#whatever is wrong with me and whatever they are testing for are two distinct circles

[unpretty]

printing my own paperwork for bloodwork is the most annoying shit. like it's bad enough that they're going to charge me a stupid amount to test my blood again and find out all of my levels are fine and healthy again but having to see "morbidly obese" on the paperwork is a real insult to injury situation.

[meowdei]

Sukuna is not good at apologizing.

And you? You’re not good at letting go of grudges. The end result is a pretty nasty predicament—you’re mad at him, he’s mad that you’re mad at him, and you’re mad that he’s mad that you’re mad at him. It’s a full circle. The start point and the end point meet and you just don’t know where to begin.

He could always apologize, of course—that would be a lovely start. But he won’t. (He really should, though, you think. It’s his fault).

“Hey,” he says gruffly, “scoot over. ‘S my side.”

You’re taking up the entire bed. A petty, childish, and last resort sort of method to keep him away from you for the night because you don’t think you can handle dealing with him in such close proximity. And of course, you certainly won’t be taking the couch, so that naturally leaves only one option: him.

“Hey. Did’ya hear me?” He scowls, looking at you with deeply creased, deeply furrowed brows and an intense glare that makes you want to throw a pillow at his face. You refrain, however—but only because someone has to be the emotionally intelligent one of the two of you, and it certainly won’t be him. “I said move over—I’m tired as fuck and I wanna sleep.”

“Then sleep,” comes your unhelpful reply.

“They teach you this in the first grade,” he smiles thinly, eyes narrowed into slits as he gives you a sarcastic look, “but you actually have to lay down to sleep. Can’t do that if you hog the entire damn bed.”

“I’m sure they taught you what a couch was in first grade, too,” you counter—and as if to double down on your juvenile, stubborn display of spitefulness, you angle your body to take up more of his side of the bed. “Go ahead and use that if you wanna lay down so bad.”

“And they also teach you in first grade that the couch is bad for your damn fucking back, so move the fuck—”

You cut him off sharply with a rather snobby tone. “That’s not in the first grade curriculum. I don’t know what first grade you went to, but maybe that would explain some of the loose screws in your head.”

He’s had enough. Sukuna is not good at apologizing. And on most days, he’s not that good at being a boyfriend, either. Not by the general standards, anyway. He doesn’t say sweet words or coddle you very much. Sometimes, he’s awkward about affection and doesn’t quite know how to initiate physical touch. And, on most days, he can’t communicate his feelings properly, so they tend to come out wrong. Typically, that manifests in rough, unintentionally harsh words.

He’s not proud of it, but it’s not a switch he can exactly flip off in one day.

But one thing he is good at, however, is worming his way into your soft spot, anyway. It’s a very peculiar, very distinct part of you that for some unknown reason, opens up for him and puts up with his bullshit regardless of what that bullshit is. Fifty percent soft, sweet affection, and one hundred percent stupid, foolish devotion.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He debates it for a moment—because sometimes even Sukuna doesn’t dare test your limits—before he ultimately decides to go for whatever plan he’s scheming. It turns out his plan involves all two-hundred-something pounds of his bulky, muscled figure draping itself over your body with an exaggerated sigh from him. You flinch, gasping in shock, and he simply gets himself comfortable.

Sukuna is not good at apologizing.

Yet, somehow, he’s even worse at reading the room, evidently. You clearly don’t want him near you, but here he is, arguably closer to you now than he is on the average night.

“Sukuna!” You hiss, trying to push him off as you grumble under his weight, “get off! You asshole, you’re too heavy for—”

“Heavy?” He gasps, “this is considered body negativity.”

“Oh fuck off,” you scowl, “you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what, exactly?” He asks smugly.

Despite it all, there’s something surprisingly gentle about the way he lays on you. His head is perfectly situated to rest against your collarbone, his hands delicately have your hips in their hold, and half of his body is slotted between your legs to keep a good brunt of his weight off of you.

More than anything, he’s a weighted blanket than he is an aggravating boyfriend that you’re trying to avoid.

“Is everything a joke to you?” You glare.

He glares back. Equally as hard, equally as intense, but infinitely more infatuated underneath it all. “No,” he grumbles, “just don’t like goin’ to bed mad. So ‘m here whether you like it or not.”

Some part of you can’t help but soften at that. A small, fractional, tiny amount of you thinks…oh. Oh.

(And yes, there are certainly better ways to express: I would like to go to bed without being mad at each other because I love you too much, but he’s not perfect. Nowhere near it. That much is a known fact quite abundantly by now. But you know what he means, and in you’re being honest with yourself…well, it’s enough.

He’s always enough, even when he seems like he shouldn’t be.)

“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble stubbornly.

Your arms wrap around him tightly.

“And I’m still fuckin’ tired and sleepy. What’s your point?”

He tucks his head into the crook of your neck and inhales your scent.

You’re mad at Sukuna. And he’s tired of it. Sometimes, he’s not good at apologizing, and sometimes you’re stubborn about accepting it. In the end, your limbs tangle in bed like this, anyway. You think that’s the only part that really matters.

You sigh, pulling up the blanket to cover yourselves. (Mainly you. He just happens to be there, too, of course. But this isn’t for his warmth, too—it’s just for yours. How cold he is or isn’t through the night is of no concern to you.)

“Night,” he mumbles quietly after some time, “and…and sorry, or whatever. I…well, I just…you know?”

You snort softly at his attempt, giving in and letting your fingers weave into his soft, familiar strands of hair while he relaxes at the feeling.

“We’ll talk in the morning. I love you.”

He smiles a little into your neck. It’s barely-there, but it undoubtedly exists.

“Love you too.”

“A lot, right?” You ask cheekily.

It’s quiet for a moment. You think he’s going to tell you to shut up, or just go to sleep, already. Instead, there’s a hushed mumble of, “yeah. A lot. Now goodnight.”

(You fall asleep rather quickly after that—and admittedly, much easier than you would have if his body was on the couch and not with you.)

Cliche fights before bed that end with a begrudging petty cuddle sesh are my guilty pleasure. My crack if you will

[kraviolis]

(this is for my rival streamers au)

“OHO! You rascal! You can’t get away that easy!”

Joshua squeals in delight, kicking his feet and waving his arms, as Dr. Coomer holds him high in the air. 

It’s adorable and yet super weird to watch your professor and your son having such a good time together. You find yourself smiling at them, something warm blooming in your chest. Dr. Coomer blows a raspberry into Joshua’s cheek and makes him squeal again.

“Those two seem to be… getting along.” Dr. Bubby says. 

He’s sitting across from you, sipping at a glass of red wine. You almost wish you could ask for a glass, wanting to really soak yourself in the warmth of tonight, but unfortunately you still have to drive home.

“Yep,” You lean forward on the table, crossing your arms to hold you up. “Dr. Coomer’s actually really good with him.”

Dr. Bubby raises an eyebrow. “Of course he is. Harold’s always been good with kids.”

His tone of voice makes you feel like there’s something deeper going on there but you aren’t sure if it’s polite to ask about it. You turn your attention back to Joshua. He’s being chased around the living room now, somehow running with the confidence of someone that’s been able to walk for far longer than just a few months. 

(Jeez, has it already been a few months since he watched him take his first steps? It feels like it was just yesterday.)

(You suppose you understand what your mother meant when she said you weren’t allowed to grow up when you were a kid, now.)

Still, you can’t help but wonder. What was the extra meaning behind what he’d said about Dr. Coomer being good with kids? Did… did they have kids? No, no that doesn’t make sense. Neither of them had known that Joshua couldn’t read yet or chew steak on his own, despite being only a year old.

“If you have something to say it, then just say it.” Dr. Bubby cuts through your thoughts. You look at them, a little embarrassed at being caught. “Seriously. I don’t have all night, you know.”

“Sorry,” You rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “If— If it’s okay to ask… Do you two have any kids?”

Dr. Bubby chokes on his wine, coughing lightly. “Hell no! I don’t want a bunch of sticky-handed stupid little babies who can’t even read running around! I already have to deal with teaching at work- I’d fucking explode if I had to do it at home, too!”

“Yeah, no, that’s— that’s fair.” You don’t think you appreciate the implication that your son is stupid, but you shrug amicably anyways. He’s got a bit of a point.

“Besides, even if I wanted kids, neither of us can actually have any.” He admits and you frown sympathetically.

“Oh. I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Eh, it’s whatever. Never bothered me before.” He waves a hand, as if clearing away any attempt at compassion directed towards him. 

Dr. Bubby pauses, though, and sighs. Their eyes become downcast and they stare at their wine as they swirl it gently in the glass. 

“It’s never bothered me, but… Harold, on the other hand...”

You wait patiently, letting Dr. Bubby continue at his own pace. You glance over briefly and see Dr. Coomer investigating the living room bookshelf with Joshua, showing him the various knickknacks adorning the shelves. He tells him to be gentle and holds out a glass figurine, not letting him hold it but just allowing him to run his tiny fingers across it.

“Harold’s always wanted kids,” Dr. Bubby continues, his voice far softer than it has been, drawing your gaze back. “Long before we knew each other. Long before he even knew himself. But life… life is cruel, Gordon. Life doesn’t care about you, it doesn’t care about your dreams. And sometimes, you have to make choices that no one should ever have to make.”

Dr. Bubby’s hand is trembling in… what seems to be anger. He notices, shakes his head, and knocks back the last of his wine before sitting back and scowling at the table. You’re confused, unsure of what exactly he means. You go to say as much but pause when he looks up and meets your eyes. It’s like a shadow is blanketing their face, something from deep inside rising and making itself known in their eyes.

“Back then people like us, like me and Harold— sometimes we had to choose between having a family of our own or a chance to be ourselves. Harold was told he couldn’t be given hormones without also getting a hysterectomy. The risk was too great, they told him.” They growl, baring their teeth. You notice absentmindedly that his canines are sharper than they should be. “What a load of shit. They didn’t even know if there was a risk! You know how many studies have come out since then proving those bastards wrong?”

You open your mouth, trying to make sounds but it just isn’t working.

You… you hadn’t known. Not just about what your professor had gone through at the hands of medical institutions so long ago but also that Dr. Coomer and Dr. Bubby… they’re like you. 

(You feel a completely unexplainable comfort just knowing this, now. And a terrible understanding of what Dr. Bubby means by having to make an impossible choice.)

“I… yeah.” You manage to say, eventually. “I probably read through every study about that stuff when… when I first started transitioning. That’s… God, I— I can’t even imagine being forced to make that choice.”

Bubby narrows his eyes sharply. He circles a finger around the rim of his glass and you have a sudden but distinct feeling of being thoroughly examined, all of you on display and ready to be judged. He squints more intensely, tilts his head, and then relaxes again. 

...Test passed, apparently.

“...Of course you are.” He mutters, crossing his arms. “Right. Should’ve guessed.”

You quirk your lips, half-smiling. “Trans people tend to gravitate towards each other, I’ve found. Even unknowingly.”

Dr. Bubby barks out a laugh, throwing their head back. “Ha! That’s more true than you know, but that’s a story for another time.” He nods towards the living room. “Looks like someone had a little too much fun, over there.”

You blink and then turn. You find Dr. Coomer and Joshua on the couch, your professor snoring away while Joshua is still wide awake, sitting in his lap and tapping randomly on your professor’s phone. You laugh quietly, watching the scene fondly, and see Dr. Bubby looking on with the same dopey expression in the corner of your eye.

“...It’s getting late. I should get going before Joshua starts getting overtired.” You groan as you stand, stretching. Dr. Bubby follows you with a more grumpy groan. “Should— should we leave him asleep?” 

“No, no, he’ll want to say goodnight. Also, he’ll fuck up his back if he stays there.” They say. “You get your shit. I’ll wake him up.”

You gather everything up, grabbing whatever toys you brought and stuff it all back into Josh’s diaper bag. Dr. Coomer wakes back up thanks to his husband poking his face hard enough and quickly saves himself from being locked out of his phone for too long. You pick up Joshua before he can complain about losing his new toy.

Dr. Coomer walks you out, smiling sleepily and waving goodbye to both of you. You thank him for having you over.

“The pleasure is all mine. It was a delight to have you and your boy over for dinner, Gordon.” Dr. Coomer insists.

“No!” Joshua wiggles in your arms, making a sad noise and grabby hands at your professor. He chuckles warmly and lets Joshua grab his fingers, giving him a small handshake. 

“We sure had a blast tonight, eh? But you’re still growing, and you need your rest.” Joshua’s lip wobbles and Dr. Coomers expression falls. “Oh, dear, please don’t cry. Keep your chin up. Goodbyes are tough, I know, but you’re even tougher.”

He punctuates this by pushing Joshua’s chin up gently with his fist. There’s a softness in the gesture that makes your heart melt. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much to prevent Josh’s eyes from starting to glisten.

“Hey, it’s okay, Joshie.” You smile at Joshua, getting his attention. “We can come back and visit next week! But you have to ask if it’s okay first.” 

You look at Dr. Coomer in time to see his expression brighten at your words. Joshua turns to look at him too. 

“Pease?” He asks, not quite able to say the word, but it still makes your professor’s eyes mist up anyways.

He kneels down to look up at Joshua, taking his small hand in his much bigger one with a touching amount of gentleness. 

“I would love nothing more, my dear.”

[webslinger-holland]

Baby Holland | Tom Holland

Summary: A compilation of cute little moments during the reader’s unplanned pregnancy with Baby Holland…

Warning: major cuteness and mentions of pregnancy

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Type: Oneshot (I will write more of these if requested)

MASTERLIST

The early morning sun was starting to rise. The vibrant colors of the sunrise were spreading across the long length of the skyline. The yellow sunlight was filtering through the light white clouds, signaling the end of the rainy season. The air was very clear.

The air was so cold yet the trees were on fire. The leaves were showcasing those nice vibrant colors of red, orange, and yellow. The grass was just starting to dry out in the fall season. The water droplets were lingering on the tops of the velvety green leaves of the large forest trees. The puddles were making the ground nice and damp. It was fall.

The pretty songbirds were flying through the blue skyline, heading towards the rough dry ground. The little birds were hopping around, pecking at the ground. Afterwards, the little birds would return back to the quaint little nests in the heights of the tallest trees. A new batch of little baby birds were lingering in the rustic contents of the warm nest, opening their little beaks in a demanding manner. The little squeaks of the baby birds were signaling the beginning of their never ending appetites.

At the given moment, Y/N had been sleeping the whole morning away with her dear sweet husband. She could feel her husband’s forearm wrapped around her waist, gently coaxing her into his grasp. Her back was pressed against his bare chest, so she wasn’t able to see his sleeping figure. She weaved her fingers through his own that lay across her stomach, savoring the sweet moment between the two of them.

However, she could feel this strong wave of nausea taking over her senses. Her stomach was lurching in a rough manner, gurgling with the most unpleasant noise. She tasted something tangy at the back of her throat. She tried to force down the bile, but it wouldn’t do any good. 

Without hesitation, Y/N had forced herself to scramble out of her bed. She had hurried towards the master bathroom, slamming the wood door open in desperation. She didn’t even acknowledge that the noise had awoken her sleeping husband. She dropped down to her knees in front of the toilet bowl, feeling the vomit coming up her throat.

Her body heaved. She couldn’t seem to stop the chunks of food covered in the creamy chyme from coming out of her mouth. Her stomach kept on contracting violently and forcing everything out of her system. 

She didn’t even notice the gentle fingers pulling her long hair out of her face. Her dear husband was towering over her smaller figure, staring down at her with a look of concern on his face. He rubbed her back in a very soothing manner, whispering some words of encouragement to her. 

The vomit came up looking like clam chowder and smelling like pure acid. The wave of nausea was slowly starting to subside within her body. The pungent stench invaded her nostrils and she heaved even though there was nothing left in her.

Her throat felt sore from the stomach acid that was layering it. Her mouth was coated in the strong aftertaste of her own vomit. Her soft eyes were starting to water at the awful feeling in her stomach. She whimpered to herself. She just felt absolutely horrible. And she had for quite some time.

“This is the fifth time this week,” Tom claimed. He did not hesitate to lean down to plant a soft kiss on the top of her head. He slipped his hand around her body, rubbing her stomach to soothe her. He looked down at her. “Don’t you think we should take you to see the doctor?” Tom questioned.

“I am sure that it’s nothing to worry about, Tom.” She dismissed him. She wiped the back of her hand against her mouth, cleaning the small amount of residue forming at the corner of her mouth. She made a noise of disgust. “We had dinner at that exotic place that week. It just didn’t agree with me,” she claimed.

“I would still like to be sure,” Tom whispered. He turned his head to look down at her, waiting for some kind of response. He could see the faint nodding of her head, which meant that she was compliant with him. He smiled at her weakly. “I am gonna get your coat and shoes,” Tom said.

Slowly, Tom excused himself to that he could gather their things. He walked into the bedroom, heading towards the dresser on the other side of the room. He pulled out a random shirt, throwing it over his head. He also grabbed one of his old sweatshirts. He took the car keys off the top of the dresser. 

Meanwhile, Y/N had closed the lid of the toilet. She flushed the contents of her stomach, so that she wouldn't have to look or smell it every again. She forced herself to stand to her feet, feeling slightly uneasy with each step. She stood in front of the mirror, staring at her own reflection in the glass mirror.

She looked absolutely miserable. She had these dark circles underneath her eyes from the distinct lack of sleep. Her long locks of hair were tangled and tousled with knots. She wasn’t wearing any makeup either, which only added to the fact that she looked like a complete mess. She almost couldn’t stand to look at herself.

For some unknown reason, Y/N had thought of something that was given to her a long time ago. She wondered if that thing might be able to help her identify whatever was happening to her body. She also knew exactly where she had kept the little trinket.

Hesitantly, Y/N had dropped back down to her knees in front of the cupboard underneath the sink. She opened the doors of the cabinet. She started searching through the various feminine supplies and rolls of toilet paper, finding the little box at the back of the cupboard. She held a pregnancy test in her hands.

She could clearly remember when the pregnancy test was given to her. It was on the night of her bachelorette party nearly two years ago. It had been a gift from her closest friends. It was meant to be a sort of ‘gag gift.’ 

She didn’t think much of it at that time. She simply threw it under her sink so that—if she ever needed it—she would be able to find it easily in its convenient spot. Now she would finally have need of it after two years.

With shaky hands, Y/N flipped the small box over so that she would be able to read the instructions. She lifted her hand to close the bathroom door, heading back towards the toilet bowl. She was able to finish every single step within a few moments. She set the test on the back of the bowl.

In the meantime, Y/N was trying to brush her teeth in the most thorough manner. She just wanted to get the disgusting taste of bile out of her mouth. When she had finished brushing her teeth, she had decided to splash some water on her face. She cleaned her hands with a small towel, glancing towards the small test through the corner of her eye. It wouldn’t be long now.

The small cheap beeping noise had started coming from the pregnancy test on the back of the toilet bowl. The final result would either show one line for negative or two lines for positive. It wasn’t the most accurate thing sometimes.

She had forced herself to walk towards the small test. She was very hesitant to take the test into her hands, but she was able to do it. She had dropped her gaze to stare down at the results, feeling her breath hitching in the back of her throat. She could see two evident lines on the test. She was pregnant.

Slowly, Y/N had walked out of the bathroom with the small test in her hands. She had watched her husband scurrying around the bedroom in attempts to collect every single little thing that they might need for the drive. She called his name.

“Are you ready to go?” Tom questioned. He had turned to look towards her in his own place, but he had stopped in his tracks upon seeing the fresh tears gathering in her eyes. His heart had practically dropped into his stomach at the mere sight. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Tom wondered.

“It’s not food poisoning,” Y/N whispered. She had shook her head at her own comment. She had forced herself to swallow the heavy lump lingering at the back of her throat. She could feel the new salty tears streaming down her face.

“It’s not? What is it then?” Tom challenged. He had shifted to take one single step forward in his place, staring at her with a strong hint of curiosity in his brown eyes. He couldn’t imagine what would have been wrong. 

“I’m...I’m pregnant,” Y/N choked on her own choice of words. She was hesitant to show him the small test in her hands. She could feel a sudden buildup of emotions gathering in the back of her mind, which took over her senses with such ease. She didn’t know how her husband was going to react. 

However, Tom was barely able to process his own emotions that were coursing through his train of thought. He felt a strong sense of shock and surprise, but he also felt an insane amount of happiness in the depths of his heart. He couldn’t even find the right words to express his emotions to her. 

“You’re pregnant?” Tom whispered. 

“It makes sense,” Y/N claimed. She was quick to list the various symptoms that she had been experiencing lately that would have correlated with the signs of pregnancy. “I have been so nauseas recently. I have these mood swings all the time. I didn’t even realize it at first, but I was also late on my period.” She confessed.

Her husband was still trying to process the mere thought in his mind. He was almost thinking too hard about it. He had only briefly talked about having kids with her. He told her that he wanted to wait a few years after they had gotten married. He defiantly wasn't expecting this, but he was completely overjoyed at the thought. 

“You are angry with me. You said that you didn’t want to have any kids right away—” she had started to ramble.

“What? No!” Tom exclaimed. He took a few steps in his place. He stood directly in front of her. He brought his hands to the sides of her face, rubbing her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. He could feel the smile growing at the corners of his lips. “I am just surprised. We are having a baby,” Tom sighed.

In response, Y/N found herself smiling at his sweet words. She had released a small breathy laugh before nodding her head in confirmation. She stared up at him with a spark in her eyes, thinking about their bright future together with a little one on the way. She couldn’t wait for it.

His lips brush against her own in the most passionate kiss. His lips was warm and gentle. He slanted her head further, deepening the kiss. His hands were wrapped around her waist and her arms locked around his neck to pull him down slightly. His smile would only grow bigger. 

Within a few moments, the two of them were forced to pull away from each other. He drew her closer to him. He had lifted her off the floor as if she didn’t weight anything at all. His strong forearms were tightly wrapped around her small waist, holding her against him. He began nuzzling her neck with delicate kisses. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear. 

“That’s...that’s wonderful,” Tom smiled. He was very hesitant to lower her back onto the ground, because he wanted nothing more than to just hold her in his arms forever. He looked down at her like she just had handed him the whole world. “It’s absolutely wonderful. You’re wonderful,” Tom breathed.

“We should schedule an appointment with the doctor,” Y/N suggested. She grabbed onto his hand in her own, lacing their fingers together. She pressed one quick kiss to his lips. She smiled brightly up at him. “We can confirm it there,” Y/N concluded.

It had been nearly an entire week before the young couples scheduled appointment at the doctor’s office. They were currently waiting in the small examination room. They were just waiting for the doctor to come back with the test results.

Currently, Tom was pacing the short stretch of the room. He had the very tip of his thumb in his mouth, biting down on his nails out of habit. He just had this uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re making me nervous,” Y/N confessed. She had a strong look of concern and worry on her face. She had dropped her gaze to stare down at her hands in her lap, fiddling with her fingers in a nervous manner. She let out a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry,” Tom sighed. He didn’t mean to make her nervous, but he was very impatient to find out the test results. He walked across the small room, settling down in the seat next to her. He took her hand in his own.

In that moment, the doctor had opened the door and walked into his office. He was sure to close the door behind him for privacy reasons. He shuffled to stand in front of the young couple, stopping in his place. He was holding onto a clipboard in his hands, which no doubt had the test results on them. He smiled at them.

“I should congratulate you! It looks like your tests came back positive,” the doctor claimed. He had just briefly flipped through the pages on his clipboard. He was able to determine that she was eight weeks into her pregnancy. “You are pregnant,” he confessed.

The couple had turned their heads to look at each other with wide smiles on their faces. The doctor wanted to do an ultrasound just to check the baby’s vitals and to make sure the baby was healthy. 

The doctor started to prepare the ultrasound machine. He flipped a few switches and clicked a few buttons. The expecting future mother was currently laying examiner’s table. She lifted her shirt just high enough to expose her flat stomach. The doctor had smeared this cool gel onto her stomach, shifting to move the cursor through the weird sticky stuff.

Suddenly, a heavy thumping sound was starting to come from the machine. The tiny tympanic heartbeat was the only sign that a new life had begun within her. However, that would soon change when the screen’s monitor showed the a black and white fuzzy picture. There was a very small figure in the center of the screen. It was the baby.

At eight weeks, the baby was about the size of a small berry. He pointed out that the head was here and the body was there. He claimed that baby’s vitals were perfectly normal. He also said that the baby was perfectly healthy and growing naturally. He took a few pictures of the screen to print out for them.

“Would you look at that? That’s our baby,” Tom said with the biggest smile on his face. He was just staring down at the little picture in his hands, claiming that he was going to put it in his wallet so he could keep it close to him. He pecked his wife’s lips in a loving manner. “I love you,” Tom whispered.

When it came time to tell their friends and family about the news of their pregnancy, the young couple decided that they only wanted to tell a few select people for privacy reasons. They wanted to keep the pregnancy out of the public press. 

They were going to tell the family during their weekly family dinner with both sides of the family. The Holland family was hosting this week’s dinner. They had also invited Harrison over for dinner. 

The two of them found themselves heading towards the front door of his childhood home. They had stopped to stand in front of the door. They had rung the doorbell on the side of the door, waiting patiently by themselves. They could hear the faint footsteps coming closer. They had watched the door swing wide open to revel both of their parents on the other side. 

“There they are,” Nikki exclaimed. She was quick to pull both of them into the house. She had closed the door behind them. She had basically flung her arms around her son’s taller frame, pulling him down to her height. She kissed his check affectionately.

“My dear,” Sarah (her mom) smiled. She wrapped her arms around her dear daughter, squeezing her tightly. She almost didn’t want to let her go, but she did eventually. She was already rambling on about how her daughter never came to visit her anymore. 

Her dad had come to stand beside her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, bringing her smaller figure into his side in a loving manner. He pressed a small kiss on the top of her head. He pulled away from her. He had turned his head to look towards his son-in-law, taking one single step forward to address him.

“How are you, son?” He wondered. He didn’t seem to smile at him. He was standing directly in front of him. He was probably trying to seem intimidating to him. He gave him a firm hand shake. 

“I’m good, sir,” Tom answered politely. He had released his father-in-law’s hand, lowering it back down to his side. He nodded his head in acknowledgment. “It’s very nice to see you again, Mr and Mrs Y/L/N,” Tom stated with a small smile on his face.

In the background, the three brothers were trying to hush the dog who just kept barking. The boys would head towards the group to greet their own brother and only sister-in-law. They headed into the living room to keep talking with each other.

During dinner, the whole family was sitting around the table. The two fathers were sitting on either end of the table. On the the far side of the table, Nikki and Sarah were sitting beside each other along with Harry and Harrison. On the opposite side of the table, the young couple was sitting with Sam and Paddy.

The soft sound of silverware clinking and clanging against the plates could be heard very distinctly. The small talk was very brief. The boys were mostly talking about Harry’s new film that they were shooting in the backyard. The young couple had been silently for most of the meal because they didn’t know how to bring up the baby. 

Slowly, Tom had turned his head to look at his wife sitting beside him. He could tell that she wasn't really engaged in the conversation, because her mind was somewhere else. His hand found its way to her thigh. He squeezed her thigh in a reassuring manner, subconsciously bringing her back from her thoughts.

“You have been very quiet this evening,” John (her dad) spoke up. He had turned his head to glance between the two of them, catching the unspoken communication happening during dinner. He raised his eyebrows at them. “What’s on your mind?” He wondered.

“We have something that we would like to share with you,” Y/N said. She grabbed onto her husband’s hand under the table, glancing at him through the corner of her eye. She released a shaky breath. “We...we are going to have a baby,” Y/N confessed.

There was a moment of silence that had honestly felt like an absolute eternity. The whole family was simply trying unpack the load that had just been handed to them. The young couple were studying each of the family members, searching for some kind of reaction from them.

“Y-You’re pregnant?” Her mother was the very first person to speak. She spoke in a tone of disbelief. Her eldest daughter had only nodded her head in response. She smiled at her. 

“I knew it,” Sam said with a triumphant smile on his face. He had turned his head to look across the small stretch of the table, pointing a finger towards his twin brother. “You owe me money,” Sam stated. 

“Oh my god!" Her mother screamed. Her mother had screamed so loudly that it had practically startled every other person sitting at the table. She stood up from the table. She did not hesitate to run towards her, throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. She was still sitting in her chair so her head was resting against her mother’s own stomach. Her body visibly relaxed at her reaction, melting into her mother’s embrace.

“You’re pregnant with our first grandbaby,” Nikki exclaimed. She had lifted her hand to cover her mouth in slight disbelief. Her smile was starting to grow at the corners of her lips. She had a few tears in her eyes too.

Meanwhile, her father had also stood to his feet. He had turned his head to look directly at his son-in-law, taking a few steps towards him. In response, Tom had stood up very quickly out of respect. He wondered if his father-in-law was going to punch him for impregnating his daughter. He was instead pulled into a hug.

For a brief moment, Tom was so shocked that he kept his arms at his sides. He had always known that his father-in-law was never a really emotional or sentimental man. When his father-in-law had pulled away from him, he could see the fresh tears in his eyes.

“You are a good man, Tom. You must be sure to take good care of them now,” her father explained. He had forced himself to clear his throat. He had tried to lower his voice to hide the fact that he was crying tears of joy. 

“Yes sir. I will,” Tom said. He had turned his head head to look down at his wife beside him, feeling a strong sense of protectiveness overtake him. He placed a hand on her shoulder. And he smiled down at her. 

For the rest of the night, the whole family was only talking about the new baby. The two mothers were now fawning and fretting over the expecting mother in their midst. The two fathers wanted to share some advice with the young couple. The four boys were bickering about who was going to be the best uncle out of all of them. The boys had also started to place bets down on the gender of the baby. And the young couple were able to tell that the whole family was just as excited for the baby as they were. 

At thirteen weeks, the baby bump was finally starting to show little by little. She found it very difficult to get into her jeans. She jumped up and down in hopes of getting her pants higher onto her waist. She just wasn’t able to secure the bottom. She would eventually just get frustrated enough that she would switch out her jeans for leggings. 

She was (at first) very self-conscious about her baby bump. She would even wonder if the baby bump wasn’t a baby at all. She had been having these insanely weird food cravings recently. She combined some of the weirdest foods together like pickles and ice cream or bacon and peanut butter. 

One night, Tom had turned to wrap his arm around his wife’s waist in their shared bed. He was greatly disappointed to find that his wife was not even in their bed. He quickly climbed out of bed to go find her. 

She was currently sitting on the large plush couch in the living room. She had a heavy blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She had a small tub of ice cream resting on the top of her baby bump. She dug her spoon into the tub of ice cream. Then she stuffed the silver spoon into her mouth, sobbing uncontrollably to herself. 

She said that she didn’t feel beautiful with the baby bump because she was convinced that it wasn’t a baby bump at all. She believed that her baby bump was actually just her gaining weight from the weird food combos. Her husband had to convince her that she was absolutely beautiful to him. He also said that it was just the baby growing inside her. 

Thankfully, her doctor was also able to reassure her that it was a baby bump. She was right at the end of her first trimester, so it was completely normal and natural that her baby bump would start showing now. She felt so relieved to hear that. 

For a while, she felt bad that her dear husband had to put up with her weird food cravings and her unpredictable mood swings. She had known that it was apart of the process, but that didn’t stop her from feeling bad about it. She would always apologize to him afterwards. And she was rewarded with a soft and sweet kiss from him.

Every night, Tom liked to lay down on the top of her legs with his head right in front of the baby bump. He would always start by lifting her shirt up to expose her growing stomach. He rubbed his hands on the sides of her stomach in a soothing and reassuring manner. He would pepper kisses on her bare skin, which tickled her sometimes. He also liked to talk to the baby even if the baby couldn’t hear him yet.

During the seventeenth week of pregnancy, Y/N was able to feel the baby move for the first time. It had practically taken her breath away at first. She pressed her hand down to the side of her stomach, practically searching for the place the baby had moved.

With each day, the baby was starting to become more active in her stomach. The baby’s turns and kicks were getting more frequent and more obvious. She was slowly getting used to the fluttery feeling happening inside of her. 

During one of Tom’s night sessions with the baby bump, the baby had actually responded to him with a sharp and strong kick in her side. It had caused her to grunt and press her hand to the side of her stomach. She had closed her eyes and breathed out slowly.

“Are you okay? Is something wrong?” Tom asked. He was looking at her with a strong sense of worry and concern in the depths of his eyes. He was quick to grab onto her hand to comfort her. He kissed the back of her hand.

Without hesitation, Y/N had shifted his hand down the side of her stomach. She had pressed his warm palm against the specific spot where she felt the baby kick. She had hoped the baby would kick again.

“Come on, baby. Your daddy wants to feel you kicking,” she said in the sweetest and softest tone of voice. Her heart had almost jumped out of her chest upon feeling another prominent kick coming from the exact same spot on her stomach. She laughed at the feeling.

“Oh my. You can really feel him kicking in there,” Tom said with a big smile on his face. He didn’t even catch the specific pronoun that had come out of his mouth. He had probably just said it subconsciously. He pressed a sweet kiss to the spot. He grew to love his baby more with each passing day.

The baby shower was going to be held at the young couple’s house. The whole family was taking care of the various things that needed to get done before the guests arrived. The three brothers were suppose to be inflating pink and blue balloons, but it just turned into them ‘accidentally’ letting them loose on each other. The mothers were working diligently in the kitchen, preparing various snacks for the guests. It felt like things were really starting to come together.

However, when the soon-to-be mother had finally come down the stairs, she had wanted to help with some of the last minute details. She had tried to bend down to grab one of the streamers, but the whole family had just yelled at her. They said that she needed to sit down and relax because everything was already going to be taken care of and she didn’t need to worry about anything. She just sighed to herself, sitting down on the couch next to the dog.

Once the guests had begun to arrive at the house, the baby shower was able to start. The couple had decided that they weren’t going to find out the baby’s gender until he/she was born. There was a small bowl in the center of the coffee table where the guests could write down their guess on the baby’s gender and place it in the bowl. The three brothers were able to collect the papers, counting out how many people had voted for a girl and how many people had voted for a boy.

It was no surprise that her own mother and mother-in-law had said that they wanted their grandbaby to be a girl. Now Nikki only had four boys of her own. She wanted a granddaughter that she could spoil rotten with gifts and gowns. However, the Holland boys were absolutely convinced that the baby was going to be a boy for “obvious reasons.” The young couple really didn’t care about the gender right now. They just hoped that the baby would be healthy when it came into the world.

The guests’ gifts had consisted of an endless supply of diapers and bottles. They also received various baby creams, lotions, and powders. There was only one present left to open. 

“Who is this one from?” Y/N wondered. She had been given the last present by her personal helper (Paddy). She didn’t even notice the small blush on his cheeks. She had grabbed onto the small tag on the side, reading the name of her little brother-in-law. “Is this from you, Paddy?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Paddy nodded shyly. He was fiddling with his fingers in a nervous manner, feeling slightly uncomfortable with all the adults looking directly at him. He pointed to the small bag. “It used to be mine but I am getting too old now. I wanted to give it to your baby,” Paddy claimed

“Oh Paddy,” Y/N said with a small swoon. She found a small brown teddy bear in the bag. The brown bear’s fur did look slightly worn and old. The teddy bear smelled like lavender, which meant that it had been thrown into the wash just recently. Now the teddy bear had soft brown fur, a button nose, and silky paws. It was just perfect. 

“The baby will love it,” Tom said with a bright smile. He had turned his head to look over at his youngest brother, tilting his head to nod at him. He wanted to give his brother at hug at the sweet gesture, but he knew that it would only embarrass him further. 

It was starting to become much later in the day. The guests had started to take their leave until there were no guests in the house at all. The whole family pitched in the clean up the mess that was left. The boys were currently picking up the wrapping paper from the presents in the living room. The girls were working to clean and wash the dishes in the kitchen.

The Holland boys been ordered by their dearest mother to carry the various gifts out to the car. This would quickly turn into a competition to see who could carry the most gifts. Of course, Paddy was trying to balance an entire tower of presents in his hands and Sam tried to stack some on his head. It only resulted in some of the presents being dropped onto the ground. They were thankful that their mother didn’t see that.

At the end of the day, Tom and Y/N would drive back to their own house which was only a few blocks away from them. She wanted to help him carry the gifts into the house, but he insisted that he could carry them by himself. She would direct him to bring the various presents into the only spare bedroom in their small house, which they intended to convert into a nursery. They would have to start working on that sooner or later. 

The whole week had been dedicated to cleaning out the second bedroom in their small house. They were going to start to convert it into a nursery this next week. The young couple had decided to paint the walls with a mild grey tone, because it was a pretty neutral color. It was also very clean and bland. 

Now Tom and Haz had taken a few days to paint the whole nursery. At first, they didn’t buy enough paint for the whole room. They had to go back to the store to buy more. The only problem was that they bought the wrong shade of grey in the nursery. They had only realized this until they had painted half the wall. The two boys would have to go back to the store again.

At the moment, Y/N was twenty-three weeks into her pregnancy. She had found herself spending most of her time off her feet because they were starting to swell. Her neck was constantly stiff and her back was killing her. She wasn’t able to really relax with the whole baby thing. 

Today, Y/N and Tom were planning on going out to the shops to pick out various pieces of furniture for the nursery. He had wanted his brothers (including Haz) to tag along with them so that they could help him lift the heavier furniture. She had already ordered some decorations to put in the nursery, but now they needed some other essential items.

"Why don't Sam and Harry look for some gender neutral onesies, sleep suits, and rompers? I’ll have Tom and Haz start looking for a carseat and a good stroller. And Paddy and I will look for a crib/craddle and a changing table,” Y/N said with a small smile on her face. 

At once, Sam and Harry had hurried to find a cart for themselves. They were immediately headed towards the clothing aisle near the back of the store. In the meantime, Y/N had found herself reaching down to grab onto Paddy’s hand. She started leading him in the right direction, shifting towards the large furniture section of the store. Finally, Tom and Haz had started off on their own journey to find the things.

Currently, Sam and Harry were standing in front of the clothing racks that were specifically for baby boys. They really didn’t know where to start, so they just started grabbing each of the outfits on the racks. The two twins would simply toss each piece of clothing into the cart. 

“What size will he come out as?” Sam wondered. He was quick to find the small tag on the back collar of the clothes that indicated the size of the infant. He had turned his head to look at his brother standing beside him, tilting his head for some kind of explanation. 

“He’ll be a big boy. That’s for sure,” Harry smiled. The two twins had basically cleaned out the small store, buying every single baby boy outfit in biggest size possible. They had a strong feeling that the baby was going to be a boy. They really didn’t have any regrets.

Meanwhile, Tom and Haz were reading the directions on the back of the box for a special stroller. The two of them were able to find different brands of strollers, carriers, and carseats. They had already added a certain carrier and carseat to their cart. 

“It’s like building a rocket,” Tom exclaimed. He had just briefly read some of the directions on the back of the box, finding that he didn’t know most of the names of the parts. He didn’t think it would be an easy task. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Tom confessed

“I can help you assemble it,” Haz said. He had shrugged his his shoulders at the notion, stating that it couldn’t be that hard to put it together. He sent him a small smile.

With a simple nod the the head, Tom and Haz had managed to hoist the heavy box into the cart. They were already able to get everything on their list. The two of them started to head down the long length of the aisle, shifting to round the sharp corner. The next aisle was full of books! 

Hesitantly, Tom had found himself turning into the book aisle. He was taking a quick glance at the titles of the books. He had grabbed one book that was called “What To Expect When You Are Expecting.” He silently wondered if he should take some of these books home with him. He placed the book in the cart.

In the other aisle, Y/N and Paddy were carefully studying the different displays of baby furniture. The two of them would take their time and stop to look at one. They were able to point out their favorite features of the furniture piece, but they were also able to find some flaws (wrong color or weird design). 

There was a large white crib with thick bars and a shelf that had drawers built into the side. There was also a white changing table which was an added addition to the set. The furniture was quite expensive.

“Do you like that one?” Tom asked.

In response, Y/N had practically jumped at his words. She had shifted to face him, scolding him for scaring her so badly. She was able to look back towards the matching furniture, mentally imagining what the two pieces would look like in the nursery at home. 

“I love it,” Y/N confessed. She ran her hand across the smooth wood. She didn’t want to look at the price tag again, but she had to face reality. She sighed to herself, shaking her head at the thought of spending so much money. “But the price is too—”

“Don't worry about the price,” Tom cut her off. He had taken one single step forward in his place, shifting his hand to the side of her waist. He pressed one soft kiss against her temple. He smiled at her. “I’ll buy it for you. I’ll buy you anything you want,” Tom said. 

Within a few moments, Tom and Haz were trying to maneuver one of the boxes into the cart. The two of them were shouting directions at each other, telling one to go right or the other to go left. They were finally able to get one of the boxes into the cart, but they still had one more box to lift and carry into the cart.

In that moment, Sam and Harry had been able to rejoin the group. The two of them were told to grab one of the corners so that they could turn the box onto the side. This was defiantly the heavier piece of furniture out of the two. In the end, the four of them were just able to get the fine furniture into the shopping cart. 

In the background, Y/N had found herself wandering down the long length of the aisle. She had stopped to stand in front of a white rocking chair with a teddy bear on the seat. She could see that the chair also came with an ottoman. She had looked over the small stretch of her shoulder, silently pleading for permission from her dear husband. She didn’t need much to persuade him.

It was trial and effort. The four boys had been trying to carry the two big boxes up the stairs and into the nursery. The four of them kept having to readjust their grip or change the general direction. The boys had been shouting commands at each other for the past hour. They were able to get the big boxes into the nursery at last.

The Holland boys had just finished unboxing the heavy furniture. They had thrown the bubble wrap and packing peanuts in the trash. The boys were now left to assemble the whole thing. 

At one point, Sam and Harry had been trying to translate the directions for the crib which they were convinced had been written in another language. That language had turned out to be French, so they flipped the piece of paper over to read it in English. 

Meanwhile, Tom and Haz had been looking at the various labels on each piece. They had tried to organize the parts in an orderly manner, but they quickly found that random parts and pieces would be put together. They just couldn’t make any sense of it. 

“We need to attack Point B to Point E on part six and then turn counter clockwise until Point A is parallel to Point U on part ten,” Harry read aloud. He had lifted his head to peer over the edge of the paper, looking at the various parts in front of him. 

“Cause that makes perfect sense,” Tom sighed. His voice was laced with complete frustration and confusion. He ran his hand through his hair. He frowned down at the pile of parts in front of him.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Y/N suggested. She was currently standing in the doorframe of the nursery, staring into the small nursery from the hallway. She had subconsciously placed her hand on her stomach.

“No. I can do this. I’m the father,” Tom explained. He had waved his hand in dismissal. He had turned his head to look towards the piece of paper, taking two of the parts listed in his hands. He was able to connect them together.

Slowly, the white crib and changing table were starting to take on a familiar form. The directions had actually made some sense. The tools and power tools were being used to secure every single nail/screw into place. The furniture had been assembled by a team of ‘professionals.’

Nearly three hours later, Y/N had walked into the small nursery with a tray of glass of lemonade. She had basically gasped at the beautiful sight in front of her. Her baby’s nursery was perfectly put together. 

The white crib was pressed against the farthest and darkest wall of the small nursery. The white changing table was laying underneath the window. The matching rocking chair was lingering in the corner of the room with the ottoman at its feet. The closet was full of baby (boy) clothes. There were a few miscellaneous stuffed animals scattered across the floor. It looked absolutely perfect to the expecting mother.

Instantly, Y/N had placed the tray of drinks onto the top of the table. She walked straight towards her dear husband who was still kneeling on the ground, securing the last screw into place. She had placed her hand on her stomach in an affectionate manner.

“It’s perfect, Tom. He will love it,” Y/N said with the biggest and brightest smile on her face. She had lifted her hand to touch the white wooden railing of the baby crib, running her hand across the smooth wood. She just couldn’t wait to see her baby in that very crib in a few short weeks.

“How do you know it’s a boy?” Tom wondered. He had turned his head to look at his wife standing over him, quirking his eyebrow at her choice of pronoun. He was most amused by her words. He smirked at her.

“I just do,” she boasted. She had shrugged her shoulders at her sides. She had forced herself to keep a frown on her face, but it was hard for her to keep her poker face. She could feel the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“What if I want a girl?” Tom challenged. He was now playing along with her little game. He had subconsciously shifted his hands to the sides of her stomach, rubbing her large stomach in a soothing manner. He hummed under his breath.

“No. You’re not getting one,” she claimed. She couldn’t keep her smile hidden anymore. She had placed her hands on the stretch of his shoulders. She was quick to lean down to his level, pressing one soft kiss on his life. 

“Is that so?” Tom smiled. He had shifted his hands through her long locks of hair, shuffling his hand to the back of her neck to keep her close to him. He could feel her move to perch on his knee. He slanted his head to the side to deepen the kiss. 

“Yuck!” Paddy called. “They’re kissing.”

For the past few weeks leading up the the baby’s birth, Tom had spent most of his time worrying about his heavily pregnant wife. He was constantly standing right beside her because he refused to even leave her side. He just wanted to be close by when she needed him.

He would bring her anything that she asked for, whether that be pillows or pickles. He would massage her sore and swollen feet at the end of the day. He would press kisses against her baby bump to show his love and affection.

He had found himself checking the duffle bag that they would bring to the hospital with them (when it was time for the baby to come). He just wanted to make sure that they had everything they needed. He even made a list of things to bring to the hospital.

During one night session with the baby, Tom had started by lifting her shirt up to expose her heavily pregnant stomach. He rubbed his hands on the sides of her stomach in a soothing and reassuring manner. He pressed one soft kiss on the underside of her stomach.

“I really wish you had come for my birthday,” Tom confessed. He had turned his head to press his ear against the top of her stomach, shutting his eyes to savor the sweet moment. He was listening to the baby’s solid heartbeat. “You would have been the best gift to receive,” Tom explained.

“He will come out soon,” Y/N promised. She didn’t want to admit that she had been having some contractions for the past few days, because she knew that it would only worry her husband. She knew that he would drive her straight to the hospital if she even mentioned it. She was just trying to hold off for a little longer.

However, Y/N was unable to hold it off any longer by the next night. She had been tossing and turning during the entire night because she wasn’t able to get in a comfortable position. She could tell that her contractions were becoming a lot stronger and a lot closer together. 

In the early hours of the night, she had hoisted herself into a sitting position in their shared bed. She could feel a strong contraction hitting her like a ton of bricks, causing her to scrunch her eyes and hold her breath in pain. She had dropped her hand onto the side of her stomach, grunting to herself at the painful sensation coursing through her body. She was quick to wake her sleeping husband.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Tom wondered. He sat up in bed. He had turned his body to face her’s in a split second, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. He could see the visible pain etched onto her face. He took her hand in his own to reassure her. 

“I am having contractions,” Y/N grunted to herself. She felt like she was clawing at her own stomach, feeling the pain ripping through her entire body. She could feel this small amount of relief washing over her, feeling the effects of the sharp and strong contraction start to die down. “I-I think that the baby might be coming,” Y/N said with a small whine.

For a brief second, Tom had been in a full panic mode. He had practically jumped out of their shared bed. He was quick to put some real clothes on. He had started to grab various things around the small stretch of the room, stuffing the car keys into his pocket and grabbing his wife’s loose shoes to wear to the hospital. He had hurried back to her side.

During the next contraction, Tom was sure to set a small timer on his phone. He was careful to watch the timer on his phone, pressing the stop button once she said that the contraction was over. His phone had read fifteen minutes apart. 

Nonetheless, Tom wanted to take his wife directly to the hospital despite her protests of being too early. He helped her out of bed. He had grabbed onto of her favorite sweaters, throwing it over her shoulders. He had started to lead her down the stairs, heading straight towards the front door of the house. He did not forget to grab the duffle bag on the way. 

Slowly, she had climbed into the passenger seat of the car. Her dear husband was careful to stretch the buckle across the big baby bump. She had placed her hand on the side of her stomach. She could see the carseat in the back of the car, which only brought a smile to her face. She was going to have a baby. 

On the way to the hospital, Tom had quickly called their parents to let them know that they were headed to the hospital. He had turned his head to look at his dear wife sitting beside him, trying to see if she was uncomfortable in any way, shape, or form. He was quick to grab her hand in his own. He carried her hand towards his face, pressing a soft kiss to her hand. 

At the hospital, the young couple were able to be checked into an empty room. Even though her contractions were pretty far apart, she was already an entire week late. The doctors wanted to put her in a room (as soon as possible) so that they could check to see how the baby was doing at the moment. They had also figured that—as soon as she went into labor—the baby would come out in no time. They had to get her in the room.

In the private room, Y/N had taken the time to change into the hospital gown. She had been hooked up to various wires and tubes that would monitor her/her baby’s heart rate and her contractions. She was also given some medication to ease the pain for the moment.

Now the doctor had come to check the monitors and to check her cervix dilation. She hadn’t even started dilating just yet. It was way too early to do anything at this point. She would just have to ride out her contractions and wait for her cervix to start to dilate. 

During the first hours, Y/N was laying down in the hospital bed. She was hoping to get some sleep before she would have to deliver the baby, especially since she didn’t get much sleep. She had plenty of pillows and blankets to keep her comfortable. She had fallen asleep within a few minutes. She was able to sleep for an hour. 

In the background, Tom had been making a few personal phone calls to friends and family. He had turned his head to find her sleeping figure on the hospital bed. He stood to his feet, shuffling towards her. He had lowered himself onto the side of the bed, lifting his hand to brush some hair out of her face. He leaned down to kiss her head lovingly.

Within a few moments, Y/N had woken from her hour long sleep. She had hoisted her body into a sitting position, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She gripped onto the white sheets underneath her, feeling this strong contraction coursing through her. She closed her eyes tight.

Once the pain had gone away, Y/N had very slowly stood to her feet. She had started to walk around the small stretch of the room, remembering some book or article that had said walking induces labor. She had one hand on the side of her stomach and one hand on the curve of her back. She sighed to herself.

Without warning, she could feel the fresh tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She had placed the back of her hand against her mouth to hide the fact that she was getting emotional. Her salty tears were wetting her cheeks by streaming down her face. She sniffled her nose.

Out of instinct, Tom had been quick to rush to her side. He wrapped his arms around her smaller frame, drawing her into his grasp. He tried to tilt his head down to look at her face, but she simply buried her face in his chest to hide from him. He asked her what was wrong. 

“I just want it to be over,” she cried. She turned her head to nuzzle into his neck, trying to be closer to him. She could feel the muscles of her chin tremble like a small child. She sobbed into his chest unceasingly, hands clutching at his sweatshirt. 

“It will be over soon,” Tom promised. He was holding her in complete silence, slowly rocking her as her tears soaked his chest. He weaved his fingers through her long locks of hair, hushing her with his soft voice. He kissed the top of her head.

When the doctor had come back to the room (nearly three hours later), she was very pleased to find that she had made some progression. She had dilated nearly four centimeters. She said that she would come back to check up on her in a few hours. She left the room once again. 

Now Tom was leaning back against the hospital bed with his heavily pregnant wife laying in his arms. He could feel her back pressing against his chest, practically leaning into his soft touch. He had shifted his hands towards the sides of her stomach, rubbing her stomach in a soothing manner. 

“You can do this, darling. Just breath,” Tom whispered upon feeling her body tense in his grasp. Her contractions were starting to get longer, stronger, and closer together. She was accumulating a thin layer of sweat on her forehead from the pain that she was going through. She released a strangled moan.

At one point, Tom had slipped out of the bed. He was currently sitting on the chair beside her bed. He had gone to get some ice chips for her. He was now feeding them to her upon request. He smiled at her silly behavior.

A few hours later, the doctor had come back into the room. She was sure to check the vitals on the monitor for her and her baby, coming to the conclusion that everything was completely normal. She had also found that she had dilated to seven centimeters, which meant that she would be able to start pushing soon. She had left the room to prepare for the birth. 

The three nurses entered the private room in blue scrubs. The nurses had brought some various pieces of equipment that would help with the birth. The nurses had started to organize some things for when the time came for the baby to be born. 

They had placed these two leg-holders on either side of the bed. The nurse had begun to explain the whole process. She said that they were going to count to ten during the contraction. This was the prime time for her to push. Once they got to ten seconds, she would be able to stop pushing for a short break between contractions. The baby would come out much quicker this way.

She had dilated ten centimeters! She had been in labor for nearly twelve hours before it was finally time to push the baby out. Her legs were placed in the two holders on the side of her bed, putting her in the perfection position. Her husband had been given a cover to wear over his clothes so he wouldn’t contaminate anything. He was now standing right beside her, holding her hand the entire time. 

“Alright. You are going to start pushing now,” the doctor had encouraged her. She lifted her head to look at her patient, nodding her head in approval. She started to count to ten for her.

In that moment, Y/N had forced herself to push as hard as she could with the little energy she had left. She could feel the intense pain streaming through every single cell in her body. She came to the end of ten seconds. She dropped back down into the bed, dreading this whole process. 

It had been nearly two hours since she had started pushing during her contractions. With each contraction came a pain that dominated her entire being. In those moments, for those seconds that stretched into infinity, there was nothing else. She didn’t care if other patients could hear her screaming from other rooms. 

When the pain passed, it was only for a minute or so. She was trying to catch her breath with closed eyes. She was unwilling to re-engage with life outside of her own body. She couldn’t even focus on her husband standing beside her, encouraging her with forehead kisses and sweet words. 

The doctor was telling her that is was time to push again. With a guttural grun,t she did so and was told to stop. It was just enough. She had felt the baby crowning, but she held her breath. Without any further effort, the newborn baby had slipped into the doctor’s hands. The doctor was quick to wrap the baby in a soft blanket. 

The newborn baby had taken a deep breath only to release this loud cry of protest. The baby had been covered in this mixture of a white waxy substance and some small specs of blood. The newborn was quickly cleaned with the soft blanket by the doctor. 

“It’s a boy,” the doctor exclaimed.

The new mother could feel her eyes turn glossy with tears. Through her exhaustion, she can manage a small smile. She did not hesitate to look at the baby that was being brought to lay on her bare skin of her chest. She begins to cry the sweetest tears she has ever known, She felt the painful moments leading up to this slowly melting away. 

At the sight of the baby, Tom had burst into tears of joy and happiness. He didn’t even seem to care that his hand had been practically crushed in hers during the last two hours. He only cared about his beautiful wife and his newborn son at the given moment.

In that moment, Tom was able to cut the umbilical cord with a pair of scissors. He had turned his head to look back towards his loving wife and son. He could feel his heart swelling one hundred times in his chest, growing more at the mere sight of his loved ones. Leaning down, Tom was able to get a better look at the baby. He was quick to cradle the back of the baby boy’s head, pressing a soft kiss to his head. He couldn’t stop smiling. 

The baby was so light. His head was burrowing into his mother’s chest, feeling the warmth of her body so comforting. His tiny toes were peeking out from the blanket. His head was a mass of brown waves that would match his father’s looks. The baby had opened his mouth to cry, but he could only manage a quiet snuffling sound. His throat must have been dry and sore.

“He’s so beautiful,” Y/N smiled. She had shifted to newborn baby closer against her chest, bringing him in closer to her face. She had brushed the back of her face against the baby’s chubby cheek. She kissed his soft head. 

“He’s absolutely perfect,” Tom agreed. He had turned his head to look at his dear wife laying beside him. He pushed her sticky and sweaty hair away from her forehead, kissing her in such a loving manner. “I love you so much. I am so proud of you,” Tom confessed with a bright smile on his face.

With great hesitation, the new mother had handed her baby boy to the nurses so that they could clean him and check on him. The nurses had only brought the newborn baby to the small table on the other side of the room because they had all of the necessary equipment with them. 

During the whole checkup, Tom was carefully watching the three nurses from the sidelines. He was still standing next to his wife’s beside, but he was watching them from the short distance. He could see that they were just weighing and measuring him at the moment.

“Go see him,” she encouraged him. She could tell that he wanted to be there. He wanted to stand beside the three nurses, watching his baby boy in a protective manner. He wanted to spend every single second with that newborn. He just wanted to hold his baby boy and he never wanted to let go.

Hesitantly, Tom had shuffled across the small stretch of the room. He stood beside the nurses. He had lowered his gaze to stare down at the little naked baby on the surface of the table. The soft pink baby was crying so loud and hard. His bottom lip was trembling in its place. His hands were balled into tight fists. And his eyes were still squeezes shut.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m here,” Tom said. 

Upon hearing these words, the baby boy had stopped crying in a split second. He had popped his eyes open. He had turned his head to look directly towards the sound of his own father’s voice, recognizing the tone. His cheeks were stained with these fresh salty tears. His warm brown eyes were just gazing up into his fathers’.

The nurses were quick to swaddle the silent baby, wrapping him in this light blue blanket. They placed this blue hat on his little head to cover his dark locks of hair. The one nurse was very careful to lift the newborn baby into her arms. The nurse had turned her body towards the new father standing beside her, handing the baby boy to him.

“Do you want to hold him?” the nurses wondered. In response, Tom was gently handed his own son. He was holding him very cautiously and carefully, fearing that he might break him because he was just so little. He never tore his eyes away from the baby boy in his arms. He walked back to the beside.

The newborn baby had come into the world after fourteen hard hours of labor. He was five pounds and four ounces. He was also one full week late. He was born at 8:14am on June 3rd. 

The new parents were both currently laying on the hospital bed in the private room. The two of them were staring down at the baby in complete admiration. They had turned their heads to look at each other, leaning forward to share a kiss. They could feel their love for each other growing stronger with each passing minute. They never wanted this happy moment to end. 

“Welcome to the world, Thomas Stanley Holland Jr.”

[some-cookie-crumbz]

A Little Charismatic

A Little Charismatic Fandom: My Hero Academia Pairing: FuyuPress Summary: FuyuPress Week 2021 Day 1 Prompt Fill: Life Swap - Never said who had to swap lives and I’m running on too little sleep and too much caffeine to stay in the lines. Standard Disclaimer: If you read and enjoy this, please give it a like/ reblog so I know if I should write more.

Sako Atsuhiro liked to consider himself an observant fellow, if not also a bit of a creature of habit. He had a handful of places that he enjoyed frequenting, where he knew his face was safe. He could walk about in his usual work garb, with or without his mask and hat, and none of the other patrons would bat an eye. It wasn’t because the company he found in these places was particularly trustworthy or noble sorts, however; oh, no, they were far from that. He had just taken the time to establish that, despite his seemingly frail physique, he was not a force to be tested. He was always watching, always vigilant, watching to make sure that men conducted themselves like proper gents in the company of potential romantic partners. And if not? Well, he may have done a sleight of hand trick to remove a wandering hand or two.

It wasn’t often that there were new faces wandering around his usual haunts, so when there were, he noticed. That night was one such example.

She’d been settled at the bar when he walked in, another bar patron already trying to get cuddly with her. Judging by the glower in those bright baby blues, she was less than impressed. She was an odd one to place as Atsuhiro moved past them, her eyes straying from her suitor to chase him instead. Ah, that was unsurprising. Many a woman’s eyes had wandered over him, taking his attire to mean he must be some brand of wealthy and useful. They’d come over and start up with the fluttering lashes and slow, playful touches while asking for a drink.

It was always entertaining to watch how their expressions shifted when he insisted they have separate tabs.

It took her a full ten minutes to shake the guy she was dealing with at the bar, but once she’d gotten him off, she approached. “This seat taken?” she asked, her hands laced behind her back and head tilted to one side. He chuckled as he sized her up, taking in the leather jacket tossed over a halter dress and combat boots. The damn thing was incredibly low cut and he was quick to avert his eyes, instead taking a sip of the beer in his hands.

“Not at all,” he hummed, indicating the booth seat across from him with the wave of a hand.

She offered him a polite bow before settling into the seat, a nice change of pace. Usually the women that approached would slide in beside him first go, but she seemed to have some iota of manners, at least. “You are a difficult man to track, you know,” she mused slowly, “Mr. Compress.” He froze mid-sip to stare at her, doing his best to keep the shock from showing on his face. Very few knew of his moniker, even when he was out and about in his full regalia, so for her to address him so matter-of-factly… She was a threat and would need to be disposed of. As if sensing the bleak thoughts running through his head, she held her hands up in a placating manner to him. “Don’t worry, I’m not a narc. Or affiliated with one. I don’t think many of the people around here are, in fact.”

“Whatever it is you are trying to play at, dear, you are wasting your time,” he quipped, turning his attention away from her to the bar keep. He seemed to be more focused on a loud, clearly drunk man arguing the merits of his tab, thankfully.

He kept her in his peripheral view, though. Just in case.

She blinked before her face morphed to show hurt. “So quick to disregard me… Ah, that seems to be a trend with men in my life,” she lamented with a long-suffering sigh. He got the distinct impression that most of her behavior was an act. One of her legs shifted out to prod at the side of his calf gently, trying to coax him to look at her again. “Won’t you at least hear me out?”

He scoffed but did return his attention to her. It was the least he could do and might yet yield some further information to help him discern her authentic intentions. “There is no reason to do so outside of wasting both our time,”

“What about a game, then? You seem like a man who fancies a fun game,” she suggested.

A game? Well… He couldn’t help but be intrigued by the hand she was laying down. “Depending on what the wager is, I may be inclined to humor you,”

“Here,” she shifted to rummage through her jacket pockets. After a moment, she dropped three items onto the tabletop between them; a lighter, a small vial of some kind of liquid, and a yarn and bead bracelet. With the items spread out, she picked up the bracelet and dangled it off her index finger, before indicating the other two items with her free hand. “Use your Quirk to put these three items away. Only one of them - this one here - is of any value to me. If I can get this one back from you, you’ll agree to comply with the request I have for you.” When she spoke, she waggled her index finger to attract his attention to the bracelet briefly, before dropping her chin into her other hand.

He blinked owlishly, contemplating her game. It was in his favor, yes, but then it became a question of what she could offer him in return. “And if you are unsuccessful?”

“I’ll comply with a request of yours. No limits,” she drawled the last two words out in a leading way, her fingers lightly drumming away along her own jawline. He wrinkled his nose a bit at her implication, but found it could be a rather useful trap. After all, there would be no indication as to which marble held what once he used his Quick to compress them. Only he would be able to say for certain, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t easily swap them around if she picked the right one. There was much more to gain in this than he had to lose. “So, what do you say?” She stuck her hand out towards him, beaded bracelet still hanging on.

“Very well,” he said, taking her hand for a brief shake before sliding the bracelet off. Judging by the yarn on it, the thing was old and may be in dire need of some new yarn or replacing outright. He waved the thought off as he compressed it and then set to doing the same to the other two items. Under the table, he was sure to shuffle them around, placing the marble with her bracelet in the back pocket of his pants. He waited until she stepped away to get a drink to make that adjustment, sly grin on his lips. There was no way she’d be able to determine it was there as he wouldn't present it as an option, and then he could easily be rid of her. “There we are now. Just be aware, however, that I am very wise to the tricks a young minx like you is prone to attempting.”

“Is that so?” she hummed.

From there, they started up a fun little back and forth. He tried to get more answers to why, exactly, she knew his street moniker and why she’d been looking for him, but she flitted about the subjects using redirection. It was Take-aPenny, Leave-a-Penny logic she was trying to enact and he couldn’t help but find it amusing. It was clear she had some kind of experience with this kind of situation, with having to negotiate ones hand without tipping it too much. A flurry of questions came to his mind at the thought. She was such a young, demure young lady once she was engaged in a conversation. Something about those mannerisms and the idea of her living her whole life on the streets simply didn’t add up quite right to him.

It did, however, give him a fun little mystery to chase around.

After a good while she shifted to sit more upright, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her eyes were alight with mirth as she repositioned herself. “Well, I think that’s enough of that. I came here to accomplish a goal, not play footsie all night,” She stretched languidly and her gaze shifted from his face down lower, giggling a bit at what she saw.

He blinked twice before glancing downward himself and uttering a small short curse.

His eyes widened as he suddenly registered what, exactly, she’d been playing at all along. A glance downwards revealed a layer of ice sticking to the outer traces of his body, over his legs, hips and wrists specifically. Given that he was wearing his full gear minus his mask, of course he hadn’t noticed the change in temperature! She must have been assessing him during their conversation, skirting about with her verbal distraction while leaking small traces of her Quirk to gauge his reaction... 

A clever ruse that he’d fallen into with regrettable ease.

“What in the devil did you do?” he spat, keeping his voice low as his eyes scanned the bar. No one else had noticed their exchange, thankfully. The last thing he needed was other hooligans taking advantage of this situation.

She tilted her head with a feigned innocence. “Hmm? What’s wrong? Don’t like that I used my Quirk too?” The faux concern melted into a mischievous grin of delight as she moved from her perch across from him to sit beside him. She nudged the chunk of ice pinning his legs down with the toe of her boot as she settled in nice and close. “I never said that it was against the rules, you know. And it’s only fair that if you got to use yours, I get to use mine. Wouldn’t that be the gentleman’s viewpoint on this matter?” Her tone was light and playful, but he could cast the mocking wisps underlying her words. Without further preamble, she reached over to rummage through his coat pockets as well as the pockets of his slacks, humming to herself as she ignored his quiet snarls to cease her actions. She leaned back just a bit once she gathered seven marbles in total, swirling one in a circle in her palm. “Ah, there’s more in these pockets of yours than just what’s mine. How uncouth! Scandalous even!”

He tried to twist himself free but the ice pinned up along his wrists and hips didn’t budge an inch. Not even a thin crack was visible, to his uncensored chagrin. “What game are you playing at, wretch?”

“Just the game we agreed to,” she hummed. She peered at his marbles with an appraising eye before stuffing them into the pocket of her tattered denim shorts instead. “Since I’m the obvious winner here, I guess that means you have no choice but to abide by my rule, hm?”

“Name your damn price, then,” he growled lowly.

She giggled and leaned closer, walking two fingers up along his chest to his face. “You’re going to come with me to have a meeting. With. My. Boss,” Each of her final few words was followed by a mocking tap to the tip of his nose. If he could move his hands, he would have firmly shoved her from his personal space, but instead settled for jerking his head to the side. It only made her Cheshire grin grow wider. He could almost see a feline tail swaying in delight behind her, he swore. “He has a very… prosperous job opportunity for you. One that I think you’ll be very much inclined to take.” 

This young woman was dangerous, and he was unclear if that was unappealing to him or not.

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Snowed In p5

I have an hour before work so instead of doing the responsible thing and cranking out my labs, I’m posting smutty fic. in my defense, I have none.

Pairing: Geralt x fem!reader

Warnings: smut. hella smut, unprotected sex, bit bitey, hair pulling? I’m new to writing smut so if there’s any more plz message me I really wanna know and be able to tag my shit accordingly.

Summary: How else does one get to sleep if not by fucking your friend that is totally not more than a friend? or Geralt finally does something about the tension between them?

There’s a bit of plot in here somewhere I swear. Not really, I just have a feeling G is competitive af. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled emotionally indulgent programming next part so if you’re not down with the smut I’ll add a little summary on the beginning of the next one.

Part 4 here!

__________

Day thirty brought a restlessness that couldn't be soothed. If you weren't moving you felt like you were going to disintegrate to dust from the pent up energy. 

You tried trudging circles around the barn in the snow, sprinting up and down the stairs, making Geralt spar with you until your muscles gave up and you collapsed, but you couldn't shake the need to move. You even went so far as to ask Geralt to hold you while you tried to sleep. You used the "it works for babies maybe it could calm me down" excuse and he must have bought it because he wasted no time pulling you into his arms. Regardless of how comfortably you fit tucked into his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, you only slept an hour or two. 

Day thirty one was no different. Anxious, restless, and now pissy because of how tired you were. You paced most of the day, to Geralt's dismay. He finally ordered you to run the stairs because he couldn't "sit here and watch you walk a hole in the floor anymore". You'd rolled your eyes but you did it anyway, until you thought you might hurl. Then when the nausea passed you ran them ten times more for good measure. You even ate more than usual at dinner, hoping a full stomach would at least make you feel sluggish enough to stop moving. 

Despite all this, you laid staring at the ceiling for hours, tapping your fingers on your ribs and wishing for even a wink of sleep.

Just when you were starting to feel lighter, ready to float off to blessed unconsciousness, you heard a deep moan and a giggle from the other side of the wall. 

"Fuck me. I thought they were still fighting" You groaned, rolling over to face away from the wall and pulling your pillow over your ear. 

Geralt grimaced, staring at the ceiling, "Made up an hour ago." 

You snickered, "So you really hear all of it?" 

He rolled his eyes, the movement just barely visible in the light of the dying fire, "Unfortunately, I can hear a room past them as well." 

Another moan and the distinct sound of someone's ass getting slapped seemed to echo in the silence. 

"I was so close to sleep" you sighed, silently wishing a curse on the neighbors.  

Geralt frowned, you assumed because he heard something he'd rather not until he opened his mouth, "S'probly why they're so chipper." 

"Hm?" 

He glanced at you before elaborating, "All the… they're in a better mood because they actually sleep. After they… you know, fuck." 

You snorted, praying he couldn't see the flush in your cheeks, "Is that how it works?" Your voice was dripping with sarcasm. 

The neighbors were growing louder by the second, clearly so excited about the resolution of their fight that they didn't care if they woke the whole inn. 

He shrugged, "Works for me." 

His tone was too casual, too measured even for him. You narrowed your eyes in a desperate attempt to pull any more information out of the shadows on his face. 

"To get to sleep you mean?" Your voice was nearly a whisper, tamped by what you thought he might be implying. 

He hummed in agreement, finally turning to face you, his face completely unreadable, "Might calm you down." 

If you'd wanted to play it cool your body betrayed you. Your heartbeat alone was a dead giveaway that his words got to you, and you didn't even want to know what he could tell with any other senses. 

You blinked hard, trying to form a coherent sentence, "Ar- are you… uhm… offering?" 

He propped himself up on an elbow and his entire demeanor changed, the usual mask of indifference replaced with a grin, "I am." 

You heard a little voice in the back of your head yelling about how things could get messy but you shut it up, already feeling that coil tightening between your hips just from how he was looking at you. 

You reached out to run a finger over his wrist, lightly tracing little figure eights over his skin, "I'd hate for you to regret it in the morning." 

"I have a lot of regrets in life, very rarely do I regret sex." 

He can tell. He's way too fucking confident not to know. Fuck it.

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and looked up at him through your lashes, "Couldn't hurt to try." 

He leaned over you, almost kissing you before moving to your ear, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispered, "Is that a yes?" 

Fuck.

"Yes. Hell yes." 

You felt the vibrations of the rumblings in his chest as he practically growled before nipping at your jaw. You gasped and grabbed onto the hem of his shirt, now that the tension had broken and you'd touched you finally could move. 

He stopped you though, placing a soft kiss over the skin that stung from his bite before sitting back and pulling you with him, "Clothes. Off." 

You obeyed immediately, shimmying out of every last stitch and letting out a soft moan as you saw him drop his small clothes. 

He smirked, "That excited?" He asked as he resumed his position above you. 

"Something like that. Your ass is great." You answered, not bothering with this charade of shyness anymore. He laughed softly, placing kisses on your neck and running his hand up your body to your chest. You moaned when he squeezed your tit but you yelped when he kissed his way down to the other one and licked at your nipple. He chuckled and took the nub between his teeth, biting down and pulling back just enough to earn another moan before he pressed his lips over the area and sucked. 

"Ah fuck Geralt." One of your hands gripped his hair, but you didn't pull, not like you wanted to. 

He left a trail of kisses to your other breast, "Pull all you want." He paused to circle your now extremely sensitive nipple with his tongue, "I like it." Before you could respond he bit the very tip and you moaned again, this time testing the waters with a light tug at his hair. 

He hummed in response and continued his trail down your body. 

You hadn't pegged him for the type to go down on his woman first, but oh how wrong you were. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how it drove you wild. 

He left little bites at your hip crease and on your inner thigh, coming closer to where you wanted him most, only to switch to your other hip.

"You're a fucking tease." You whined, breathless and so achingly turned on. 

Almost before you finished your sentence, one of his hands spread your folds and he licked from your opening up over your clit.You shivered and gasped, tugging at his hair again. 

He moaned against you and your eyes rolled back in your head, "Mmmmmm Geralt more. Please." 

He obliged immediately, flicking his tongue over your clit in a pattern that made your whole body tingle and thighs squeeze together. Without missing a beat he pushed your legs apart and laid his arm over your hip, bringing his hand to your opposite thigh to hold you in place.

Still working your clit with his tongue he slowly pushed two fingers into you, curling and pumping at an annoyingly laid back pace. You bucked your hips up, or tried, and he chuckled, pulling his fingers away completely.

"Fuck you." You gasped, "That's just rude." 

He licked over your opening with a broad tongue and pulled back, "Kinda the point, isn't it?" 

"Geralt." You mewled in protest, pulling his hair again and earning a grunt in return before his mouth was back on your cunt. He added a third finger when he started again, stretching you out and damn near making you writhe. He coaxed moan after moan, whine after desperate whine from your lips and just before you came, he stopped completely. 

Sitting back and surveying his work he grinned, "Not yet. You have to earn it." 

Melitele's Tits. That's so hot.

You lurched forward, pushing him on his back and straddling his thighs, "Earn it? Like this?" You reached between your legs and gathered your own slick before gripping the base of his cock and pumping just as infuriatingly slow as he had gone earlier. 

The way he groaned set your body on fire, making you shivered in anticipation. You couldn't wait anymore, you leaned forward, placing a hand on the center of his chest for balance and lined yourself up over his hips. 

Your breath hitched in your throat as you sank down on his dick. Of course you knew he was big, but this? This was heaven. You savored every bit, lowering yourself as slowly as you could, your fingers curling to grip at the hair on his chest. His hands roamed over your thighs and hips, squeezing at what he could reach of your ass.

When you finally bottomed out your eyes fluttered closed and a low groan clawed its way out of your chest. 

"Fuck , Y/N…" Geralt breathed, fingers digging into your flesh. 

Your eyes snapped open, a devilish grin on your face, "What? Do you want me to move?" 

Before he could answer you clenched around his cock, getting a gasp and gritted teeth in response. 

"What was that? I didn't hear you." 

He opened his mouth to respond but you snapped your hips up and back down as fast as you could, grinding your hips against his in small circles. Whatever he was going to say turned into a string of curses that only spurred you on. You placed your other hand on his chest, rocking your hips slowly forward and up but swiftly back down.

Geralt looked completely undone, his hair splayed out almost like a halo and the firey need in his eyes made you move faster. Your thighs started to ache and your moans were coming out more like desperate whimpers. You leaned back, bringing a hand to your clit and one to your breast. You felt his cock twitch inside you and bit your bottom lip, changing the direction of your hip circles. 

With a growl he gripped your hips and held you down against him, sitting up and turning to sit on his heels. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed at his jaw, letting him hold you to him without moving, "Did I earn it?" You whispered, almost hoping you hadn't with how good it felt to just be filled by him.

He let loose a breathy laugh, "Fuck you." 

You rocked your body closer to him, gripping his hair in one of your hands, "Oh gods please do." 

He bucked his hips against yours driving your whole body up in the air, and pulled you back down with one hand at your hip and one wrapped behind your back holding onto your shoulder. He set a rough, fast pace and you cried out every time your hips slapped against his. 

You felt yourself losing all the strength in your limbs, almost unable to keep hold of his shoulders, and that familiar tingle creeping up your spine. 

"Mm-f- fuck I'm close." 

"Good." Geralt growled, snapping his hips up somehow faster and harder, sending you hurtling over the edge of your orgasm. You yanked on his hair as your whole body was flooded with electric pleasure, leaving you gasping for air. He came right after you, moaning soft and low as you writhed on top of him. 

As your high began to fade, you rocked your hips against his more methodically, working him through the last of his orgasm. You gently tugged at his hair to tilt his head back, placing soft kisses along his jugular and over his Adams apple. His arms wrapped around your waist and held you tightly to him as his breathing slowed. When you made your way up to his chin and jawline he leaned you back onto the bed, pulling out and flopping onto the mattress next to you.

It was deathly silent as the two of you caught your breath. The predicament you found yourselves in seemed to dawn on the both of you, only you saw absolutely no sign from Geralt how he felt about it. 

Later. Don't ruin this. Talk about it tomorrow. Or never. 

"Did we intimidate them?" You did your best to make it sound like a joke, pointing at the wall to indicate the silence. 

He snorted, rolling onto his side facing you, "No idea. I was distracted." 

You giggled, shimmying closer to him and tucking your head under his chin, "Yeah, thanks for that. Good distraction." 

He draped an arm over your waist, "What high praise…" 

"Ssshhhhh," you leaned back and placed a finger over his lips, "I'm trying to sleep here." 

He hummed against your touch, lips thinning into a soft smile. 

It would have been entirely natural for you to lean forward and kiss him, even expected in such a situation, but you couldn't. That crossed the friendship line, as if it wasn't already blurred beyond recognition. Instead you nuzzled into his chest, snaking your arm under his and holding him close, savoring every moment. After all, when the heartbreak eventually set in you'd need something to cling to, even if it was just the memory of his touch. 

__________

Uhm some of yall wanted to be tagged in the next part and  i stg i could cry with how happy that made me! If anyone else wants tagged just hmu 💕💕

@ab-haya @fire-in-her-veinz

part 6 here!

[monsterthalia]

Fenris and memory for DADWC? Please and thank you!

Thank you so much for this prompt, it inspired me so much that I've wound up writing it outside of official @dadrunkwriting hours, but I just wanted to share it with you now that it's complete. It rather got away from me, and it's also my first Dragon Age smut! [klaxon sounds]

Fenris/F!Hawke, rating: M. This story is set shortly after DA2.

*~*~*~*

They were days out of Kirkwall when they first dared stop at an inn. None of them had forgotten Sebastian’s threat, and they were carefully keeping the Vimmark Mountains between them and Starkhaven as they clung to the coast. Anders’ vague strategy was to make for Ostwick, and see if there were rebel mages there who might take him in. Varric and Merrill planned to lay low there as well, with a mind to heading back to Kirkwall when they could. Isabela talked about heading straight on to Antiva and meeting up with an old friend, and was trying to lure Merrill with her, with golden tales of piracy and booty and adventure on the high seas.

Fenris’s answer was simpler. When the topic first came up over the campfire, he stated, “I go where Hawke goes.”

She had already guessed, hoped as much. He’d said as much when they had first reconciled after Danarius was good and dead, bleeding out on the tiles of the Hanged Man, but since then she’d tested that bond to the limit - refusing to execute Anders, asking him to defend mages against Templars in a battle that looked like a hopeless last stand. But even then, he’d looked her in the eye and promised her that nothing would keep him from her. Desperate, determined words, but the kiss that followed - it was a promise that they would have more life, more time.

The inn was small but well-kept, halfway along a dusty track between two larger towns and at a crossing over an inlet from the sea. They were not the only guests, but this meant they could claim to be en route to the same market as the other travellers, rather than raise suspicions for their reasons for being on the road. Isabela and Hawke went in alone to pay for the rooms, with Isabela being just handsy enough to ensure the innkeeper would remember them as a couple rather than two of a group, and smuggled the more notorious and distinct members of their group up the stairs away from prying eyes.

Merrill and Isabela took a room, and Varric and Anders another. They neatly and promptly split up without a word, leaving the third room to Hawke and Fenris, and closed their doors. Hawke’s mouth went a little dry, heat rising to her skin, and she turned to Fenris, to see if he was of the same mind. His own eyes were dark as they met hers, and after that swift moment of silent understanding, she pulled him into the room and slammed the door behind them.

The door closed, Fenris pushed her up against it, kissing her deeply, hungrily, and pressing the entire length of his lean, taut body against hers. Hawke broke from his lips to gasp at the pressure of him driving into the heat, the tightness already building between her legs, and he took the opportunity to drop his head and fasten his lips to her neck instead, scraping teeth as he dragged down the sensitive skin to her collarbone, to that spot where her neck met her shoulder that made her clutch him for dear life as he kissed her there. Her knees buckled slightly, and Fenris growled in approval.

It had been so long - not since fleeing Kirkwall, of course, though every night round the campfire had seen them lying side by side, Fenris’s arms around her, holding her tightly against him as she burrowed into his chest, neither entirely believing that they were still free, still breathing, still together. But even before then, when everything was so chaotic and dangerous that they barely spent a full night sharing a bed, let alone having energy or the mind for anything else.

She tried to move, to take this towards the bed they were finally allowed, but at first he resisted, taking her hands and pinning them against the door, trapping her hips beneath his own, as he continued to drop kisses across her collarbone, pressing his thigh between her legs, such that she almost lost her mind entirely, only able to tip her head back to allow him better access and feel stars spin in her head. But after a few seconds of this, she rallied, and with a growl of her own, wrestled her arms free and shoved him towards the bed. His eyes sparked in delight at her meeting his strength with her own and he let himself be tipped backwards onto the mattress, let her straddle him and lean to press kisses of her own to his face, his neck, groaning as he let her take control.

She could feel his hardness pressing into her core and the clothes between them became maddening. Her fingers found the fastenings on his armour and she pulled away for a moment, looking him in the eye and breathing, “May I?” He nodded, and she rapidly began unfastening, pulling pieces away, as he likewise reached up and began to tear off her clothes as quickly as he could, still pulling her face to his to kiss her whenever he could.

As soon as his chest was bare, her own exposed, he rolled, flipping her onto her back and pressing kisses down her front, onto her breasts, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking such that she gasped, arching up into him. She pulled his face back up towards hers and held it there, kissing him, missing his mouth when it was away from hers, and he let himself lean down into it, resting on an elbow as he kissed her deeply, leisurely, tracing down round her breasts down to her stomach with her free hand, drawing circles and swirls and bringing every inch of skin to fiery life, begging for his attention, his touch.

The fingers traced further down, towards the band of her trousers, playing with it, running his fingers over the button fastening them. She whimpered a little and he grinned against her kiss. “May I?” he growled.

“Oh Maker yes please,” she just about managed to gasp back coherently, pressing up against him, and with a deep chuckle, he unfastened the trousers and slid his fingers down beneath her drawers, and finally brushed his fingers down into the wetness he found there.

The first brush of his fingers against the bundle of nerves which so ached for him had her moaning, and he moaned as well, stroking slowly but surely, still kissing her and sweeping his tongue deeply into her mouth. The first slide of a finger inside her had her whimpering his name, and he whispered her own back to her, hot breath meeting and mingling such that they breathed each other in, and there was nothing beyond their little world which was their bodies and their breath.

She wanted him so badly, craved him filling her completely, but even as she cried out at his touch, she kept her hands to his torso, gripping his shoulders tightly and digging in her nails when a new wave of feeling blazed up her spine, down to her toes. Because since that first time - after Hadriana, when she was so convinced she’d done the wrong thing and lost him forever, only to find him waiting for her, all fire turned from rage to passion - when his memories had reawoken for that instant and shook him to his core - he had never asked her to touch him. Too scared of what he might see. Too scared of what he might feel.

He had touched her as he did now, kissing her until she was on fire, stroking her until she came completely undone and cried out his name, but after, if she tried to reach for him, to return the pleasure he so readily gave her, he just shook his head and held her close as their breathing eventually slowed and evened out. She understood he wasn’t ready for that again yet, and it was fine - she could hardly complain, after all, when he left her wrung out and gasping over and over again - but she did hope that one day, he might again let himself be that vulnerable again, let her be the one to hold him as he fell apart in mindless bliss and keep holding him until he put himself back together.

His fingers moving in her stilled, and she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her. His eyes were dark, his breathing hard, but there was a kind of serenity in his expression as he said gently, “Marian…”

It felt like a gift. It felt like hope. She raised a hand to his face and looked deep into his eyes. “Are you sure?” she asked.

He nodded, a smile creeping back onto his lips. “Yes - yes - I mean, I don’t know what will happen, but -”

He was starting to look nervous, but Hawke kept on gazing steadily at him. “We don’t have to. But if you want to, we can take whatever comes. Together.”

He gazed down at her, and kissed her, and she could feel the gratitude and the love he was not able to express. The kiss changed, though, becoming hungrier, as he seemed to release the hold he had been keeping on his own desires, his own need, finally letting it flood him. “Get the rest of these clothes off,” he growled, and she hastily obeyed.

Finally, it was just skin on skin, and finally, FINALLY, she felt the length of him nudging at her entrance, spread her legs for him and kissed him softly, gently, as he slid inside her. He let out a groan, eyes shut, pressing little kisses all over her face, and she held him close, running her hands up his arms and twining around his neck, as he slowly, steadily, began to move. He was trembling, and she just held him, and kissed him, and began to roll her hips to meet his, settling into a rhythm which sent waves of pleasure through her with every stroke.

“Marian,” he gasped, eyes still closed, as he moved over her - building speed now, sweat beading on his skin, breath coming out in hard pants. She could already feel release starting to build in her as she met him stroke for stroke, but she ran a hand up into his hair, pressed the other against his torso, to where his heart beat in his chest, hammering hard and fast.

“Fenris,” she breathed, feeling him getting close, “I’m here - I’m right here -”

He clung to her as he lost himself, as he pounded into her and release found him, as he cried out her name. As he slowed she held him close, as he panted into her shoulder, running her hands up and down his lean torso, pressing kisses to his face and chest and whispering that she loved him, that she was there, that he was safe.

She hadn’t expected more from him - this was already such a huge step for him, and she was proud, immeasurably so - but even as he lay against her, still panting, she felt his fingers returning to between her legs, felt him touch her with expert precision. “Fenris,” she gasped, trying to protest that it wasn’t necessary, that she didn’t need to - but in that same moment she felt herself tightening, clenching around him, her release already spiralling, and could only fall back, crying out, “Fenris” again as it all got too much, as the pleasure became so acute as to almost be painful - before finally, gloriously, fracturing, sending shockwaves of sensation shooting along her nerves and across her whole body, fingers to toes, followed by gentler waves of relaxation and bliss, leaving her limp and boneless in his arms.

She heard Fenris huff in amusement as he traced her fingers out from between her legs and up her stomach, across to her hip, pulling her in closer. “You can’t have thought so little of me to think I’d leave you unsatisfied.”

“No, I just-” She was still gasping for breath, still struggling for coherent thought, everything in her head feeling completely scattered. She found herself quite lost for words, and Fenris chuckled again.

They just held each other, breath slowing, Fenris tracing his fingers up and down her bare hip. Finally Hawke could turn to look at him, and ask, “Are you all right?”

“I am.” He smiled, and pressed a kiss between her brows. “I… did remember something. Just for a moment, again. But since I guessed it might happen, it was less startling.” At the worried expression on her face, he pressed another kiss to her forehead. “It’s fine. Really.”

Hawke nodded, anxiety still gnawing at her. “Are you sure? We don’t have to-”

Fenris let out a little sigh, and his expression as he looked down at her was calm. Content, even. “To be honest, the first time… it was so unexpected. And at that time, I thought it was what I wanted most in the world. To remember. The shock of gaining it, and then losing it the next moment… it broke my heart.” Hawke said nothing, listening, but took his hand in hers and clutched it. He gave a small smile as he looked down at her, and continued. “But this time… I knew it might happen. I was ready, or as ready as I could ever be. And…” He hesitated, his eyes moving slowly over her face. “It’s not what I want most any more.”

He raised her hand where she clutched it, looked deep into her eyes as he kissed it. “What I wanted most was right here.”

[funkymbtifiction]

I absolutely loved the sorting chats thing but I was wondering if you have any other questions for figuring out your primary house? I took the test and I got the hatstall thing twice so I basically had to give my own imput on what house I think I am, but I can't figure out if I'm a Slythering primary who models Ravenclaw or the other way around and the questions on the quiz were too abstract to be helpful

Both the questions and the official descriptions, while helpful, are indeed vague. It always helps me to ‘see’ a House (or anything else) in ‘action’ in an actual person or a fictional character, in order for me to wrap my head around what someone of that House ‘looks like.’ They had a great many examples on their tumblr page until it was accidentally deleted / purged which helped me -- you kind of need to think about what each House values and represents, and then see them in a character that manifests those traits. Which is what I try to do when I write up my ‘Sorting’ posts (on my blog, previously linked) -- show how this character differs and how they might disagree with someone from another House, because of their primary focus.

But all of that is rather abstract too, isn’t it? ;)

Bottom line. Are you a Katniss Everdeen or a Luke Skywalker?

When you consider Slytherin, think about Katniss. What is her #1 priority in life? Her sister, Prim. She volunteers as Tribute so her sister does not have to go into the arena. She is willing to run off with Prim and Gale (another “chosen” family member) into the woods, and let the rest of society fend for itself, because at least her prioritized people, those to whom she is most loyal, would be safe. Katniss cares nothing for most of the other Tributes, but she adopts Rue in the arena, because Rue reminds her of Prim. She hunts for Prim. She tolerates the big orange cat that she hates for Prim. She does everything... for Prim, and later, for Peeta, once she has invited him into her small circle of ‘caring.’

For Slytherins, it’s MY people. MY family. MY city. MY country. It’s possessive, and personal, and it would gut them not to feel a sense of responsibility to prioritize THEIR people. If they were on their way to help a friend or a sibling and they ignored someone stuck in the ditch that tried to flag them down, there would be no guilt, because My People Come First. Always. That’s how they are wired. If this is only a ‘Model,’ it will be dropped like a hot potato the minute things get rough, and the person will feel no guilt. But the Slytherin would feel enormous guilt at not putting their people FIRST.

The Ravenclaw is not a loyalist house, but an idealist house. The Jedi Code is a perfect example of a Ravenclaw system -- it asks the Jedi to abandon their own instinctual feelings and gut impulses and live according to a set of high idealistic rules. Their expectations are lofty and their chosen system is something they live by, because they have created or adopted it to take the place of emotionalism. The Ravenclaw might craft ‘it is good to defend and prioritize one’s family’ into their system, but it would come from a place of intellect more than emotion. Luke Skywalker is a good example of this -- of a man who chooses to live by the Code of the Jedi, but who also crafts and shapes it more to his own form. Luke, being a compassionate individual, adds such things as love and mercy to his own version of the Code. And he lives that out. Kylo Ren is also another Ravenclaw, who is rejecting his own emotions in an attempt to live up to an ideal -- for much of the first two movies, a bad ideal, but a system he believes in (the Dark Side of the Force, and a renouncement of his feelings) and tries to enforce on other people through persuading them to join him (Rey).

Fortunately, being a Ravenclaw also means that when he sees another, better way to be (again, through Rey’s influence and her healing him)... he can discard the old system without a second thought, without guilt, and adopt an entirely new one. That is the skill and talent of the Ravenclaw. To forever be tinkering with what they hold to be true, and what they live by. If they find out their system is flat out wrong, irrational, corrupt, or immoral, most Ravenclaws will abandon it. Like Kylo Ren, they will toss the broken lightsaber into the sea and go build a new one. (The lightsaber being their “I live by these principles.”) These ideals come from the outside and their own tinkering, but they aren’t instinctively felt. Unlike the Slytherin, they do not go by emotions -- they go by what they have chosen to be.

As previously mentioned, I know a Slytherin. She always had a deep abiding affection for Katniss, because she understood her completely. When The Hunger Games first came out, and I was struggling to understand why she liked it so much (I found it incredibly depressing and morbid), she just said, “I would do that for my sister.” Years later, when she was taking the Sorting Hat test, I knew she would come out a Slytherin, because... she is Katniss. But the difference between us was distinctive. She would rush to defend, to protect, to be loyal to, and I would sit back and analyze the situation from a detached viewpoint, ignoring any emotions I might be having in the process... because I am constantly weighing everything against my logical reasoning and my faith. It’s as simple as that. Of course my family comes first, but my faith also says to treat everyone with kindness and “do unto others what you would have them do unto you.” So there is always a push-pull in me between instinct (my family, not MY family) and everyone else, according to my belief system.

Consequently, if you want an idea of what a Hufflepuff looks like, look no further than Rey Skywalker. She may be a little grouchy and standoffish, but she also stands up for and defends... everyone. She has a collective emotional loyalty to the entire human race. She protects BB8. She protects Finn. She attaches herself easily to Han Solo, then to the mission to find Luke, then to the Rebellion, and finally, she even sees the potential for good and healing in Kylo Ren. Everyone is fair in her mind, everyone is equal, it would never occur to her to prioritize a select few over the greater good. Hufflepuff values.

And Leia, of course, is a Gryffindor. Someone who has found her Cause and intends to champion it, and you can come along for the ride or get the hell out of her way. She and Han, a Slytherin, butt heads a lot, because he has no interest in a Cause, until he attaches himself to her. Then her Cause becomes his Cause, in a truly Slytherin fashion -- what matters to My People, matters to me. She trusts her gut and does whatever it tells her to do, and entertains no turning aside for anyone. She will stand alone if she must.

You need to ask yourself, who am I? What do I trust? And what would gut me to ignore? My loved ones? Slytherin. My system and logic? Ravenclaw. My general concern for humanity? Hufflepuff. My gut instincts? Gryffindor. What are you willing to do in your life? Sacrifice other things to maintain and cultivate your intimate relationships? Slytherin. Abandon belief systems that you know to be erroneous without a second thought? Ravenclaw. Defend everyone who cannot defend themselves? Hufflepuff. Walk away from your entire family and friendship group on a matter of principle? Gryffindor. Who, by the way, do you ‘understand’ on a completely instinctual level? My Slytherin friend understood Katniss. My Hufflepuff friend understands Hufflepuffs. I understand Ravenclaws like Kylo Ren, because I get his struggle. It’s familiar to me. And my Gryffindor father understands Gryffindors and in true Gryffindor fashion, thinks cowardice is unforgivable. 

[calamityk8]

"My name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain. I am admitting this to you with the full understanding and acknowledgement that what I am doing is absolutely not going to be fully understood; but perhaps in pieces it can reconcile the most fragmented and deranged parts of my psyche, or at least arrange them in a way that will relieve this incessant pressure that always haunts me. Whatever happens, well, at least I have tried to do something to explain this innate and incessant madness, which is more than most get a chance to do.

Okay, here goes.

Belatedly, I suppose, there were neurons misfiring to account for, some chemical mishap that perforce disengaged my social abilities to adapt and be of use to others. Panic and hysteria have ruled the contours of my experience for longer than this busted-up brain can recall. Looking back, well, I can gauge the horrific aspects of it, in the present. Of course hindsight’s a malignancy at this point. I have become this disease; it as all that I am: a sporadically hebetude-induced corollary on the razor’s edge of sanity’s rusty hook. Saying things like this doesn’t help. I know. It’s just hard to judge oneself from the outer limits of perspective’s gush and flow. Trapped in this insidious circle of discontent and maladjustment, I am oozing the sap of life’s lost lust.

I might have a way to put it, so let me.

Having severe systemic and constant depression and simply “being bummed” are two very distinct and different things. One is a disease; the other is just one of the myriad consequences of being alive. If someone has cancer you don’t tell them to, “buck up and get over it.” We don’t admonish a stroke victim to, “stop lying around, and get up and do something with yourself.” Even our advice for sufferers of the common cold is sympathetic, as cough-and-congestion victims aren’t told they are being “weak” or “soft” and should just “be happy because things could be a lot worse.” But, for some inane reason that is preconditioned into us by years of inhumane pseudoscience, diseases of the mind are linked to some weakness or lassitude of the individual, as if that person who is suffering from a disease such as depression or severe anxiety is somehow inept and is to be blamed for their troubles. As if it is within their control to get better by “just trying a bit harder at it.” It’s really a nonsensical viewpoint to take; but, alas, it is one of many such idiotic theories held by the masses.

Here — there is this too: you’ve got to fight this one alone. Other people can help you, but in the end it comes down to you fighting for your life all by your lonesome. This is a difficult thing to internalize, but once you do, in some wary way, a strand of hope will spring from this, as finagled and shoddy with trepidation as it may be. There will be a surge of selfhood guiding you, a reliance on the one person you can always count on: yourself. It is a scary thing, but like most scary things one finds as obstacles on the wayward path of one’s existence, extremely worthwhile to conquer. Just like any other terminal disease, depression kills; suicide is merely its mechanism.

This shouting in my head, it never seems to cease.

I am nervous and concise around others. I only laugh when it’s expected. Being alone has become my only comfort, though it too is getting to be unendurable. To guide me I take some small salvation in the long history of human endeavor to fight through the gnashing teeth of internal strife. According to Lecky’s History of European Morals, “A melancholy leading to desperation, and known to theologians under the name of ‘acedia,’ was not uncommon in monasteries, and most of the recorded instances of medieval suicides in Catholicism were by monks.” I dream through these trials and tribulations of ancients, attempting to stem the tide of my own demise with less troubling thoughts than the ones I’ve come to own: I am the angular distance of a star below the horizon; the dusty truth of eons of suffering through a terrible weight’s pressing down; sunken and lost; in old, forgotten times what they once called grevoushede. Grevoushede. Acedia. I breathe the words and balance the syllables on my tongue, unable to savor their taste or texture. I am a weightless pin pricked in the skein of an upside-down world I’ll never get close enough to know.

Who could ever fall in love with this raggedy bag of afflictions?

I trek through the ruins of my obsession, draped in sorrow’s mask, leaning on tiny tics and safe places to guide me. The cracking of my toes, one by one. Snapping all of my fingers back and forth. Clicking my tongue on the roof my mouth. Blinking an even number of times with one eye and then an odd number with the other. Popping my ears with my jaw. Smoothing my eyebrows down with my fingertips. An innumerable array of distractions that ease the arrhythmic pulse of thoughts that come but never go, blurring out my sight, and leaving me trembling, all filled-up with static but as empty inside as an ice cream shop in the freezing rain.

Woe is my middle name.

All of these little vacancies in my head surface and fill into the most chronic of all conditions. Possibilities go awry with suspicious and judgmental looks. Maybe I’ll put on some Dolly Parton and fall in love with a bookmark. These are thoughts that calm the deliriousness at it swarms. Exceptional circumstances to bow down to in this glut of terrors, this amassing of torturous routines: the bath mat must be lined up perfectly with the tiles, the showerhead at just the right angle, the curtain stretched just so, and the shower water, the god-damn shower water…always and forever just a touch too hot or too cold. The chores of being me, they never end.

The human senses can somehow even detect whether a television set is off or just on mute without looking. And everyone can tell the difference between boiling and room-temperature water being poured in much the same manner. But it is when these senses go astray, when they slip and frazzle and get pinched, that’s when one comes to know the real intensity of those senses’ powers. A daily trauma that haunts me wherever I go, my brain stuffed with the lint of leftover churning, dizzy and lopsided and playing alive, I ignore the impossibilities of being able to maintain a normal existence for as long as this sapped torpidity allows. The courage I need to muster just to leave my place and walk to get groceries is at most times an insurmountable obstacle, and so I stay in and worry and worry and worry about everything. Every object grows too precious to disturb as I put it on the pedestal of the postponed quenching of my desires. There is nothing I can do or think that will snap this spell of disenchantment that grips me tighter as it deepens this hole I am eternally residing in. Just making it home from the grocery store with a few shopping bags of food sometimes feels like the greatest accomplishment in the world. I should be doing other things with my time, I know: concentrating my efforts on more grand pleasures and goals. But these things of consequence, they are not for me. I lose so much more than I gain in these battles. Small, inconsequential, pyrrhic victories are the only ones I’ve known.

Hope is a bestial thing with daggers and fangs; I make up a thousand reasons to not have any of it bombard me as this disease attacks relentlessly. There are honestly times when I cannot even bring myself to lift a finger to scratch an itch. I’ve been prescribed a list of medications too long to register properly in the catacombs of my lingering doubt about the chemical cohesion of my wherewithal: Abilify, clomipramine, Lexapro, bupropion, Celexa, Cymbalta, Lithium, Xanax, Paxil, amitriptyline, Lamictal, and that grand old sturdy classic Prozac. Etcetetra. It seems that I am only etceteras: more and more of less and less. It’s all a wash. It was a messy chorus of boos from the cheap seats as I struggled through side effects and listened to the growing drone of a singularly horrible voice that wasn’t quite my own resounding in my skull: “You’re no good. You’re a lost cause. Stop whining; start winning. You’re no good. You are just no good,” over and over; nauseated at all times; woozy, delirious, insomnia-plagued and diarrhea-bound; garbling my words when forced to speak, fumbling through life like a doped-up zombie with no appetites, every little thing so impossibly far away.

The window washers will not sing for me. The faucets around here all look like dead swans. I sweep. I litter. I am unable to know for sure if anyone else ever feels the way I always do. I am ill with this ravenous beast that pesters and claws at and drapes itself over me, leaving me with the gumption of soon-to-be-roadkill sluggishly slouching across a busy highway. I yawn instead of moan. I burst into tears in the dark of crowded movie theaters just before the feature starts. I am normal. Really. I am sane — maybe even too much so. I do wish I could just go insane, but, sadly, I cannot quite contemplate how to accurately achieve this feat. My brain will not assuage nor relent with its ceaseless cracked and mangled disturbances.

The boring by-rote recitation of symptoms rattled off to every doctor who’d listen. They don’t know who I am, what I’ve suffered through, how I came to be this way that I am; and there’s no device by which I can properly explain it to them. It’s not like they can run a test, take some blood, or do a biopsy, and then figure out what’s wrong with me. It’s a hidden thing, deep within the walls of my pain, not on or off any scale they’ve ever invented. I am my own example. There are no answers to any of this. They used to take out parts of people’s brains, thinking it would relieve their suffering. But it just left folks lobotomized to a dull, vegetable state, unable to form words or dress themselves. Perhaps they were happy, though. Perhaps they were thankful for the big, empty space that now occupied what they’d formerly called living. Perhaps there was no person behind those dead eyes left to care. The disease wins yet again, as it always does.

Clinical diagnoses follow me with heavy clomps. “Heavy dysthymia with a robust anxiety level. Somatic cross-cutting, serious signs of high Altman-scale mania, repetitive and troubling thoughts bordering on multiple phobias and generalized panic. Personality Trait Facet Scores high on rigid perfectionism/grandiosity/anhedonia type, though scores lower across board than patient believes. Unusual and abnormal, but not psychotic at all.” As you can see, the weather inside my head is rather frightful, to say the least. I trudge through the murky terrain of my past with great regularity. I am muddy with it, soaked through from the storm of my memories, which are remembering themselves over and over and over again and again and again, until I do not rightly know what has happened or what is happening now. Who am I but this box of disturbing thoughts?

Madness in the family. A quirk in the genes being passed down just like Huntington’s or any other inherited affliction. This one’s just as deep in the bones, though not as noticeable, not as prominent in the makeup of one’s persona. My father was a brazen raver whose depression put the business end of a rifle under his chin to finally wreck its one final havoc on him as pulled the trigger in defeat; his father before him too came to an early funeral, though his disease’s weapons of choice were gasoline and matches, as he lay in immolation by the pumps of an empty gas station in the wee hours of his final night on earth. This dreary thing, it just goes and goes right on down the line. Shelter from it is inconstant at best. It is as if I am in hiding from my inheritance, from my own true self — a hibernation of sorts: falling in and out of a troubled sleep, groggy and drooling through another afternoon, I become obsessed with trifles. I organize the cups and plates on my shelves until they all perfectly line up. I become tempestuous at a single hair being out of place. I talk to myself constantly, mostly demeaning phrases and freshly coined derogatory slurs aimed at myself. I have been parked too long in my heart’s handicap spot. There is very little “me” left here to notice.

So, do not look at me lightly, with deferential judgement or pity’s hidden ire. My sorrows are so much smaller than you’d suppose. My shoes come untied just as much as yours do. I can be as brave and also as craven as most. I eat blackberries and put salted butter on my toast. There are no cures, only temporary stopgaps for relief of symptoms. I am not in control of the way that I feel. I will try. I do try. None of this is less than extremely difficult. I do not need nor crave your sympathy; I just want understanding. Perhaps, even after all this exegesis and other inexplicable explanatory notions are through, this is still too much to ask. In the end, casting aside whatever ideas anyone might get to having about me and my plight, I only return right back to where I began: my name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain."

[skywillsometimeswrite]

Why?

So I got really inspired by @target-block ‘s Evil!Impulse and Evil!Stress AU and so I decided let’s throw a hastily written fic at them

(I have barely watched Impulse, and I haven’t seen much of Stress, so literally it’s all spitballing but they’re evil so its fiiiiine)

Read it on AO3

“Why, Impulse? Why are you doing this?”

Impulse glanced over his shoulder at his old friends, Bdubs physically holding Tango back. If Bdubs even loosened his grip Tango would most definitely charge right at Impulse. He wonders if his old friend would hit him. He was never the particularly violent type, so maybe he would try and talk him out of the high that he was currently riding from his carnage spree. Would he hug him and try and use some heartfelt words to sway him back over to being his old self? The thought amused Impulse, making his smile grow to show his teeth off.

He laughed, loud and hearty, just like he used to at Zedaph’s more ridiculous ideas, or when Bdubs would get himself blown up. He caught a glimpse of Tango’s confused expression shifting into one of betrayal before he looked out on the damage that he had caused.

He breathed in the tell tale smell of wither roses, relishing in his handiwork as ghasts, blazes, and even a few withers flew around the shopping district. The roses had a distinct smell, one that mingled quite well with smoke, nether wart, and spider eyes as he had learned when concocting this most magnificent scheme with his two partners in crime. That beautiful symphony of smells now hung over the shopping district, the once green grass Scar placed now brown and dead or black with the wither effect seeping into its roots. Impulse thought it was quite the improvement. The place had gotten to be a bit too colorful for his liking.

“Why?” He echoes back to Tango, spinning on his heel. He held a wither rose in his calloused hand that had become immune to the wither effect the plant held. His fingertips were stained black and faded as they went down. He had lost full feeling in them ages ago, but that never hindered him. If anything, it helped since he didn’t have to worry as much about his own weapons and traps hurting him when he set them up. Not to mention facing down wither skeletons in the nether had become nothing but a simple chore. “You want to know why?”

“Yes! Why would you betray us like this? What have we ever done to you?” Bdubs’ voice grated against Impulse’s ear drums and he couldn’t help how he nearly crushed the precious flower in his fist.

Impulse walked towards his previous coworkers, circling them on top of Scar’s magnificent  Scara Junior. Impulse picked the black petals off of the rose, letting them flutter down onto the organic material of the stem, and lazily watched as they formed a circle of decay around his enemies. Ordinarily, just the petals wouldn’t do much, but the stem soaked up all of the withering effect that it could. It quickly spread to the point underneath Tango and Bdubs, and despite how the two tried, they were never particularly strong: in will or in body. Their coughs and groans as their beings filled with unwavering pain was music to Impulse’s ears, even more so as he felt the familiar feeling creep up his own legs and reinvigorate him. 

“What have you ever done to me?” Impulse’s voice raised, incredulous, before it fell again, black particles falling from his mouth as the withering effect spread within his body. “Are you serious? The better question is what haven’t you done to me?

All you guys have ever done is use me. I finish one job, and you guys want something bigger. And every time I’m lucky if I get even a little bit of gratitude. I help you with your games, I help you with your projects, I help you with your farms, I give you resources, I design new machines and what do I get in return? A ‘thanks’ and a guarantee that you’ll come back to me when you need something else.”

He kneeled in front of the two hermits, both of them holding their chests as the incredible, beautifully hideous wither spread through them, slowly draining away their life. That was probably one of Impulse’s favorite parts of using the petals over full flowers: it was a lot slower of a death.

He gently put one of his wither tainted fingers underneath Tango’s chin, lifting his head up so he could look into his pain filled red eyes. “Even you, Tango. The only reason I’m here is because you needed someone to do your work for you. I’m surprised you didn’t see this coming.”

Tango opened his mouth, a strangled sound escaping in what almost sounded like a word before it devolved into horrendous coughs that brought a smile to Impulse’s face. He dropped the other’s head, standing proudly over the men.

This was by far the best payment he could have asked for.

-----

“Stress, I don’t understand, why are you doing all this?”

Iskall was precariously balancing on the Logz blimp, his arms out as he tried to steady himself. This sight caused Stress to giggle, and Iskall’s disturbed expression at the almost normal sound was clear on his face. She knew, if it had been anyone else standing in front of him, he wouldn’t have hesitated to charge forward and impale them. But this was Stress in front of him, his best friend. He adored her, and she knew that very well. So of course she was going to use that to her advantage.

“You’re a smart guy, Iskall, I’m sure you can figure it out.” She said, catching how his eyes drifted out over the shopping district and to the roof of the Colored Complete shop. Now that she didn’t appreciate. She wasn’t harmless, perhaps she had to remind him of this.

She twirled a lingering potion in her hand, spinning it on her fingertip before gingerly tossing it at Iskall’s feet. It shattered, the sickly green liquid exploding all over the wood. The fumes quickly wafted up, causing Iskall to cover his mouth, but it was all too late. The poison spread through his body, making his vision sway and his stomach retch, Stress knew. She had tested it enough times to know the exact effects on a person, and she didn’t need a watch to know exactly when it would end.

“You should keep your eyes on me if you know what’s good for you, luv. I’m not some cute dainty flower, you know -- well, I am adorable, but that's not the point, now is it?”

Iskall was definitely one of the tougher hermits, she had to give him that. Most anyone else would be rendered incapacitated from her enhanced poison potions, but he managed to glare at her between wet coughs. He took a few steps towards her, out of the fading cloud of poisonous fumes, and took a deep breath of air. Not that it would help him much, considering the amount of smoke that lingered around them.

“Seriously, Stress, what is all this about? We’re friends aren’t we? What’s gotten into you?”

She rolled her eyes, groaning at such a typical Iskall response. Really, he couldn’t be more predictable could he? She pulled out a splash potion, watching the ink black liquid swirl around inside the fragile glass.

“You really think I’m so simple, do ya?” She took a step forward, watching Iskall take a step backwards from the corner of her eye. “Sure, we were friends, Iskall. But that got old real quick, it did. Y’see I got real tired of being this little do gooder that could do no wrong. The one everyone underestimated. I wanted to prove to all of you how easily you were to fool. How easily I could fool you.”

She grinned at Iskall’s wide eye and shaking legs as she took another step forward. “You’re all really stupid, you know that? None of you even thought to suspect us! And we weren’t barely subtle at all. Luckily for us, you lot were so happy to cling on to the idea of poor Falsie being behind all of our messes that you didn’t look any farther into it!”

She sighed, squishing her cheek with the palm of her hand as she thought about it. “I do feel a lil’ bad, you know. About Falsie. I honestly didn’t think you’d straight up ban her. Must’ve been pretty scary for her.”

“We thought-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you lot thought. That sweet ol’ Impy and I wouldn’t hurt a fly, right?” She tossed the potion at him, knowing that he was enshrouded in darkness. Even his mechanical eye couldn’t see past a blindness potion that she had made. She walked towards him, sliding her hand up his arm and getting right up close to him. She wished she could frame his look of terror when she whispered:

 “Do you still think that?”

-----

“Grian, mate, really you gotta explain this to me. All of this. I-I don’t get why you’re doing all this.”

Ariana rolled her eyes at Mumbo. “How many times do I have to tell all of you? I’m not Grian, I’m Ariana Griande. I swear, you all are terrible with names.” She tutted.

“Yeah, right, whatever your name is, you need to stop this. Please. Or- Or at least tell me why you’re doing this. We can figure this out, I’m sure.”

Araina’s heels clicked on the noteblocks she stood on, walking over them as she examined Mumbo carefully. She hummed every note that played with every footstep she took. Sure, maybe Etho’s work was more refined and practiced, but Ariana was known for her voice not her instrumental talent. And of course for her explosive and fiery personality. Why else would Stress and Impulse recruit her?

“I think the better question is why wouldn’t I be doing this?” She asked Mumbo as she hopped off the noteblocks and onto the white concrete that made up the roof of Colored Complete. It was more grey now from all the smoke, but she thought that it looked far prettier that way. Fire always gave things that extra spice they needed.

“What?”

“Oh, come on Mumbo. Are you telling me you’ve never wanted to create a little chaos before?”

He spluttered, looking at her as if she was crazy before gesturing to the currently crisping shopping district. “This- this isn’t just ‘a little chaos!’ Grian, if you think this is all some harmless prank you gotta snap out of it, man. This is way, way, way worse than anything else you’ve ever done.”

“Ariana.” She corrected him again before walking to stand next to him and survey her fine handiwork. She had to compliment Impulse, the nether mods definitely helped a lot with the fire bit. And the ghasts certainly helped in the blowy-uppy part. Of course, most of the larger destruction was her own direct doing and she was quite proud of it all, even if it had made her skirt flutter up a little bit. She could sacrifice a little modesty for the sake of her art.

“And Mumbo, my dear Mumbo, I don’t think this is some harmless prank or whatever. No, I think,” she threw her arm over his shoulder, the heels making the reach less awkward. She still had to pull the man down to her height, though. “I think this is art. Beautiful art.”

She let him go, happily skipping back over to her noteblocks and sitting down on one, crossing her legs as she smiled out over the marvelously demolished shopping district. Her smile grew as a blaze lit a lone piece of TNT, the explosion adding to the brilliant cacophony of sounds that were already in the air. The crackling of fire, the screeches of ghasts, the breathy roars of withers, and of course her favorite sound: the panicked screaming of the hermits as they scrambled to salvage as much as they could.

Really, did she even need to explain why she did all of this? Why they did all of this? It seemed pretty obvious to her.

“You see, Mumbo, it’s all about making a statement.”

[ko-chan-the-blueberry-donut]

Requiem 4

Hey everyone! I hope everyone is enjoying this story! Sorry it took me a little longer. I’ve been falling asleep more frequently. I wish I didn’t feel so tired all the time… the doctors think I have narcolepsy but I won’t be able to get tested until everything is open.

Disclaimer: I don’t own My Next Life as a Villainess.

----------

Gerald Stuart prided himself on being able to read his fiancée, Katarina Claes, very well. He had known her since she was eight, had known her the longest out of all her friends, and was engaged to her. He knew her likes and dislikes, what made her upset, what made her smile—Gerald was sure he could write a book simply on Katarina’s ‘katarisms’ within a day and have it published within the week.

So when Gerald had visited the Claes manor to see his fiancée, he immediately knew something was off when he saw her.

“Sister! Please put on something more proper!” Keith cried as Katarina raced up to greet Gerald in a strange outfit with… a surprisingly short length skirt. He felt his cheeks flush at the sight of her shapely legs.

“It’s fine, Keith! Mother says I can wear this around the mansion! What do you think, Prince Gerald? I think it’s great!” Katarina was expressive as usual, and if he wasn’t versed in how she was, he would’ve fell for it, but Gerald zeroed in on Katarina’s face. Her smile was there, but her eyes—they had a melancholy look in them. It was like she was about to cry, whether in joy or sadness, Gerald didn’t know, but the distant gleam in her eyes, as if she was here, but not, made Gerald pause.

Something was wrong, and this made Gerald very alarmed.

“Katarina…” Gerald murmured, concerned. He raised a hand to her cheek, and Katarina blinked, confused. “Are you okay?”

For a moment, a small second, Katarina appeared as if she was about to cry. She bit her lip, as if she was holding something inside, but soon she was smiling again, and the moment was gone.

“Of course I’m okay, Prince Gerald! You’re starting to sound like Keith—he’s been fretting over me too!” Katarina laughed. Keith and Gerald watched her, waiting for her to crack, for her to come clean about what was on her mind.

But it never came.

And that worried them more.

“Just because Mother gave you permission to wear those strange clothes doesn’t mean you should be wearing them everywhere, Sister.” Keith sighed. Katarina patted his arm.

“It’s fine, Keith! Maybe when I go to the Ministry of Magic with Mother, she’ll let me get more fabric for more clothes!” Katarina was excited, sparkles in her eyes at the thought of wearing more clothes like she wore in her past life.

“You’re going to the Ministry of Magic?” Gerald inquired, raising a brow. Katarina nodded.

“Yeah! Mother says she wants to take me! I don’t know why though! Maybe a job opportunity?” Katarina wondered.

“There’s no need for that, Katarina. After graduation we’d be getting married, remember?” Gerald pointed out, gently smiling.

“Oh! You’re right! Then I don’t know…” Katarina trailed off.

“You know, Sister would be much more suited for working than being Queen anyway.” Keith’s eyebrow twitched.

“Oh really? Actually as Queen she’ll be quite busy.” Gerald’s smile twitched. Katarina watched them both with a smile.

‘They get along so well! Maybe I should arrange for them to hang out more!’ Katarina grew excited at the prospect.

“Katarina?” Gerald’s voice called her out of her musing.

“Uh yes, Prince Gerald?” Katarina jolted. Gerald grasped one of her hands with his affectionately.

“I would like to join you on this outing, if that’s alright with you.” Gerald had a distinct suspicion this meeting with the Ministry was important—his gut telling him he should go to be there in case she needed protection.

“I-I’ll go too, Sister! This way Mother and you will have more support with whatever you’re doing!” Keith was quick to chime in. He eyed the third prince with a glare, but Gerald wasn’t phased. Katarina was what mattered the most.

“Oh! That’s a good idea, Keith!” Katarina praised him. She clapped her hands together. “What if we invite everyone? Maria said she was thinking of applying to the Ministry of Magic, and I’m sure Nicol would love to see all the ancient archives!”

“Whatever you want.” Gerald and Keith told her, just happy she was normal again. They listened as Katarina babbled excitedly about getting everyone together.

“Oh! I should go tell Mother we’ll have everyone coming with us! Excuse me!” Katarina bid them farewell and hurried into the Claes manor. Gerald and Keith watched her go with smiles. However, when she was out of sight, they sobered immediately.

“Something’s wrong.” Gerald said.

“I tried getting her to tell me, but she just said she was fine and waved me off.” Keith told him. “But that look in her eyes…”

“It looks like she’s about to fall apart at the seams.” Gerald finished for him. He turned to Keith, serious. “Did your mother say why they were going to the Ministry?”

“No. She just told Sister to be ready soon, but Mother appeared to be very conflicted, like a lot was on her mind.” Keith answered. Gerald’s expression turned pensive.

“Has she ever been like this before? Katarina I mean.” Gerald asked Keith. Keith furrowed his eyebrows, thinking.

“My sister’s always been a little strange… sometimes I’d catch her muttering in a strange language when she’s talking to herself. I’ve caught her writing in a notebook in also a strange language, but when I asked to see it, she freaked out and kept switching between language—like she was so flustered and scared her brain couldn’t focus. I never wanted to terrify her like that again, so I never asked about the notebook, but I know she hides it somewhere in her room. I just thought it was a diary…” Keith recalled a young Katarina rambling frantically, trying to get him to forget about the book. Keith appeared more troubled the more he remembered. “When I was getting adopted by Father, he mentioned something about Sister having night terrors like I did so he thought we’d bond. I tried asking her about those, but she just said they were gone now that I was there, so I didn’t need to worry. I thought I was special then—I made Sister’s night terrors go away, but I can’t help but wonder… sometimes I find she has dark circles under her eyes, like she’s been having bad dreams, and I wonder if that’s really true they’re gone.”

“Sometimes she’d say things—strange things like she needed to learn how to survive in case she ever gets exiled one day.” Gerald added his own two cents. “I’d ask her what she had meant, and she would startle, realizing who she was talking to, and immediately say it was nothing. I don’t think she’d ever meant to say that to me…” Gerald explained. “I thought it was just her being silly because how could Katarina ever think she was going to be exiled? She had to know I cared about her, that I would never let that happen. I’d sooner kill myself than causing her the pain of banishing her.”

“I’d kill you first.” Keith frowned. Gerald gave him a look before sighing.

“I wonder… does this have anything to do with her trying to break off our engagement all the time?” Gerald mused to himself. Keith raised an eyebrow.

“Sister tried breaking her engagement off?” Keith was confused.

“Unfortunately. She would say things like when I found someone else to love, she wouldn’t stand in the way. I just thought it was because she didn’t know how I felt about her, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s something bigger going on here. Something she’s not telling me…”

Keith observed his rival, and saw he was truly distressed by something bothering Katarina to the point it was affecting her mental state—just as distressed as him.

Before he could say anything, however, the object of their discussion was running towards them.

“Keith! Prince Gerald! Good news! Mother said we can invite everyone! Let’s let them know right away!” Katarina called.

“Of course, Katarina.” Gerald smiled.

“It will be fun, Sister.” Keith smiled as well. Katarina paused, watching them.

“Are… are you two okay?” Katarina asked. She placed her hands on both their foreheads. Keith and Gerald both felt their heartbeats speed up at her touch. “You don’t feel warm.” She noted.

Gerald gave a little laugh, grasping her hand as she was pulling them away from their foreheads. Keith watched in envy that he could touch Katarina so freely.

“You know me, I can be a bit protective.” Gerald told her, smiling tenderly. Katarina smiled in return.

“Don’t worry, Prince Gerald! I’ll protect you from any wayward snakes!” Katarina promised, probably not realizing what Gerald meant, but Gerald was fine with this, used to it, and laughed softly.

“I’ll hold you to it.” He grinned.

“Sister, let’s prepare the letters to invite everyone.” Keith interrupted them, eyeing Gerald sternly. He gave Katarina a gentle smile. “They’ll all be excited to hear from you.”

“You’re right, Keith! We have to hurry! We’ll be going to the Ministry soon after all!” Katarina replied.

“Yes… soon” Keith echoed.

He was sure they would have more answers after that.

He hoped more than anything.

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

There’s chapter 4! Sorry the chapters are so short! My sleep disorder makes it harder to write longer chapters, so I try to compensate with shorter chapters and quicker updates if my health allows it.

[just-mirko]

BINARY  

BNHA HACKER AU - CHAPTER 4

MASTERLIST

Mirko x F!Reader

Warnings: HAWKS BEING A SUS BITCH 2.0 #peghawks2020 

WC: 2k 

(A/N: This is unedited! Please message me if you spot any annoying mistakes! I will probably have the edited version up in a day or two!)

__

 “Then with that I leave you, my students, sleep well!”

 He left for the doors and closed them behind him, effectively leaving 15 teenage criminals in a room together.

Hah.

__

            After principal Nezu left, the crowd dispersed. Many chose to scout out their dorms instead of interacting. Each person was a loaded gun. Aimed at their enemies or themselves did not matter, we were all afraid for when the first bullet would strike.

             That being said, most seemed overall relaxed. Students would try to start conversation and socialize, which was apparent by the mumble of voice within the school’s halls that returned from before Nezu gave his brief speech.

             I was turning towards the dorm hallway with my bags in hand. The gentle tap of my shoes along the hardwood floors could be heard in crisp, purposeful taps. Right as I walked through the threshold of the door connecting the dorm corridor and the main hall, I heard footsteps growing louder behind me.

             I kept walking forward and kept a close eye at the plaques on each room’s door that signified who was housed where.

             The footsteps continued getting closer until in my peripheral vision I could see a lock of white hair swaying.

             “You again?” I asked, feigning annoyance. Of course, her presence wasn’t exactly unwanted but it was unneeded.

             “Mmmhmm” Mirko hummed while gazing down at me.

             The image of her and Hawks pushed itself into the forefront of my mind, leaving residues of anger wherever it bounced in my brain.

             “So… you and Hawks?” I looking at the hallway door when I said it. I slowed my walking down to almost a complete stop before turning towards her.

             “Are you guys dati-“ I made the mistake of looking into her piercing red eyes and caught a glare, making me stop my sentence.

             I held my breath for a second, thinking I angered her in some way, but to my surprise she let out a laugh.

             “You got so scared! Look at you! You’re just a bottom little bunny” She relaxed and leaned her arm down to rest on my shoulder. The height difference was so obvious when she was standing this close.

             “C’mon (Y/N), lighten up, combat training is going to be a breeze! I bet the view from the floor will be nice.”

             Did she just- never mind.

             “Oh as if.” I rolled my eyes and started walking again towards my door that came into view. She followed me and watched as struggled with the door.

             The doorknob was plain and silver, with a  small black pad above it. I was more than confused.

             “Were we supposed to get a key or something?”

             I continued jamming the doorknob and pressing at the black pad in frustration. It was getting late, and being locked out of my room wasn’t on my list of things I can emotionally handle.

             One of Mirko’s hands came to rest at about my elbow from behind me. Delicately moving her hands up towards me wrist, she paused, before gently holding the back my hand, her nails ghosting against my palm.

             My heart was racing, none of her arm’s subtle movements went unnoticed. I feared that with how close she was, with her right behind me, and this, whatever this is, she could hear my heartbeat pounding in my chest.

             She guided my hand towards the black pad and brought my left pointer finger down on the sensor.

             With a small green light and a click, the door swung open. She kept her grasp on my hand for what felt like a moment too long yet still too short before stepping back and turning towards the door across from me room.

             “The doors are locked via fingerprint,” She stated matter-of-factly with a smirk.

             “Tell me if you have any more troubles (y/n), I’m right next door.” She seemed way too pleased with herself when she walked back into her room, not sparing a glance over towards me, standing in the door frame of my room when her’s closed.

             That night I laid awake staring at the ceiling, just as I had done last night. Though the only difference was last night I was contemplating to even go here, now I was contemplating how I would even survive here.

             The dorms were nice and decently sized for the whole ‘underground secret society’ thing. A bathroom with all the basics including a deep bathtub, a queen bed, a mini fridge, and coffee machine. What set t apart from average was two things. Color changing lights that were set under the bed and desk, giving everything a vibrant glow (A/N no reason for the lights they just look cool :))

               The last special thing in the room was a giant black desk, obviously set up for a giant desktop and even more hardware, but the surface with unscratched, unused, and empty. It sat in the corner of the room alone, unlike the other areas that had lamps, colored lights, or fake plants; the desk had nothing.

             I would still have to grow accustomed to the new and pristine room. It smelled clean. Like fresh disinfectant and fake lavender that is just slightly off from the real thing. I could not say I missed the cans of soda on the floor and random sticky notes everywhere.

             The old apartment was crammed with miscellaneous objects. All the things I was too attached to throw out, but not too attached to leave all together, I guess.

             I rolled over, suddenly very aware of my awakens. I checked my clock. A large sigh eased from my lungs. It was only 11pm. That meant I was not losing too much sleep on my first day. I could only imagine how screwed I would be if those led screen lights were showing 3am or any other blatantly early time.

              I guess since I was awake, it would not hurt to get a snack or something. From my recollection, I remember seeing a café like area in the common room, though I was too preoccupied to look at it for too long. They might have a granola bar or some snack I could eat. I was really craving chocolate milk right now.

             I was in the slightly delirious sleepy stage of consciousness. The point where I had no filter to what I said, and no self-preservation. In said state, I threw on some slippers, grabbed my phone and grudgingly walked out to the hallway.

             “choccy milk, choccy milk!” I whispered to myself in a singsong voice. The walk to the end of the hallway seemed to only last a split second before I was there, at the door to the common room.

             “choccy milk, choccy milk!” I reached towards the doorknob, shivering once the chilled metal touched my fingers. Right as I was about to pull the door with my weak and tired muscles, I heard shuffling from the other side of the door.

             I opened it slowly, and peering in through the crack in the door. Though dark, and his back was towards me, I could recognize the distinct frame of Hawks. The dirty bastard. Why he be actin lik- my thoughts were interrupted by two sharp clicks. On the floor he sat a suitcase and opened it up. It was the same one that had the red unidentified fluff in it. More fuzz was on it than before, apparent as it stood out among the black fabric casing.

             He moved in front of the suit case and blocked my view, but I could watch as he crouched down an opened it up. Suddenly, a flurry of red came spiraling out and circling around hawks. He stood up and the shapes were revealed to be feathers, each one different than the next. The continued to storm around like he was standing in the eye of a hurricane surrounded. Feather by feather they collected by his shoulders, forming broad wings that’s wingspan was around 10 ft.

             He ruffled the wings around, spreading them out and even doing a test flap, which sent a gust of air in all directions. While he was… adjusting them? Stretching them?

             This had to have been his quirk. And it was an amazing one at that. This was my rival? How was I supposed to beat that?

             “Woah” I silently whispered. His wings twitched at the sound, and it appeared all the feathers stood up straight. He quickly turned around, his wings taking on a defensive position and each feather spiking outward like tiny knives. I quickly hid behind the door, hoping he didn’t see me, though he definitely heard me.

             My heart pounded in my chest, and I held my breath, knowing now that whatever his quirk was, it enhanced his hearing.

             I slightly turned my head to my ear was pressed up against the wall and I could hear anything he did. I cringed at the slight scratch of one of my earrings against wooden door and paused again.

             Through the polished wood and all the space between us, I  made out his footsteps beginning again as he walked away from the door. The breath I held in my lungs released shakily. My eyes darted across the hallway, which suddenly seemed so much longer. The expanse of parallel lines from the crown molding and the wallpaper and everything made me feel like caving in.

             I had barely dodged that encounter, and I know it would not have been good if he found me snooping. I was not my intention, but it did give me a slight advantage. I knew his quirk.

             I knew his quirk.

             Unlike someone’s fake name or hacker alias, quirks were something you can change. They stuck with you the rest of your life, one of very few constants we could have. And because quirks, especially unique ones like Hawks’, were specific to each person they not only would let me find his real identity quickly, but also gain information on his past, something most people in this life tried to forget.

             I had no intention of using this information maliciously, it was more or less self-defense. If he was out for me, its only fair that I get to build a shield. I was just evening the playing fields.

             My brain was vacant of all prior need for choccy milk, now, all I wanted was answers, though for now those would have to wait. My smartphone said it was almost midnight, and I already started things at this academy on the wrong foot, I don’t want that to repeat with my teachers.

             I guess it was foolish of me to believe I was always one step ahead of everyone. I was untouchable, invisible, I had power. I forgot that people don’t get into this school on daddy’s money or luck, they’re here for a reason.

             But at that time I didn’t care, of course I didn’t, I just narrowly avoided my current rival, and walked away unnoticed. Untouchable.    

             I went to sleep quickly. I woke up early. I slept well. The next day started good. I made coffee and pondered over the empty desk once more. I was ignorant.

[raidbossmadi]

People Like Us : Chapter 7

7. The parts we play

Previous Chapter : Here 

“I just don’t get it.” Troy huffed taking a drag of a blunt as he sat at a grungy table in the engineering garage. His hefty prosthetic arm resting on the table it’s forearm panel open as Lydia diligently looked over the circuitry and mechanics inside. 

“Don’t get what?” She asked as she worked. It was commonplace for Troy to rant about the things that were frustrating him while he was getting his arm serviced and the engineering team were all well equipped to deal with their gods problems, after all they were his loyal children. Tyreen might be the favored of the cult at large but here in the garage everyone preferred Troy. 

“Why I feel like this, I don’t really know what to call the feeling either. I’m not sick...at least I don’t think I am.” He sighed, he knew what being sick felt like and this was something different entirely. It felt like his heart was being held in a fist that was tightening ever so slowly, that his head was swimming in a sea where all he could think about was one singular thing; the new siren. 

Lydia let him talk as she continued prodding at various components in his arm and testing their reactivity then loosened a few wires. “That feel any better, boss?” 

Troy stopped his rambling and rolled his shoulder back letting the weight of the arm rest on his shoulder plate.  A hiss of pain exited his lips as the shoulder plate dug back into the already bruised ribs beneath it, the reason for his coming down here in the first place. 

“Nope! That’s not it.” The arm thudded back onto the table which creaked under the sudden weight. He chewed his lip as a distraction from the protesting soreness in his already delicate damaged side. It was just his luck this was all piling up on him like this, the strange feelings, his arm not cooperating, Tyreen increasing his work load. He never could catch a break could he?  

“Not since the day Ty and I were born.” He thought, taking another drag hoping it would take the edge off his soreness. 

“You ought to be checking the counterweight Lyd.” A gruff voice came from behind the male siren and Tink dressed in welders gear hopped up onto the table. “The plate’s not shifting down far enough to be caught by his implant so it’s not shouldering the weight the way it should.” 

“You wanna take it over from here then Hephaestus?” Lydia asked. “I can head out if you two just wanna you know, have guy talk?” 

“Yeah leave it to me, I think I got the solution for our boss’s head problems too.” He said with a smirk that made Troy squirm a little, he didn’t handle confidence in other men well and it seemed that extended to his mechanic as well.  He tried to put it behind him, after all these were his inner circle members; people he could and did  trust with his life. 

“ So what do you think is wrong then Heph?” Troy leaned back in the chair staring up at the sheet metal ceiling and wondered how many bolts he could count before he got bored of it. 

“Told ya, your counterweight is screwy…Oh! You mean the other thing.” The Tink snorted, of all the smarts the man made god that sat before him possessed, he sure didn’t know anything about his feelings.  

Troy leaned forward again, his hair falling in front of his eyes yet the icy blue glare was still just as effective. “Yes the other thing. Jeez.” 

“Alright, alright don’t go bearing those fangs at me Troy. So this feeling you get, does anything in particular trigger it?  Are you walking out to do whatever bullshit you're up to when you ain’t here and seeing a particular person that gets you all dizzy? does this certain person cross your path and you just feel like you don’t know why the planet's gravity turned off for you alone?” Hephaestus didn’t look up from Troy’s arm as he talked gingerly tucking wires out the way to get to the forearm counterweight.  Troy seemed to handle things better when he wasn’t being talked to directly, something about making it seem like he was still in complete control of the situation kept him docile enough to ask hard questions. 

“Uh..ye..yeah that’s it exactly. But it doesn’t make any sense does it?” Troy huffed annoyed at himself “After all-”

“Lydia didn’t give herself that bite mark, nor did half the people here. I know, and I know if I  were a few feet taller I’d likely have one myself. But there’s a big difference between your little flings and what you’re feeling right now Troy.” 

“Then what is it? I don’t understand.” Troy ground the butt of his blunt into the table flicking it and the pile of ash it left onto the floor. 

“I know you don’t, and that’s why you’re angry, but I want you to think long and hard about this Troy. What makes this person different from any of your little flings? No one can answer that but you and you’d better figure it out before you go hurting them and yourself and everyone else around you because you couldn’t figure it out.” Hephaestus knew he was treading dangerous ground; Troy’s temper was nothing to play with but it was clear to everyone close to the male twin that he lacked a level of emotional maturity that, if he did not figure out for himself would continue to destroy every close relationship he tried to have. 

“Why can’t you just tell me? Clearly you’ve got it all worked out.” 

“If I tell you, you won’t learn anything and that’s the real hang up here. You think you’ve got it all figured out and because of that this new situation’s got you all confused. So all I can tell you for now is think long and hard about what’s different and only then will you understand why you’re feeling this way.” Hephaestus finally looked up from his work on Troy’s arm in time to catch him rolling his eyes in annoyance, he would get it in time. 

“Anyway, your counterweight was all tangled up with leaves’n’shit.” He said, pulling the aforementioned clump of vegetation onto a pile on the table. “Gimme a minute and I can get it recalibrated.” 

Troy stared at vegetation, his lip curling slightly, all of this led back to Eden-4. It just didn’t make sense, ever since he’d fed on Sloane everything had been so strange.  He liked the idea of not being so reliant on Tyreen and there had been something soothing about the energy he’d taken from the nature siren. But he didn’t want to harm her, when she had fainted in his arms he had felt genuine concern that he had harmed her irreparably and that had scared him on a level he hadn’t felt since the day Tyreen killed their mother.  

It hadn’t been until that moment that he understood the look of sadness that his sister wore after feeding sometimes. He had thought that she relished in taking the life from those less important than her to feed the ever growing image of a Goddess. 

He was taken out of his thoughts by the sound of the panel being closed up, looking down at the table to see Hephaestus watching him expectantly. “Well give it a try.” 

“Oh right.” He pulled the arm off the table more gingerly this time cautious of if it was really fixed. It sat back in position at his side with little protest of his sore ribs and he sighed in relief. “Much better. Thanks I guess I owe you one.”  

The tink shook his head. “Just doin’ my job Troy. You just go back up to your place and get that thing off while those bruises heal. And tell your big mouthed sister to lay off for a couple days why don’t you?” 

“She’s not gonna like that.” Troy hazarded though a few days to rest and figure things out without Tyreen jumping down his throat sounded like exactly what he needed.

“Does she ever? Doesn’t change the fact you’re not her workhorse. Now get outta here and don’t let us see you for a bit.” Hephaestus teased  and shooed the male siren away. 

Lydia approached him as Troy made his exit and quirked a brow noting that there had been a distinct lack of yelling which she had not expected. “Your talk went well then?” 

“Yeah, I gotta let Iris know I owe her fifty bucks though.”  Heph said with an amused snort.

“What? Why?” 

“Made a bet with her a while back, told her I didn’t think that  angry boy there had it in him to truly love anyone. She disagreed. Didn’t think I’d ever actually have to pay up, but, here we are.” 

—-

“You cannot be acting like this, you need to settle down.” Tyreen hissed. The God-Queen grabbing an errant vine that had erupted from the ivy plant she kept in her room, the plant shriveling as she leeched it back into submission. 

She could understand the other siren being a little upset about the things that had occurred the night prior but lashing out was unacceptable behaviour for anyone with powers like theirs, Sloane might not be able to husk anyone but she sure could if her emotions got out of hand . With the plant taken care of there was little threat for the both of them and Tyreen while still keeping her distance folded her hands in front of her to show she wasn’t going to lash out in kind. 

“Are you feeling calmer now or do I need to have Mouthpiece put you in time out?” She asked. 

“Yes, fine,whatever,I'm good. How about you start explaining what the fuck went on last night.” Sloane asked huffing through her nose, she had not planned for things to be aggressive but her powers had other ideas when she had originally started this conversation.  

“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about this.” Tyreen started, sounding equally annoyed. To her none of this was worth getting upset about. 

“You don’t? Really? Tyreen your brother did something to me and I don’t know what he starts freaking out I start freaking out , then the next thing I know I’m in the fucking hospital and you don’t think that that’s a big deal?” Sloane exclaimed honestly not sure what even to say at this point. 

“Fine alright maybe it’s kinda a big deal. You might want to have a seat, I don’t know how long this’ll take to explain so we might as well get comfy. I’ll grab drinks you want alcohol ooorrr?” 

“I’ll just have a soda Tyreen.” Sloane gave an exasperated sigh before walking over to the couch and sitting down. A million thoughts were swirling in her mind, why was Tyreen so chill about this like it was normal, even if it was normal  for her surely she must understand that not everyone would think that. She was brought out of her whirlwind of thoughts as Tyreen placed the soda can on the table in front of her before taking a seat in the arm chair. 

Tyreen popped the top of her own drink, a beer and took a sip before she sighed again. “So we lied, well kind of. Troy is a siren, but he’s also not a siren, confusing  I know just stay with me here alright? Our dad always called him freak, a parasite, he said he was a broken siren that shouldn’t even exist. He told us that if anyone knew Troy was a siren they’d take him away and study him, I mean he told us a lot of things about the world outside that wasn’t true but I don’t doubt that that was the one thing that was.” 

“Wait wait, I’m lost already, what do you mean your dad lied to you?”  Sloane tilted her head in confusion, the twins in the time they had been together had barely talked about where they came from and she had never pried despite her curiosity. 

“Our father raised us in a cage, he told us the rest of the universe was full of bandits and corporations that would tear us apart. When we got out we saw he was right, but he never accounted for the fact that we would tear them apart first. But that’s not what matters, this isn’t entirely my story to tell so when you do see Troy again you’ll have to coax the rest out of him. The important part is, Troy’s sick, he always has been. He needs a real siren like me to feed him energy or else...well he withers away. I don’t have the time to babysit him constantly with the Children of the vault expanding at an exponential rate, I can’t always stop what I’m doing or even be on the same planet as he is.  So when we realized we were going to be near another siren we thought…” 

“You thought that it would be ok to just grab another siren and not tell me the truth. That you just wanted to use me?” Sloane asked, her voice pitched up as she put the pieces together. 

“Not exactly…” Tyreen started. “We were going to tell you, but Troy instead of topping off on me decided to let his reserves run low and test it himself. If it had been up to me I would have sat you down with the rest of the inner circle and explained the part you’d play.”  

“They all know?!” 

“Of course they all know, I don’t take anyone into the circle  without first consulting with the others. The circle is a system of give and take, we all have things to offer each other and while Troy and I sit at the top of it all we still give back to the rest. And to be fair, serving Troy isn’t the only thing we wanted you for, you’ve seen the Cathedral garden and the garden on the Centurion, we have another one as well we’ll be visiting soon. Your siren abilities are perfect for maintaining them and we’ve been looking for a caretaker for awhile.” 

Sloane swallowed, unsure of what to think about all this. She knew the twins hadn’t taken her in on pure altruism alone and that she would have to earn her keep among them; she hadn’t expected this. She hardly knew anything about them save for the facets they allowed people to know and just like that this conversation had shattered the public facing facade. 

They weren’t perfect, they weren’t the righteous gods they hoped to become. They were people, broken scared people who had been raised in some sort of backwards way, told that the world outside of their bubble was dangerous and against them. Who wouldn’t want to rise above that, to remake a better world as a god. It all made sense now and the realization that the people who seemed to have the universe under their fingers were just as deeply flawed as anyone else was comforting. They weren’t the wolves that she thought they were, they were just as scared and frightened as she was, they just knew how to spin that fear into power. 

Now with Tyreen’s sins laid bare she couldn’t bring herself to feel the anger she had when she’d walked into the room. There was still a touch of fear that she couldn’t shake at this moment though, she still needed to process everything she had just learned. She couldn’t string together the words to explain what she was feeling she needed time to think about what she wanted to say. 

“I… I’m not angry anymore but I need some time to think, Tyreen. I’m gonna go take a walk around the Cathedral, yes I’ll bring a priest for safety don’t worry. I think I might go spend the night with Iris though, just to have some thinking time.” She said and hoped Tyreen would allow her to leave without much fuss. 

“That’s fair, I'll give you the time to collect your thoughts.” Tyreen sat back in the armchair watching Sloane rise and leave. When the door clicked shut she crushed the now empty beer can in her hand and chucked it at the wall. 

“You’re so fucking stupid Tyreen!” She berated herself. “Of course laying out you stupid sob story wasn’t going to just magically fix everything and have everything go back to normal. So fucking stupid.” She picked up her echophone with the same amount of fury and double checked the time of her afternoon appointment with the marketing heads. Enough time to let her feelings out. 

“You shouldn’t deny yourself these feelings.” A familiar voice that was not her own spoke up in her head. Nyriad, the siren that had wielded her powers before her waking to share her wisdom as she often did when Tyreen was upset. 

“I don’t even know why I’m upset though, she’s not obligated to thank me or even understand me.” Tyreen snorted. 

“Perhaps you should reflect on why she makes you feel this way. I know you long for another to be as close to you as your brother. Do you know what that feeling is called Tyreen?” 

Tyreen was admittedly stumped at first but the longer she thought on Nyriad’s words and her own thoughts and feelings it all started to fall into place. The truth she always knew she’d inevitably have to face and how she would have to decide if she would act on it or continue to keep buried like everything else she was afraid of. 

[filmfanatic82]

AO3 Link (HERE)

Chapter 17: Clarke (V)

Numb.

It’s the only word that comes to mind for the out of body sensation that Clarke is currently experiencing. 

Everything is numb.

No anger.

Or sadness.

Or even fear of what’s to come.

It’s as if her inner catalog of tried and true emotions are suddenly nowhere to be found, leaving Clarke with the inability to feel anything… 

Anything at all.

All there is is the never-ending abundance of numbness.

“Time to go, Blondie,” Anya announces from somewhere in the near distance. But Clarke doesn’t move. She remains planted on the top step of Murphy’s front porch, arms wrapped around her legs and chin resting upon her knees, while her eyes stare out into the darkness before her. 

A distinct set of footsteps cut through the ongoing background party noise, growing closer and closer, until stopping right beside Clarke. A moment or two of silence passes and then she notices the all too familiar sound of Anya letting out one of her “What mess did my sister create now” signatures sighs. 

Clarke knows that sound.

It’s the one that has become synonymous with Anya throughout the years, as time and time again the older Woods sister has managed to step in at just the right moment and fix whatever mess that Lexa has caused. The sigh comes first. Then the silence while Anya works her magic to rectify the situation at hand. 

Words come later. Always firm and direct, but never with a tone of anger. And never too many neither. It’s always just the right amount to get her point across before moving on.

Clarke feels the sudden weighted warmth of Anya’s leather jacket around her shoulders and can’t help but shrink into it, desperate for any sort of comfort at the moment. She blinks away the hint of tears forming within the corners of her eyes as Anya ever-so-gently helps her up onto her feet and leads her down the front steps. 

The two walk side by side in silence down the street and back towards Lexa’s car, with only the occasional street light to guide their way. Clarke doesn’t need to ask where they are going. She already knows. Anya is taking her home.

It’s always the first step when it comes to cleaning up the mess. 

Everyone is taken home-- and to their own home only-- and is required to get a good night’s sleep. Then, and only then, can they reconvene with one another. Usually over bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches and coffee at Blue’s. 

That’s the ritual. 

Always.

Clarke slides herself into the passenger’s seat and buckles her seat belt as Anya gets situated. “What about Rae and Octavia?”

“Took off. Saw the two of them leave together about 20 minutes ago. Guessing they got an Uber or something.”

Clarke nods. “Lexa left too.”

“I know. My sister is an idiot,” Anya responds, never once taking her eyes off of the windshield. “A massive fucking idiot.”

“No, it’s my fault, I was the one--”

“Don’t. You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

“But, I--”

“No. This is not your fault.” Anya turns and briefly locks eyes with Clarke. “And it doesn’t matter what you think you did or didn’t do. This one’s all on my sister.”

Clarke wants to believe Anya’s words, but the overwhelming guilt residing in the depth of her stomach is just too all-consuming. She shakes her head as a fresh set of tears reemerge in the corners of her eyes. 

Anya steals another quick look at Clarke and then exhales. “Look. I don’t know what went down between you and my sister tonight, but my guess is that Lexa pulled her normal shut down and run away bullshit.”

Clarke once again swallows back down her tears and then gives the tiniest of nods in confirmation.

“So fucking predictable,” Anya mutters under her breath. “Now she’s gonna run her ass all the way to England.”

England.

The word slams into Clarke like an unexpected slap to the face. She straightens herself up a bit within the passenger’s seat as her brow furrows with confusion. 

Lexa is going to England?

No.

That can’t be right.

It’s the alcohol playing tricks on her.

She’s drunk and misheard Anya. That’s all.

Lexa’s not leaving. Not in the middle of their senior year. Why would she? 

They are supposed to be going to UCLA together. 

Lexa would’ve said something to her if their plans had changed… Wouldn’t she?

Stop.

It’s the alcohol.

Lexa’s going nowhere. 

They’re in love.

And people in love don’t up and go halfway around the world without saying something.

Those things just don’t happen.

Clarke closes her eyes and shakes her head, trying to clear away her snowballing thoughts from her mind. She grabs the edges of Anya’s leather jacket and pulls it closer to her body as a strange set of chills washes over her. 

Something still doesn’t quite feel right… 

“Cold?” Anya asks.

“Yeah. A little bit.”

Anya reaches over, turns on the heat, and then repositions the vents to blow towards Clarke. “Here. It should take a minute or two, but then it’ll warm-up.”

“Thanks.”

Anya nods. “Used to it. Lexa is always freezing too. She would drive with the heat on in July if she could… She should’ve been born on some tropical island. Like Hawaii or Fiji.”

The smallest hint of a smile appears on Clarke’s face. She more than knows what Anya is talking about. It’s one of Lexa’s most endearing quirks. The insatiable craving for warmth. 

And it goes beyond just her normal wardrobe staples of oversized hoodies and thick fuzzy socks. No. Lexa constantly needs continuous warmth, both inside and out, in order to thrive. Otherwise…

“It’s gonna be alright,” Anya says, cutting through the silence once again. “I’ll drop you home and then go hunt Lexa’s ass down and knock some sense into her. Everyone just needs to sober up and get some sleep. Tomorrow things will return to normal. You’ll see. You won’t even get a foot in the door before Lexa starts to apologize and beg you to forgive her.” 

“Yeah,” Clarke replies with an underlying tone of uncertainty to her voice. She so desperately wants to believe that Anya’s right. That by tomorrow morning everything within the world will return to back to normal and the events of tonight will slowly fade away like a forgotten nightmare. And yet…

Something still isn’t right.

Clarke can feel it circling around her like an invisible entity that only she can sense, just waiting for the opportune moment to rear its ugly head and bring further havoc into her life. 

But what is it?

And what does it have to do with Lexa?

__________

“Hey Blondie,” Anya says with a drugged-up husk to her voice. “Back again?” 

But Clarke doesn’t respond right away. She instead quietly slips into the hospital room and shuts the door behind her, letting the definitive click of the lock speak for her.

Anya quirks her brow as she tries to decipher the reason behind the peculiar action. “You know you don’t have to lock that thing. It’s not like I can up and go anywhere.”

“It’s not for you. It’s to make sure we aren’t interrupted by any random pop-ins,” Clarke replies. She pulls up a nearby chair to Anys’s bedside and takes a seat. “We need to talk.”

“Okay…” 

Clarke goes to open her mouth but suddenly finds that the words that she’s been rehearsing in the confines of her own head ever since leaving Raven’s hospital room are now nowhere to be found. As if they’ve evaporated into mere nothingness, leaving Clarke with not an inkling of where to even start.

It’s Anya.

The same Anya that would cover for Clarke all those times back in high school when she would fall asleep in Lexa’s bed and forget to get up before Indra awoke. The one that helped her bail Raven and Bellamy out of jail, no questions asked, after they were caught rebuilding a ‘76 mustang in the principal’s office. And the one that was ultimately left to clean up Lexa’s mess when she ran off to Cambridge.

“Clarke… What is it?”

Clarke blinks and then inhales deeply. She can feel Anya’s eyes upon her. Observant as ever. “I went to see Raven.”

“Yeah? How’s she doing? Is she okay? I asked one of the nurses but they wouldn’t say jackshit to me. Something about patient-doctor confidentiality or some other bullshit like that.”

“She’s awake.”

“And…” Anya impatiently follows up, too eager to wait any longer. 

Clarke bites her lip a little too hard, almost breaking the skin. 

Where the hell did her words go?  

“Clarke?”

“You need to go see her.”

“I would if I could. You know that. But they won’t even let me get out of bed by myself to go take a piss,” Anya responds and Clarke senses a hint of hostile growing within the depths of her voice. “Tell me what’s going on. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” 

“I--” 

“Don’t do it, Clarke. We had a deal. No bullshitting each other. Not when it comes to the hard stuff. Remember? That was the deal you and I made after Lexa left,”

“I know,” Clarke responds. 

“Okay. Then answer my question… What’s wrong with Raven?”

Clarke exhales and runs her hands through her short, messy locks as she mentally shifts herself into doctor mode. “During the crash, Raven suffered what is called a partial dislocation of the L3 vertebra. This means her spine shifted from the impact, causing a severe amount of swelling and trauma to the surrounding nerves. Right now, it’s too soon to say if there’s any permanent damage, but…”

Clarke trails off as her words fail her once again. She’s done this a thousand times before. To face a patient’s loved ones and have to explain the extent of damages. It’s the first major test that any pre-med intern goes through. And up until this point, Clarke has always passed with flying colors. So much so, that she has gained the unwanted reputation of being a “Hoodoo”. 

A deliverer of bad news. 

But now… 

Now it’s different. 

Now the person she is talking about isn’t some generic-named stranger, but someone that is part of her life.

Now the person is Raven.

“But?” Anya asks unable to hide the quiver in her voice.

“But for right now Raven is experiencing roughly 75% paralysis of both of her legs.”

The words explode like a shrapnel-filled grenade, emotionally shredding Anya on impact. Clarke watches as Anya’s unreadable mask shatters, giving way to two defined trails of tears. “She’s paralyzed?” 

Clarke nods. “Yes.”

“Does she know?” 

“Not sure. She didn’t let on to it when I was with her, but she’s lucid enough to at least know something isn’t right. And given that it’s Raven, she’s already put two and two together by now.” 

The tears continue to flow freely down Anya’s cheeks as she takes a moment to process the gravity of Clarke’s words.

“I talked with Jackson and they’re planning on doing another set of scans in a few hours from now. The hope is that by then the swelling will have subsided enough to get a better picture of what’s causing the paralysis. It might even just be due to the initial trauma of the impact itself. In fact, once it goes down, there’s a strong likelihood that Raven might just naturally regain full functionality and feeling on her own. I’ve seen it happen before. At least a half dozen times. There’s was this motorcycle accident back in August where--” 

“Clarke.” 

Clarke stops rambling and catches hold Anya’s eyes. The tears have now slowed down but still, the look of pure uncertainty remains written across her face and Clarke is instantly transported back to that fateful night. It’s the only other time when she’s seen Anya look this way. Terrified of the unforeseen disaster that is lurking just off in the horizon. 

The unpredictable.

“It’s going to be alright.” The words tumble out of Clarke’s mouth before she can process what she is actually saying. She cringes, bracing for the inevitable response, but instead is greeted by a soft laugh. 

“Nice try, but you and I both know that phrase is like the kiss of death.”

“I know,” Clarke sighs. “But maybe this time things will be.”

“Maybe…” Anya replies with a less than believable tone. She lets out a long exhale of air and then-- 

“I need to see her.”

Clarke nods in agreement. “Yes, you really do.”

[giornocentric]

Bucci gang‘s Enneagrams

According to Truity.com, “The Enneagram is a system of personality typing that describes patterns in how people conceptualize the world and manage their emotions. The Enneagram mocel describes nine different personality types and maps each of these types on a nine-pointed diagram which helps to illustrate how the types relate to one another.”

I used https://www.eclecticenergies.com for reference, taking all the quotes from the description of each type. Feel free to take the quiz if you’d like to know your own Enneagram at https://www.eclecticenergies.com/enneagram/test

Anyway, let’s jump right into it! This is an INSANELY LONG POST/SERIES so be prepared!

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•

(2/6)

Giorno Giovanna:

Type 3 - The Achiever

“People of this personality type need to be validated in order to feel worthy; they pursue success and want to be admired. They are frequently hard working, competitive and are highly focused in the pursuit of their goals, whether their goal is to be the most successful salesman in the company or the "sexiest" woman in their social circle.”

Giorno Giovanna is passionate towards the pursuit of his goals and enjoys being admired by the members of the group as well as his city/society. He works hard and is subconsciously competitive, especially when he’s met with Abbacchio’s cold and unforgiving exterior.

When Abbacchio is being hard on him and believes he’s much more knowledgeable and experienced as well as more worthy of being part of the group due to his age, Giorno makes it his goal to prove him wrong in every way making me believe he’s a Three.

“Threes are socially competent, often extroverted, and sometimes charismatic. They know how to present themselves, are self-confident, practical, and driven.”

Giorno is possibly one of the most self-confident out of Bucciarati’s gang, he has one of the highest resolves in my opinion and is practical and resourceful when it comes to thinking of ways to get out of difficult situations and away from enemy stand users.

As I keep saying, he is so obviously driven, as his main goal shadows the entirety of Part 5, his dream is all that truly matters to him although he does still enjoy being recognized as a good leader and good person in general.

“They are good networkers who know how to rise through the ranks. But, while Threes do tend to succeed in whatever realm they focus their energies, they are often secretly afraid of being or becoming "losers."”

This almost fits Giorno to the T, he is an exceptional networker who is driven by his goals and always follows through. He rises through the rank of Passione in very little time and could succeed in virtually anything, as for the fear of becoming a loser, we do not know for sure as Giorno’s character rarely shows insecurities or flaws.

“Threes often, consciously and unconsciously, attempt to embody the image of success that is promoted by their culture. Threes get in trouble when they confuse true happiness, which depends on inner states, with the image of happiness which society has promoted.”

This one made me kind of sad to think about, I never viewed Giorno in this particular way until I really studied and watched him closely.

In my opinion, his constant need to embody the image of success seems to have been passed down or pressured on him by both Dio’s and Jonathan’s distinct personalities and the Joestar passion for justice as well as Dio’s need to feel powerful (godlike, if you will) and in constant control of situations.

That being said, I feel like Giorno would be truly happy just helping people, getting to actually be a teenager, and worrying much less over his image and reputation.

[tenjouu]

parts 13/14 from classical musician mc headcanons

In the third week of Mozart’s reintroduction into the music scene of Paris, you start to notice that his initial spirit (and subtle enthusiasm) has completely disappeared.

“Something’s wrong,” Mozart is grumbling when you walk in with a vial of rouge.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He raises his head to pin you with a glare. You get the vague feeling he’s searching for something in your face. You hope that he finds what he’s looking for without looking too hard into anything else. (You like him, after all.)

He opens his mouth. You set the tray down.

“You haven’t been bringing your violin,” he declares at last.

“No,” you agree. “We haven’t been playing.”

Mozart blinks and then recedes into silence. You circle around the piano with vague concern, glancing at the clock on the wall. If he doesn’t eat now, he won’t catch a horse carriage into town on time, and then he’ll be late to his scheduled appointment with the local orchestra.

Where he is, might you add, supposed to conduct.

“Mozart,” you say again, breaking him from his reverie. “Drink.”

He looks at you searchingly again, furrows his brow, and uncorks the vial and drinks slowly.

/

“Do you think they’re giving him trouble?” you ask.

Arthur, who hosts you now that Mozart’s out of the mansion nowadays, looks up from his manuscript with a smile. “Worried?” he teases.

“Something’s bothering him,” you explain. “I can’t figure out what it is.”

Arthur shrugs his shoulders and places his chin thoughtfully in hand. He inspects you too, similar to how Mozart had, and slowly starts to smile. He must have found the answer to whatever he was looking for, when Mozart hadn’t. But why are they always looking at your face?

“He’s always bothered,” he replies cheerfully. “Maybe he just needs beautiful company to cheer him up.”

You respond with the answer that deserves: rolling your eyes, shoving Arthur’s manuscripts toward him across the dining hall table, and getting up from your seat.

“I’m going to prepare dinner,” you say.

“I’m being serious!”

/

Mozart comes back in a bad mood the same day. You can tell because his face is stony when Sebastian takes his cloak, and because his eyes swivel towards you before he heads straight for the piano room, walking stiffly, trying to keep himself composed.

You exchange glances with Sebastian before you make your way up, following him.

He’s already sitting at the piano. But his hands don’t touch the keys like they normally would; they stay fisted against his legs as he stays rigid on the stool.

“Mozart?” you ask. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m so annoyed that I can’t even think,” he confesses.

Maybe his musicians are really giving him a hard time. You tentatively come closer, unsure of how to reach out.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he says and abruptly gets up from the stool.

By then, you’re only some inches away, and the sudden movement makes you reel back, flailing a little when you lose your balance.

He catches you by the wrist and pulls you upright. When your eyes meet, the severity of his gaze softens, and the displeasure in his face fades. The places where he touched you still burn after he releases you.

“You play,” he suggests.

“The piano?” you clarify.

“Anything,” he says.

He’s always been on a different playing field. Mozart has worked with professionals and genuine talent. You’ve always been aware when you played together, but it’s never bothered you until now. Because now, he’s playing with nineteenth century virtuosi who have made music their whole lives. They know where Mozart’s coming from. You might be able to hold your own in passion and genuine love for music, but you can’t hold a candle to their drive or dedication. 

And that sort of thing is something you know can be heard in how you play.

So you hesitate.

“I only know basics,” you say lamely. “I’m not a concert pianist.”

“I don’t care,” Mozart says. “Play something.”

You sit, albeit reluctantly. He watches your fingers so intently that you wish you knew what he was thinking. But, his irritation seems to have gone. So you decide to test the waters and tease him a little.

“This is my favorite piece,” you say seriously.

He recognizes it the moment you play the first four beats, and huffs.

“So childish,” he says.

“It was a genius piece,” you say. “Who else could innovate playing the tonic at different tempos in different hands?”

You reach the scales next, drawing them out playfully and dramatically and obnoxiously, creating accents where there shouldn’t even be any—and then he starts laughing.

You stop playing because you’re so surprised.

He’s finally lost it, you conclude. But you still admire the way that he laughs, the ways his eyes crinkle as he keeps his lips pursed to contain the chuckling within. You’re glad that he’s laughing. You’re happy that he seems happier now.

“Okay,” he says, after he’s done. “Enough of that. Shoo. Give the piano back.”

So soon? You’re reluctant to leave after witnessing something so special. You were sure it was a moment. You and Mozart haven’t played music together for weeks now. And you don’t want to hold him back, but you miss it.

“You would just use me and cast me aside like this,” you sigh. “How cruel, Mozart.”

Mozart takes your place on the stool and stops you before you leave.

“I’m not,” he says seriously. Strangely.

“I know,” you reassure him and leave him to his music.

Somehow, that was the wrong answer. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it. He looks lost after you leave.

/

Another week passes. Mozart doesn’t come back in any moods as bad as that one, but he doesn’t seem any happier. Maybe the music scene wasn’t what he expected. You can’t imagine what that’s like, because you’re neither composer nor conductor.

But he starts spending more time with you again, which you like. After he gets back, he takes the entire block of time from eight to ten at night, making you play every instrument the mansion has on hand.

You get the distinct feeling he’s trying to confirm something.

(“I don’t even know how to play the flute,” you protest.

“Try your best,” he replies without sympathy, refusing to slow down the piano accompaniment.

So that night was a disaster.)

You draw the line at singing. You’ve had enough of doing things that you’re bad at. For one, it’s a real self-esteem wrecker, and two, you hate the idea that Mozart can see just how bad you are in comparison to the professionals he works with daily. Which is also great for your self-esteem.

“No,” you repeat firmly. “Mozart, what’s going on? You know that I can’t play even half of these instruments. You’re in the company of much better musicians who actually know!”

“It’s not always about technique,” he says.

“You can only impart emotion when you have the tools to do so,” you deadpan. “I know next to nothing about harps, oboes…”

“It’s,” he sounds hesitant, “not about the emotion either.”

You stare blankly at him. He stares back. Then he shakes his head.

“Violin,” he says. “I want you to play something.”

You sigh. “I’m not–”

Mozart comes close, almost imploring. He frowns.

“No one is creating the sound that I want,” he says. “None of them.”

“Then how can I?” you ask, genuinely…insecure, sad, unsure. You look into his eyes.

His face is unreadable. A flicker of emotion passes through. His open, insistent violet gaze reveals nothing.

“It’s not about the technique or the emotion of the musician,” he says, sounding frustrated and confused. “I don’t know what it is.”

Those are the only two ways for a musician to express their musicality. You don’t know either.

“One piece,” you relent. “It’s getting late.”

/

The next day, Mozart comes back early. He makes you bring your violin to the piano room. And then you play for hours, like the two of you are making up for lost time, for the last four weeks.

You ask him if rehearsal ended early. He noncommitally says yes.

But then he doesn’t go out the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.

“Don’t you have to go into town?” you ask as he’s playing piano. He’s always in the piano room now.

“Are you talking about the orchestra business?” he clarifies. “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve quit.”

No, he, in fact, did not tell you!

“You didn’t,” you say, shocked. “Why? What—but you were really invested in it too! Is it really okay to just stop?”

Mozart looks thoughtful. “It wasn’t satisfying,” he says. “And I can’t stand the pomposity of musicians who mistakenly think they’re the soloist who will save this generation. I’d much rather an aimless and obedient player like you.”

“Aimless and obedient,” you repeat, remembering that you should be offended, even though he just said that he preferred you.

He pauses and turns to smile directly at you. It’s a mean smile, a teasing one, but it’s also warm and inviting.

“It’s a compliment. Receive it,” he orders. “Now, don’t tell me you came empty-handed? Where is your instrument?”

bonus:

(He actually realized, at this moment.)

“Herr Pertl,” the violinist says. “I do not understand your dissatisfaction.”

“You need more vibrato,” he says, closing his eyes, trying to be patient, failing. “The passage should be played with a softness, a keen longing. It’s like your violin is delivering this passage as a sermon. Is love so bland to you?”

“I did not interpret this as a piece about love.”

“It isn’t about love,” Mozart agrees slowly, feeling his temper flaring. “But it should be played with it. And you are clearly lacking that.”

“It does not make sense to play with love when the theme is not love!”

Oh.

Is that why? Is that what it is?

She plays my music with love.

“Forget it,” Mozart says, keeping this revelation close. “I’ll accept your interpretation.” He taps the conducting wand against the stand. “Again from the pickup on measure one hundred and thirty.”