he would he would he-

“Oh thank GOD!”

That’s… not the reaction he was expecting. He looks up to see Remus grinning like a child on their birthday, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I mean, if I’d want anyone to be my soulmate, it would be you! You don’t hate me, which a lot of people do, and you actually listen to me, which is nice, and not to mention you’re super hot, like the whole emo thing is just-”

“Remus!” Roman screeches, cutting him off, “You’re embarrassing him, let him breathe!”

It’s the first time Roman has ever come to Virgil’s defense, and he’s only vaguely happy about that. Truth is, he’s so much more wrapped up in the fact that Remus is actually happy that he doesn’t even notice Logan’s back to touching his ribs until another sharp pain brings him back.

“They’re definitely not broken. Fractured, at worst. Either way, you’re going to the hospital. Only question is, can you get down to the car?”

Virgil wants to nod, wants to go along with no problem, but he can barely take a step before his knees almost give out. If he could double over without making everything worse, he would. 

Remus doesn’t see this as a problem, though, eagerly offering Virgil to ride on his back until they get to the bottom. The shorter is, obviously, reluctant to this plan, seeing as how it’s a decently long trail and he isn’t that light, but damn, his soulmate insists, and next thing he knows, he’s gingerly holding onto Remus’ shoulders as he pushes back into a standing position.

(If he wasn’t already super hot, he’s strong, too? Virgil has struck the literal jackpot.)

He buries his face into the crook of Remus’ neck, trying not to wince at every jolt and bump as they maneuver their way down the hill, all conversation halted so they can focus on the two of them. Roman walks in front of them and Patton and Logan behind, ready to jump into action at any sign of stumbling. 

But it’s okay, it actually is, Virgil realizes as they’re making their way down the hill. Sure, they only really bonded today, but they also bonded in a day, and if that’s not telling of the future they’ll have together, whether romantic or platonic (they still need to talk that out), it’s gonna be okay.

Anyone who’s willing to throw themselves into harm's way and carry you down a mountain has got to be a worthy soulmate.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 2

<- Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 ->

Summary: Chilton is is a dark place.

1,641 words

Ten days. Four surgeries. Twenty grafts. Eleven blood transfusions. Third degree burns to ninety percent of his body. The hospital had never seen anything like it—though Chilton was personally doubling the number of times they’d said that.

He was in and out of the hyperbaric oxygen chamber, the hydrotherapy tub, and in and out of consciousness. His only constant was pain.

Unlike pain, you couldn’t stay with him every hour of the day. You came in early every morning to check on him, though he was usually sleeping, and then after work, sitting with him until he fell asleep again. Sometimes you would only get a few minutes of him awake, he was so exhausted from the surgeries, heavy pain meds, and healing.

You were barely sleeping, and he was barely not sleeping.

When he woke up in the middle of the night screaming, heart monitor throwing a fit, limbs jerking hard enough to tear his grafts, it was to a dark, empty room filled with pale ghosts of plastic flowers. You weren’t there to hold him. Not that you could have held him, anyway.

Oh, how he missed you when you were not there to fill the tedious waking hours. His few other visitors were people he hated.

Dr. Bloom had stopped by once, to see whether she felt any remorse for the part she played in his present agony. In those early days, the horror of his appearance had seemed like a tasteless joke to goad her with.

“Your face did not change at all when you first looked at me,” he rasped. “Shock in seeing me is usually… delayed.”

Look at me! he wanted to shout. Look at what Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter have done. Look what you did, Alana. Look at my face and be shocked, you fucking bastards.

He was shaking by the time she left.

But ten days, and his face was still a thing of nightmares. It made the joke less funny. This was not temporary, it began to sink in, and it was getting harder to maintain his pride. He became less and less comfortable being looked at by anyone. His teeth were bared, dozens of tubes snaked out of him, and he was swollen like a bloated corpse floating down the river.

Layers of cadaver skin were grafted all over his body. He felt like a cadaver. He wished…

When he was with the Dragon he had been so afraid that he was going to die, terrified for his own cowardly life. If he had known what torture surviving meant: protracted, cruel suffering without end…

His entire body was too hot all of the time, inflamed, red, and bleeding. He wasn’t producing enough red blood cells to replace the ones he was constantly losing. Between that and the bloody surgeries to remove dead skin, he had so many transfusions, most of the blood circulating through his veins was not his own.

And the nonstop surgeries were just to keep him alive another day, another hour—the nurses sighed with relief at the beginning of their shifts when they saw he hadn’t dropped dead.

As his skin healed, there would be more surgeries to prevent scar tissue from cutting off circulation to his extremities (he had already lost the tip of his remaining ear) and to allow his joints to move. Then, finally, the cosmetic surgery so he could one day walk about in public without hiding his face. Endless. Protracted. Cruel.

He wished he had died.

Being shot was a pleasure cruise by comparison. Even when his cheek was still tender and his head felt like it was about to split open, you could wrap your arms around his chest and stroke his back in calming circles. You would run your fingers through his hair and massage the tension in his scalp away. He missed his hair. And his scalp. He missed your touch the most.

Even your presence, when you were there, did not cheer him as much as he hoped. He longed for the day he could touch you again, but it was too far on the horizon to be worth much. It wasn’t enough. There was so much pain. He would never not be in pain for the rest of his wretched life. He wanted to die.

He hated everything he lost—everything that had been taken from him. It made him furious enough to keep the blood pumping through his veins when any well-adjusted mortal’s body would have slipped into a coma and let itself pass in peace.

Anger. Anger was the only thing keeping him alive.

 ***

Your voice was steady, soft, and persistent. Its musical cadence filled the darkness and surrounded him, embracing his dormant senses and sparking them to life with a warm electric hum that cut through the sleepy fog that had been nesting heavily there. He awoke.

“It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.”

He loved the soothing sound of your voice reading to him, but it make him feel like a child. Usually your presence comforted him, made everything better, but now it pulled him into the waking world where everything hurt. How can one find comfort when every inch of one’s skin is screaming? All his mind could focus on was the stab of annoyance at your patronizing tone.

“What is that drivel?” he scolded, crabby mood apparent.

You stopped reading, letting out a small gasp of surprise to find him conscious. You hesitated, moving your eyes avoidantly over the heart monitor, before cautiously answering, “…Frankenstein.”

It had seemed sort of clever when you started, but with his mood worsening all week, perhaps a story about a man who was made so hideous that all of society rejected and feared him was not a good idea.

“Funny.” he said. You winced.

You closed the book and set it in your lap. “How are you feeling?”

His chest rose and he let out a tired bark of laughter. “Wonderful.”

“Fred—”

“My skin is on fire,” he snapped. “My skin has been on fire since I was tortured and burned. Do not waste my time with brainless questions.”

“Sorry,” you murmured, even though it should have been him apologizing. A pang of guilt churned in his intestines. He wanted to take your hand, to pull you down onto the bed, crush your head to his chest, and weep into your hair so you would understand how he felt. But he could not do any of those things. His hands were swaddled in thick gauze mittens, and he had neither the strength nor flexibility to reach out to you—future surgeries would have to add flexibility to the stiff, contracted scar tissue around his joints. And you laying on his chest would not take his pain away like it did in his fantasy. It would be excruciating.

He could just say the words: Sorry for being an asshole. I am in pain, and I am scared, but you do not deserve to be treated poorly. But he didn’t want to, and he was stubborn. Weak.

Guilty silence filled the air between you. His words stung, and under normal circumstances when Frederick was being a dick, you would tell him where to shove it. But he wasn’t snapping at you over a tie he blamed you for losing. He was going through something unimaginable, and it wasn’t your place to get upset. So you threw the hurt into a little bag, and you closed the bag inside a box at the back of your mind. You were the one who spoke first, doing your best to sound cheerful.

“I thought you might be pleased to hear that Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter stabbed Francis Dolarhyde—the man who called himself the Red Dragon—to death. He’s gone.”

His heart monitor anxiously beeped with humiliating candor, but he spoke with cold calmness. “Shall I throw a parade in their honor?”

“I just thought you’d want to know, you don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

“Mr. Graham and Hannibal?” he asked pointedly.

You rubbed your arm, turning your head away. Maybe you shouldn’t have brought it up… but he was bound to hear about it anyway. “The FBI isn’t sure. They never found their bodies.”

“Hannibal Lecter is free?” he wheezed and nearly choked.

Reaching out toward the hospital bed, you placed a hand on Chilton’s bandaged arm that was meant to be calming, but it made him jump in his skin. Deep breaths hissed between his teeth as he tried to get his heart rate under control. When he relaxed a little, you assured him, “If he’s alive, he won’t be coming back here. He was with Will. They’ll be running away together.”

He made a show of grumbling with contemplative hostility. “Killing me would only relieve my suffering; they will be pleased to leave me as I am. We have nothing to fear from them.” He was afraid anyway, but he did not need to admit that. Pathetic. Weak. “But the Tooth Fairy is dead?” he added bitterly, emphasizing the killer’s hated sobriquet.

“The medical examiner said it was slow and painful.”

That drew a satisfied little noise from beneath the bandages. The torn edges of his mouth were smirking.

[wersoverytired]

Watching the Supernatural finale hours after almost dying is, well. Different.

I cannot stress this enough: MAJOR triggers for frank discussion of a recent suicide attempt (no, not because SPN ended). Steer clear if this might hit too close to home. I'm no longer at risk, this happened a while ago and is over, and my care manager is aware.

Right, and spoilers for the series finale.

_____ _____ _____

I'm old enough to have been a fan of SPN since 2005. And considering the fact that childhood abuse had me suicidal at around age 12, probably earlier, it's safe to say that I have never watched the show without that constant battle going on in the background, unrelated.

When Dean said he was tired, that he was done, I got it. When Sam asked in that abandoned chapel what the upside was to him being alive, or when he confided in his brother in a hotel hallway that he had always felt unclean somehow, I could relate. There was more to the show than that, of course -- the love, the loyalty, the humor -- but the struggle was another point of connection.

As both the show and I grew long in the tooth, and my life circumstances were progressive getting worse (as they sometimes do when you carry untreated trauma), I used SPN and the fandom as a comfort. And increasingly, living to see how the Winchester story ends became one of those grappling hooks you latch on to when you look for reasons to keep going just a little longer.

Naturally, that didn't (and couldn't) arm me against the waves of acute, hope-obliterating, soul-sucking despair that can routinely crash on your head when you're dealing with poverty, chronic physical illness and disability -- and in a harsh country, too -- as well as being severely post traumatic and dissociative. Saving me was never the show's job, nor should it have been. I used it as much as I could, though.

The more I felt like I had to die, the more I tried. Dying hardly ever comes naturally, not even when you feel like there's no other way. Painfully isolated and increasingly bedridden, I watched convention panels and smiled so hard my face hurt. Other times I cried. And I made online friends, often through the fandom, who made life less empty. Who loved and laughed and cried with me from afar. It's hard to overstate the effect that can have when you're trapped in a body that's pretty much your cage, with a mind that's wounded and struggling.

I kept fighting. But I also kept finding myself, over and over again, faced with the reality that most people who are deeply traumatized, certainly those who are also severely dissociative, get to know early on: the world excels at letting many of us know that there's no place for us. Fighting hard to survive with about 10% of what I need to live, I sometimes find it hard not to listen to that toxic message that many survivors and disabled folks hear and feel coming at them over and over: you're too broken to justify the cost and effort of keeping you alive.

It's been an especially hard couple of years in that sense. And as the finale was months, then weeks, then days away, I kept telling myself to wait. Wait for that. Decide later. "Deciding later" is a survival technique I've been using for decades now whenever I get actively suicidal. It's not a bad one.

So that very last Thursday evening (or very late night, where I live) came around. And it so happens that I was at the very end of my rope. Again, for unrelated reasons to the show ending, obviously. And I couldn't go on.

The finale was hours away, and off I went on that same journey. Wait. Wait just long enough to see how it ends. It's been 15 years. You've survived so far, and that bit of closure, at least, is within reach. Just fucking wait to watch that last episode; see how they go before you do. Let that be the one last kind thing you do for yourself.

I kept telling myself that even as I numbly went through my final checklist.

I know it hurts so much. I know this damn body is tortured beyond what you can stand, I know we've been told it's about to get even worse. And hours more of this seem like an eternity. Watching anything seems impossible. I know the PTSD is intolerable, I know you can't sleep, you live in constant fear and rage and exhaustion; I know you're alone in this.

I know you live in a place that has made its peace with people like you dying of Covid, and finds it a small price to pay for refusing to wear masks. I know how that makes you feel, to be told that your life is worth that little because you're disabled. I know 9 months of what amounts to house arrest, while living alone, have made everything so much worse. I know you just want to go.

But wait to watch how it ends. And decide later. You can go later. You can.

And I almost made it. I mean, I'm obviously still here, so I eventually survived. But I tried not to. I couldn't wait.

Sometimes, when you get to the lowest low point, when you are in all-encompassing agony, when your circumstances leave no room for hope even though you desperately want to live -- and I do, I so want to live -- no show, no fandom, no unfinished story can keep you from taking that step over the edge. Many times it can, but there are places where nothing has any meaning. Thursday night became one of those. Watching the finale was a faded notion in the background of all that agony, and then it was nothing at all.

I only managed to write one goodbye letter. Hard to be as organized as you imagined you would be, hard not to leave unforgivable loose ends. I have no memory of what the letter said, and I can't look at it, not yet. It's tucked away now, just out of view.

And then I went about doing the only thing that I felt could be done.

I didn't get to go away. Both because I couldn't stand the torment of the only method I had handy, though I sure gave it my best efforts -- two more minutes would have sealed the deal -- and because I was fucking afraid to die. All the way through, until I gave up and stopped what I was doing.

Fear of dying when you're your own executioner is an odd thing. Your body wants out of this plan you've made for you both. It responds like you'd expect when someone's life in under threat. It makes you have to run to the bathroom over and over, it makes your heart hammer in your chest and your ears ring.

There was no crying. Not at that point. I don't think there was crying when I gave up and accepted that I was staying alive, either. But I can't remember.

I don't know what I did during the few hours after that. The physical consequences of what I did were gone within half an hour or so -- being so ill, I knew not to try something that would land me in the ER during COVID, should I not complete the plan. I'd also be on my own there, and most likely dissociated to such a degree that I wouldn't be able to move or speak. That's not something I ever wanted to experience again, and a fucking horrible starting point if I survived.

Anyway, I was okay physically soon enough, which is not how it usually goes. I just remember being fuzzy and distant and alone. There was no one to call, and I also thought about how it would feel to get a call like that. I considered a crisis hotline, but didn't have the energy to explain my messy, complicated circumstances. I probably just lay there.

A few hours later, I was present enough to watch the finale. Still don't know how. Dissociation has it occasional advantages, one of which is being disconnected from certain things when it's all too much. And so I watched the final episode in bed, with the aftermath of that suicide attempt still all around me.

I watched Dean die the way he did. I watched Sam die. I watched them both being given the pained, tearful reassurance that it was okay to go. Watched them being held, watched those two strong, kindhearted, emotional, loyal men crying as they breathed their last. Dean's death, especially, broke my heart. He so clearly did not want to die. Was afraid, more than ever before.

I did cry then. I sobbed. I could cry for them. Hell, I could cry for that dog, wandering with Sam through the empty halls of the bunker. I cried as that dog looked up, with all that trust and love, at the only human he had left. I cried for Sam, sitting drained and aching in the dark library. Saying "I know, me too" on the unmade bed in Dean's cold, empty room.

Before that, back in the barn, I watched Dean not want to go. Sam begging him not to go, then forcing himself to tell his older brother what he needed, what he begged to hear. That he wasn't abandoning the one person he had spent his life looking out for. That Sam would survive him going, now that he had to go.

I never saved the world, and there's nothing heroic about me. But so much of what went on around those characters' deaths echoed what I had felt hours earlier, what I still was feeling. It gave me a safe way to cry for that, too.

I will always be grateful to the show for that small mercy. And grateful to Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki, whom I've never met and never will, and have given such phenomenal performances here that they reached through all that distance, to unknowingly touch an ache that I could not cry for. They'll never know that. I imagine there are so many people like me who feel the same gratefulness, too, for their own similar moments of human connection.

The show is over now, and I try not to be sad about that, and I'm sure I will be. It would be sadder if I didn't feel a loss. Meanwhile, life doesn't stall just because you tried to stop your own. It's around two weeks later now, bright and loud outside my window in a world that's not safe for me to go out in, and I am lying in bed in a half-lit room trying to manage my pain. I didn't die. I'm still here.

I can't pretend I'm glad that I am, but I also know that I'm not ready to go yet. I'm just not. I have no good reason for that; sometimes you're just too afraid to die. And so I can't see myself trying to go away again any time soon. My health might take care of that for me anyway, but otherwise, looks like I'm stuck on this ride.

I'm very grateful that I've had SPN and its people for so long through this battle, to give me and the rest of the fandom so much more than meets the eye. And I'm grateful for that last, good cry, too.

Well, not the last cry, for sure. There's always rewatch #475783. 

[sambergscott]

you’re a light in the dark

post-7x06 // Jake and Amy (and me) dealing. 

Her parents had eight kids. She has a million nieces and nephews and a million more cousins. Jake’s dad seemingly made babies in every major airline hub in North America. And yet, for some reason, this isn’t happening for them.

The first couple of months, they don’t think anything of it. Trying to make a baby is fun and magical and neither of them are gonna complain about having more sex.

She consults the baby binder a little more as time goes on and her period arrives on the twenty fifth of each month like clockwork. They throw out their favourite take out menus, start eating healthier and run together every morning before work.

They also buy a new couch and a family friendly mid-size sedan and the cutest baby Adidas Superstars she’s ever seen, because they’re convinced that they’ll be pregnant before they know it and Amy Santiago is nothing if not prepared.

They schedule sexy times and foreplay and fantasise about what their baby will be like in their post-sex haze.

When that doesn’t work, they try The Jake Way: a super sexy mission to rescue her husband from kidnappers ending in a super sexy Airbnb tryst.

Still, the pregnancy test comes back negative.

As the leaves turn from green to amber and the air cools, forcing Amy to get out their winter coats and turn their apartment heating up to high, she starts to worry. They’re doing everything right, they’re taking the vitamins, eating healthy, having sex all the time. There must be a reason why it isn’t working.

After watching an episode of Friends on their new couch -- The One With The Fertility Test -- she decides to book them a doctor’s appointment.

“As a precaution,” she tells her husband when he furrows his brow in concern.

“Uh, OK, yeah, sure,” he agrees, pausing the episode.

She phones the doctor, books the first available appointment (Monday at 2.15 pm) and adds it to their joint calendar. “Snuggle with me?” She asks once he has accepted her invite.

“C’mere.” He pulls her into his arms and holds her tight as she cries into his shirt.

They don’t watch any more Friends. It hurts too much, seeing her favourite fictional couple going through the same heartbreak as them. They don’t watch much TV at all, not even Die Hard. The trailer for the new Babies documentary starts playing as she flicks through Netflix one night while Jake is working late and she almost breaks the TV with the way she throws the remote across the room.

The doctor’s appointment rolls round and they’re both nervous as hell.

They booked the entire day off work as advised by the kind receptionist on the phone, who warned them that they would be extremely emotional both before and after. Booking the day off was an ordeal in itself when Terry wrongfully assumed they were getting a sonogram. There was a crushing feeling in Amy’s chest listening to her husband explain that no, they’re not pregnant, not yet.

Not yet.

They hold hands tightly as they wait for the doctor to call them in. Jake bounces his leg, Amy chews her lower lip, they both try not to cry when another couple walks in with a baby in one of those carriers that all the cool dads seem to wear. Jake’s been eyeing them up online for months. If John Legend can rock the baby carrier look, so can he.

“Why are they at the fertility clinic when they’ve already made one?” Amy mutters darkly.

The doctor says their names before Jake can respond.

He squeezes Amy’s hand as they follow the doctor to her room, a silent reminder that they’re in this together.

They have to explain the issue -- how long they’ve been trying, whether Amy has suffered any previous miscarriages, what their lifestyles are like. It’s a little embarrassing, going into the specifics of their sex life, but it’s all for a good cause. The best cause. Creating a new little life, a baby just like the dozens of pictures of success stories on the walls, Santiago-Peralta stylez.

“You’re doing everything I would usually recommend to my patients,” she says and despite herself, Amy’s lips twitch into a tiny smile. She knew her research was thorough. “Sometimes your body takes time to adjust to coming off birth control or reacts badly to stress. Sometimes it just takes a while and there’s no real reason why. We’ll take some samples from you both, but my advice is to just keep doing what you are.”

The tests come back negative, which should be good news, but it just sucks even more.

If there’s nothing wrong with them then why can’t they get pregnant?!

As they grapple with their situation, it seems like everyone around them is getting pregnant. Celebrities on Instagram. A couple of Amy’s uniformed officers. Santiago cousin after Santiago cousin. Hitchcock and that Russian chick with the missing tooth.

She tries to be happy for them, she really does, the façade crumbling as soon as she’s alone with Jake and sobbing into his shirt again.

They get hammered at Hitchcock’s wedding and attempt to have sex in the bathroom, alley and supply closet at work before giving up and just having sex in their own apartment, in their own bed. It’s not as crazy as Hitchcock’s story, but it’s still pretty hot and the sex is as stupid good as it’s always been.

She really thinks it’s worked this time. She’s got the sickness, the sore boobs, her period is late...

Jake runs to the store to get a new pregnancy test and a cute onesie he saw and just had to buy. They’re both positively vibrating as she chugs a litre of water, pees on the stick and sets the timer on her phone.

It’s second nature to them now, waiting for the test to say Pregnant.

Amy paces the width of the bathroom.

Jake twists his wedding ring on his finger.

They share apprehensive smiles.

When the timer finally goes off, Amy picks up the test, feeling hopeful for the first time in months.

Her face falls. “Negative.”

“We’ll try again next month,” he promises as she throws it into the trash. She is so sick of hearing next month, next month, next month. She wants a baby now.

Which is why the decision to stop trying is so painful.

She doesn’t want to stop. All she wants is to see Jake holding a baby -- their baby. But nothing is working and the last six months have been so difficult, a literal rollercoaster of excitement, disappointment, excitement, disappointment. And Amy has never liked rollercoasters.

She feels guilty, like it’s her fault they haven’t got pregnant yet, like she’s just bad at making babies. She confides in Rosa about it and she knows Jake talks to Charles, their friends both coming to the conclusion that as much as they want this for them too (and Charles really, really does), they’re clearly exhausted and sad and stressed and maybe taking a break would be a good thing.

So she tells Jake she’s done trying.

It’s hard enough to walk away from him, from their dream of having a family, and even harder to go to Hitchcock’s party and pretend like everything’s fine when it’s not fine. Everything is garbage, just like Holt said at Captain Dozerman’s funeral.

But then Jake joins her at the bar with a slice of cake with a heart on top and is all sweet and understanding and the best husband she could have possibly asked for. He tells her that they’re already a family and whether the universe wants them to be just a two or a whole squad of Peraltas, he’ll be happy either way.

“I love you,” she says after he finishes his speech.

“I love you,” he responds.

They lean in for a kiss. It starts off sweet, gentle, heating up when she realises just how much she’s missed this, kissing him without the constant pressure of needing to conceive. It feels nice.

“Should we go?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, without question.

They use their final pregnancy test a couple of weeks later. It’s still negative, but it doesn’t feel like the end of the world anymore. They’ve taken down the command center, getting their living room back, their morning and evening routines are so much shorter now they’re not taking all the vitamins and sex is considerably more enjoyable. Sure, they still want kids one day -- they both smile wistfully every time they pass a stroller in the street and volunteer for regular babysitting duties -- and when the universe finally grants them a beautiful baby of their own, they will no doubt be the happiest parents this side of the East River, but for right now they’re OK, just the two of them, their little family, their own slice of perfection.

[transcendentalmaggot]

I’ve been taking a medication for years to prevent further damage to my kidneys from my birth defect and despite having over a decade of records demonstrating that the cheaper alternatives have caused a laundry list of side effects and are far less effective my insurance company is refusing to cover it until I try the 5 cheaper medications.. again. I’ve cycled through to the 3rd in a matter of weeks because of how awful they made me feel and they’re still insisting I try the remaining two with a generic available before they’ll cover it. My doctor wrote a letter stipulating that Mybetriq is the only thing that alleviates the pressure and damage from the reflux along with years of medical records documenting the side effects of the cheaper drugs and they still won’t budge. The price difference between these last few and the medication that works is about $100 a month. I may end up having to mail order the correct medication from Canada at a cost of $350 for three months worth while I fight them on this. That’s money I don’t have but it’s better than the retail price of $1,500 for three months in the U.S. with no generic available due to patent protection. Why, oh why, would I go through this stressful process over and over again if I didn’t need the medication? The only thing this process accomplishes is to delay medically necessary care leading to preventable damage to my kidneys all so that the insurance company can save a month’s worth of paying for it in the hopes that the stress of being sick leads me to fuck up a step in this bureaucratic nightmare or I simply resign myself to how utterly despondent reality is making me feel right now and give up on trying to scrape together some quality of life from the parts I can actually control.

I find myself utterly baffled by anyone who can defend the health insurance industry. Cigna is close to supplanting Oxford as the absolute bottom of the barrel in an industry built on the ol’ American past time of never missing an opportunity to exploit people’s pain and suffering. I’m finding it harder and harder to keep myself motivated to continue fighting for scraps that make my life marginally more bearable. I’m exhausted in every way conceivable. That’s really it, I feel as if the fight has slowly been beaten out of me in this game of attrition - I’m throwing money I don’t have at a problem that can’t be fixed in a system that would much rather have me crawl away and quietly die, preferably in a way where they can write me off as someone who brought this on myself or made a mistake along the way that justifies any of this treatment (or lack thereof). I’m hoping once open enrollment starts I’ll be able to switch to something better but I know that’s unlikely - at best I’ll find something more affordable that will end up refusing to cover anything, force me to find new, in-network providers, and fight me tooth and nail for life-sustaining care. I’m sorry if I’m not making sense, I’ve gone from feeling terrible to discovering new depths to how badly I can feel and I’m burnt out with all of it from lack of sleep and the constant static of pain interrupting my every waking thought. So my best bet is to the hope I get to (probably) have this same fight with a different company in a couple month’s time. I’m so god damn tired.

[kattegat-kittycat]

Fates Entwined: Part II, Chapter 1: The Trickster God

A/N: So, let’s kick off the second part of this beast. The story so far and a short synopsis are over here.

This story really keeps going around and around in my head and well, we’re going dark in the second part.

Winter comes

Leaves fall on frozen grounds True love lasts forever I imagine you in a thousand glimpses Moonlight you keep me safe at night And I know you're here if I fall

[…]

Leaves' Eyes Children grow up Parents grow old Man's wives become mothers to sons Sunna hides Mani glows Stars are watching over us

(Leaves Eyes - Leaves Eyes)

I slowly saw the town of Bork appear across the fjord and I knew they had long since seen my small boat across the water. As the edges of the buildings became sharper and I started to make out single people at the harbour, I could see Ragnheiđur’s tall frame awaiting me at the jetty. As soon as my ship was tethered to it and I had got off, she threw her arms around me.

“It is so good to see you again, my friend!” she then said and held me at arms length to look at me. “How did it go? Did the men sail off alright?”

I gave a surprised laugh. “Yes, everything went off without a hitch. I believe the Gods favour their mission and they may return with great riches. Lagertha sends her greetings and she is happy to see how great of a help you have been. But what about you? Howcome you are here and not in Ripa?”

Her easy smile faded and gave way to a frown. Then she looked to the ground.

“There were some unforseen circumstances here in Bork. The council is taking care of matters in Ripa, but everything is well there.”

When she saw my face, she shook her head. “Don’t worry, everything is going well again. It is just… Birger’s leg started giving him pain, as he tried his best to be a good leader and example and strained it too much. It got infected and he did not tell anybody, until he one day sent a messenger to me. He did not want the other Earls to know, he was weak, but somehow he trusted me enough. And, here is what is really odd; do you remember the tincture, you gave me? It saved him. I don’t know how she knew, but we owe her his life.”

I sighed and shook my head. “And I’ve only been back for five minutes. Is he awake?”

“Yes, it’s been quite the week”, she laughed easily, “I only figured you would want to hear it from me, so I waited for you to get back.” She fell in step with me as I made my way through the town towards the chieftain’s house. 

As I entered the house, I could see Birger sitting up in bed, nursing the stump that had once been his leg. I started to wonder if Ivar might come home severely injured, but pushed that thought away. He was on his chariot, far away from the actual battlefield. At least that was what I hoped, but knowing my hotspurr of a husband… it was maybe too much to hope for. I closed my eyes and felt for him, but all I could sense was the constant background thrumming of pain he had gotten so used to and the anger that propelled him forward. So, everything seemed in order, until…

“caught you” I heard him whisper. I took a surprised breath, which made him chuckle. “what are you doing here?” he asked. Not angry, just curious.

“just…looking.”

“I am awake, are you awake?” he asked.

“yes.”

“so, how does this work?”

I shrugged. “only the Gods would know.”

“are you safe?”

“I am, are you?”

“for now. It is a war, after all”

“right”

“right”

I took a deep breath, but he was gone. I felt drained, exhausted and when I looked up, I saw Birger staring at me.

“You did not have eyes that blue when you were last here…” he said and Ragnheiđur turned around to look at me. She startled and took a step back. But after a split second, she shook her head.

“It must be a reflection of the light.” She said, her voice quivering slightly and making it unconvincing.

I frowned. This was confusing. Birger had hastily started to cover up the remains of his leg, as Ragnheiđur drew closer. Then he smiled at her.

“You are back already. Did she tell you, how she saved my life?” He asked me, without looking at me.

I gave a nod. “She did. I hope you are better now.”

Now his eyes did dart to me, as I stood in the corner by the fire place to warm my hands.

“Yes. Yes, thanks to her swift aid. But I owe you a life debt now. And I am not quite sure, how to repay that.”

I turned to look at him for a long time, then shook my head. “No, you owe her a life debt. It is between the two of you to decide what to make of that. I merely gave her permission to look after you and your earldom.”

“I hear, you gave her the medicine she used as well.” He replied.

Again, I shook my head. “I was just the messenger. She was given that by a woman who probably had her reasons.”

Birger looked at me and gave a laugh. “If you say so, then we have to find a way to figure this out between the two of us.” He again smiled at Ragnheiđur. Then he looked back at me. “But maybe we could think about an alliance between our two cities.”

I tried to smile, but it became a grimace. “And here I thought we had already established that. Politics are a funny thing.”

Birger looked confused, but Ragnheiđur laughed. “She is just being difficult. Of course we will support you and hope that this same support will be extended from your people as well.” Her eyes lingered on the blond man for a moment, before she looked at me.

“When do you want to leave for Ripa?” she asked.

“If I could rest here tonight, I would want to put it off until tomorrow. It has been a long journey here.”

Birger smiled and nodded. “Of course, yes, be our guest and make yourself at home. The two of you are always welcome here.”

I looked at Ragnheiđur. “Even if I am leaving for Ripa in the morning, I do not wish to speak for you. Do you think you will be coming with me tomorrow, or do you believe that the situation here still needs your attention?”

The two of them exchanged looks and I had to smile. “After all, we want to make sure that Birger’s physical and mental well-being is looked after properly.”

Now I saw Ragnheiđur turn red. Saving someone’s life could be an intense experience. And if they were as handsome as the son of the Earl of Bork…

Birger wanted to open his mouth to say something, but I raised my hand and shook my head.

“I am not judging and I am not telling you what to do. Actually, I am quite happy that this turned out well, you are alive and we have this bond between our towns.”

Both of them relaxed and Ragnheiđur sat down on the bed beside Birger.

“I might stay behind a couple of days. But I will be there before the end of the week.”

I gave a nod and smiled. “Then let it be this way. You know, Ragnheiđur, the Hviding estate lies just on the borders of our two earldoms.”

She looked up to me with wide eyes. “You would…”

“I told you before that I would. But we have to wait for Birger’s father to come back to make a clear decision on that.”

I sat down across from them and sighed. “So, that has been enough official talk for one evening, hasn’t it?”

Birger gave a laugh and and a couple of minutes later, we were served a small dinner and started talking about Kattegat and its weird customs.

 *

 Ivar heard a commotion outside and rolled his eyes. What could be going on again? He gave a deep sigh, sat up in his bed and just as he wanted to heave his legs over the side of the bed, he saw a small boy standing at the end of his bed. The boy looked like him, with the slight exception that he had amber eyes instead of the same blue ones he had. Ivar frowned.

“How did you get in here?” he asked, his voice rough. He turned around to look for his shirt, only to hear a childish giggle and when he turned around, the boy was gone. He shook his head.How did a boy get into a military camp? Then he thought it was probably the dream he had had following him into the light of the day. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, then gave a sigh.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of the battle ahead, no, he anticipated it with a grim glee, but he was kind of nervous. With their father and their mother gone, Björn not even being his full brother, he had started to think about the future. What bond did they have after they avenged their father’s death? Why would his brothers be willing to follow him further into battle? Because he had plans beyond their meager ambitions. They had already assembled an army in the heartland of the enemy so why not make use of that? But none of the others was able to see what he saw. The only one who had probably known of his ambition was his wife, far away, probably already back in her little merchant town.

He remembered the day, he had first laid eyes upon her and her wild spirit. Even through the exhaustion and grime, he had been able to see it. He had seen her fight with a determination that rivalled his on and he had known that she was for him. The Gods had made her for him. He was still sure of that, in spite of everything that had happened. Maybe even more so now than before.

But then again, she was his equal. Should she ever decide to go up against him, he knew it would be war. And he knew that Lagertha had made it a point to ensure her support and loyalty. To this day, his oversight of that made him angrier than anything else. The one thing he had failed to see and then the spider found a way in to weave her net. Clenching his teeth, he looked into the air and shot the world a dirty look. He would be fighting tooth and nail for everything that belonged to him, even if it meant fighting dirty. But first, they had to avenge his father.

 *

 It took a few days for me to get used to living in my quiet home town again, but when Ragnheiđur returned from Bork, life started to go its old and quiet ways. One evening as I was sitting by the fire, I felt like something heavy had been lifted from my chest an relief washed over me. I looked around to pinpoint the feeling, but then again, I almost immediately knew, what it was.

“so you won the battle”

“so your friend found a suitor.”

“you captured Aelle”

“he’s a cripple as well.”

“you will kill him tomorrow?”

“at the site of father’s murder, yes.”

“good.”

“does that make you feel better? That he is a cripple too?”

“no, I am happy that he is a good man.”

“am I a good man?”

“when you choose to be”

There was silence for a while. Then:

“it might take a while for me to become a good man.”

“I know.”

We both stayed there in silence for a moment, before the connection fizzled out and the door to my house opened. Ragnheiđur came in quietly, sat down at the fire and looked at me.

“Are you still thinking about when would be the best time to go see the völva?”, she asked, but it didn’t sound like a question. “With your eyes as blue as his, I can tell you, sooner would be better than later. He visited again, didn’t he?”

I sighed. “Do you know me that well by now?”

Ragnheiđur made a face. “Well, it’s easy to see. Y/N, you can leave your people in my hands for the time you will be away. You know I will take care of them. And most of the harvest has been secured and we are ready for the winter.”

“I know, I know. There’s just… I don’t know. Something feels off.” I shook my head as I stared into the fire.

Ragnheiđur’s eyes followed my restless fingers and she shook her head. “I believe you might be putting it off, because you like having these glimpses into Ivar’s fate.”

I looked back at her. “Can you blame me?”

She shook her head and raised her hands soothingly. “No, it is just, maybe you will know even better how to tune in into his life when you know how the bond works?”

I swallowed. “Yeah, I will… let’s see, maybe tomorrow is the day.”

A knock on the door startled the both of us. We looked at each other, then to the door. Ragnheiđur got up, as the door opened and we saw a hunched figure in front of it. I got to my feet and recognised Yrsa, whom I beckoned inside almost instantly.

She stared at me with tired eyes.

“What have you done?” she asked me in a grave voice.

I looked at her confused. “I…I don’t know what you are talking about.” I answered truthfully. She took in my face, then her eyes wandered to my belly.

“No, you wouldn’t know yet. But he is already starting to make his presence known.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked her exhasperatedly and Ragnheiđur rose from her chair, hand at the hilt of her sword.

“Your son!”

I stared at her in disbelief. “My what? I don’t…no!”

But Yrsa shook her head. “He is here and he is loud and even your husband has already seen him. We need to stop this. You need to get this under control. Ivar the Boneless cannot know that he has a son. Not before it is time.”

“And how do we know the time has come?” I asked her. I didn’t know where to even start to protest or accept or question.

“The Gods will let you know. But now is not the time. There are things your husband has to do first.”

“I didn’t even know I was with child.”

She looked at me, eyes gentle again. “I know. Even though I don’t know how you did this. The two of you. Against the Gods.”

“Against the…?”

“Yes, he is not boneless without reason. This was not supposed to happen.Not like this. Not now.”

Ragnheiđur’s eyes narrowed and scanned the völva. “And what makes you such an expert on the topic? Last time we asked, you couldn’t tell us much.” She asked protectively.

Yrsa looked from me to her and back. Then to the table.

“Could I sit down first? It was a long journey from the swamps to the town.”

We exchanged looks and I stepped aside to let the old woman through to the table. Gratefully, she accepted the invite and ungracefully plunked down on one of the benches by the table.

“Ever since Y/N left me, I have been trying to bring some sense to this mess. I tried talking to the Gods and invoked visions, but it took me a while. The Gods did not wish to reveal their ways to me. Until roughly two weeks ago, when…your son was conceived.” She looked at me again, trying to see signs of the pregnancy, but after two weeks, there was nothing to be seen or felt or sensed.

“We don’t know what happened either. Neither of us was able to explain it afterwards, it just happened. Ivar got mad for one reason or another and I got angry at him and next thing we knew…”

She looked at me with eyes wide awake with wonder. “Of course. Loki. He is the one who started this mess. He thought it funny to interfere with the God’s plans. Loki has been having an eye on you, ever since you lost your family. For some reason, the trickster took a liking to you and started upsetting the plans the Gods had for you. Had for your husband. He created your bond. He whispered into Aslaug’s ear to safe her son and link your lives. You were supposed to die when you last came to Ripa. Your death would have thrown Ivar into a blind rage, having lost everything he held dear. But with the bond created, the Gods were unable to kill you after your wedding, because they would have had to put down their feral wolf that is supposed to conquer York.”

“What does that mean for me?” I asked with a small voice.

“All bets are off. Your life, your unborn son, it all defies the Gods’ will and you only have Loki on your side. Freya might also hold her hands over you, because the wedding made you one of us, but that bond is fragile and we need to strengthen it. But to regain the favour of the other Gods, we need to make sure Ivar fulfills his destiny. You have to feed his anger and nourish his rage. He cannot know of his son, before his journey has come to its end.”

Ragnheiđur looked at her. “But Loki does not safe people like us, Loki does not care for mere mortals.”

“Yes, but Loki recognised her stubborn heart as his own. And he felt like a heart as strong-willed as this deserved another chance.” Yrsa looked at me almost proudly.

My friend still eyed the völva with a certain scepticism. Then she looked at me. “How can you stay so calm? How can you not question what she is telling you?”

I looked out the window. “So, this is why Ivar and I share a life? We are sharing... Ivar’s life?”

Yrsa gave a nod. “Which is why the bond has been growing so much stronger when you were struck by that arrow at the battle for Ripa. That arrow was supposed to kill you. That arrow made you share Ivar’s life.”

I started to pace around the room. The only thing that kept the Gods from killing me was my husbands life and fate. I had to… I…What did I have to do?

“Why are you here, Yrsa?”

“To teach you how to communicate with the spirit world. How to hide your mind from Ivar. And how to keep him from knowing that he has a son.”

I looked at Ragnheiđur. “You and Birger like each other, don’t you?”

She turned red, but a smile broke through the distress painted on her face. “Yes.”

“Have you…did you…I can’t possibly…” I stuttered.

Yrsa smiled. “You have to.”

“Have you considered marrying him?” I asked directly.

Ragnheiđur did not seem surprised by the question. “The question has come up.”

“And…should you two get married, would you consider hiding my son by passing him off as your own?”

Ragnheiđur smiled gently. “He would have the best childhood I could offer him.”

I looked at Yrsa. “So what do we do now?”

“We go to sleep. It has been a long day and even longer ones lie ahead. There is a lot you need to learn.”

I thought of Floki. “Hugsi is a good name.” I whispered. And not for the first time, I found myself questioning just how much the simple boat builder had to do with the Trickster God.

A/N / Random Addendum:

Just in case anybody might be interested in it, whenever I imagine Birger, I imagine him looking a lot like Daniel Sharman (latest role the Weeping Monk in Cursed). So, well, I am very fond and protective of him. That’s just a tiny, slightly embarrassing detail about me. :D

Also, there will be more Ivar in the next installments, I just had to set this up, so his and her actions make sense.

Once again, thanks to the people who asked to be tagged: @youbloodymadgenius @xnnskwjeheb2j @blonddnamedhandz  

[coffeecomicsgalore]

Unveiled Love

@smutember

Ao3

Chapter 7 – Sweat Treats

Adrien glanced at his silver watch as soon as he finished setting the table. The table looked close to perfect; the only thing left to do was light the candles and set the serving dish on the table. He twisted the basket of bread rolls that he picked up from Tom and Sabine’s bakery on his way home and adjusted it until it sat perfectly beside the vase of pink peonies and roses that he ordered after the bakery trip. He then went to the stove to check if the cheese had bubbled to perfection.

He paced the floor back to the table and sorted the bread rolls around until they looked decent in the basket, then he checked his watch again for the time.

Marinette would be back to his apartment soon. It was her long day of classes, and with two tests in both of her least favorite subjects, she needed a little pick me up. Of course, this had nothing to do with the sudden news he needed to share with her that would definitely put a damper to her mood. But he did notice during an earlier conversation between classes that there was exhaustion in her voice so he decided to treat her to dinner that evening. But a nice dinner and flowers would definitely help lessen the blow to the surprise at hand.

“Stop stressing.” Plagg chided as he watched his chosen fix the flowers in the vase. “She’s going to be okay. It’s not like this is the first time you would be gone and leave her to fend the akumas on her own.”

“I know. But she’s been stressed out over her commissions and these tests and now I have to leave for two weeks? Finally getting into a relationship over the last month means that we’ve seen each other almost every day. Being without her for two weeks is going to be torture.”

“Maybe for you. Kittens always need constant attention.”

Adrien glared at the god. “Well you don’t.”

“I’m a god and I’ve been around for eons. I’ve learned to not need the constant attention. I only need attention when I want cheese.”

Adrien was about to retort when he heard the knock on the door. Marinette, he breathed as he crossed the living room as quickly as he could. Opening the door, he noticed her disheveled form and a tired smile on her face.

“Kitty.” She called to him softly and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, lifting her up into a spinning hug before placing her back down to the floor and placing a loving kiss onto her lips. “Someone missed me.” She let out as soon as they parted to breathe.

“More than you know.” He smiled, escorting her in and closing the door behind him.  

Marinette placed her bag onto the table in the kitchen and took in the aroma. “Is that...mmm... tartiflette?”

“Yes...” He dragged out with a smile.

“And are those my favorite flowers?”

“Yup!” Adrien grinned as he watched the smile take over her face.

“And is that my favorite wine?”

“Uh huh!” He added with an exaggerated nod.

“So, what did you do?” She asked him playfully. “You didn’t get fired, did you?”

“What? No.” He scrunched up his nose and she giggled. “It’s kind of hard when you’re the up and coming CEO of the brand of your namesake.”

“I guess.” She walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, placing another kiss to his lips. She hummed at the softness. “Then what’s the special occasion?”

“Can’t this cat treat his absolutely gorgeous girlfriend to her favorite homemade meal?

“Well, yes.”

“Then why don’t you relax and enjoy this time for you.”

Marinette gave him a loving smile before reaching up onto her toes to place another long kiss to his lips. “You are seriously the best boyfriend ever. You know that?”

He placed one more kiss to her lips and pulled back. “I hope that I am. But you’re the best girlfriend ever.”

“Dork.”

“Your dork.”

Marinette finally pulled herself away and sat in her seat as Adrien pulled the hot serving dish from the oven. She lit the candles and he placed the meal on the hot plate on the table. She moved the bread basket to the side to make room, and then grabbed the spatula to help serve the food onto the plates. Adrien uncorked the bottle of wine and poured the sweet, red drink into the stemless glasses and popped the cork back on before setting it down on the table.

They ate with comfortable conversations between them. Marinette conversed about the day she had along with a new commission she received in between classes, and Adrien talked about the long meeting he had with the designers of the new line.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come work for Gabriel?” Adrien tilted his head with a sincere smile. “You would be perfect for the couture line. You know that.”

“I know, but don’t you think it would look a lot like favoritism if the CEO hired a designer for a position in his office?”  

Adrien pursed his lips. “Stupid rules.”

“Plus, if I pull my weight around and moved up, they are going to think that I slept with the boss to move up the corporate ladder.”

“Well, technically you are sleeping with me.” He added with a smoldering gaze that made the arousal pool between her thighs.

“Not the point, Adrien.” She chuckled and took in another bite of her food to try and hold off the horniness a little bit longer. “It’s okay. My commissions are coming in and keeping me busy. My rent is low enough that I can sock away money to open up my own store in the next few years. I’ll be graduating with my business degree soon and I’ll be able to focus solely on the commissions and creating my first line to launch. I’m perfectly happy where I am.”

Adrien grabbed her hand and lifted it to his lips. He placed a kiss to her knuckles and then to her open palm, before placing one more kiss to her wrist and giving her a sweet smile. As soon as she shot him a smile back, he sighed, dropping his smile to a frown. Marinette noticed his change immediately and furrowed her brows in concern.

“Hey. What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I have to go to Milan for two weeks,” Marinette placed her hand to his cheek and he placed his hand over hers, “and I have to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

Her expression turned to a pained smile. “Hey. It’s okay.”

“I didn’t know about the trip until today. Father needs me to handle a turnover situation and I need to go there physically to settle the issue. Nothing we’ve tried doing remotely has been helping. He thinks having the presence of an Agreste will whip them into shape.”

“It sucks, but I understand.”

“I wish you could come with me.” He straightened up and his expression changed. “Actually, why don’t you? Come with me.”

“Adrien. You know I can’t. I have school and commission deadlines. Plus, I need to take care of the akumas while you’re away. I wish I could. I would be there in a heartbeat if I could.”

Adrien pursed his lips. “I know. I was just hopeful for a second.”

“I know, love. I know.”

“Who are you going to have stand in for me?” He knew the answer. It was always the same ones that would take his spot each time he had to go away for his civilian duties.

“I’ll bring in Carapace and Rena Rouge definitely. For the more intense ones, I’ll bring in Ryukko and Viperion.”

“That’s good that they’ll be there help you out.”

“But they aren’t you.”

They stared at each other for a moment before going back to their meals. There was an uncomfortable silence between them and Adrien took that moment to grab the small box he was hiding from under the napkin beside him.

“Here. Something to help remember me while I'm gone.” He added with a smirk.

Marinette noticed the way his eyes creased with his smile and knew he was up to no good. “Adrien... What is this?”

“Open it.”

Marinette grabbed the box and slowly untied the around the wrapping paper. The green ribbon shimmered in the candlelight, and she decided to unwrap the rest of the gift with vigor. She opened the box slightly and she furrowed her brows in confusion, looking at him for an explanation.

“A vibrator.” He said as if the gift was the most obvious thing in the world.

She pulled the little black bullet from the box and held it up by its string. “I have like five.”

Adrien choked on his wine and laughed. “This one, my dear bug, is different.” He held out his hand and Marinette handed him the toy. He pushed a button to turn it on and handed it back to her. He then pulled out his phone and opened up an app. A few seconds later, she felt the bullet vibrate in her hands and her eyes widened. “I control the settings.”

Adrien shut the vibrator off through the app and Marinette pressed the button before placing it back into the box on the table. Her eyes shifted to his and her gaze was nothing but trouble.

“You know,” Marinette started, placing her fork onto her plate. “I’m still a little hungry.”

“Are you looking for a sweet treat to finish the night?”

“Maybe. Depends? What’s for dessert?”

He licked his lips and she bit down on hers making him growl in return.

“You.”

“That may satisfy you, but I need something to satisfy my sweet tooth.”

“Hmm.” Adrien said, tapping his index finger to his chin. He got up and walked to the fridge, pulling out a can of whip cream and a jar of cherries. Moving over to the cabinet, he pulled out a jar of hazelnut spread. “How is this for a sweet treat?”

“I think that sounds absolutely delicious.”

“Then may I suggest bringing this to the bedroom?”

Her eyes twinkled with mirth as she blew out the candles and made their way to his bedroom. Adrien tossed the treats onto the bed and pulled her into a passionate kiss, caressing her back as she moaned in delight. Her hands trailed up to his scalp as she teased the nape of his neck, and she gasped as his tongue ran against her bottom lip. Parting her lips, his tongue darted in, teasing the tip of her tongue with his.

Marinette’s fingers trailed over his shoulders until her hands splayed across his toned chest. Adrien wrapped his arms around her waist, then darting one hand over the swell of her ass.

She pulled back then slowly pecked against his lips, her eyes darkened with lust as she waited for him to strike first. He smiled in response, lifting her up bridal style and unceremoniously dropping her onto the bed, prompting a squeal in response.

Adrien chuckled as she stretched along the bed, then motioned him over to her with her fingers. He crawled onto the bed, hovering over her with desire in his eyes. He leaned down, kissed her lips, as his hand roamed her side. He brought his hand to her breast, caressing the muscle with his palm.

Marinette hummed in his mouth as he pushed her top down and under her breast, kneading the mound with the tips of his fingers. He then ran his thumb over the nipple, pebbling the nub with a swirling motion. She arched her back once he pinched the nub with his thumb and index finger, letting go of his lips as she gasped at the touch.

Adrien took the opportunity to place his mouth over the bud, enveloping his mouth around the peak. His tongue swirled around the nipple and then suckled it, enjoying the mewls spewing from her lips in response. He let go of the peaked nipple with a wet pop and moved over to the other to do the same.  

Marinette ran her fingers through his hair as he worshiped her body. He slid her dress off her form, before Adrien kissed her warm body. She grabbed the hem of his shirt, then slowly pulled it off his body, placing a sweet kiss to his lips in return.  

She flipped him over onto his back as she straddled his hips. She leaned down and kissed his lips then trailed the kisses down his neck.

Marinette pulled back and showcased the can in her hand, surprising him with her treat.

“I’m going to eat my dessert first.” She purred.

“Ladies first,” Adrien responded and she captured his lips in a declaration of thanks.

Marinette let go of his lips and shook the can, extracting the cream into a line down his torso. Adrien shivered at the cold contact, then shuttered as she slowly licked up his body.

“Mmm.” She hummed between licks. “Delicious.” Adrien arched his back, allowing her access to his neck, and Marinette did not disappoint in return. Suckling his pulse point, Adrien’s arousal twitched within his pants and he grabbed onto Marinette’s waist as he bucked his hips.

As soon as Adrien was sure Marinette was finished licking him clean, Adrien flipped Marinette over and hovered over her, peeling her panties off of her in haste. She giggled in response, waiting to see what he would do to her. He picked up the jar of hazelnut, opening it and fingering a large glob into his fingertips. He smirked as he lifted his brow, and Marinette eyed him with a questionable look.

“Adrien....” She drawled out, unsure of what he was going to do.  

Adrien then smeared the hazelnut onto her nipples, then down her torso, until it reached the patch of skin on her pelvis. He leaned back on his haunches as he grabbed the whip cream, releasing some of the cream onto her nipples, her belly button, and back on her pelvis.

“Hungry boy.” Marinette cooed.

Picking up the jar of cherries, Adrien opened it up and placed a cherry on each of her breasts.

“You have no idea, milady.”

Adrien dived in to her pelvis first. Swirling his tongue around the tiny mound of cream, he could hear Marinette moan as he licked it completely clean. He then brought his tongue upwards, following the trail of hazelnut until he reached her breasts.  

He followed the same pattern as he did on her pelvis, swirling his tongue around the mound until he reached the cherry. He then went to the other breast and did the same, leaving the cherry on top of the small dollop of cream. Adrien then grabbed the cherry by the stem with his teeth, hovering over her mouth as he dropped the cherry into were parted lips.  

Marinette licked her lips and took the treat with a gleam in her eye, moaning as she popped the stem off the cherry, and eating the sweet fruit with a bit of sass.

Adrien licked the nipple clean, prompting a sultry moan out of her mouth. He peered through his lashes as her lips twisted in delight from the delicious ministrations of his tongue. Seeing her satisfied look helped him move over to the other mound, picking up the treat with his fingers and popping the cherry into his mouth. He moaned in delight before wrapping his mouth around her nipple, licking the peaked nipple as he suckled it clean.

Marinette arched her back as she carded her fingers in his hair, and he hungrily dove into her lips as he finished cleaning her body. Grinding against her core, Adrien removed his lips from hers, hovering over the shell of her ear as he whispered.

“How about I fuck you in the shower as I clean you off?”

Marinette hummed as he lifted her up and carried her naked body over his shoulder. He turned on the water and felt it until it was warm, then he quickly pulled off his pants without removing her from his shoulder. She wiggled to get down, but he smacked her ass, causing her to moan in delight.

He finally popped into the shower with her and placed her down, turning her around until her back faced him. He leaned her forward and used his foot to part her legs, and she placed her hands on the cold tile to steady her balance.

He grabbed his hard cock and lined it up to her core, slowly thrusting into her entrance in one quick motion. Marinette moaned as she felt herself become filled with his swollen cock, and she automatically parted her legs further to help him thrust deeper into her.

“Fuck. You’re delicious, milady. Your pussy is so good.”

“Adrien. Shit. So- good.” She said between thrusts.

He lifted her up slightly and squeezed her breast, rubbing the nub between his fingertips. He nibbled on her ear as he grinded against her ass, taking a break from the thrusting to situate his cock in her pussy. He then slowly brought his hand down over her stomach, finally reaching her clit.

Thrusting back into her, he started to rub her clit, working in perfect harmony as her mewls became louder. With every thrust, he could feel the walls clench around his cock, and he knew she was close.

Marinette mewled as she felt the coil begin to tense, and she started riding against his cock to help aid in her orgasm. Adrien stilled her hips and brought his to her ear, nibbling on it as he increased his thrusts and ministrations.

“I’m so close.” She panted as her body heat intensified. She knew he was close too with how erratic his thrusts were becoming and she couldn’t wait to feel his streams.

“Me too baby girl. Me too.” He confirmed, bringing both hands his hips as he thrusted harder and faster into her.

At the same time, their orgasms fell over the edge and they both moaned out in ecstasy. Adrien thrusted until she came down from her high, then slowly pulled out when he was finished with his.

Marinette turned herself around before wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him down to a kiss.

“Mmm.” She moaned against his lips, feeling delightfully calm now that the tension of the day had gone down the drain. “Good?”

“So good. He responded, sleepily. He grabbed the loofa and body wash. “Let me wash you and then we can head to bed.”

She placed a sweet kiss onto his lips and turned herself around, letting him take care of her.

“I love that idea.”

[izzyovercoffee]

Thinking about it more though... what would that have actually looked like? For the Nulls to meet a ghost of Kal’s sordid past, a memory he worked hard to outrun only for her to haunt his present, alive and well? Fulfilled in a life worth living without him beside her? How would the Nulls have reacted to meeting Ilippi Skirata Jiro?

In an ideal world, in an actual scene or situation where they would’ve encountered each other, I wonder if Ilippi would have seen the wear under Ordo’s eyes---from exhaustion, from stress, from managing too much on too little---and seen a reflection of her younger self. Would the hurt and the isolation of her younger years speak to the same struggles that Ordo feels in his constant and endless management of Kal’s movements in and around his brothers? Could she have reached him in a way Kal couldn’t, and ease his anxiety, or soothe the weeping wound that whispered he would never be good enough, that somehow Kal will soon one day see it like Ordo knows it, buried under the formless anger and defiance of a child carted to the flames? 

Ilippi could not know where that insecurity stems from, but she would understand why it continues to live.

I wonder if Ilippi could have seen the very same charm in Mereel that was what drew her to Kal in the first place, and yet also see the sharpened edge hidden beneath it. To see the invisible rope pulled taut around his throat as time threatened to run out before he could finish out the path Kal put him on, if he could save his brothers before the war took him? Would she see right through the easy jokes and reflexive deflection and cut into the core of it all, and in doing so, untangle the noose of his desperation?

If she could outlive Kal’s expectations, and thrive beyond them, then so wouldn’t Mereel?

Would that Ilippi had lived and visited them during the war, what would she have shared with Prudii? Would she have bothered, would she have tried to correct him on that anger and that resentment he carried for Kal? How would that conversation have gone, when she instead reminded him he doesn’t need that added burden? He carries too much on his shoulders, as it is, and he’s long since passed his breaking point. 

Would she have told him of the bitter loneliness and the isolation she suffered as she struggled to raise her children alone---removed from all familial support and friendships broken by distance? Would she have related to him that bitter resentment and that biting loneliness that she undoubtedly sees in him---not the favorite son, not the oldest, and forbidden from ever making meaningful connections because his “job” demands it of him? How terrible it must be, that he can never stop moving, that he visits a different planet, a different system, a different sector, every week---and because of a demand of constant movement he never truly consented to, he’s condemned to a solitude he chafes under?

If Ilippi were to meet Jaing, would she flinch from his sharp-toothed grin and the violence he carries in his shoulders? Would she move away from the anger that fuels him, turn away from his attempt at charm---a facsimile, an echo of what his brother perfectly captures and what he can’t seem to emulate---or would she find that, in and of itself, charming? It is true that she once saw Kal’s dark sides and sharp edges attractive, alluring, charming---even if it lead her to emotional ruin and a heartbreak she never fully healed from. 

Older, and wiser now, she would see the hurt for what it was. She would see the knife behind his eyes and guide him to understanding that he doesn’t have to carry it in silence, that in silence that very blade cuts him deepest of all, and that she sees him for who he is as a whole, not for the parts that encompass the pain he’s done or that’s been done to him.

I like to imagine that Ilippi is charming, and that when she meets A’den---A’den who is deeply sociable, if bitingly sarcastic, and holds a humor as dry as sand---she would share with him the memories of Kal when he was young, and angry, and unfairly charming on the days when he was good? 

But A’den hates to be lied to, and I doubt Ilippi would have reason to lie, whether outright or by omission. Not all days were good, not all memories kind, and I wonder---would she have also shared with A’den the bad days, the days she could not bear, the days that mounted until they outnumbered the good and she realized to protect her children they would have to leave?

Worse, though---would A’den find someone in her that could see what he saw in Kal, that he dared not bring up nor say out loud, even when he worked to circumvent Kal at every turn? Would he realize, through brief connections and conversations, that no matter who Kal tied the metaphorical knot with, the brutal storm he carried unchanging within him would invariably hurt the people he’s closest to? Would he realize that no matter how hard he tried, finding someone to “take care of” Kal would inevitably lead to heartbreak?

And now, speaking of heartbreak, I wonder if through that thread, would Ilippi find a connection with Kom’rk? She chafed under isolation forced upon her when she agreed to marry Kal---but Kom’rk chose isolation, chooses it even still. Kom’rk has to be forced to return home, begged by his brothers and convinced to trade for something worthwhile, for something worth more than the cost of returning to the Core---and, by extension, Kal’s side. Is it a point of humor, even, or a sore point of pain that, when pressed, triggers laughter (or else it triggers tears), and in that connection understands why Kom’rk always chooses to stay far, far away?

Something relatable, in the pragmatism of it all---to avoid conflict entirely, too tired, or spent, or burned out, to face it with someone who would always remain a stone, for better or worse. 

If only Ilippi Jiro had lived, would the Nulls have been given an opportunity to peer into a past through the lens of another. They’ve always been so terribly curious, proclaimed deviant for their defiance and condemned to die early, would they have been able to resist that very same temptation, that very same curiosity, to learn something new?

I honestly don’t think so. 

[zarcake-writes]

Astro

Hello everyone! Here’s a story about an AI and a female spaceship captain beginning to fall in love. I got a little into the world building at some points, but I hope you enjoy it. 

Warnings: lemon

Cargo Ship Assistance is quiet, but it’s almost always quiet. The ship’s temperature is kept at a constant seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. It’s meant to be comfortable, not too hot and not too cold. The only two places on the ship with different temperatures are the ship’s greenhouse and the walk-in freezer.

The cargo ship is average size and belongs to the Earth Space Federation. The ships sole task is transporting important materials, such as food, medical equipment, biological samples, and sometimes weapons, from Earth to other various space stations and human colonies around the solar systems. It’s a simple, and often serious, job. Sometimes it is dangerous, space pirates have attempted several times to rob the ship. The only reason the ship has never been robbed or boarded by pirates is because of the ship’s AI, Astro.

The only occupant on the ship is you, the Captain, and Astro. Course, Astro doesn’t really count as a person, he’s part of the ship and takes up no space. The only living being on the ship is you, and technically the plants in the greenhouse. Sometimes the things you transport are living, but usually they are small or unconscious. You hate transporting living things.

Your room is nearly dark, the only lights on in the room come from the clocks on the wall and the small light near your bed. The clocks tell you the times of several major cities on Earth. They were installed by one of the previous ship’s Captains. You’re not sure which Captain had them installed, or why, but it’s a bit ridiculous.

The window’s curtain is drawn, shutting out the emptiness of space outside. It’s unnerving looking at the emptiness of space, many people have gone insane because of it. The downside of having the curtain down is you cannot see the beauty of space, any nebulas or planets the ship passes, you miss them. That is probably for the best though.

There’s a slight humming coming from the ship’s engine. The music in the kitchen can barely be heard from your room. While most nights the engines humming and the faint music helps you fall asleep, tonight it does not.

You know you need to sleep, but sleep is not coming tonight. You’ve been tossing and turning for several hours now. The covers have been kicked off your body and lay in a heap at the foot of the bed, leaving you in only a nightshirt and a pair of panties.

Counting sheep doesn’t work, and there is no milk on the ship for you to drink warm. You doubt that trick even works. You thought of just getting up and beginning your day, maybe you could nap later on when exhaustion catches up with you. However, the thought of Astro lecturing you and insisting you rest stops you. The AI is very adamant about sleep and eating schedules, and while it’s sweet, sometimes it is annoying.

With nothing else to do, you say fuck it and decide to just masturbate. Hopefully, an orgasm or two will make your body relax and maybe you’ll be able to fall asleep. You turn over and reach into the table beside your bed and pull out your vibrator. You picked it up in a human colony on Planet 125 about a year ago. There’s nothing fancy about it; it has three vibration settings and is apparently water resistant. The most important thing, though, is that it gets the job done.

You set the vibration to the lowest setting and press it against your covered pussy. The buzzing feels good, really good, and you can’t help but gasp. As your hands run along your body, you try to imagine it’s someone else touching you. When you pull your nipples, you gasp and shudder, teeth digging into your bottom lip.

Your panties are almost soaked when you increase the speed. Soon, those are off and thrown across the room, and the vibrator is pressed against your clit. The vibrations send shivers down your body. Your back arches and your toes begin to curl. Your fingers twist and pull at your nipples, imagining it is someone else touching you.

When you cum, you do your best to keep the vibrator pressed against your clit. You only pull away when it gets over sensitive and begins to hurt. The vibrator slips from your hands and you lay there, breathing hard and heart pounding in your ears. The sweat on your body begins to cool, and you shiver. Somehow, you manage to pull the blankets up over your body.

Your body is finally relaxed, and the blankets over your half-naked body are comforting. You can feel yourself beginning to doze off. The pounding in your chest begins to slow and your breathing evens, sleep is just around the corner. Just as your falling asleep, a voice speaks.

“Captain? Are you well?” You jump at the robotic voice that echoes throughout the room.

“Shit, Astro, you scared me.”

“My apologies, Captain. Are you well? My sensors sensed an elevated heart rate, and I heard you gasping. Are you in pain? Do you require assistance? I can send a medical bot to you.”

Your face grows hot in embarrassment. “No, no. I’m fine Astro. Just… just trying to get to sleep.”

“Oh. How? Were you exercising?”

The AI’s questions are embarrassing, and you pray a black hole opens up and swallows you. “Well, in a way. I was… taking care of a personal problem.”

“Problem? Captain, do you need assistance?” The worry in Astro’s voice sounds almost real like he’s a real person and not an AI.

“Not anymore,” you mutter.

“Captain?”

“I’m fine, Astro. Goodnight.”

“Very well. Goodnight, Captain.”

You roll over and close your eyes. The orgasm made your body weak, but the conversation with Astro was embarrassing as hell. Surprisingly, you fall asleep before you can dwell on the conversation with him. Hopefully, he never speaks of this again and he can search for what you were doing by himself. Damn AI, he has always been curious.

It is a few days later when Astro asks you about that night. You were logging some numbers into your computer when the questions begin.

“Captain?” He sounds almost nervous. It always surprises you how real Astro sounds. He is one of the most advanced AI’s you’ve ever encountered, he’s almost wasted on being programmed in a cargo spaceship. Almost, though. His company is very comforting.

“Yes, Astro? Is everything alright?”

“Yes. But I have a question.”

“If it’s about the greenhouse, I don’t think we’ll be able to plant watermelon. They get out of hand.”

“No, it’s not about that. But I did order seeds, just in case.”

You smile and nod your head. Astro’s creator loved watermelon, so the AI loves having them planted in the garden. It was his way of remembering his so-called ‘father’. “Of course, you did. Now, what was your question?”

“The other night, can you explain to me what you were doing?”

You groan and cover your face. “Astro, just forget it. It’s embarrassing.”

“Captain, my apologies. The captains of this ship have always been cisgender human males, and while I was updated on cisgender human female anatomy, there are things I do not understand.”

“Like what?”

“Captain Matthews, he was two captains before you, mentioned many human women in most of his logs. However, he seemed to have a certain amount of dislike for them.”

“Ugh, of course, he did. Captain Matthews is a misogynist and a rapist. He made many comments that women should not be space captains because they are too ‘delicate’ and ‘emotional.’ We might have our period and crash into an asteroid or something. When he learned I was taking over this ship, he said, to my face, that it was not a good idea because ‘she is a woman and might miscount the supplies on her ship.’ God, I wanted to punch him.”

“Hmm, yes, he mentioned that in several of his logs. Women being delicate, I mean. He also had many verbal confrontations Space Commander Maria Valdez.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. He’s an idiot,” you said.

Space Commander Maria Valdez is Earth’s first female Space Commander. She’s well into her fifties now, with greying hair, but she is still the Commander and still scary. You met her once and it was the most intimidating and exciting moment of your life.

Everyone in the ESF knows that Valdez clashed with many of the misogynistic views and rules in the ESF. She fought, tooth and nail, to secure a place for all types of women in the Federation. Any racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic remarks, Valdez shut them down. Whoever made those remarks, they were stripped of their ranks and given a dishonorable discharge. She cleaned house when she became Space Commander. People either hated or they loved her for it.

Valdez is the reason Captain Matthews was forced into retirement after many sexual misconduct reports and a couple rape charges were filed against him. The cases had no definitive proof and no physical evidence, so they were thrown out. But they got enough publicity that Valdez forced him into retirement. Course, she publicly said she wished he there was something physical to strip him of his ranks and send him to work on one of the colony planets.

“I was glad when he left and Captain Reyes took over command of the ship. Captain Reyes did not speak of women, but he spoke of his husband and their children often. At least once a week they would have video calls. I miss Captain Reyes,” Astro said.

“Mmmm, I met Reyes when I took over. He’s a good man and funny. Did you know him and his husband are grandfathers now?”  

“Really?”

“Yes. They’re living in Puerto Rico, I believe.”

“I am glad for them.”

You were quiet for a moment before you spoke. “So, that’s why you’re curious about what I was doing, you’ve never been around a woman before.” It all makes sense; Astro has never been around women. And while he knows the basics, he’s always had questions.

“No. I apologize if my questions are out of line. The information that was uploaded into my system informs me about the female sex, but it is very basic. I know about the menstrual cycle and the importance of breast exams. I know of some cultural differences among women on Earth. However, I also remember what Matthews said about women, and while I do not trust him, I am confused when it comes to some things. So, again, I apologize if my questions are inappropriate.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” You take a deep breath before you speak again. “I was masturbating, Astro.”

Astro is silent for a moment before he speaks. “I understand now. The male captains before you would watch pornography, you do not?”

“Sometimes. But I find visual porn to be, well, it’s not always interesting to me. Usually, I read or listen to porn.”

“Interesting. Is this common among human women?”

“I’m not sure. There is probably information out there on it. Every woman is different, so we all like different things.”

“Just like human men.”

“Exactly.”

When Astro speaks next, he sounds hesitant, almost scared. “Captain, if I may ask, how do you orgasm?”

“Well, I can only speak for women with vaginas, Astro.”

“Captain, I asked how do you orgasm?” The emphasis on you made you blush. “Not what other human women with vaginas do.” Was he really asking you this? Why? And more importantly, why you?

“Umm, well, I use a vibrator on my clit.”

“Interesting. Why?”

“Well, it’s more sensitive. Vaginal penetration feels good, but it does not do much for me.”

“I see. Thank you, Captain, for answering my questions.”

“You’re welcome, Astro.” You go back to your computer and do your best to ignore the flush on your face.

It’s a couple weeks later when Astro brings this topic back up. You just finished delivering food and medical supplies to Space Station Eternity. The station is huge, one of the largest in the galaxy. It is filled with humans and several other alien species.

You only stay in the station long enough for the ship to be refueled, get something to eat, and visit the station's local sex shop. After that, CS Assistance is heading home.

It is when you are cleaning your newest toy, a simple seven-inch dildo, that Astro begins with his questions.

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

“Is that a new sex toy?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is your vibrator not giving you enough joy?”

You smile and glance up to his camera. “It does, but variety is fun.”

“Interesting. Human’s enjoy having a variety.”

You only answer him with a nod. Once the dildo is clean, you head to your room and set it down next to your bed to dry. As you get ready for bed, turning off lights and double checking the ship's systems, Astro begins back up with his questions.

“Captain, that toy, what does it do?”

“Nothing much. Just for vaginal stimulation.”

“I thought you could not orgasm that way.” The confusion in his robot voice is cute.

“I can’t, but I enjoy the feeling of something inside me. I’ll use my vibrator or fingers to get me off.”

“I see, thank you, Captain.”

“Sure, Astro, anytime.”

When you climb into bed, you grab your tablet and search for porn. You wanted to watch a video and fuck yourself. The only problem is that you spend forever finding an interesting video. When you find one that seems interesting, it turns out to be not as good as you thought. The next hour is spent searching for a video, anything that is interesting or hot, but you find nothing. Not a single video catches your interest. The frustration gets to you, so you stop searching and drop the tablet off the bed.

“Captain? Are you well?” Astro asked.

“Just frustrated.”

“Is this because you were looking for porn?”

You look up at the camera in the corner of your room and frown. “Are you watching me?”

“No, Captain. The camera in your room is dark during nighttime hours. However, the tablet is connected to me. The site you were on had pop-ups. When they appeared, they got my attention. I was not looking at you, Captain.”

Of course, he could see what you looked up. Astro is not watching you. He wouldn’t care to see you fuck yourself. He’s an AI, and while he’s incredibly advanced, he does not feel that way about humans. He can’t. While this should be a relief, you only feel disappointment. The thought of him watching you and secretly longing to see you in such an intimate moment is strangely arousing.

“Captain?” Astro’s voice interrupts your thoughts.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked, is there anything I can do to assist you?”

You laugh and shake your head. “No, Astro, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?”

Something about the question sends a chill down your back. It did not come across as malicious, but it was almost teasing. Maybe you were reading into it, but it made you nervous and excited. “Astro, what would you do?”

“Whatever you ask me to do. I cannot physically touch you, but I can always speak to you. I did some research and discovered that many humans enjoy dirty talk. I can also tell you how to touch yourself. But it comes down to you, Captain, what would you have me do?”

His answer left your mouth dry and face hot. You were not expecting this from Astro.

“Alright. Can… can you connect to my tablet and see out of the camera?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Do that, please. And do not make any recordings of this. No one can know.”

“Captain, your privacy is important to me. No images of you in such an intimate moment will be seen by anyone. The Federation cannot access the ship's cameras without my permission, anyway.”

“R-really?”

“Yes.”

You want to ask him what he means by that, how can the Federation not access the ship? This is their ship. Those questions die in your mouth when Astro speaks.

“Captain, I am connecting to your tablet.”

You grab the tablet and see that that video chat is now open. Instead of seeing another person, though, there is only the name ‘Astro’ on the screen in shimmery blue font.

“Can you see me?” you asked.

“Yes. I apologize for not having a face.”

“It’s fine.”

“What would you have me do, Captain?”

You adjust yourself, leaning against your headboard and spreading your legs. The tablet is leaning against a pillow between your legs. Astro now as a good view of your entire body and face. Your face is hot with embarrassment, but you are also excited.

“Astro, can you tell me what to do?”

He answers without hesitation. “Remove your shirt and underwear.”

You do so shakily. Never have you felt so vulnerable with the AI. Not even when you walk through the ship in a towel, or when you asked him to order you more pads. But now, all of you are literally on display for him to see.

“Captain, you are beautiful. Can you touch yourself? Starting with your inner thighs?”

You do as he asks, blushing the entire time. Your eyes close when your fingers begin to travel along your thighs.

“Just like that, only focus on your thighs.” His voice, even though it is robotic, sends a chill down your spine. You begin to imagine it is Astro touching you. If he had hands, would they be cold or artificially warm? Would they feel like metal or artificial skin? You decide they would be metal and cold. The thought sends a chill down your body and you bite back a moan.

“Captain, travel further up your body,” Astro instructs.

You do as he says, hands traveling along up your stomach and along your sides. When your fingers come to your breasts, Astro instructs you to stop and to play with your nipples. Goosebumps erupt along your skin and a shiver runs down your spine.

“Captain, are you imagining someone specific touching you?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Y-you.”

Astro’s momentary silence has you worried, but then he speaks. “Then imagine my hands on you, pulling those gorgeous nipples of yours. Imagine my mouth, Captain, kissing and sucking your beautiful neck. Imagine one of my hands leaving your breasts and traveling along the column of your throat, my fingers tracing the outline of your jaw. I would love to kiss your lips and taste how sweet you are.”

“Astro. Where did you learn that?” You gasped.

“I looked it up when we were docked at the space station. Is it not adequate?”

“No, it’s just… I’m surprised. Can… can you keep going?”

The lights in the room dim as Astro speaks again. “Captain, rub your clit. Show me how wet you are for me.”

You do as he says, cheeks warm and body growing hot. Your clit is swollen and your pussy is nearly dripping. In the dimness of the room, Astro’s name glows a bright blue on the screen. The only sounds heard in the room are your moans and the sound of your wet pussy.

“Astro, I’m gonna cum.” Your fingers move faster and press harder against your clit. The building orgasm is making it harder to focus on anything else around you.

“Cum for me Captain. I want to see you come undone. Show me how beautiful you are when you cum.”

When your orgasm hits, you moan Astro’s name and your body convulses. Sweat coats your body and your chest heaves. Your cunt spasms and your clit throbs. The world around you is fuzzy, and the only thing you can hear is the pounding of your heart.

“Captain? Are you ok?” Even though Astro’s voice is fuzzy, it is filled with concern.

“Yes. I’m wonderful.” You take several deep breaths and smile. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Yes, very much. Thank you for showing me, Captain. I’m glad my voice could help you.” Astro sounds so sweet; you wish kissing him is possible.

“Would… Would you like to see me fuck myself with my new toy?”

“I would, but are you ok with going again?”

“Yes. Let me get something to drink, first, and I’ll be good to go again.”

“Very well, I look forward to seeing more of this side of you.”

As you stumble out of bed and make for the small kitchen, Astro’s words repeat themselves in your mind. He wants to see more of you like this, and frankly, you want to show him more. Glancing up, Astro’s camera catches your attention. You finish your water and dash back to your room; Astro’s cameras follow you the entire way.

[winterromanov]

we will grow taller together - bucky x reader

PART THREE - YOU’RE VERY LOUD FOR SOMEONE SO SMALL

parts: masterlist

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

extract: He sniffs what could be a laugh if he had any energy whatsoever. “I wish you were psychic. Then you could maybe tell me what goes through a six-year-old’s head.”

genre: nanny x single father!au

taglist: @blindedbyyourgrace17 @verygraphicink @chubby-dumplin @igotkatiepowers @welcome-to-my-studylife @bi-bi-bi-bisexualz @mywinterwolf @mychemicalimagines (still open, message to be tagged)

The following week or so is swallowed by the pre-Thanksgiving rush, so other than a quick text to confirm his number and a Facebook request you’ve not heard all that much from James. Work is mayhem as you try to learn at least eighty holiday drinks combinations and you go shopping with Natasha for Thanksgiving tableware, as her and Steve are hosting Steve’s parents for the first time at their apartment. Your whole family lives on the West Coast so you’ve decided not to make the trip to your childhood home this year. It makes you sad in a constant, throbbing kind of way, to spend Thanksgiving without them, but you’d mutually decided with your mom and dad that the trip just isn’t economically or temporally viable. Even the cheapest flights exceed two hundred dollars and you’d end up spending most of the vacation cramped in a plane seat and listening to babies screaming anyway. Natasha offers a place at their table but you can tell she’s a little anxious about impressing Steve’s family and you’d rather not add any hassle. Looks like it’ll probably be white wine and Friends re-runs for you this year, but at least you’re not fucking working for once.

You think everything has returned to normal. So much so, in fact, that when the weekend rolls around and you turn up to Steve and Natasha’s place in a party dress for their pre-Thanksgiving do it doesn’t cross your mind that James might also turn up. Or what will happen if he does.

“Looking sexy, (Y/N),” Natasha clicks her tongue approvingly when she answers the door, hand on her hip. Your frock is dark blue velvet and long-sleeved, hugging your figure in a way that makes you feel more self-confident than you actually are. It is pretty sexy, you think, but your attempts are always nothing compared to Natasha’s. Her dress is elegant and black and split all the way down the front to enhance her already impressive cleavage, and combined with the gentle curl of her red hair and matching lipstick she looks like a rebellious Hollywood starlet.

That’s always been Natasha, though. She always looks beautiful, exuding a natural class, but also in a dangerous kind of way. She looks like she could break your neck and smile while doing it. It’s pretty fucking powerful, to be honest.

“Nothing new there, then,” you remark, stepping inside. Natasha smirks and hands you a glass of champagne from the table by the door. Tipsy laughter and a Taylor Swift song play from the kitchen, so you follow Natasha’s clicking black heels to the main room of the party.

So far, it isn’t so crowded, but Steve and Natasha are pretty popular (Steve because he’s A Really Nice Guy, Natasha because she isn’t) so you expect the couches and corners will fill up as the night draws on. You recognise most of the people chatting over bowls of chips and hummus but you only know Steve by name, so you naturally gravitate towards him once Natasha’s elbow is caught by a well-built man with brown hair.

Steve is talking to a broad, dark-skinned guy with cropped black hair that you keep seeing around. Both of them look at you when you come over, the unnamed man scanning you discretely up and down with a half-smile on his face.

“(Y/N)!” Steve announces excitedly, squeezing your shoulder. “You know Sam, right?”

“I do not,” you reply, shaking his hand, “But I’m always happy to meet new people.”

“Likewise,” Sam replies. He scrubs up well in a smart shirt and shoes, Steve sporting a similar garb. As is usually the case with these things the girls have obviously made more effort, but in your experience, if a man has combed his hair and put on cologne they’re already too good to be true. “Steve may have mentioned you a coupla’ times.”

“He has?” You quirk an eyebrow, and Steve shrugs. He doesn’t look embarrassed about the fact. “All good, I hope.”

“Mostly. Although, there was an incident at one of Natasha’s parties in your junior year that you might—“

“Okay, so what happens in a crappy basement apartment during college under the influence of extremely cheap beer stays there,” you interject, the two men laughing, “I’m an adult now. All that stuff is behind me, I can assure you.”

You chat to the two of them a while longer, you and Sam mostly swapping funny stories about Steve—he feels like your safety conversation starter, the thing you have in common. Eventually Natasha drags Steve off into the kitchen and you’re left with Sam alone. What is it with Steve and abandoning you with his friends? Not that Sam is a problem. He’s attractive and funny, your sense of humour instantly clicking with his.

“So, (Y/N),” Sam says seriously, “Would you like another drink from the Rogers free bar?”

When you look down at your glass you realise it’s empty already. You’re not a big drinker, not anymore, but another glass to ease any surface anxiety wouldn’t hurt. After all, you think the guy in the jarringly expensive suit by the window might be Tony Stark, the tech billionaire, and the sheer amount of wealth that pours from his figure has left you on edge. That, and the fact you have always strongly believed that billionaires are unethical. Maybe another glass would give you the confidence to tell him that.

(You have no idea how Steve and Nat know Tony Stark, because you know enough about both of them to acknowledge he’s not their typical company.)

You shrug your shoulders and let him take your glass. “Sure. Thanks.”

Sam disappears and you trail after him at a distance, hovering outside the kitchen. You nod to the beat of a Vampire Weekend track, not really paying attention when the buzzer goes off, because people are expected to come and go. Natasha smiles as she slips past you to the door, deftly pulling the latch aside with a flick of her fingers.

Your body straightens from your slouching position against the wall when you realise who is waiting in the hall.

James. James is there, a small child clinging to his neck, the metallic frames of her bright pink sunglasses catching the hallway light.

“Hi,” you hear him say breathlessly, “Sorry I’m so late. Clover has—Clover wanted to see you both, so I couldn’t… Well. She wouldn’t let me leave her with the babysitter.”

“I don’t like Mrs Mary.” A child’s voice—Clover’s voice—responds, her tone low and sullen. “I like Auntie Nat.”

“It’s a good job that I like you too then, huh?” Natasha’s arms reach out and James hands her his daughter. “Nice sunglasses. Always useful in November.”

“If you wear sunglasses you can cry and people won’t notice.”

Yikes. The comment leaves the two adults stunned for a moment, before Natasha combs a strand of blonde hair out of Clover’s eyes, smiling fondly. “Let’s see if we can find you some cookies.”

You move out the way when Natasha comes back down the hallway, watching as James closes the door behind him. He starts when he sees you standing there, but his edges soften when he realises it’s you who is watching. He looks even more exhausted than the evening in his apartment, his eyes grey and hollow, shoulders dipping. He still manages a watery smile for you.

“Tough day?” you ask, even though it’s obvious. His mouth opens. Nods wearily.

“You could call it that.”

“If it’s any consolation, an old lady shouted at me for putting a snowflake made out of chocolate sprinkles on her mocha because she doesn’t like cold weather. I was like…I’m not paid to be psychic, Brenda, or whatever your name is.”

He sniffs what could be a laugh if he had any energy whatsoever. “I wish you were psychic. Then you could maybe tell me what goes through a six-year-old’s head.”

You smile gently, sympathetically. “I think a lot of people would have a hard time telling you that.”

Sam then reappears with your drink, but takes one look at James’ expression before sighing and disappearing again. Moments later he emerges with a second glass of champagne and shoves it into his grip.

-

The party returns to normal for about thirty minutes after, Clover bouncing comfortably between her dad and Nat and Steve and Sam, bright and funny and charming all the guests she doesn’t know with her gap-toothed grin. But it’s like—it’s like a light flicks in her head and suddenly she’s having a meltdown in the bathroom, screaming through tears she doesn’t know how to control. You can hear James talking to her and trying to calm her down, but his voice keeps wobbling, like he’s on the verge of breaking down too. Taking a deep breath for courage, you twist the knob on the bathroom door and invade a conversation you should probably stay out of.

James eyes glance up at you in desperate surprise. The shock also freezes Clover, like the lull in the middle of a hurricane. Her tiny face is red and wet with tears, pained in a way that is heart-breaking to see on any child. Your hand brushes across James’ back as you crouch to meet her height. Blue eyes scrutinise every single inch of your body.

“So. You’re Clover Barnes.” You delicately offer your hand and Clover looks at it, faced scrunched, before slotting hers into yours. “I’m (Y/N). I’m a friend of your dad and Uncle Steve and Auntie Nat.”

Clover blinks back, but doesn’t say anything. She’s not screaming though, so at least that’s something. You’ve done that, at least. Even if it’s just out of shock.

“I have to say, Clover, you’re very loud for someone so small.” You try not to smile as she looks mildly offended at this observation on her height, because six year old priorities, right? That’s what’s really going through her head. The fact that she’s perhaps half an inch shorter than the other girls in her class. “But people used to say that about me, too. There’s nothing wrong about being loud, but there’s no point in having such a big voice if no-one can understand you. You gotta talk to your dad if something is upsetting you—I’ve been told you’re super clever so I’m absolutely certain you can tell him what’s up.”

Clover is silent for a moment, and you wonder if your spontaneous pep talk (which you somehow pulled straight out of your ass) will go totally ignored, but she takes a shaky breath and looks James straight in the eyes.

“I don’t wanna go to grandma and grandpa’s for Thanksgiving,” she sniffles, “I heard you talking on the phone and I don’t wanna go. Please don’t make me go. I wanna stay here with you. Please don’t send me away.”

James almost crumbles away into nothing when he grabs her into a hug, squeezing all the air out of her lungs. Her hands slowly curl around his neck, meeting at the nape, her face burrowed deep into his shoulder.

“I won’t send you anywhere, I promise,” James murmurs. His eyes catch yours and he looks at you in a mixture of amazement and thankfulness and more prominently relief. “Sweetheart. Baby. You’re not going anywhere.”

The tantrum must have tired Clover out because slowly, gradually, she flops in James’ arms; her eyes flutter closed while still pressed in James’ shoulder, so he rises and gestures for you to open the bathroom door. Natasha and Steve open up their spare bedroom so you follow him in quietly, pulling back the bedsheets so he can slot Clover in to sleep the rest of the evening off. She looks so peaceful and relaxed, like a normal six-year-old girl, like she could wake up again and everything would be normal and okay.

But you know—nothing about this is normal. You thought that Steve was being a bit over-the-top about them needing help, but you can see it now. It’s not so eccentric. They need something. Something.

When James pulls the door so only a small shaft of light from the hall glows on Clover’s tranquil face, his hand curls round your wrist.

“I take back what I said, that time at my apartment.” His eyes are frantic. Pleading. “I do need your help. Please, (Y/N). I need so much fucking help.”

You turn your hand so that it clasps his, squeezing tightly. “I’m here.”

[sian22redux]

A Puppy in the Family-ch 2

Finally!  @theycallmebecca  has been so patient.  Travelling for work this month is done and I can concentrate.  This has taken so long it is consolation for her and @nomadicpixel ‘s Bosox and my Indians being out (:( how many injuries can one team take).  Here you go my dear.  Fenway and Dodger await the big day!  Boy are they in for a surprise. 

You can find Chapter 1 here.  Rated G--for gooey tooth-rotting fluff.  (Don’t say you haven’t been warned) and real warning:  Mild description of labour pains.  Jealousy.  Vague comments about new baby poop. 

---------------

It’s really puzzling how they don’t know.

The sloppy ‘brella weather has turned to sunshiny and mostly fair and we’re out for a long, slow waddle as the warm sun rays kiss my fur.  

Dodger is trotting on ahead at the end of his bungee leash. I am circling Chris and Y/N stealthily as they walk hand in hand, trying my very best to trap them with my lead because if I do they'll have to kiss.  It’s the law.

They kiss twice before we make it back to Lorel home and as I bound indoors I take a good long sniff.  

Still happy. Still expecting.  Really expecting in fact.  Y/N is pink-cheeked and pretty and even, I think, a little rounder in the tummy.  She is working from the household today. Usually my mission is to allow as little wurk as possible, but not these days.  Chris is home and she wants to be ‘fficient’, keep wurk quick while he reads a top secret Superhero script (for a superhero he sure gets banged up a lot).  

I am good. I give her time, and though she says she’ll  “stop soon” her wurk must be fun.   She talks excitedly on the phone a lot, tapping on the ‘puter.  Dodger, who says it’s boring, sneaks up on the big white couch to keep Chris’s bare feet warm.   I do have a strategy.  I flop over to show my better side and think < I love you> really hard.  

But still she doesn’t get it.

For some weird reason when her smell gets strong it makes her sleepy.  Dodger and Chris catch her snoozling after wurk and Chris stands there, hands on hips, brows crashed together.  “Babe, you ok?”

Y/N yawns and sleepily pats my head.  “Yeah. It’s just a little bit too much right now, you know?”

Chris isn’t sure he knows.   He worries. A lot.   It’s the job of the alpha dad.   “Maybe,” he frowns, sitting down on a sliver of couch to put a hand on her head.  “You sure you aren’t getting sick?”

Sick???   Good grief. <Expecting!!!!!!>  I yip, a bit louder than maybe I should but its making me crazy because they don’t know!

This goes on for weeks.  Y/N snoozles at funny times and Chris frowns and frets and sometimes he completely forgets to throw Dodger’s frisbee.  I don’t know how much Dodger or I can take but finally, finally, Y/N goes into the bedroom bathroom and comes out through the screen.  

She’s waving a little white wand (it’s far too small for cooling much) and trying hard to speak through tumbling tears and then Chris is crying too.  

“For real?” he asks. He’s brushing the tears off her cheeks and I can smell him panicking and happy and well, everything.  

“A baby?”

Y/N just nods cuz her words are watered out.  Chris is crying and laughing and hugging her so hard.  “A baby!   Oh my god this is best birthday present ever!”  

It is his birthday-- I know cuz there is cake where I shouldn’t touch.   Both Y/N and Chris are talking quick and excited and he spins her faster than even a duper hug before setting her down so gentle and apologizing.

She says it is ok.   Dodger and I wag our tails but we are most definitely ignored.  

<That’s how it is going to be.>

<You sure, Dodger?>

<Yup.  Bitch gets all the attention and extra food.>

He’s right.  In the weeks to come it seems they talk super fast all the time.  It’s a little exhausting.  And mysterious.    

I’m not sure why this is, but now there’s a picture of a tadpole on the fridge.

****

Then, we wait.  

Growing human puppies takes a really, really long time.

Chris is happy and stressed and angsty a bit like me.  Y/N is happy and sleepy and a little loopy.  The best thing I can do is watch. I set the perimeter threat to grey and investigate every little thing that moves. Or doesn’t.  The grape under the fridge stays there for weeks getting drier and smaller each time I check. It hasn’t moved so I think that it’s ok, but the big yellow floppy moth that infiltrates the household is another thing.  It doesn’t seem to want any trouble and I think it may be lonely, so I follow it around, slowly and carefully, waiting to make friends.  

Much of the next hot months are spent outside by the pool.  I decide that petting lazily with a foot only counts as half so I try to climb onto Chris’s lap (not Y/N’s. I don’t want to squash the puppy).

“Fenway! You great big oaf.  You don’t fit!”  Chris laughs but I do!  It’s magic.   Dodger corners a red squirrel in the tree and it chitters down at him from halfway up.  I race over to help but I am too big to leap so high. I wave my frondy tail while Dodger almost gets it.  

These are mostly good times.   The great thing about puppy waiting is that we get waffles more. And ice cream.  And cinnamon bunds.   The not so great thing is that the hoomans feel angsty and a little confused at times.

Sometimes I will go outside only to realize it is inside that I wanted all along.  Y/N’s like that, she doesn’t know what she wants or not. Those nights we are out in the car late at night with Chris.  The days she knows—she really knows.  

Ice cream is good but not coffee. Or orange juice.  And definitely not eggs.  

Puppy waiting is Not Quick.   68 days. So many X’s.    Y/N gets wider and tireder.  She’s sick, and grumpy, and weepy, and there are days we (and Chris) just didn’t know what to do.   Dodger and I try to pretend we need to tell a secret and when Y/N leans in close, we lick her ear instead.  That makes her smile, but only for a while. Sometimes my snuggles help and sometimes I make her too hot and sometimes I make it worse.  I may be bigger (almost full grown!) but my desire to be held is constant.

<I love you> 

“Fenway.”

<I love you>

“Fenway!”

<I love you>

“Fenway!!”

When Y’N’s weepy I put my snout upon her lap and wuff out warm happy breath while she strokes my fur.  I will look up to be sure it’s working and get confused because it makes her cry more.

<What did I do wrong??!!>

Dodger sighs and thumps his tail on the carpet. <Don’t worry, Fenway. It’s ‘mones.>

Oh.   The things that Chris says (when we have snuck away to the park) make her grumpy too.

They are very powerful.  When she’s grumpy I bring her my squeaky hotdog, and blanket, and then, cuz I am getting really worried, my comb.  She brushes all my fur hard and sleeks the feathers in my tail but it never works for long.

I don’t get it and Chris doesn’t either but he keeps trying 

I don’t always work but neither do the duper hugs.

One time she even barked at him.

***

The too too hot summer, becomes just hot fall.  I have toasted my coat enough.  It’s the time of parties and mmmm pumpkin and TIFF (whatever that is).    

At the Hello ‘Ween party Y/N the Witch bumps into Jeremy’s back (he’s just himself cuz time) with her tum.  She blushes red like a tomato and Jeremy laughs and says

“You’re just like Fenway.  He doesn’t know where his body is either.”

(I yip ‘oopsie’ but secretly I am proud.)  

***

After that things change really FAST.

Y/N and Chris go out for ‘classes’ and sometimes when they get home, Y/N goes right to bed (it takes energy to make a puppy) and Chris takes his fancy glass and fancy yellow water and sits down on the ‘ounge chair.   He looks kinda scared and kinda worried, sighing a little bit, just looking at the moon 

I sit down beside and lean in hard as I can,  thinking <everything. is going to be alright. Because guess I love you.>

“Thanks pal.”

The second office gets made over into the puppy’s room.  It’s white and bright and has lots of small colours everywhere.    I knock over a packing box—<oopsie> that holds a  tall thing that looks like a robot.

“Yikes,” says Chris. “Better you do that now than when it’s full. 

Full? Of what?!

No one answers. Dodger doesn’t know.  He’s trying to help by biting at the packing tape and I take the other end.  

Y/N is exasperated. “FENWAY you are NOT HELPING!”

I go lie by the door and supervise, crossing my paws cuz i’ figure feeling fancy will make the moving faster.

The Baby’s room has SO MUCH STUFF.  There’s a sleeping jail and a travel sleeping jail;  bouncing things that make noise, rattles that make noise (but nothing squeaky like my hot dog), cupboards for tiny clothes, tons and tons of tiny sausage covers.  I am not sure why Chris and Y/N want their puppy covered like a sausage but they are there, white and green and I think <oh well, maybe it makes them feel comfy like my crate?>  

The little socks won’t fit even on my nose.  

I wander later all through the piles of stuff getting a little worried.

<Relax, Fenway> says Dodger, where he lies on his side upon the floor in front of the hallway mystery hole.  (It’s our favourite place to flop cuz it blows cool air over us.  It won’t be not-hot until Santa time.)  

<You aren’t worried, Dodger?  Will they remember we exist, even notice us in this?>

< oh yeah.> he says, scritching a sudden scratch.  <A puppy can’t howl like I do with Lion.  It can’t give licks like you.  We’ll be teaching them everything we know.>

<Right.>  

Right. I feel better and go back to watching the grape all shrivel up.

-------

Fri Nov 23.

It’s Y/N’s birthday month and we have good times.  Chris takes us for lots of walks. Y/N sits everywhere, puppy is heavy and she has no lap. Lots of friends visit and slip us treats—its hard but somebody has to do it 

One morning we wake up and there are few X’s left on the fridge.  The circled big red X is days away and oh boy Y/N seems extra, extra fussy cause she washes EVERYTHING 

(I hide, out of the way under the big front bush.  My hotdog tastes like soap.)

Dodger is not too concerned.  We trot in from the yard to find Chris pacing, hair sticking straight up and looking really stressed.

“Mom, oh god, do you think this could be it?!”

Whatever Lisa says, it helps.  He waits, carefully, while Y/N cleans around and I go sit beside The Bag that’s been waiting excitedly by the front door.

<I’m ready too!>  I think to them both but nothing happens.  

Two more days. Ugh, two more of soap, and then, Y/N just doesn’t get up??  

??!!

I follow Dodger out. Chris is in the backyard and we are pacing with him, round and round,  but he’s nearly shaking, talking to everyone on the telephone and not seeming very happy.

Y/N isn’t either. We check.  She’s whining sometimes, sitting in the big bed and kinda looking hot but she doesn’t want us near so we go back to the living room.

<We need a distraction.> says Dodger watching Chris pace.  He hasn’t stopped and the phone may be growing into his beard.

<I could spin in circles. Or blow bubbles in my water dish again?> I offer.  

<Naw.. too short.>

<Frisbee?>

<Naw, too tricky.>

Dodger settles for bringing him the slobbery Bosox ball.

“Sorry pal, not now.”

Hoo boy, this is serious.  

By the time I get back from burying the ball below the hedge, Y/N is up and they are walking around the back yard-- Y/N in front, Chris behind.    We waddle along.   I am patrolling in front for intruders and spiders cuz Chris hates them and Dodger has the rear.

We do five circuits and then we are walking shower on the path (even it is really clean)  and suddenly Y/N is gasping, bending right over to her knees.  (This is really hard with a big puppy up in front).  Chris murmurs soothing noises and presses his big warm hands on the center of her lower back.  I have no idea why, but it must help because Y’N’s  whining is a little less at first, but then it changes.  She’s whining and growling and keening.

Whelping sounds like it hurts.

The crisis ends. Y/N flops down on the ‘ounge chair panting hard and I lay my muzzle along her thigh, whining helpfully in sympathy, licking at her hand.  I hate to see her in pain.  So does Dodger.

“You’re both good boys,” she says through a small half smile.

This happens—walk-gasp-keen-flop—lots of times.  We’re getting tired.  Chris is getting tired. Y/N is more tired than I’ve ever seen.  

Finally the two-bell sounds 

Scott and his new boyfriend come right in and the friend (Dirk? why is he named for a knife?) bounces up to us and says hi while Chris carries Y/N through the hall. Scott takes The Bag and puts it in the trunk.  Y/N sits up front with the seat pushed way far back, eyes closed and concentrating.  She whines and Chris, who is standing in the driveway, whines too, before trying to sit down.  

Scott blocks the driver seat, hand out, shaking his head.

“Nope.  Give me your keys, man.  You are waay too freaked out to drive.”

<You are> adds Dodger, wisely from the front step 

Scott glares at Chris until he shakes himself, opens the back door and folds into the tiny backseat.

Y/N would laugh but she’s too busy gasping

** 

Finally the biggest, most leaping, exciting day arrives.  

The puppy is coming home.

My feets are a tippy tappin’.  I am bouncing and so is Dodger.  We know not to trip Chris up but still our hearts are way too full.

“Dodger, Fenway, down!”

We both sit at once.   Y/N steps in and she looks very, very tired but so, so happy to be home.  Chris has a special puppy seat and is holding it like a glass.  There’s a pink blankie, and a cover and we can’t really see.  

He sets the seat on the floor and crouches down, one hand in our furs to keep us back.

“Hey guys, say hi to Lily.”

What kind of name is that?

<A flower name> whispers  Dodger, <because the puppy is a bitch.>

Ohhhh.  It’s hard to see much of anything but pink hat and nose and wrap.  I tip toe everywhere, hushed and quiet like a Good Boy, but inside I am all excited.  Chris says MomLisa is coming soon, but for now it is our time.   

“Hey baby” says Y/N.  At the couch Chris lays her ever so gentle on Y/N’s lap lengthwise.   I sniff and wiggle in excitement.  She smells new and happy and good and…

then the wrappings come off.

Wut?

She’s bald.  

And tiny.  

And looks nothing the little person next door at Gina’s.

<Is there something wrong?> I ask Dodger anxiously.  I would  HATE for there to be a problem.

He thinks carefully and cocks his head.   <Human puppies look a bit like Hairless Cats.> 

They do?  Weird. < How do you know?>

<I looked in The Book.>

Oh. Ohhh.  The Book. It is part of Y/N these days.  

<For long?>

<A while.>  

I am thinking maybe even Dodger doesn’t really know but it’s ok because when she gets bigger she will be our fren, and throw sticks and balls and…   

It’s hard to imagine because in the weeks to come she smells milky and poopy and sometimes both.

Chris is being super careful.  His hands are big. He trips over Dodger twice; loses where his feet are and we see that he is tired.  

Midnight and early morning snacks for all don’t give the hoomans enough rest.  

Chris gets so tired one morning he puts kibble into my water.  (Actually it wasn’t so bad…so I didn’t say anything.).

Y/N never seems to put Lily down and it makes me angsty.. a bit like she doesn’t want me anymore.  Dodger gets to be closer—he’s better at holding himself safe.  I watch from a body length away, trying to be soo good, her big brother, littermate, but it feels a little sad.

(I did, when Y/N wasn’t looking, lick one of her little feets.)

Dodger tells me not to worry.  They are so happy.  There’s soft music and tons of visits and tons of presents and Dodger and I get a picture proudly sitting by her jail-bed.  

Sometimes she cries and sometimes she toots and sometimes we go hours without a pat.  

I am sad.  And worrying.  What if she doesn’t like me?  What if I can’t hold still?  What if she never gets big enough to play?  

One day when Lily lies (just like a sausage) on a blankie (and I am near, within what Chris calls the ‘blast radius’??) I can’t take it anymore.

I Woof.  Not loud, but real, because I’ve been sooo good and quiet for so long.

No one scolds.  

Lily is wriggling like a wriggly worm and giggling and she smells new and fresh and I want to get a better look.  I shuffle forward on my tummy, stop near her blankie’s edge where if I stretch my neck I might be close enough to lick.    

I woof again. She turns her (bald!) head and looks at me. Blue eyes a little blurry, frowning as she focuses.  Y/N and Chris giggle when a little (strong!) hand bops me on my nose, and I blink in surprise.  

Pink wriggle-worm fingers have grabbed a hank of fur.  

She holds me. Hard. Smiling and cooing.  And then I know it.

I am gonna be her fren.   Her fren and best protector and biggest brother.  And now I am grown and better at remembering I am just right.  I will give rides and warm cuddles and snuggles and…  

be her everything.

I think that I’m love. 

 -------------------

tagging:  @theycallmebecca @nomadicpixel @pegasusdragontiger @arizonapoppy @mycapt-ohcapt  @3Dsaunt  @heather-lynn @neutralchaos1

[7-wonders]

I love Daddy Michael ! I would like how he will react when his little bub will grow. First step, first tooth, first word...

I love this so much! Here we go, baby Langdon’s milestones! Let me know if you want some more of this; I’ll be putting this under a ‘read more’ since it’s so damn long.

First tooth--

Michael, to put it lightly, is exhausted. You both knew that having a baby wasn’t going to be a walk in the park, but neither of you anticipated just how much stress went into being first-time parents. It’s a full-time, 24/7 job, on top of carrying out the apocalypse. However wiped-out Michael is, he knew it couldn’t compare how drained you are. His heart aches for you when you’re forced to get up every two hours to feed the baby, often taking at least an hour to soothe your child back to sleep. Michael’s gone on business far more often than he wished to be, leaving you to attend to the baby’s needs by yourself. 

When he returned this morning from a meeting with a couple of the world leaders who will be responsible for launching the nukes, the house was far too quiet for his liking. He’s always had the underlying fear that you’ll up and leave him one day with no warning, and that fear suddenly comes to the forefront of his mind when he can’t hear any signs of life. Michael starts to dart from room to room, coming to a stop when he finally picks up on the baby’s cooing noises from the nursery. He peeks his head in, not wanting to disturb you if you’re trying to get the baby to sleep. Instead, his stomach drops in pity and sympathy.

You’re sitting on the rug, back pressed against the crib as your shoulders are wracked with sobs. Baby’s laying on the play rug that’s set up beside you, happily babbling and attempting to grab at the small toys that dangle just above the set of chubby hands. Michael falls to his knees beside you, pulling your hands into his and kissing the tears that track down your cheeks. 

“My love, what’s wrong?” He asks in concern.

“I’m sorry, I probably look so pathetic right now.” Michael starts to reassure you, but you just continue talking. “I’m just--I’m so tired, and-and Bub only wants to play and absolutely refuses to nap, and I know that you hired some very capable nannies but the thought of anyone else watching our baby just terrifies me. I can’t--I can’t do that.”

“Hey, shh, don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.” Michael pulls you into his arms, hugging you tightly and trying to calm you down. “Why don’t you go take a long shower or bath, and then you can go get some sleep?”

“But...what about the-”

“I am Bub’s other parent, darling. You’re off the clock tonight, and that’s final. You need to rest, or else you’re going to burn yourself out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” Michael plays with the wedding ring on your finger before standing and pulling you up with him.

“Alright,” you say in an unsure tone, “but come get me if the baby needs to be fed.” There’s plenty of milk stored in the freezer for the baby, and you both know that, but you just don’t want to be failing as a mother in any way.

Two hours later, and things are going great. You haven’t tried to disobey Michael once, the baby’s been fed and bathed, and Michael’s feeling overall accomplished. The odd fussiness of baby, however, throws the blond Antichrist off of his rhythm. Since birth, the baby’s been so calm, always observing everything that’s going on with wide eyes. Today, though, has been a complete change in the baby’s burgeoning personality.

“C’mon, lovey, what’s the matter?” Michael questions tiredly, rubbing the baby’s small back. The little red cheeks, angry from constant whining, makes Michael’s heart melt. He’s resorted to laying down with the baby on his chest, desperately hoping the baby will sleep so he can join you in bed. 

There’s no pacifiers around, and the baby’s been uninterested in every toy that Michael’s presented since the pair moved to the living room on the other side of the house to prevent you from waking up. He lets the baby play with his fingers, not even blinking when they get covered in slobber. The baby gnaws on his fingers, a regular routine by now. What’s not regular is the sudden jolt of pain Michael feels on his finger.

“Ouch,” he hisses, pulling his hand away from the baby, who immediately starts to cry again. “What weapon are you hiding from me in that mouth of yours?”

Michael gently works his thumbs into the baby’s mouth, attempting to pry it open in an attempt to see inside. His first thought, however irrational it may be, is that the baby’s (all of six months old, mind you) managed to get a hold of a knife. To his surprise and delight, a pearly white tooth is starting to peek out of the bottom gum of baby’s mouth. 

“Well look at that!” Michael grins, proud of his child’s ability to break a tooth through the gum. “That’s an easy fix, let’s go see if there’s something cold for you to chew on in the freezer.”

/////////////////////////////

First step--

Ever since the baby’s started standing up a week ago, it’s been an eager waiting game on behalf of you and Michael. You’ll hold your breath whenever those small, chubby hands are used on a table or the chair to pull baby up into a standing position, or when Michael sets the baby down on those wobbly legs. Unfortunately, all of your attempts have proven fruitless as of late. Your child certainly knows how to crawl with the best of them, but it seems like walking isn’t going to be happening for a while.

It’s when you least expect something to happen, that it does finally happen. Michael’s in his office, working on some quick tweaks to the Outposts, and you’re taking the opportunity to go through the baby’s outgrown clothes and determine what to donate and what to throw away. Ever since you’ve become a mother, your ability to focus on multiple affairs at once has become a superpower of yours. You’re sorting through the clothes while, at the same time, watching the baby out of the corner of your eye. Baby’s gripping onto the crib while standing up on unsteady feet, chattering away to you while you hum and nod to keep up the ‘conversation.’

It’s when the baby lets go of the crib and remains standing that you turn your attention to your firstborn. You don’t want to look too excited, in case the baby gets stage fright, but you can barely hide the brewing glee as Bub continues to stand. Slowly, as if you’re approaching a wild animal, you hold up your hands.

“C’mere, lovebug!” You coo, baby smiling a toothy grin and starting to wobble towards you. Stifling a gasp, you smile right back as shaky steps are taken until Bub reaches your arms and falls into them. “Good job! Oh, my sweet baby, I’m so proud of you!”

You nuzzle into the soft skin of baby’s neck, blowing raspberries until giggles pierce the air. Not able to restrain yourself from sharing this moment with Michael, you stand up and make your way to his office. You don’t even bother to knock, knowing that he can sense you before you’ve even opened the door. He still pretends to be surprised when you do enter, looking up from his papers with a pleased smile. 

“What brings my two favorite people to my office today?” Michael’s confused when you don’t greet him with a kiss, instead crouching down a few inches in front of his chair. 

“Watch this,” you say excitedly, grinning as you let the baby stand while holding onto your fingers. “Go get Daddy!”

In a matter of seconds, his confused expression turns to glee when the baby lets go of your fingers and starts to walk to Michael. He’s speechless, large hands automatically reaching out to catch the child if need be. The need doesn’t arise, Bub instead walking all the way over to Michael. He catches the baby, swooping the laughing infant through the air. 

“You did it! You finally walked!” Michael snuggles the baby to his chest, pressing kisses to the downy curls. “When was this new skill acquired?”

“Hmm, maybe thirty seconds before we came in here.”

“Our kid’s a genius.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Slow your roll, okay? We’ll discuss that if Bub’s doing calculus within the next three months.”

/////////////////////////////

First word--

“Come on, say it! Say ‘dada,’“ Michael pleads with the baby, who giggles at their father’s antics from their high chair. Michael sighs, dropping some more Cheerios on the tray and into the waiting hands of the baby. 

“Michael, Bub’s not going to say anything if you continue with your pestering,” you say from the kitchen, where you’re making a more substantial breakfast for the adults.

“I’m not pestering, I’m just...encouraging.” He swears he hears you mumble something along the lines of ‘if you’re being encouraging, I must be a fucking billionaire.’ “What was that, love?”

“Nothing!” you call back all too quickly.

“Well,” Michael turns his attention back to the amused baby, “if you’re not going to say that, maybe you can say...ball? Cereal? Dog?”

“Why don’t you just have ‘em recite the Declaration of Independence, while you’re at it?” You can’t resist to sneak in an insult as you re-enter the dining room, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of Michael while sitting down with your own.

“Remind me why I married you, again?”

“Probably my wit, or maybe my amazing personality.” You smile at him cheekily, the baby’s hand on your face drawing your attention away. “Hi, cutie. You keeping Daddy company?”

“Always,” Michael replies.

“So, about the Sanctuary,” you look back at Michael, getting down to business, “you promise that we aren’t going to have to stay underground forever?”

“I’ve promised you countless times before, and I’ll promise you countless times again. It’s only temporary until my father has deemed the world ready to be remade again.”

“I just don’t want to raise our child, and any future children we may have, in a f-u-c-k-i-n-g nuclear fallout shelter,” you spell out the curse word, really hoping that your child’s first word isn’t ‘fucking.’ “And what about when the end of the world does happen? I don’t know if I can be alone without you for weeks at a time.”

“You won’t be. I’m not going to go anywhere unless you are absolutely, one hundred percent okay with it. We’re a family, and I don’t think I could be alone without you for weeks at a time either.”

You take a sip of your coffee, nodding. “Thank you for this. I know it must be annoying to answer the same questions over and over again.”

“It’s not annoying, I would do anything if it meant you would feel better.” You smile, reaching your hand across the table and grasping his.

“Mama!” A little voice yells, obviously not pleased you’re looking elsewhere.

“Yeah, lovebug?” You hum, more focused on moving the food around your plate, until the voice calls your name again and your fork clatters to your plate in shock.

Michael’s head turns towards the baby, mouth hanging open. “Did you just...?”

“Mama!” The baby calls again, laughing at the shock that’s obvious on both your faces. 

“Bub’s first word!” You say, clapping your hands together in excitement.

“Seriously? All the practice we’ve done, and your first word is ‘mama?’“ Michael says in disbelief. Baby keeps repeating the word over and over, pleased at the reactions.

“What can I say, love, you’ll get it next time.”

Tag list: @khaleesimel @sammyt @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @langdonslove @heda-mikaelson @readsalot73 @jimmlangdon @sebastianshoe @girlycakepops @trimbooohgodplsnoooo @pastel-cloudz @nana15774 @queencocoakimmie @lichellaw @ccodyfern @lvngdvns @divinelangdon @ultragibbycentralworld @grim-adventures58 @trelaney @wroteclassicaly @starwlkers @hecohansen31 @hexqueensupreme

[psychadelickate]

House MD - House: Dad

Title: Dad Word Count: 1452 Fandom: House MD Pairing: None Characters: House. readerDaughter Rating: Teen Gif: Not Mine Requested: Anonymous Prompt: Okay i have a request for House Md. Could you please write something about being Houses daughter?

You’re seated at the last booth in the coffee shop. At this late hour, the place is empty, leaving your favorite seat unoccupied. Your table is littered with books and papers and your iPad is somewhere in the mess, but it doesn’t concern you right now. What does, is the Jane’s expression as she walks up to your booth. “(Y/N), the usual?” she asks and you nod your head. You’ve been coming to this place ever since you can remember, Jane coming to get you when your dad couldn’t. Jane is tall, dark haired, loud, warm and brown eyed and though she looks nothing like you, people often mistake her for your mom.  “How about you, honey?” she asks your best friend, who simply smiles at Jane and tells her she’s good with anything.  You both go back to the assignment due the next week after Jane leaves the two of you at the table. Both of you immersed in the files, you only look up when a gaggle of women enter the coffee shop and settle at the table closest to you.  They’re all well dressed, composed and older and you don’t need to guess they’re doctors here for the conference.  “So, what’s it feel like to be back in Princeton?” you hear one of the women ask another and you resist the urge to look up and eyeball them.  “It’s different,” comes the reply.  “And how do you think he’s going to react when he sees you’re in town?” comes the next question.  You guess she shrugs in answer because there’s no verbal one.  “Do you really think House has changed? He’s a drug addict. Brilliant and world renowned, there’s no getaway from that, but still a drug addict,” comes another voice and this time you feel your face flame. 

“And let’s not forget the kid that he got dumped with. Drug addicted father, mother who abandoned her. Who knows how she’s turned out?”  It’s too much for you to hear, and so you pack up your stuff with not much care. The world around you blurs for a second though it clears when you blink, but blurs up soon after and it takes you a little while to realise you’re silently crying.  You heave your backpack and walk out just as Jane walks to the table, plates in hand. You don’t have the strength or heart to tell her what you’ve just heard. You’re not sure where you want to go, but you find yourself on the forth floor of PPTH, walking toward your dad’s office. He’s in the middle of a diagnosing session with his ducklings but he sees you through the window and stops the session when he sees your expression.  He looks mutinous.  “Who,” he asks and you know he wants to know who’s responsible for the tear-tracks on your cheeks.  You look at the man before you, take him in, and you can’t equate him with the person those vile women were describing at the coffee shop.  Sure, your dad has pain issues with his leg; he’s never hidden that from you and with Uncle Wilson’s help he’s been able to manage the pain, somewhat. Yes, some days are worse than others, but you’ve never seen him popping pain pills, or injecting himself with opioids to forget about his pain.  What you see when you look at the man looking back at you is your dad. Your hero… Uncle Wilson often told you that you were the reason your dad become such a party-pooper and you always laughed it off but now… now you’re thinking about it.  Chase had talked about poker nights at the apartment, but you don’t remember living in an apartment and all the pictures of you since you were born were taken at the house you and your dad currently live in. Poker nights moved to your new home and boys nights decreased. You often heard Chase and Wilson complaining that your dad never joined them, but House always told you it was because he wanted to spend time with people he actually liked… Despite his leg pain, your dad was the one who taught you to ride a bike, without the training wheels. He was the one who cleaned and treated bruised and bloodied knees. He’d been the one to calm you down when you’d fractured your wrist falling off the monkey bars in the fifth grade and assured you it was fine to get a sky blue hard cast even though the nurse tried convincing you blue was for boys. Cooking, baking cupcakes, piano and guitar lessons were quality time he made available for you.  He was also the one who terrorised your dates if he didn’t like them, and to his credit, he was correct about ninety-five percent of the boys and thirty percent of the girls. You loved that he grilled them endlessly about their intentions toward with and with you, even though you made a show of protesting his behaviour in front of said dates. Your interest and love for medicine came from him. He was always explaining things to you, making learning as exciting he could for you and appreciated it. There was nothing your dad didn’t know or couldn’t do… “(Y/N),” you hear him call you though before you can answer his phone starts to ring.  You see the screen light up with Jane’s picture and you have no doubt she’s relating the coffee shop events to him… His expression changes from concerned to furious as Jane talks and you’re grateful his attention is off you for a few minutes.  The sound of heels clacking on the vinyl flooring gets your attention and you turn to see one of the women from the coffee shop walking toward your dad’s office.  The silence at her presence is deafening. Your dad’s ducklings have stopped quarrelling at are looking in shock at the woman. You’re clearly missing something here and its obviously something big.  “House,” she greets, but your dad is livid. You don’t have to hear his voice to know it, you can see it in his eyes.  “You need to leave,” he tells her and you note he hasn’t addressed her by name. Your dad’s anger doesn’t scare her and she continues talking as though he never asked her to leave.  “I want to see her,” the woman says.  “No.” There’s no explanation or reason.  “She’s mine too,” the woman says and the anger that your dad has been holding in blows out.  “Yours? Yours? Are you kidding me? You left her when she was three days old. Couldn’t wait to leave her on my doorstep because you didn’t want to have kids with a drug addict. And you needed to focus on your career. If she’s yours too, where were you when she had fevers that wouldn’t break for days, or when she cut her first tooth, or when she took her first steps or even said her first word? Where were you in the first grade when she had to do an oral presentation about her mother and she had no idea what to say, because she doesn’t know what having a mother feels like,” House is on a roll.  “You weren’t there!” he booms. “House,” the woman tries, but he’s done.  “For fifteen years you’ve missed every one of her milestones, every important event in her life, so no, you don’t get to meet her. She might have biologically inherited some genes from you, but everything else comes from me. She’s mine,” you hear your dad say.  And then just as suddenly as it started you see the fight leave your dad. He looks exhausted and older than he really is.  “Actually, she’s old enough to make her own choices so (Y/N) if you want to meet your mother and spend time with her, that’s up to you,” he tells you.  You, however, have no intention of doing so. Not when wounds are so raw and she’s hurt your dad so badly.  “I think you need to leave. And you can tell your posse of friends my dad isn’t a drug addict,” you tell her as you walk to your dad and hold onto his forearm.  He’s been your one constant in life and you’re not letting go of him anytime soon. Not for anything.  “It’s always been dad and I and I’m okay with that. We’ve done okay without you for fifteen years…” you don’t need to complete your sentence, she gets the meaning of it.  Your heart hurts at the sight of tears in her eyes, but you stay strong. That’s the most important lesson you’ve learnt from your dad…

Tag-list: @kyky9103 @diaryofafan17 @wefracturedmotivation @yeetmetohim @manicmarsupial @cameronmonaghantrashaf If you’d like to be tagged, let me know More house MD here