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sequinsmile-x · 5 months

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I love your family fics... A happy marriage, happy kids, unlike what I had. You make my days better and I spend couple of hours before going to sleep reading all your fics. Thank you so much

Hi bestie!

I haven't stopped thinking about this message since I saw it last night. I genuinely feel honoured to help in anyway, and knowing you find comfort in my fics means more than I can put into words.

I've always said that I write because it helps me. It helps get thoughts out of my head, it stops me from thinking when I really don't want to, it helps me channel my creativity in a way that feels productive. And the fact it helps other people in whatever way? That's incredible to me.

Anyway, I thought I'd write you something that is for you. A fic where they are happy and have kids and have the family we all deserve. I hope you can come back to this as often as you need to, and know it was written with you in mind.

So this is for you, and anyone else who might need it!

-x-

Daylight

March 7th. The date that had once been carved on her gravestone and one she didn’t want to be written on her little girl’s birth certificate.

-x-

Words: 3.6k

Warnings: Pregnancy, labour/birth

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

From the moment she found out her due date, she was determined that it wasn’t going to be her child's birthday. She’d gone as far as doing her own research, comforted by the fact there was only a 5% chance she’d have her little girl on the predicted date. She was further assured by the memory of her son’s birth. Oliver was almost two weeks late and she’d been induced. Aaron always joked that if he could, their 2-year-old son would climb back up inside of her, always keen to be wherever his mother was.

It mostly calms her nerves down, and lets her reassure herself for months that her daughter wouldn’t be exactly on time, that the day would pass as it did every year with little fanfare.

March 7th. The date that had once been carved on her gravestone and one she didn’t want to be written on her little girl’s birth certificate.

It felt wrong. The thought of something so happy, so full of joy as they completed their family, being on the same date as the day she died. The day her life changed forever five years ago, altered in a way she once thought she’d never get past. She didn’t want to associate her daughter, her sweet face still not something Emily could quite picture yet, with the worst day of her life. When her found family’s opinion of her was permanently shifted, when she died to save them, sent to another continent by the man she was now lucky enough to call her husband and the father of her children.

It wasn’t going to happen, not if she could help it.

Which was why she was absolutely not in labour.

She’d felt the first twinges in the middle of the night. The discomfort had torn her from sleep, her hand flying to her belly before she was even fully awake. She’d told herself they were Braxton Hicks contractions, something she’d been experiencing on and off for a couple of weeks. The pains had continued but were few and far between, and by the time Aaron woke up in the morning she’d half convinced herself it was nothing and just what came with being very pregnant.

Denial, she would later realise, was a very powerful thing.

She gets through most of the day ignoring that the pains are getting closer and the fact that Aaron keeps asking if she’s okay, clearly accepting the fact she was in labour much faster than she was. She shrugs him off, insisting she’s fine as she grips the arm of the couch whilst her stomach tenses and pain rolls over her like a wave. She gets through it, wanting nothing more than to simply make it to the end of the day, to get past midnight so her baby would be born on any other day.

Jessica comes round to pick up the boys after dinner, something that they’d agreed she’d start to do every evening in the lead-up to the baby being born so she wouldn’t have to come over in the middle of the night if Emily went into labour. Emily hugs Jack and Oliver a little tighter than she usually does as she says goodnight to them, aware, even underneath all her stubborn refusal, that the next time she sees them Oliver will no longer be her baby, and Jack will be an older brother again.

She’s standing in the kitchen making herself a snack when she’s stopped by another wave of pain, the spoon of peanut butter she’d had in her hand clattering to the countertop. She groans as she leans forward, her elbows on the kitchen counter as she breathes out slowly. She shifts her hips side to side, attempting to ease some of the pressure in her back.

“Sweetheart, I really think we should go to the hospital” Aaron says, reaching out to rub firm circles on her back, something that they’d figured out had provided her relief during her labour with Oliver, “The contractions are getting closer-”

“They aren’t contractions,” she insists as she cuts him off, her denial starting to sound weak even to herself, “It’s just some back pain,” she looks up at him. She attempts to smile, blowing out a breath as the wave of pain comes to an end, the tension in her body finally lifting, “I have done this before you know,” she says, trying to lighten the mood, to convince him that everything was fine. That she wasn’t having this baby today, “I know what I’m doing.”

Aaron watches her carefully and sighs as he shifts his hands to her hips and gently turns her to look at him. He sighs as he tucks some of her hair behind her ear, his knuckles brushing against her cheek. He knew what was wrong, what was making his usually logical wife act so out of character, what was making her deny the obvious. He knew the significance her due date held the moment the doctor had told them, the day engraved into his memory just as it once had been on a gravestone that bore her name. He’d been preparing for this eventuality since that appointment, aware that whilst it was unlikely she’d give birth on her due date it wasn’t impossible.

She’d been defying the odds since the day he’d met her, so why would now be any different?

“I know what day it is, Em,” he says carefully, his heart twisting in his chest as she tenses. He cups her jaw and rubs his thumb back and forth over her cheek, “I understand what you’re trying to do, but you are in labour and we need to get the two of you to the hospital, okay?”

She clenches her teeth, misplaced irritation aimed at him flooding through her in an instant. Sometimes she hated how well he knew her, how he could read her like a book. It had been jarring when they first got together before she allowed herself to settle into the comfort of the way he loved her. She’d mistaken the way he liked to care for her as control, the small but loving actions he did to make her day easier, difficult to get used to. Cups of coffee before she’d ask for them, snacks placed in front of her before she even knew she was hungry. His embrace always willing and waiting to hug her, to provide comfort she still wasn’t very good at asking for. She shakes off the irritation, a physical movement of her head that ends with her leaning into his palm, his thumb wiping away the tear that the movement dislodges from her lashline.

“Today can’t be her birthday,” she says, her voice raw, torn open by emotions she’d stuffed in her chest for months, the words sharp and bitter as they finally escape from where she’d held them captive. She places her hand on her stomach, her arm curling around her bump as she tries to protect her unborn daughter, “It just can’t be, Aaron. I never want to associate…”

She drifts off, her voice catching as she tries and fails to suppress a sob. He tugs her forward, looping his arms around her as best as he can with their daughter trapped between them. He shushes her, his lips against her forehead as he rubs his hand up and down her back.

“Sweetheart, today might end up being her birthday,” he says softly, shushing her again when she holds on tighter, her fingers digging into his skin so tightly he can feel her blunt nails through his shirt, “But that means it’s the start of something new, right?” He asks, pulling back to look at her, his heart clenching at the look on her face, the unshed tears in her eyes, “It means that today wouldn’t just be sad, it would be good too. A new beginning for us.”

She sniffs, blowing out a steady breath as she wipes her face, irritated at herself as more tears fall onto her cheeks, “I just hate that he’s in this,” she says, hiccuping through a sob as she speaks, “He tried to kill me, he almost did, and the anniversary of that might end up being the day she's born.”

“Ian is not in this,” he says firmly but calmly, cupping her cheek to make her look up at him, her gaze having drifted to the floor at the mention of Ian’s name. She furrows her brow and scoffs and he smiles softly at her, storing away yet another moment in their lives when she managed to look intimidating even when crying, “He isn’t. It’s just you, me, the boys and our little girl.” He places his hand on her stomach, linking his fingers through hers, “We’re about to meet her, and that’s in spite of him, not because of him.”

She blows out a breath as she nods, leaning forward and pressing her head into his shoulder, “You’re right.”

He smiles and kisses the side of her head, “Really? I don’t think you’ve ever said that before.”

She hums and pulls away, wiping her cheeks again, “Yeah,” she says, stamping a kiss on his lips, “Plus, my water just broke all over your shoes.”

He pulls back and he looks between his now wet shoes and floor, the damp patch on her sweats, and the smirk on her face. He leans forward and kisses her, a fierce but quick thing against her lips, before he pulls back.

“I’ll get you some fresh sweats and grab myself some different shoes, then we’ll go to the hospital,” he says, squeezing her hand before he lifts it to kiss her knuckles, “Let’s go have a baby.”

She nods, her smile only fading when he’s out of the room again, her hand on her stomach as she starts to feel the beginning of another contraction, rolling through her body as it’s chased by anxiety she can’t shift.

“Yeah,” she says, blowing out a steady breath, “Let’s go have a baby.”

___

She grunts as she leans back against Aaron, whining as her body is barely given a chance to rest, her next contraction already building.

“Fuck,” she exclaims, squeezing Aaron’s hands tightly, “This sucks. This is so much worse than I remember,” she huffs out a breath, “Why didn’t I remember how much this sucks?”

“It’s nature’s way of tricking us into having more than one child,” her doctor says from the end of the bed, looking up at Emily from between her legs, her hand comfortingly on her knee, “Just another couple of pushes and your daughter will be here, Emily.”

Emily whimpers, a sound she would later deny entirely, and rests her head on her husband’s shoulder to look up at him. He’d climbed into the bed behind her hours ago, taking the same position he had when she gave birth to Oliver, her support both physically and emotionally as she brought their child into the world. She looks at their joint hands and sees the time on his watch.

11.35 pm

“Maybe she can wait 25 minutes,” she says, looking at her doctor, “It’s just another 25 minutes.”

The doctor exchanges a quick look with Aaron. He’d pulled her aside when they arrived, giving her a very abridged version of what was happening, why his wife was so hesitant to give birth today. He knows Emily wouldn’t thank him for it if she knew, but he wanted to keep her and their little girl safe, even if it meant enduring her wrath at a later date.

“Emily,” the doctor says, her smile so kind it makes Emily ache, “give me your hand.”

She nods, unclasping one of her hands from Aarons and reaching out to her doctor, letting her guide her until her fingers touch the top of her baby’s head, tears springing to her eyes as she chokes out a sob.

“She’s got so much hair,” she breathes out, her voice shaking almost as much as she was.

“And she’s almost here,” the doctor says, “We don’t have 25 minutes.”

Emily nods and leans back against Aaron, reaching for his hand again, her body starting to take over, pushing despite the fact she really doesn’t want to. She falls back against her husband again as she takes a moment to breathe in between pushes, aware that with every passing second, she gets closer to having her little girl in her arms.

“It’s all your fault you know,” she says, squeezing his hands tightly, “She gets it from you.”

He chuckles softly, his lips against the side of her head, “She gets what from me, sweetheart?”

She groans as the next contraction starts, “Being punctual.”

Her words turn into a scream as she pushes for a final time, her body sagging into Aaron’s as the piercing cry of a baby fills the room. Emily breathes out and it catches in her chest as her daughter is held up for her to see and she reaches her shaking hands to hold her.

“Congratulations,” the doctor says, her words, and everything other than Aaron and the baby in her arms, fading away as Emily looks at her daughter's face for the first time.

“Hi sweet girl,” she says, tears spilling down her cheeks as she holds the still-screaming baby against her chest, “Look at you,” she looks up at Aaron and isn’t surprised to see he’s crying too, “Look at her.”

“She’s beautiful,” he says, kissing his wife, “I love you so much,” he murmurs against her lips before he looks at the baby, now slightly calmer as she settles against Emily, “Hi princess,” he says, his eyes taking in every feature of her face, committing it to memory because he knew how much of a thief time was, how quickly she’d change right in front of him, “You look just like Mommy.”

Emily chuckles, “Sorry about the nose, baby,” she says, rubbing her hand up and down her daughter’s back, shifting to press her lips against her forehead. She looks up at her husband, “What time is it?”

Aaron looks at his watch and then back at his wife, blowing out a slow breath before he answers, “It’s 11.50, sweetheart.”

She chokes out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, shaking her head as she looks back down at her daughter.

“That’s okay,” she says, her voice still shaking, overwhelmed with hormones and emotions she can’t find the name for. Suddenly everything she’d spent months worrying about didn’t seem to matter. She doesn’t feel sad, or disappointed, two things that seem impossible as she looks at her newborn’s face, but instead she feels happy, overwhelming joy she never thought she’d get to feel at this time five years ago, “That’s more than okay,” she strokes a finger up and down her daughter’s cheek, “Happy birthday, sweet girl.”

___

Emily smiles as she rests her head on Aaron’s shoulder, looking down at the baby girl in his arms. They were snuggled together in her hospital bed, both of them exhausted but happy as they stared at the latest addition to their family.

“Jess said she’s on the way,” Aaron says softly, looking at his wife. She was beautiful in her exhaustion, ethereal almost with her hair in the braids he’d done for her after she’d showered, “Apparently the boys are very excited to meet their sister.”

She hums as she reaches out to touch the baby’s head, stroking over the thick dark hair that was impossibly soft, “We need to think of a name,” she says as she continues to stroke her hair, “None of the ones we thought of seem right.”

They’d gone back and forth for months, arguing over girl's names ever since they’d found out they were having a daughter. Nothing seemed like it fit their little girl, especially now they were looking at her. The baby starts to fuss and Aaron immediately hands her to Emily, smiling at the sight of his girls together.

“I have a suggestion,” he says as Emily settles the baby into her arms, her smile soft as she looks up at him.

“Yeah? What is it?” She asks rocking the baby as she calms down, content to be in her mother’s arms.

“Alba,” he replies, reaching out and adjusting the blanket around the baby, “It means dawn, or sunrise,” his smile turns shy as she stares at him, her expression unreadable to him for once, “Since she’s our family’s new beginning.”

She chuckles, the sound wet as it catches in her lungs, and she shakes her head at him, “How long have you had that in your back pocket?”

He shrugs, “Since we found out your due date,” he says, watching as she looks back down at the baby, nerves making his heart seize, “If you don’t like it-”

“I love it,” she says, cutting him off as she looks at him, her smile wide, “It suits her. Alba Hotchner.”

“Alba it is,” he replies, leaning forward to press a kiss to her lips, his hand cupping the back of their daughter’s head, “Hi Alba.”

There’s a knock at the door just before it opens and Jessica’s head pops around it, “Is there a tiny baby in here?” She asks, her smile soft, “I have two very excited little boys out here.”

Aaron stands up, “Come on in.”

As the door opens fully he grabs Oliver, hauling the toddler onto his hip as he makes a beeline for his mother.

“Remember what we said, Ollie,” he says, walking over, his other arm around Jack’s shoulder as his eldest is more controlled in his excitement.

“Gentle with Mama and baby sissy,” Oliver says, his thumb in his mouth as he looks at Emily, his smile wide as he rests his head on Aaron’s shoulder, “Hi Mama.”

“Hi sweet boy,” she says, making sure Alba is tucked safely in the crook of one of her arms whilst she wraps the other around Oliver once Aaron eases him onto the bed, “I missed you.”

Oliver snuggles up into her side, a little rougher than she can take, and she hides a wince, never wanting to scare him, “Missed Mama.”

Emily smiles at Jack who was standing next to the bed peering into the bundle in her arms. He beams at her, the same excitement in his eyes that he had when he first met Oliver a couple of years ago. There were moments when she wondered if Jack missed when life was just him Aaron, when it was quiet and he didn’t have a little brother, and now sister, splitting his parent's attention and following his every move, but then there were moments like this. When she saw the love in his eyes, the joy she’d been a part of, her role in helping Aaron fulfil his final promise to Haley something she held dear.

“Jack, Ollie,” she says, looking between her sons, purposely ignoring the clicks of both Jess and Aaron’s camera phones as she speaks, “This is Alba.”

“She’s so pretty,” Jack says as he looks at his sister and then back at Emily, “She looks like you, Mom.”

Emily unwraps her arm from around Oliver and cups Jack’s cheek, pulling him in his kiss his forehead. She still wasn’t entirely used to him calling her Mom, and part of her hoped she never would be. That it would always make her feel as overjoyed as she had the first time, that random Tuesday morning when she’d shifted from Emily to Mom with little fanfare from the little boy.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she says, “Do you want to hold her?”

Jack opens his mouth to say yes, but is cut off by his younger brother, his voice a little too loud in the otherwise peaceful room.

“I want sissy,” he insists, his eyebrows furrowing in a way that never failed to make him look exactly like Aaron.

“You can both hold her,” Aaron says, stepping forward to pick up Oliver and placing him in the large chair next to the bed, “Jack, you sit next to your bother.”

Jack nods enthusiastically and does as he’s told, “I remember what to do,” he says, wrapping one of his arms around his brother, “We have to be gentle, and make sure her head is supported.”

Emily hands over Alba to Aaron, ignoring her instinct to snatch her back even though she wasn’t leaving her line of sight.

“That’s right Jack,” Aaron says, handing Alba to Jack, making sure that she was safely in the laps of her brothers. He stays close, his hand under Jack’s elbow to provide additional support. He turns to look at his wife as he sees a flash go off, and he raises his eyebrow at her when he sees her phone in her hands pointing at them all.

“What?” She asks, raising her eyebrow in challenge, “You can take pictures and I can’t?”

He winks at her before he turns his attention back to his children, softly talking to the boys as they ask questions about Alba. Jessica walks over too, leaning over the back of the chair to look at her niece. Their conversation fades out as Emily looks at the picture of her husband and children on her phone. She immediately sets it as her wallpaper, wanting it as a reminder of what she has now, what she had been able to create for herself despite everything.

Her new beginning and happy ending wrapped up all in one, the soft epilogue she knew she truly deserved.

-x-

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no-side-us · 1 year

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Letters From Watson Liveblog - Apr. 5

The Yellow Face, Part 2 of 2

I'm going to talk about this story having already read the ending. With that being said, I really like how confident Sherlock is, because usually this sort of explanation from him is right! But this time the explanation is very, very incorrect, and I think that's the best way to play a "Sherlock is wrong" story.

I can see why he would think the death certificate was faked. After all, the original supposedly burned in a fire in Atlanta and she had to get a duplicate to show her new husband. To Holmes, it likely sounded a bit too fishy.

Even Watson doesn't really buy Holmes' theory about the blackmailing leper husband or whatever, but it's good that Holmes is willing to reconsider based on new information. Although that is par for the course for him.

"Any truth is better than indefinite doubt" huh? I think there's a certain Miss Mary Sutherland who would be very willing to question your commitment to that saying, Holmes.

Look, the truth is good and all that, but I do think it's a bit out of character just how much Holmes and Watson are going along with this. No patient waiting or more serious investigation. Just heading straight in, and nobody can stop them.

What a twist! And Holmes was so incredibly wrong!

Also, man, I was really taken aback by that description. Not the fact it was a little girl who's black, I remembered that, but the words used to describe her.

On one hand, an interracial marriage back then probably could have gotten you killed, and I can see how, living in such a harsh and unfortunate reality, a mother would want her child to have lighter skin just so life would hopefully be a modicum easier for them. Still, reading that line now really does make you cringe.

Stop calling her that! What the hell, you know it's a little girl now.

An incredibly sweet ending, that I could have easily imagined going a lot worse. Grant Munro, or "Jack" as his wife calls him for some reason, is ultimately a good guy in my books. He's neither racist nor unwilling to raise another man's child, two pretty different barometers for a good person that he definitely passed.

I don't think the Norbury thing ever comes back again, but I'm hoping I just forgot and Watson does indeed say it to Holmes as a sweet callback moment.

The Yellow Face. A nice story in the end, all things considered.

Hell yeah, it's Mycroft time.

Part 1 - Part 2

#letters from watson #the yellow face #sherlock holmes #john h watson #grant munro #effie munro #effie hebron #john hebron #arthur conan doyle #liveblogging sherlock holmes

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iron-hearts-ablaze · 6 days

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Karlach and her survivor's guilt.

The first of a two-part psychological deep-dive into Karlach.

Part 1: survivor's guilt Part 2: c-PTSD

I will preface all this by stating I am not an expert in the field of Psychology, but I do however have a BSc Joint Honours in Psychology and Counselling, as well as a higher education certificate in Embedded Helping Skills (forms of therapy). I studied these conditions, as well has having first-hand accounts. I have access to, and use, papers accredited by the British Psychological Society.

All of what I'm about to discuss is my own personal insight, it is not aimed to insult anyone in any way.

To start. What is survivor's guilt? The DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition) describes survivor's guilt as a symptom of PTSD. It occurs when someone believes that something they did/did not do led to the deaths/harm of others, and a strong feeling of guilt behind being the survivour of a traumatic event.

I will, soon, go over the full list of symptoms of c-PTSD specifically, and how Karlach fits them, backed up by quotes and events in-game. However, I wanted to look more into survivor's guilt (henceforth shortened to S.G) due to my headcanon that extends Karlach's personal mission in the game. It is possible to have PTSD without S.G, and vice versa. However, I strongly believe Karlach has S.G as a SYMPTOM of c-PTSD, not just it working on it's own.

Karlach doesn't fit ALL side effects of S.G, however she certainly fits the following; feelings of helplessness, mood swings (specifically angry outbursts), flashbacks (cut from game, but I headcanon she does have them on this blog), difficulty sleeping, obsessive thoughts about the event (she frequently brings up Gortash/Zariel/Avernus etc). These naturally stretch out into her possible diagnosis of c-PTSD as well, but like I said, I'll go more in detail on that in another post.

It's well known at this point that a lot of her content was cut. But an interesting idea still has breadcrumbs within the game, concerning the Foundry and the Steel Watch automatons. Specifically, her connection to them.

When Karlach interacts with a Steel Watcher, it mistakes her for one of them. Albeit, an outdated model. It's quite well known that what was used to create Karlach eventually became the Steel Watchers. I feel, that if this part of Karlach's story was expanded upon, we would see her realisation fully. That she most likely would feel responsible for these machines.

Except they weren't always machines. They were once people. Their brains and hearts now used in these automatons. I theorise we would have had a profound moment for Karlach where she realises just how many people Gortash has killed, following the blue print that Zariel gave to him. The one that created her.

The Steel Watcher's would not have existed if she hadn't been given to the devil. They are an evolution of her machine. They are connected to her. She kept her soul, and most of her body. They did not get that chance.

I feel Karlach would have already struggled with S.G prior to this. She wasn't the only one Zariel tried to experiment on - she was just the only one to survive the tortures. So many others died before she was 'created'. Only to find out that it wasn't just in Avernus, but happening in Faerûn too? She would feel responsible.

She would no doubt think if she hadn't existed, these people would still be alive. She would want them to be at peace, unlike herself. Power them down, free their biology from the metal and - if given the chance - possibly even bury them all. To allow some kind of rest, and to make sure anyone after Gortash could not pick up where he left off. Burn everything down after that.

It is advised that anyone struggling with S.G to allow themselves time to grieve - however Karlach says so herself she is either "off, or go-go-go". She has not had TIME to stop. So she could also take those feelings and move them into something positive, i.e bury the body parts. She would also need to practise self-forgiveness. Which, as someone who regrets some of the things she did in Avernus and certainly regrets working for Gortash - will not happen any time soon.

Karlach has the air of denial about her and her mental health. S.G is just a part of that, festering until it can be addressed. Which, in-game, never happens. So it will continue to eat at her.

In this portrayal, I acknowledge this part of Karlach, even if the game wasn't able to due to cuts.

#ooc; ~mama k~#~headcanon~

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aroace-moron · 10 months

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15 Questions for 15 followers

Thank you @tathrin for tagging me! I know that it has been literal months, but I forgot I had screenshotted the questions and couldn't find them on your blog. Oops. Anyway!

1. Are you named after anyone?

Indeed I am! Alexander the Great, to be precise! Why would my mum name her child after a colonising murderer? I kept kicking her. Like, in uterus. I was a very agressive fetus. And also a very agressive baby, I just kept. Biting her. Like I was angry she gave me life. (Which on second thought, considering the people I've had to deal with so far... understandable, little me.)

2. When was the last time you cried?

Tonight! I had a recurring nigtmare of a zombie chasing me. I escaped, the thing that made it a nightmare was that I had locked it in with my family. And when I woke up, I was convinced I had killed them.

3. Do you have kids?

No, and I hopefully never will! Fun fact about 8 year old me, when a teacher told us that every girl would find a boy to settle down and have kids with one day in sex ed, I very confidently announced that I would never start a family because it would hold me back in my career. This is like one of those moments I should have realised I'm aroace, lol.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

Kind of. The issue is that people often think I'm serious.

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

When I see them, what they look like. When I talk to them on the phone, it's their voice. Is there another option?

6. What's your eyecolour?

Green.

7. Scary movies or good endings?

Both, as long as I get to analyze the living hell out of them. (Example: when watching The Menu for the first time, I kept bothering my mum like: Look, she said she doesn't want an intellectually callenging dinner and he literally crushes meatballs that look like brains for her cheeseburger! Mum look! Mum isn't this amazing??) I also really love tortured characters, so scary movies or stuff with a lot of angst potential is what I usually gravitate towards, but I really like some happy movies too.

8. Any special talents?

First and foremost, I don't really believe in talents, and get irrationally angry when people tell me I must have a natural gift or something because to me, that implies I didn't work my ass off for years to get to a good point but that Fortuna just emptied a bucket of goods over my head as soon as I entered this world kicking, screaming and biting everyone. The only thing that I would count as a talent (in a very loose meaning of the word) is that I started reading whole books about 3 months after getting to school. I think that's hyperlexia? Might be wrong, I never really researched it.

9. Where were you born?

Not in switzerland, despite my elementary school certificate saying so.

10. What are your hobbies?

Reading, writing, drawing, playing the lyre, at the moment everything Tolkien, though that can change in like a day to something completely different.

11. Do you have any pets?

I do!! She is a cat, her name is Indira, she is very cuddly and sounds permanently pissed, to the point that a friend who was watching her while we were on vacation sent us a very concerned message because she had actually meowed like a normal cat for once. She hates other animals of all kinds, had to be kept in a seperate room in the shelter we picked her up from, was born on the same day as me (though two years later) and has a habit of sitting in a spot in the garden where she can be seen by the dogs on both sides of the fence and meowing very provocatively. The people in the shelter actually wanted to name her Diva because she is such a little bitch, but they decided on Indira since they thought people wouldn't take her in if her name was Diva. I love her very much.

12. What sports do you play/have you played?

I was forced to play batminton in 7th grade because of a stupid rule that said that all band kids had to do a sport thing too. I hated every second of it.

13. How tall are you?

1,63m. At my birth, people calcualted that I would never get over 1,45, and I was the shortest kid in everything until I was 16, when I grew 20 centimeters at once without warning. I very much enjoy telling people I am taller than them.

14. Favourite subject in school?

Art and English.

15. Dream job?

A published author. I am actually working on a trilogy right now! It might take a while until I actually get it done though. Does anyone know how cold it has to be that your fingers have to be amputated? Google is failing me.

Tagging (only if you want, also yay I have nearly enough followers to actually do this now!) @strawberriesinmoominvalley @dirtmuse @babybat98 @eight-ball-juice @liamwinters @harmoniousworld @hyperlexia-1 @daeron-the-flautist @mistergandalf @the-sewerrats @slowdeathhymn @suuzzzzzzannnnn otherwise this is an open tag.

#tag game #15 questions

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thelonesgroup · 5 months

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7 Things To Do in December for 2024 Success!

Many agents I know would not say that 2023 has been their favorite year in the real estate business. Between interest rate challenges, lack of housing choices, and industry shake-ups that have us learning new processes when it comes to how we serve our clients and get compensated, it has been a tough one for sure.

But you know what? YOU are tougher. You are here reading this article because you care about our industry and doing the best job possible for your clients. Let's celebrate THAT!! You WILL survive and thrive in 2024, but you need to take some action if your business these past few months has been lackluster.

This article isn't here to tell you that you need to adjust your mindset in order to have a super-profitable 2024. We get it that are challenges out there beyond your control. However, you absolutely have control over the actions you take and THAT is what is going to set you apart. Furthermore, these activities are designed to give you hope and perspective. Who doesn't need a little hope and perspective right now?

Here are the 7 things to do this December. Your 2024 will thank you for the action you take today!

#1: Make a List of Your 2023 Accomplishments

Yup! Start with this list. What have you gotten done so far in terms of projects or new systems for your business? Did you add anything new? Refine anything? Make a list of the changes you need to make in your business to accommodate transparency and choice when it comes to negotiating compensation with your buyers or sellers. Include work you did towards new designations or certifications, milestone sales, trips taken, and other personal successes like a fitness routine kept or a personal boundary you stuck with.

Celebrate ALL of your wins! It is so easy to focus on the negative, so grab a cup of coffee and begin writing! Put this list up somewhere so you can continue to add to it over the next few weeks until the new year and revel in your accomplishments!

#2: Two Weeks of Client Meetings

Reach out to your past clients and set up one-on-one meetings to review their approximate market value, equity position, upcoming real estate investment goals, upsizing or downsizing goals, objectives regarding helping kids buy property – whatever. Although they may not be ready to do anything at this moment, thinking and talking through a problem is a great way to move the milestone closer if the timing is right. Plus, this is a GREAT way to re-engage.

#3: Get in Touch with Everyone On Your Potential Client List

I mean, EVERYONE. If you have been paying attention, you will have noticed that mortgage interest rates have clicked down a bit over the last few weeks. Do you have potential clients who had decided to wait? Their moment may be getting closer.

#4: Take a Walk

Seriously. Taking a walk outside is a great way to get some endorphins kicking in. It also helps you be in the moment rather than focusing on your stress. Another great way to take action!

#5: Volunteer

This holiday season, gain some perspective by giving your time. There is no shortage of volunteer activities during the holidays and it feels great to be of service for our most vulnerable. Although you and I can't solve all the world's problems, we give hope by volunteering.

You can volunteer for a single shift or put in time on an ongoing schedule. Just type in "volunteer opportunities near me" in your search engine!

Let the Professionals Guide Your Business Marketing This Year

Check out our LeadMagnet program or email [email protected] for more info.

#6: Clean Your Office

For a fresh start in 2024, take an afternoon to do a deep clean. Do any filing that needs to be done. Throw away those pens that no longer work, old magazines that you aren't going to go back to reading, and anything that is holding you back. Dust everything. Make it neat and ready for business in 2024!

#7: Make Your 2024 Campaign Plan

Every real estate agent should be running at least 3 campaigns in their business at all times:

Database Campaign: For everyone that you have a real estate relationship with including past and potential clients

Past Client Campaign: In addition to your database campaign, what else do your past clients get? An event? A gift? A report?

Potential Client Campaign: In addition to your database campaign, what is your process for making sure your potential clients use your services when they are ready? Do you reach out once a month? Once every other month? Create a custom report?

Your campaign activities may be live, by phone, mail, etc. Some agents may also have plans for their lead generation campaigns. You can use this handy Campaign Master Plan document to create your 2024 plan and rev yourself up for more action in January as your implement it (our LeadMagnet program can also help with this implementation).

Not on This List

Did you notice that none of the items on this list cost any money? The only costs here are your time. If your business is slow right now, then you may have time to spare. If 2023 was tough, you can choose to wallow out the rest of the year or you can take the action needed to propel your business forward in 2024. I hope you choose the latter!

By Denise Lones CSP, CMP, M.I.R.M. The founding partner of The Lones Group, Denise Lones, over nearly three decades of experience in the real estate industry. With agent/broker coaching, expertise in branding, lead generation, strategic marketing, business analysis, new home project planning, product development, Denise is nationally recognized as the source for all things real estate. With a passion for improvement, Denise has helped thousands of real estate agents, brokers, and managers build their business to unprecedented levels of success, while helping them maintain balance and quality of life.

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fingfamily-blog-blog · 1 year

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Tension

At the moment, I'm waiting for an online writing session to start. I only know that some students who want to submit an essay to the essay contest next week would like to have some time with me. But nobody has shown up yet. Funny. And yet, it was only three hours ago that my student, Salma, told me that today would be the session, and we wildcatted a time, 2 p.m. So no surprise really if others haven't come. This is not unusual in Indonesia. Somebody will appear and say, "We're going to do this thing now." And I have to do it, prepared or not. I'm not sure what the culture is that allows for such spontaneity. And it may be a charming thing. Since my scuba lessons, I'm trying to be more aware of how tense I am in response to things, and to roll a bit more fluidly. And to continue reflecting on that, for my second dive, Simone, the owner and dynamo of the Thalassa Dive Resort, came along, not to be with me, but to lead another set of more experienced divers. I finished the training, with some underwater difficulties. Navigating with a compass was a struggle, and I was left alone on the floor of the ocean and I sensed that my air was running out. It was at 10 bar, so I would say it WAS running out, and the breathing was both harder, and less of the air was flowing. I wouldn't say that I panicked, but I decided that, even though I was alone, I would surface and take care of myself so I wouldn't panic. Of course, this went down badly with my instructor Davin, who had surely had enough of me. Once we were back in the boat, Simone asked me if I would like her to be my instructor going forward, that is, if I continued my training beyond the Open Water certificate and into the Advanced Open Water cert. I thought this was a kind gesture for both Davin and me. I told her I wanted to get through the first level before thinking about the next. But later, back at the hotel, she told me, "You are too tense." Christ. There are a few possible answers to the "calm down" argument. One is, "I'm calm." But that falls on deaf ears because the person you are saying that to is the one who just told you to calm down. The other is to give a reason for not being calm, but that's not the same as actually calming down. So what "calm down" means to people who hear it is generally more like "submit to me," "do what I say." Of course when you're a student, you have to do as you're told. But what you're told has to make sense, has to have an understandable context. I hesitate to go into further detail. The best thing, although, as you may be able to tell, in my case not the most comfortable thing, is to agree, "Yes, I'm too tense. I need to calm down." I felt like I did that numerous times in my training, but that the context was rarely as clear as I would have liked. And of course then my ego took hits which I didn't enjoy. If I say so myself, I'm not a big ego person. But everyone has some ego and it's sensitive when provoked. Rather like this online session which I waited for, and which did happen, although it started about 20 minutes late. The students who came to the session are planning to write an essay for a contest and they were looking for assistance. But none of them showed their faces. Only two of them spoke, and after I shared some basics about essay structure, introduction, conclusion, thesis statement, the two questions I received first were about the titles of the essays. Well, I don't teach titles. And so I asked the students, "How many of you think you will win the contest based on your title?" Of course that went over badly. In fact, the whole thing went over badly. Nobody in Indonesia wants to learn efficiency. They want to reify the byzantine ways that have been handed down to them. They don't want a new system, they want to reinforce the system they have. I told them that good essay structure can be conveyed in 5 sentence paragraphs. One student asked, "Can I write 8, 9 or 10 sentences in a paragraph?" Well, yes, you can. But that won't make the paragraph any more effective. In fact, it will give you many more chances to screw it up, and cause you to wander with your ideas, and not communicate directly. The reader is expecting ideas to be presented and supported, and then to move on to the next idea. I asked the students to speak up. They wouldn't. I asked them to write their topics in the chat box. THEY WOULDN'T DO IT. I asked Salma (my student and the organizer of the session) why don't they speak up? She said, "They're shy." Of course, I understand that. I tell them I can be shy too. But a teacher is a helper, and you came to this session because you want help with an essay. If you don't even share your topic, HOW CAN I HELP?!?!? At least three times in the session I wanted to throw my hands up and say, "This is pointless!" But I'm not so tense that I actually did that. But I am tense enough to know that my time in Indonesia as a teacher has been a failure - not perhaps complete and total, but in the vast majority. And that's because their educational system is not built on individuals maximizing their intellectual abilities. It's built on doing what everybody else does without thinking about it. And I will never fit into, or be able to assist in, such a system. I expect too much of individuals. And I'm too tense.

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kindtobechurlish · 1 year

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I haven’t had much to say lately, I have just been meditating on the moment to then come to think what I have to do. What do I have to do? I have to make my aura believable, I have to make my aura magical. Believable is creditable and creditable is believe. Magical is ‘(art of) a magus’. A magus was a member of a priestly caste of ancient Persia. Do you remember what the Greeks said of the Persians? They said it was like going to war against women, and in Persians you can see the Nazi’s considered Iranians as Aryan according to the Aryan Certificate. You need proof according to white people? Now, the mongoloid considers themselves as white because of gun powder and the crossbow. You wouldn’t believe it!

The warriors play in Oracle Arena, I’ll give you a picture, in 2006 and 2007 the Warriors were playing the Mavericks and the Mavericks were the number one seed as the Warriors were the number eight seed. The fans who went to the game had a slogan, “we believe.” The warriors had a mediocre start, just to finish the season on a 16-5 run - giving them a number eight seed. “We believe.” In the first round, the Warriors beat the Mavericks four to two, and the slogan was the slogan. Let’s ignore that the Warriors went off to play the Utah Jazz and they lost four games to one, but let’s focus on the run that manifested “we believe.” When the Warriors got the eighth seed, “we believe” was fed according to the drama with the Mavericks. The Warriors won, and there was hope against Utah. In the fact of Utah, Dallas’ Star, Dirk Nowitzki, looked bad just for him to redeem himself against LeBron and the Miami Heat. You see the picture of “we believe”, how a number one seed, the franchise, and star player look bad, and in it all you see the act of being redeemed.

I have to be better than the run of the warriors, as I didn’t have a mediocre start. I would see people with problems in healthcare, I make means to get riches and you see Donald Trump has no chance to win and Hillary Blithé is just a cheerleader. Some asshole loves to give signs he has been watching me, but when it comes down to doing right by me you see an asshole Fuckface keep a narrative of a pinhead.. proving political theater. Now, some woman doesn’t believe in my enablement - no matter what I say.

I have to make myself magical and creditable, my aura, now she sees me walk and her retinue don’t have the potential I have just to have a better job than me. I don’t want to become apart of her retinue, her retinue aren’t having anal sex with her, ready to do it so much they see if she wants to punch out shit against dick (nasty), so I don’t want to become her retinue as she feels important, “not tonight”, and I’m to sit around and make her say tonight. I have to come down and be better than her retinue, I have to utilize my finesse - use my work history - and get that position I want. I have interviews coming up, and by the interviews and finesse I need to blow her retinue out of the water. The issue is actually getting the “gig.” It’s one thing to get the interview, it’s another thing to get the gig. In this superficial culture, product sells itself and the more information you know about the product the more stable the sale, so I’m my field that I have history in.. a bunch of people are looking for someone they could get along with and make their work easier. Academy. So, in it, my dream woman, i don’t want to join her retinue! I want her to see I’m trying, and when God answers my prayers I get what I need!

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jmms87 · 2 years

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My interpretation and mine alone, well unless you agree.

This really has nothing to do with anyone’s god or religion but it’s going to get mentioned.

Male and Female

My feeling is that there are only two sexes and god had nothing to do with their creation, nothing. Evolution and Nature created the human not some make believe person what might be thinking lives in a made up place called heaven. Humans, male/female, were here long before any form of religion was.

Male or female, it makes no difference who was first, both are needed to reproduce. Like the chicken and the egg, who care what came first as long as we have eggs.

Two sex’s you say, male, you have a dick, female if you have a pussy, but not so fast Sigmund says. There is a third, Intersex. Intersex, someone born with both male and female parts.

According to google, the majorly of these people born Intersex might not know or discovered they are until they either had problems what required x-ray or a scan. Only a small % were born with both sets of sexual organs outside the body.

I’m not talking about those people, they have their own problems, legitimate problems but they are not Transsexuals'. I personally do not know anyone born as Intersex.

Now we all know nature sometimes makes mistakes. Snakes with two heads, lames with 5 legs, humans born with physical disabilities and it goes on. So, why not a person born in the wrong body. I mean there are intersex people so why not have mixed up ganders on a physical and or mental level?

A male body anatomically but mentally a different state of mine. Personally I can see this as can a large number of others. Little research shows 400 of every 100,000 are born “in the wrong body”.

There are far more MTF trans than FTM but in the last 5 years there has been an increase in FTM.

Being gay, straight really has little to do with wanting to be the other sex. I find that little confusing, (ie) sexual orientation is unrelated to gander identity. Really!

I have no problem with the people that want to trans to the other sex, that part is okay, I get that. You're in the wrong body, I get it but at what age does or can someone realizes it as more than a fantasy of the moment.

In the US the legal age one can legally do something about it is 18. They don’t make it easy at any age to transition to the other. But assuming that you get thru all the hurdles and you're not done.

If you’re one of the MTF you have to take hormones. Grow breasts, remove body hair, voice change and that is just to start.

If it’s FMT, upper surgery, massive amounts of male hormones and couple “female” operations to “adjust” your inner sexual parts.

Just by reading about what’s involved someone would have to really want to do this and apparently people do and Ya for you, seriously.

Now a couple things. First is just my thoughts. Looks wise, boys make far better looking girls than girls do as a boy. Sorry but they do. They girl part, looks, voice, actions are always there. Yes, no? I think so

Secondly. By definition at birth there are but two sex. Male or female although in the last few years children (knowingly) born intersex have had birth records marked as such.Maybe not in the US but in more sexual developed countries their recognized as such. The US still treats them as something unusual.

To me, regardless if they have breasts or had them remove they are still the sex they were born as at birth. I would not be in favor of having a birth certificate changed unless that persons sexual orientation was changed, (ie lower surgery)

The MTF still has a dick, if that person marries or has sex with another male, its male to male sex. Gay? Maybe, maybe not.

The same with the FTM. She still has a pussy, she as a he marries another female, it’s female to female sex. Call it what you want, make all the excuses you can come up with. The truth is there, plan as it is.

Now, the % of people what do have genital reassignment or “bottom surgery” is a small % of the people that trans.

More MTF have bottom surgery that FTM. Apparently that surgery is less costly, somewhat easier to do and more successful sex wise than making a dick.

I’m okay with name changes and treating people as the sex they portray and want to be known as.

My only advice would be to do it all the way, it’s okay to be who you want to be but be that person.

Just don’t ask me to sign something so you can change you birth record or license until your body is that of the sex you want to to be.

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eloves-writes · 3 years

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a failed attempt to hate you

(tristan dugray)

a/n: i can only apologise if this writing is terrible, i wrote most of this in the middle of the night hopped up on medication for my disgusting cold. i hope it makes sense. anywho thanks for reading, enjoy, mwah <3

screw mr medina for making you help tristan study. you knew he knew from rory your inherent disdain for him, and it wasn’t your fault he was falling behind therefore not your responsibility to help him (as you had told mr medina last tuesday, with no effect). it was now sunday morning and you held little hope he would actually show up this time; he had somehow managed to cancel on your little study date 6 times already and it had only been 5 days since you were handed this apparently mammoth task. honestly, you didn’t expect him to show up at all, especially not anytime before noon- for which reasons you had made the decision put on your usual lazy sunday morning reading in bed get-up, which included (but was not limited to) an oversized rock concert shirt rory’s friend lane had given you in an attempt to clear her closet of non-christian attire, nothing but underwear underneath since you wouldn’t plan on leaving the comfort of your bedsheets for many hours, and a loose silk scrunchie you accidentally stole from rory keeping your hair out of your eyes.

your book of choice today was ‘harry potter and the goblet of fire’ , the most recently released chapter of the boy wizard’s adventures at hogwarts. the clock beside you read 9:15 as you comfied yourself for a morning of magic and adventure, which naturally was ended a mere 8 minutes later at 9:23 when the doorbell rang downstairs. you assumed your mother would answer it, but when it rang a second time you remembered your parents had both gone out to watch your sibling’s soccer match and you’d have to get it yourself.

it didn’t even cross your mind to put pants on, or that it may not be the postman at the door, until you opened it to see your very favourite chilton student whose eyes had hastily wandered to your bare legs. typical high school boy, you thought to yourself before your brain actually grasped the situation and kick started into action.

‘tristan. hi.’ you said with a slight shock in your voice.

‘erm, hi. i hope i’m not interrupting anything,’ he smirked, glancing down at your thighs again.

you rolled your eyes so aggressively you hoped mr medina could hear it from wherever he was spending his day, irritating boy-less and free to do whatever he wanted with his time.

‘you’re not,’ you quipped. ‘i just didn’t expect you to actually show up this time. and early may i add, i’m sure we said 11.’

‘we did, but i’ve got plans later so i thought i’d come by earlier and get this over with.’

‘how did you know i didn’t have plans? i might have been busy before 11.’

he pulled a face of amusement and you could swear you saw a hint of sarcasm shining through his eyes too. ‘right. are you done talking now or can i come in?’

‘you can come in, i guess,’ you sighed, closing the door behind him and showing him to the kitchen table. ‘wait here, i’ll go and get my books.’

‘grab some pants whilst you’re at it.’

‘stop talking,’ you called as you walked upstairs.

you came back downstairs a few minutes later fully-clothed and carrying your english notes to see that tristan had wandered from the chair you specifically remembered telling him to sit in, and was instead tracing a finger along the bookcase that stretched across the far wall of your living room. for a moment you just watched him nosey into your life; the framed certificates, the family photos, the 5 tapes of ‘beauty and the beast’ stacked atop of each other because it was your favourite film when you were 9 and practically every living relative had bought you a copy. beside those was a picture of you dressed as princess belle at disneyworld with chocolate ice cream smeared from cheek to cheek, a huge smile plastered between. tristan picked it up and turned to face you.

‘thoroughly adorable. seriously, you should go for this look more often.’

‘ha ha,’ you grimaced, snatching it off him and placing it back on the shelf. ‘are we studying or reminiscing on my past fashion choices?’

‘oo, someone’s in a good mood this morning huh,’ he teased. you pulled another face, once again silently cursing mr medina for completely ruining not just your day, but in fact your whole week. by god this boy got more irritating the more time you spent with him- it had only been 10 minutes, but it was 10 minutes longer than you ever previously had or ever wanted to.

‘can i get a drink before we start?’ he asked, redirecting the conversation and walking past you back into the kitchen. he began opening various cupboards, searching for a glass. ‘where’s the-’

‘why yes, tristan. you can have a drink,’ you snarked, opening the cupboard behind him with a dramatic flourish. he raised his eyebrows at you and reached forward to grab a glass, leaning over you as he did so. you caught a whiff of his cologne and almost forgot to dislike him for a moment.

‘there’s, um, soda in the ... fridge,’ you told him, voice unwillingly faltering as he looked down to meet your eyes. he had pretty eyes. pretty, blue, sparkling, stupid, annoying, asshole eyes.

you found the thick tension sickening. you refused to be another girl at school who simply swooned over him when he walked past your locker. you didn't like him. you were here to teach him english. because he was dumb. and actually, his eyes weren’t that nice.

he grabbed a soda out of the fridge and you both sat down at the table and began reading through your analysis of ‘to kill a mockingbird’, adamantly pretending not to see him staring at you the whole time.

why? he had had every popular and pretty girl in the whole of chilton, how was he ever so starved of female attention that he would look at you so admirably when you liked to make it clear you despised him? in fact, you enjoyed making a special effort to flip him off, or pull a face at him when he walked by, or kick his chair extra hard in spanish, or... oh shit. you had seen it from an outside point of view now, and it was glaringly obvious; maybe you did like him, just a little bit. shit. rory owed lorelai 10$ and a cheeseburger from luke’s, though you didn’t want to have to admit she was right when she’d said you were like a kindergarten boy pulling a girl’s ponytails because he thought she was pretty.

‘hey tristan,’ you started, breaking the comfortable silence between his questions and suddenly nervous to talk to him. stupid, it was still the exact same boy you’d been complaining about all week, nothing new.

he looked up from your notes. ‘what’s up princess?’

that was definitely new.

‘don’t call me princess’ -he smirked irritatingly- ‘do you need to stay much longer? i mean, is there anything else you want help with?’

‘trying to get rid of me?’

‘no! no. i just thought that you’d only stay and pretend to listen to me for like, half an hour then vanish. it’s 11:30 and you’ve been through my whole binder.’

‘it is? time flies.’

‘tristan.’

‘i do care about my grades, you know. and you’re a good teacher, i might have a chance at an A.’

‘why didn't you show up the last 6 times we planned then?’

he put down his pen- your pen, actually. it had pink sparkles on the lid. ‘got to keep up my street cred.’

‘ha ha. funny,’ you replied as blankly as possible, pulling back a smile you could feel in your stomach. you made eye contact again and, like every other time since you’d sat down and started studying, you held each other’s gaze for longer than necessary. funny how realising you like someone makes you suddenly act like it.

‘i should get going then right,’ he said, picking his jacket from the back of his chair.

you felt weird, almost as if you didn't want him to leave after praying earlier he wouldn't show up. alas, your parents would be home soon and you would be willing to bet money that tristan would have some interesting jokes about your being home alone that would not slide with your dad.

‘yeah. i hope you get that A,’ you said, accidentally smiling as you walked him to the door.

tristan turned to lean on the frame of the now-open door and put on a face of mock surprise. ‘my, my, y/n. was that a kind comment and a smile? you’re spoiling me.’

‘shut up, i hope you fail.’

he smiled back. ‘you really mean that?’

‘i guess not.’

there was yet another beat of heavy silence.

‘see you monday.’

you closed the front door as he walked down the drive, but noticed tristan’s car keys still sat on the kitchen table. a porsche, of course. you picked them up and reopened the door to his fist poised to knock. the two of you laughed awkwardly for a second.

‘i forgot my-’

‘you forgot your-’

another awkward laugh. jesus christ this was uncomfortable. you passed him the keys, and with absolutely no warning at all, your lips were suddenly met with his. they were soft and confident, and his free hand held your face as you tried to process the new situation. you quickly melted into the kiss, letting him take control until he pulled away and smiled that sparkly smile you didn't hate as much as you tried to.

‘didn't see that one coming,’ you said breathily, brushing some loose hairs off of your face.

‘i knew you didn’t hate me.’

‘ever the arrogant twat.’

‘hey, does this mean you’ll stop kicking my chair in spanish?’

‘absolutely not. in fact, i think i’ll kick it harder.’

‘as long as you let me do that again.’

tags: @leossmoonn for inspiring me to start writing again, @account123445 & @lmaoidekanymore6 for asking me to post tristan fics! (couldn’t figure out how to make the tags work but if you read this, you know ✨)

#tristan dugray #tristan gilmore girls #chad michael murray #gilmore girls #gilmore girls fic #gilmore girls fanfiction #can't think of anymore tags so i'll just hope this does ok on its own

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moonlight-frittata · 3 years

Text

I Don’t Need a Mechanic

Overwatch: Dva and Brigitte (a few others make appearances)

Word count: ~5500

My take on when Dva meets Brigitte and the first month or so of them getting to know each other on base.

---

Six months Hana Song had been a part of Overwatch, and during that time she set a very strict precedent that no one, not even Winston or Athena the AI was allowed to touch her mech, Tokki. So seeing the back of someone inside the cockpit as she entered the Watchpoint Gibraltar hangar made her blood boil.

“Excuse me!! What the hell are you doing??”

The person’s body jerked, their head banging against the low roof of the cockpit ceiling they wedged their torso inside. Hana heard a short mumble of something incomprehensible and a long, thick ponytail of red hair retreated from the mech in a hurry. A very tall, buff young woman around Hana’s age emerged blushing with a sheepish grin.

“Ah! I’m so sorry, I couldn't help myself. I’ve always wondered what these Korean models looked like up close. But in hindsight I really should have asked first.”

Her accent was European, but it was hard for Hana to place with any real certainty. Could have been Scandinavian, remembering some of the players from Finland she competed against back in her pro days.

“Yeah, you should have fucking asked.”

The crimson hue on the tall, possibly Finnish trespasser’s cheeks faded and she held her ground, not scared off yet by D.va’s harsh tone.

“Right. Won’t happen again, I promise,” she said.

Dva scoffed a bit and pushed past the buff intruder to look inside the mech to inspect if anything was out of place. A moment of stuffy silence passed between the two and Hana hoped the other girl would get the message and leave.

“I’m Brigitte Lindholm by the way.”

Hana let out an audible huff as a familiar freckled face appeared looking through the glass on the other side of her heads up display.

“Oh. Yeah, Fareeha warned me a new girl was joining,” Hana replied from inside the cockpit while she busied herself checking Tokki’s systems.

“And you’re Hana Song, right?” Brigitte continued lightly, clearly unperturbed. “Or do you prefer to go by D.va?”

Hana paused at the mention of her gamer tag turned call sign.

“It’s Lieutenant Song, actually.”

Brigitte raised an eyebrow at the curt reply, her smile fading to a neutral expression. It only dipped for a moment though as she extended her hand.

It was an awkward gesture to shake hands from inside the mech, even though the front of the cockpit was partially open near the joysticks. Hana looked at Brigitte’s outstretched hand and gentle smile on the other side of the glass. Was this a joke? She pursed her lips and sized Brigitte up for a few tense seconds before reaching out. The grip was firm and Hana’s hand practically disappeared in Brigitte’s large palm.

“Lieutenant Song. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Hana sighed and rolled her eyes, a little of the bluster going out of her at the sincerity in Brigitte’s tone. Satisfied that no harm had come to the mech, she backed out of the cockpit.

“Just call me Hana. That rank doesn’t really mean anything here anyway. Lena will probably make fun of me if she hears you calling me Lieutenant.”

Brigitte walked back around Tokki to join her, a lingering hand tracing over the pink exoskeleton as she moved. “I’m surprised she doesn’t make you call her Captain.”

“Oh, she’s tried.”

Brigitte laughed.

“Sounds about right.”

D.Va chuckled for a moment, briefly disarmed by the new stranger, before she remembered how this person was rudely poking around her stuff only moments before, and snapped back into her gruff demeanor.

“Lindholm, you said? Like Torbjörn Lindholm?”

Brigitte sighed, clearly used to this connection.

“Yes. Genius engineer of Overwatch 1.0, founder of Ironclad Industries, husband to Ingrid, and father of way too many children, including yours truly.”

“So, you grew up in an Overwatch family?” Hana asked as her full attention focused on Brigitte for the first time in their conversation.

“You could say that,” Brigitte said. She picked up a silver ratchet resting on a nearby worktable, spinning the head around between her fingers and levering the handle back and forth, testing the weight distribution of the tool in her hand.

Hana could tell there was more to the story than her new teammate seemed willing to let on. She found it interesting that Brigitte, who had been all candid smiles a moment ago when she was caught somewhere she shouldn’t be and oversharing to someone she just met, was now hand waving around the subject.

Overwatch kids are pretty up their own asses about 1.0 normally. Wonder what her deal is...

This was what Hana was known for back in her pro days. Seeing a flaw in an opponent’s defense and breaking it wide open. But she needed to remember she only just met this girl, who would soon be her teammate. Maybe save that for another day.

“Well, Lindholm. As long as you stay clear of my mech, I don’t see a reason we should have problems working together. What’s your specialty?”

Brigitte perked up at the change of subject.

“Support. Both base level engineering support and in the field. I've got my bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering, and I’ve been working on Reinhardt’s gear for over a year now. Angela - I mean, Dr. Ziegler, is training me to be certified as a field medic.”

“Tough job. Think you can handle the gore?”

A wry smile pulled at Brigitte’s lips, her head shaking back and forth in a small, bemused gesture as she placed her hands on her hips.

“You don’t pull any punches do you, Lieutenant Song?”

D.Va crossed her arms, holding eye contact with Brigitte who matched her gaze with amusement.

“The best shot caller in the world is just a loud piece of shit if her team isn’t up to the same standard. So yeah, I like to know who has my back and if she can handle herself.”

Brigitte regarded D.Va for a moment, her jaw working back and forth as if chewing on the approach she wanted to take in response.

“I’ve been patching up Reinhardt for a while now. If I’m honest though, I’m scared it’s not going to be enough one day. But that’s not what I need to focus on, and instead I’ll do the best I can to support the people here.”

The plain way Brigitte shared her apprehensions left Hana uncomfortable. She couldn’t imagine telling someone out loud she was afraid, especially on her first day. Though in truth, she herself felt scared shitless half the time while doing this work.

Brigitte’s smile was back. Did it ever leave that pretty face? It did suit her though, framed by the freckles and warm brown eyes. If this girl wasn’t built like a literal tank of 6 foot something muscle, Hana might have more apprehension about sending her out to fight Omnics and Talon.

“Well Lieutenant Song, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time with my intrusion. Fareeha and Winston will be missing me very shortly for the rest of their planned orientation schedule,” Brigitte said as she carefully placed the ratchet she previously picked up back on the workstation, breaking the spell of awkward silence.

D.Va smirked, feeling tension leave her shoulders to match Brigitte’s playful demeanor.

“Mmm, well now I understand why you were hiding down here.”

“Yes they are indeed quite enthusiastic and thorough with their material.”

She gave a wink and started to walk away, turning briefly to call over her shoulder.

“I noticed there was a small coolant leak under the left fusion cannon. Might get a bit sticky on the left hand.”

“Bye Brigitte, enjoy your 300 page orientation manual quiz.”

Brigitte waved once more and turned around, already so sure and familiar with the layout of the hangar and the base.

She’s just another Overwatch kid, and just another nosey engineer trying to get in my mech.

Hana lingered by her workstation, picking up the ratchet Brigitte had been fiddling with and thinking over their brief encounter again.

Would this girl be a liability on the battlefield? Brigitte looked strong on the exterior, but then, so did Tokki. If you took away the mecha armor, inside was just a squishy human target bullets and fire could cut through like paper the second she was exposed and vulnerable.

Hana took a deep breath.

She walked around to the left fusion cannon and did indeed see the signs that a coolant leak was backing up inside the casing. Pretty subtle to spot with minimal visible damage to the exterior.

Not bad, Lindholm.

D.Va pulled her headphones on, turning to her latest loop of pop songs to blast while she went to work removing the panels on the cannon to replace the broken coolant line. The task felt good, and helped her mind drift to thoughts other than her conversation in the hangar.

---

Hana didn’t see much of Brigitte the next few weeks. The new recruit was busy with training and learning mission protocols expected of field agents in addition to shifts with Mercy in the clinic to fulfill the certifications Brigitte was required to complete. Hana would see her sometimes at dinner, often in a spirited conversation with Reinhardt or Lena. It seemed to take Brigitte no time at all to fit in amongst the old guard, but it seemed that’s what being the favorite niece of pretty much every person here would get you.

Hana would half listen to their stories, always feeling awkward and out of place amongst their banter. Overwatch was like a family, but she was more like the stranger invited as someone’s plus one. Everyone seemed to have an ingrained familiarity with each other. A single word could trigger a whole series of anecdotes every person around had some personal insight to add on to.

Remember this!

Oh how is so and so?

Damn, that was 5 years ago already?

Even on her squad in Korea, she never had what they people here seemed to have. Dae-hyun was a close childhood friend and followed her into the MEKA squad, but the other pilots were a different story. There was always a bit of friction and distance with the rest of her teammates because of their history as pro-gamer competitors forced into an arrangement as teammates. It never really gelled beyond cordial coworker relationships. Hana’s celebrity status didn’t help either, only adding another barrier between herself and the others. The fame of D.Va closed her off in access to most people unless they were on the other side of a screen, and then they only saw a polished up version of herself.

Not exactly the best way to get close to people.

Sometimes she was curious to learn more when she heard the Overwatch stories, but she always stopped herself before saying anything. It was easier to pull out her phone and queue up a game. Easy to pull back and ignore them, and usually they left her alone to do it.

She was okay with that. She was okay with keeping Hana and D.Va separate. She was okay with only polite greetings and trite platitudes. She didn’t need to know about the times from before, or what her Overwatch teammates did on the weekends. She just needed them to listen to her in the field and leave her room to make her plays. Like every time she started a new game, she didn’t have to focus on the past, or what others thought, she just had to focus on the objective in front of her. It’s what got the job done and what kept her alive.

---

Brigitte kept her word to stay out of Hana’s mech. She set up her own work station on the other side of the hangar where she worked on Reinhardt’s gear as well as her own. Hana would sometimes see the blue flash of a shield out of the corner of her eye over the hum of diagnostic scans or smell the burn of sparks from welding.

One day curiosity got the best of her when she heard the loud, repetitive pounding of a hammer on metal and she wandered across the hangar.

“You’re doing that by hand?”

Brigitte stopped working when she heard the voice behind her, the deafening echo silenced on the metal shoulder guard she was beating against.

“On this armor I do. Reinhardt’s gear is special from the time it was made. It has to be maintained with some older techniques.”

“Why?”

Brigitte looked at her surprised for a moment then laughed, loud and warm.

“You know, I wondered the same at first. It’s a bit of the way this armor is made, modern techniques can be too harsh on it, interestingly enough. Too precise and it becomes too fragile.”

“That doesn’t sound true,” D.va said.

“Oh, questioning my methods huh? Well, maybe the truth is more I didn’t originally have the right gear out in the field, and Reinhardt didn’t have much modern tech either, so the only way to do it was by hand. But it’s nice actually to keep doing it this way, I like getting my hands dirty with it. Helps me relax.”

“See that I believe.”

“Well, I’m glad I have your approval, Lieutenant Song.”

D.Va rolled her eyes, but smiled a little.

“I told you before, you can just call me Hana. Although, I do like the respect of authority.”

“Lieutenant suits you.”

Hana smirked a little at the complement, turning to pick something up on a nearby table. She picked up one of Brigitte’s gauntlets, slipping it on her hand. Her arm sagged under the weight, the glove coming up well above her elbow.

“Is it exhausting wearing all this armor? How do you run around with it on? I can barely lift this thing.”

“There’s movement assist when the unit is turned on. But I mean, I think I can handle it.”

Brigitte smirked as she made a show of flexing her well defined arms, and Hana couldn’t help but gawk a bit before she turned back to fiddling with the glove.

“Um, yeah I uh, noticed you seem to be in good shape.”

“Oh yeah?” Brigitte was smirking, clearly enjoying the slight fluster she was causing in her new teammate. Hana put the glove back on the table and gave Brigitte a light shove on the arm.

“Oh give me a break, you know you’re buff. Do you even own a shirt with sleeves?”

“I’m very familiar with OW 2.0’s handbook, and the dress code is quite lax about on-base personal attire. But, mostly I just like hearing you complement me.”

Hana rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m glad you’re strong enough to move your ass around in this armor so you can protect my blindspots while I’m doing all the real heavy lifting.”

Brigitte laughed again. Hana couldn’t help but smile too at the warm sound. Brigitte’s whole face lit up, and her eyes crinkled around the edges. No wonder she was the favorite niece.

“Fair. I’ve seen your battle footage and some news clips when you were back in Korea. You’re so strong, I doubt you even need me.”

“Ah, another fan of D.Va. Well, who can blame you,” Hana said with a flick of her hair. She continued to walk around Brigitte’s workstation, picking up random pieces of armor. Brigitte didn’t seem to mind.

“Actually Reinhardt was the real die hard D.Va fan. We used to always have a stash of the instant noodles with your face on them in our rig. Great shelf life. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you for an autograph yet.”

“Well he’s one to talk! Did you know, when I was a kid there was a Reinhardt special edition line of noodles? I remember I tried them once and they had such a weird flavor. It was like ketchup and curry powder or something. He had a pretty big fanbase in Korea actually.”

“Hah! I didn’t know that, but I’d believe it. There’s been so much Overwatch merchandise over the years, I’ve lost track. They were such celebrities back in the day.”

“Yeah.”

Hana knew a thing or two about having her image used for propaganda. She wondered for a moment what it was like for Brigitte, growing up amongst the same environment, but removed from the center of it. An image of her laughing in the cafeteria with the old guard flashed through her mind. She decided it must have not been too bad, and refrained from asking the question.

“Okay well, I’ll leave you to your meditative, hammer time. I need to get back to my mech anyway, I’ve got a mission tomorrow morning,” Hana said, turning to leave. Brigitte let out a long sigh, slumping into a chair.

“Oh, it must be nice to leave the base.”

Hana stopped in her tracks, curious again, hearing such an outburst from Brigitte. She turned around and poked one of Brigitte’s large muscles near her shoulder.

“Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. You’ll be done with your training block soon. Fareeha is just, really particular before she lets anyone out on a mission. It took almost two months, and me breaking every score in the simulators for her to let me out in the field.”

“I know, I know. It just sucks sometimes feeling like everyone is being overprotective of me. I can handle myself, I’m not a little kid.”

Hana couldn’t help but give a little hmphf sound, her lips pulling down at the corners.

“Yeah, I get that feeling. You can’t speed up time though, you just have to grind it out.”

Hana wasn’t normally one for listening to whining, but she thought Brigitte looked quite cute while she pouted, her arms crossed tight against her torso and her lip jutted out. It was hard not to laugh at the sight a bit, but Hana held her tongue. She really did know how it felt to want to prove yourself.

“Hey come on, there’s plenty of work you’re doing here that’s valuable. And when you’re ready, you’ll get called up and out there with the rest of us.”

Brigitte took a deep breath, seeming to blow out the negative feelings in one dramatic sigh. When she straightened up in her chair she seemed to be in better spirits, smiling at Hana again.

“You probably know better than anyone how to do that. Thanks Lieutenant, I’ll try. Let me know if my hammering gets too distracting. I can always go find something else to do.”

“It’s fine. I hardly noticed.”

“Well in that case, I’ll just be over here until dinner time.”

---

A few days later Hana almost threw her computer across the hangar.

“Why is this piece of shit so useless!”

The MEKA diagnostic program she used to keep Tokki up to date was crashing every five minutes when she tried to run a scan of the system. It had slowly been degrading the last few weeks and after the latest mission it apparently decided it had enough. She tried every trick she knew, both from working on the mech for years and everything she could think of on her personal gaming rig, but she only had rudimentary coding skills and was vastly out of her depth.

“Everything okay?”

Brigitte’s gentle voice called out from a few feet away as she had stopped her own work to come see D.Va’s meltdown.

“Everything’s fine. Except I’m going to have to go throw this piece of crap, and then myself, in the ocean.”

“Sounds like a costly solution. What’s going on?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine, I don’t need anyone’s help.”

She could feel Brigitte’s sympathetic look burning into her cheek and hated it.

“Okay no problem. I’m around though, just let me know if you want an extra set of eyes.”

Hana stared at the email she had sent to Dae-Hyun the day before that still had no response. She knew her mech’s hardware inside and out, but he was the one who really handled all the intense computer program internals. She was out of her depth here and needed him to call her so she could get this thing working again, but he wasn’t answering. Maybe he was deployed somewhere or too busy with a social life now that she was gone.

She had decided to come here for Overwatch. So maybe she should trust Overwatch.

“Brigitte, wait a minute.”

The other girl paused and turned, only having walked a few feet away from D.Va’s workstation.

“I could probably use some help here, if you’re still offering?”

Brigitte smiled, but it was more muted than her usual mega watt grin. Hana appreciated that she wasn’t making a big deal about it.

God, why is this girl so nice.

“Definitely.”

Brigitte walked around the workbench where Hana set up her computer station and listened to the general description of the problems. As Hana started clicking through screens to show the protocol she usual ran, Brigitte held up a hand to make her stop.

“I understand what you’re saying, but looking at the text, I can’t read Korean. Does it have a translation setting?” “I doubt it. This thing was only meant to be used by the Korean MEKA squad.” Hana felt her stomach drop at how quick her hopes of getting this programming running were already dashed.

“Well lucky for us, Overwatch has some very robust translation tech we can utilize.” “Really? It’s not the AI is it? I’ve been so resistant to letting her in my computer.”

“That would be one possibility, but there are some more localized options we have. I’ve had to do this once or twice on one of my papa’s projects.”

“How long will it take?” “Don’t know! Could take a while, I’m not going to lie to you, especially with your program already acting buggy. But don’t worry Lieutenant, we’ll sort you out.”

Hana groaned, already having major doubts about letting Brigitte mess with her tech. But she didn’t have a lot of options, and this was probably the least embarrassing choice on the table at the moment.

Brigitte moved back and forth between D.Va’s workstation and her own across the hangar, gathering cables and a laptop she would use to debug the system. Hana watched over Brigitte’s shoulder for a while, monitoring her work to get the translation program working on the MEKA diagnostic software.

“Where’d you learn to do this type of thing?”

“Back in college. I had to learn a certain amount of coding for my major, but I helped out Winston some in his lab on campus and he taught me a lot of tricks too.”

“Jesus, is there literally anyone on this fucking base you don’t have some personal connection with?”

Hana stepped away from the computer and dropped down into an empty chair with a huff, spinning the chair on its axis in erratic circles.

Brigitte stopped typing and watched Hana’s tantrum. “It bothers you that I’ve got a close connection to Overwatch?”

Hana did not reply, but crossed her arms and let out a frustrated sigh. Brigitte’s gaze held her for a moment but eventually shifted back to the computer screen as she seemed to weigh her thoughts on how to respond.

“Why did you leave the MEKA squad to join Overwatch?” she asked finally. “It doesn’t have the best history as an organization, you know.”

Hana stopped spinning to look at the side of Brigitte’s face, who’s eyes were still trained on the laptop screen. “Well it’s better to actually be in a fight than on the sidelines.”

Brigitte stopped what she was doing and turned to face D.va. “You’re the best pilot in the MEKA program. Why would you be sidelined?”

Hana let out a bitter laugh. “Best pilot? I was more than that. I was the face of the fucking Korean army! Which eventually meant I was too valuable to be an actual soldier.” Hana stood up walking to the end of the workbench, reaching out to touch one of her mecha’s guns. She couldn’t see Brigitte, but she could feel the other girl watching her.

“I got real banged up in a fight with the Gwishin. Like, probably should have died kind of banged up. I was out of action for months. After that, the army realized they couldn’t let the poster girl for their success stories die in an actual fight. So they moved me off the Busan base and deployed me to lead baby fights happening inland, but whose sole purpose was really just a photo op.”

Hana balled her fist in anger at her side, remembering how awful it hurt seeing images of herself on television in all those epic battle sequences, reporters singing praises of heroism, only to know the real truth that it was all a fabricated lie. She couldn’t stand it.

“So when Winston and Lena came to my apartment and asked me to join the new Overwatch, it was a no brainer. My piloting skills are too valuable to just be sidelined in a studio with a green screen.”

The MEKA squad team was fairly understanding when she told them. The same couldn’t be said for her commanding officers, but as D.Va, the amount of influence and money at her disposal proved sufficient for a smooth enough transition.

“I believed this was my shot to get back in the fight. So even if there’s some bad history there, this is a new chance for me, and I am ready to deal with any fallout.”

Text whizzed by in the background of the computer screen as the console spat out a continuous stream of logs from the program Brigitte fired off as she listened in silence.

“I never liked Overwatch. I still don’t,” Brigitte finally said.

Hana turned to face her, very confused.

“Really? But, you’re like, one of the legacy kids.”

“All that means is I know more of the gritty details and seen firsthand the way people I love were chewed up by this place.”

Hana’s brow furrowed in thought, crossing her arms as she focused on Brigitte. Hana had been so taken in by all the happy scenes in the mess hall and around the base, she hadn’t even thought about the implications and complications that must have been a part of Brigitte’s life. She was so good at always putting on a bright face, how could she have known?

Brigitte took a deep breath, looking weary as she took a moment to gather her thoughts.

“When I was a kid, it was like I was one of those audience members you talked about. I was told all the best stories about heroes and villains, and it so happened that my family were literally starring as those heroes. But when I was a little older, I started learning more about history, and the other side of things. The PETRAS act. In fighting and war crimes. Blackwatch. Angela’s medical tech weaponized against her wishes, by my own father it turns out. Winston and Tracer buried under so much red tape, I’m honestly surprised they were ever allowed to leave a military base of their own free will. And Reinhardt... He’s a lot like you, I think. Brave, loyal, too stubborn to be just the face of a movement without putting his own skin on the line. Not when there’s something bigger than himself he believes in.”

A deep sigh, and an almost painful expression crossed her face.

“So no, I don’t like Overwatch. But I also can’t sit on the sidelines while they risk their lives, knowing I can help them. They’re my family. So here I am. Family can be complicated, ya know?”

Before Hana could come up with something to say, the computer dinged behind them. Brigitte tapped on the keys, reading quickly when a smile crossed her lips.

“Look at that, perfectly legible Swedish.”

“It’s fixed?” Hana hurried over to look at the computer screen.

“Well, the translation program is running. Now I need to actually debug your diagnostics program.”

“Ughhhh, I’m never going to leave this place.”

Brigitte chuckled. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it done. Feel free to go get some dinner if you want. This will take a while.”

“No way I’m going to leave you here all alone!”

“I promise I won’t touch Tokki.”

“It’s not...it’s not that, Brigitte. I just don’t feel right strolling off to dinner while you’re stuck here fixing my shit.”

Brigitte smiled.

“Okay. I definitely don’t mind the company.”

---

Hana tried to keep up with what Brigitte was talking about as she debugged the code. And she could follow along, for a while. Eventually she was way too lost to feel useful, and didn’t want to distract Brigitte while she was fixing the issues, so she retreated to a nearby futon against a wall. It was well past midnight, and Hana’s eyes were starting to droop. Brigitte drank one of the Dva branded nano cola energy drinks a while ago and seemed to be completely in the zone.

The next thing Hana knew there was a strip of bright light in her eyes as the sun started to stream in through a window in the hangar. Hana stretched to pull out the discomfort her back protested with from not being in her bed, but it was really not that unfamiliar, considering some of the positions she’d fallen asleep at her gaming computer before. A blanket was draped across her body she didn’t remember picking up when laid down on the futon. She was all alone in the hangar and her watch told her it was just after 5am.

“Brigitte?”

No one answered.

She sat up, noticing an unopened water bottle and energy bar laid out on the ground beside her futon with a little sticky note.

“Give it a go, Lt - Brig”

Hana scooped up the rations and dropped in front of the dark screen of her laptop. When she started up the terminal screen, her diagnostic programming kicked off like it normally did. All in Korean.

The screen showed exactly where an electric circuit was tripping in the defense matrix grid of the mech, which had been glitching in the field the last few days. Hana noticed the parts and tools needed to complete the fix laid out on the workbench neatly, but when she poked her head in the mech, it remained untouched.

She smiled to herself.

“Kept her word to stay out of Tokki. These Overwatch kids are too much sometimes.”

D.Va pulled the panel off her mech and got to work.

----

At dinner that night, Hana spotted Brigitte in the mess hall with Reinhardt, Tracer and Winston. Brigitte gave her a wink when she noticed her. Hana got her meal and sat beside her, leaving her phone in her pocket for once.

“Thanks for the help with Tokki, Brigitte. Works like a charm now.”

“It was my pleasure, Lieutenant Song.” Brigitte’s smile was kind, her expression gentle and warm. Hana noticed this close up Brigitte’s eyes were lighter around the edges, and she had a few more freckles on her left cheek than the right.

“Did I just ‘ear you call ‘ana Lieutenant?” Lena cut in. “She’s ‘Lieutenant’, but I can’ get none of you to call me Captain? Double standards round ‘ere, I tell ya what.”.

“Well, Hana was a more recent officer in her respective position, while you have been discharged from the RAF for several years now.”

“Who’s side you on Win!? Those ranks don’t expire!”

Brigitte chuckled, whipping her head around to look at Tracer’s shaking her hand dramatically in the air, eyes downcast in an over acted, scandalized look. Hana also let out a small giggle.

“Your rank on the flight simulator scoreboard sure did,” Hana said, poking her tongue out with a playful smirk at Tracer. Brigitte, Reinhardt and Winston all laughed.

“She’s got you there, Lena,” Brigitte said.

“The youth of today. Ruthless.” Tracer grabbed a fist over her heart as if shot in the chest by a bullet.

“You know, back in my days of Overwatch…”

Reinhardt started in on one of his specially tailored stories for whatever situation was at hand, this case a very detailed recount of the first time he granted a field promotion in the Crusaders. Brigitte sighed, correcting inaccuracies she heard along the way, giving a wink to Hana when Brigitte’s presence in the story was pulled into the story much later on.

Lena took up the torch after that, remembering a time she accidentally flew into restricted airspace and managed to sweet talk her way out of being shot down. They all took turns sharing more elaborate one ups from their time before Overwatch. Hana even volunteered a story, sharing the time she convinced Dae-hyun to set Tokki up to stream a battle with the omnics. She broke her single day subscriber count in under one hour.

They all laughed well into the night, and for the first time Hana really started to feel like part of the team.

---

Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!

#overwatch #mekamechanic #dva #brigitte lindholm #laura writes #man I've been poking at this for ever finally time to just put it out in the world so I can think about something new ahaha #hope you like!#hana song #(also there was no 300 page onboarding manual until Pharah wrote it)

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dustofbrokenheart · 3 years

Text

The Covenant: Gains

Poly Sons of Ipswich x Reader

Word Count: 2,802

Summary: Trying to take advantage of their gym membership, reader starts working with a devastatingly attractive personal trainer. And his friend is pretty hot, too.

The gym was still new for you but you had been coming consistently enough that you felt comfortable there. You knew what times equipment would be available and what times the crowds would be too much (week days 3-5:30 was like competing in the Hunger Games.)

Cardio always came before strength exercises because your muscles would be too fatigued otherwise.

And on Tuesdays and Saturdays they played your favorite music on the loud speakers so you didn’t have to bother with headphones on those days.

Still, you weren’t an expert by any means.

In fact, you were still hesitant to call yourself a gym-goer because you’d seen the workouts other people did and you definitely weren’t doing that. There was no strategy, you just did what you felt like doing on any given day. You were impressed by their discipline though.

Maybe, most likely, it would benefit you to incorporate some of that into your own routine.

The gym had a personal trainer program and you figured that would be the best bet—much easier than trying to figure it out on your own.

Poking around the website, you found the section that explained the process. The design was modern and intuitive, and it was easy to book an appointment: the only information you needed to provide was your name, the date/time, and what trainer you wanted.

The first two things were easy to fill out but the last had you a little stumped; you weren’t familiar enough with any of the trainers to request anyone by name even with the drop-down menu that listed out all of the choices. For a second, you were tempted to forget about the whole thing but luckily, there was an option for ‘no preference’ and anxiety levels dropped off as you selected it.

Appointment booked, you went on with the rest of your night, focus shifting to what sounded good to eat for dinner.

A week later, you found yourself in the gym’s front lobby, arms crossed and foot tapping. Since it was the first time, there was no harm in arriving early. The directions on the website had said to wait there for the trainer but so far there was no sign of them. Granted, there was still five minutes until the scheduled start so it would be unfair to start complaining about them just yet.

Rolling your neck to alleviate some of the tension, you paused mid-stretch, neck awkwardly craned like a gaggling turkey, when a man walked out. He was without a doubt the most attractive man you’d seen at the gym to date.

Thick dark hair that curled just above his ears. Warm brown eyes and an even warmer smile. Tanned skin that wrapped around arms that had just the right amount muscle: toned but not bulky. All in all, a good looking man.

You tracked him as he glanced around the area, looking for something—his eyes suddenly met yours and you straightened up in embarrassment—or someone. “Y/N?” he questioned.

You throat was so dry, it was painful to swallow. “That’s me.”

It didn’t seem possible but his smile grew even brighter. He stuck his hand out. “Nice to meet you. I’m Caleb and I’ll be your trainer today.”

Good karma most certainly at work here. How else could you explain being lucky enough to have the hottest guy in the gym be the trainer? Whatever the case, you weren’t going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

He gestured you forward with a wave of his hand and followed you to the main workout area. There was slight pressure to staying cool and collected with him behind you.

“I’m going to start you off with some jogging to warm-up. Do you want to use the track or hop on a treadmill?”

“Treadmill is fine. It’s what I normally use.”

You stepped up onto the belt and fiddled with the settings to establish a pace you felt comfortable with. The machine started up with a loud hum and your arms and legs began to pump. Normally, you’d have your earphones in to distract yourself with music but they weren’t that day so that you could hear Caleb if he said anything to you.

Good thinking, really, since he did indeed start chatting.

“So how long have you been a member?” he asked.

Determined not to sound steady, you took a few moments to normalize your breathing. “About two months. But this is the first time I’ve worked with a professional,” you added at the end.

It was hard to hear his laugh over the treadmill but the hitching of his shoulders gave him away. “Thanks, but I’m not really a professional. I just have a training certification is all.”

Huh. Attractive and humble. If you weren’t careful, you’d develop a full-blown crush in no time.

“A certification sounds professional to me,” you insisted. There. That wasn’t flirty at all. You were merely sharing an opinion.

Jogging passed by faster than it usually did even without music. Evidently, all that was needed to make a run enjoyable was good conversation and an even better view.

You powered off the treadmill and gradually transitioned to a walk and then a full stop. A single bead of sweat trailed down the side of your face but before you could wipe it away, only to stumble after being patted on the back by Caleb.

Those muscles were not just for show.

You had mixed feelings about him giving you props for completing the warm up. On one hand, you were a little insulted because even you could handle jogging for ten minutes. On the other, it was nice to have him flatter you. And he seemed to type to mean his compliments.

“Thanks,” you said almost like a question as you plopped down to stretch.

“Really,” he insisted. There wasn’t any level of patronizing tone that you could detect. “You’d be surprised by how many people I work with that complain about running.”

“Really?” you exclaimed with surprise. “I wouldn’t say I love running but it’s not terrible. Better than swimming anyway.”

“Whoa, now. I’ll have you know that I was a big swimmer in high school.”

The friendly banter about the woes, or in his case, the highs of swimming got you through the stretches he showed you. Occasionally, there would be a pause while he corrected your posture but once you fixed your position, the banter started up again.

Finally, you conceded, “I will admit that swimming did wonders for your shoulders though.”

He looked away with a bow of his head. He smiled but it was closed lipped, no teeth on display. Oops. That comment may have been a bit too forward. Rather than draw more attention to it, you diverted attention to the actual work out.

Seeming to be of the same mind, Caleb dropped it, too, and set you up at a weight bench. He must’ve have seen the doubt on your face.

“Don’t worry,” he assured. “I’m not going to have you squatting 300 pounds or anything crazy. Here. Take this and we’ll start with some dumb bell rows.”

He handed you a twenty-pound weight, the smooth metal cool against your palm. The weight was noticeable but not so heavy you struggled to hold it. A month or two of this and your arms would actually tone out pretty nice.

You peered subtly at Caleb behind you. You wouldn’t be at Caleb’s level, not just after a couple weeks but then again, you doubted most people could measure up to him even after working out everyday for a year straight.

Someone people had all the good genes.

You could’ve complained but found it much more enjoyable to appreciate the good view. In fact, it was the view that got you through the rest of the season.

“Thanks,” you panted around the mouth of your water bottle. A bead of sweat ran down your neck and you reached to wipe it off.

“You did great, really,” he said, the epitome of what a good trainer should sound like. “The scariest step is always to start so signing up for additional personal training will be a piece of cake.”

“Y-yeah.” Suddenly, your shoe laces fascinated you. “So…if I want to do that—more of this...do I choose you on from that list of trainers?”

“Sure thing. Or if you’d prefer to try someone else, all of the trainers are fantastic choices.”

“I think I’ll stick with you. As long as that’s not weird or anything…”

“Nope, not weird.”

You worked up the courage to look him in the eyes. Swirling irises of molten brown, you couldn’t help but be drawn into them. “Same time next week then?”

“Same time next week,” he agreed with a nod.

***

It had been a little over a month since you had started working with Caleb at the gym and what had started as one personal training session a week had turned into two, sometimes three. Improvement was happening steadily and you definitely felt a difference in your stamina.

Strangely enough, you were even proud of the small callouses that were starting to develop on the tops of your palms, under the fingers. They weren’t classically beautiful but at least you had proof of the work you were doing.

Having worked up the confidence, you’d also started doing some of the exercises Caleb showed you on your own. It was on one such day that you met him.

Another gym babe.

The first thing you noticed was his ass. Literally. He was in prime squat position and his short, though knee length and loose as they may be, could not hide his toned glutes.

You were embarrassed to admit that you were totally ogling him, like a dog looked at a prime cut of meat. You didn’t get star struck often, but damn.

The universe must have sought to punish you for the lack of propriety and your mp3 slipped through your sweaty fingers onto the moving treadmill, yanking the earphones out of your ears along with it as it flew backwards on the conveyor belt.

Recovering from the stumble your mp3 caused, you turned off the machine and gingerly picked out the music player, preparing for the worst.

Miraculously, the screen was still in tact and sounds was still coming through the earphones. You took another sigh of relief when you realized he was preoccupied by his own workout and hadn’t seen your embarrassing moment.

Something similar happened the next time you saw him a few days later: he was cooling down after having thoroughly trounced the heavy bag in the small boxing set-up the gym had. His arms looked so good in his cut-off tank (muscles and veins were all on display) that you froze with your mouth hanging wide open.

Another gym-goer did catch you that time but at least it wasn’t the god sculpted from marble.

You almost felt bad, like you were cheating on one of your crush’s with another which was ridiculous because Caleb was just a trainer and you didn’t even know the other one’s name.

Who knew that so much drama could happen in the confines of a simple neighborhood gym? Seriously, The Bachelor wished it could have as many good options as the gym seemed to.

***

You huffed as you pushed yourself up on increasing shaky arms. For a few seconds, you honestly didn’t think you’d be able to do it as your arms got stuck at a forty-five degree angle. Digging deep down, you managed to fully extend your arms.

“Nine,” Caleb counted. He was kneeling besides you on the yoga mat, counting, and adjusting your form here and there, while you did push-ups

Rather than descend slowly as was proper for push-ups, you collapsed to the mat with your arms squished underneath your chest. Rolled your head, you gave him your best pleading eyes and hoped he might take mercy.

That hope was misplaced. He gave a sympathetic smile and shook his head negatively. “Sorry, Y/N. We agreed on ten and by my count, you still have one more to go.”

“Can I not and say that I did?”

“Come on now. It’s only one more.” He waved his hands around like he was waving imaginary pom-poms. “You can do it!”

You managed a weak laugh. There was no way you could’ve say no. Your arms felt like they were burning but he looked adorable trying to be a cheerleader. An unbidden image of him wearing a cute male cheerleading uniform flashed in your mind and you thought he would pull one off well, what with his wide shoulders and sculpted legs.

Imagination got you through the last push-up and you groaned as you turned over on the mat, spread out like a star fish. “That was absolute torture.”

Caleb opened his mouth but was interrupted by a newcomer.

“Geez, man. You need to take it easier on your clients.”

Recognizing the voice, you found the other gym guy you’d been eyeing standing above you.

“Pogue.” Caleb held his fist out to the man who in turned bumped his with the trainer’s. Evidently, they knew each other.

Then they embraced in a full-on hug.

Okay, so they definitely knew each other. And it was hard to miss the parting caress to Pogue’s shoulders—what kind of name was Pogue anyway?—that was generally reserved for two people that were close.

Were they related? Dating, perhaps?

Your imagination fired up again and you wondered what they would look like wrapped even more intimately with one another…which was entirely despicable, you reminded yourself. There was no proof they were romantically involved, and, even if they were, it was none of your business.

The other two, who had been talking while you were maladaptively fantasizing, had continued talking and their conversation now turned to you.

“So who’s this?” Pogue questioned politely.

“This is Y/N,” Caleb introduce you. “They’re one of the people I work with.”

Pogue stuck his hand out to shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m glad Caleb hasn’t killed you off yet.”

“Hey! I am extremely fair with workouts, aren’t I, Y/N?”

“He is,” you said with a small smile, rocking on your feet. “Besides, he way too nice to ever become a drill sergeant.”

Pogue shoved Caleb lightly and Caleb elbowed him in return. “I know he doesn’t look like the type, but he was quite the drill sergeant back when we were both swimmers. He just hides the competitive instinct under his charming smiles.”

That peaked your curiosity. “No way, you guys swam together back in the day?”

“Spencer Academy was state champs three years running in our time,” Caleb admitted. “But nowadays I do my thing with personal training and Pogue more into MMA.”

“MMA?” you questioned.

“Mixed Martial Arts,” Caleb supplied. “You’ve probably seen him hogging the punching bags in the back.”

You most certainly had but you weren’t about to confess that to either of them. It would be too embarrassing and might even toe the line of harassment.

“You are more than welcome to share bags with me, any time,” Pogue grinned teasingly.

A thought hit and flowed out of your mouth before you could stop it. “You guys should give me a lesson sometime.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were interested in that sort of thing,” Caleb said, surprise coloring his voice.

“Are you saying that you don’t think I can?” You weren’t sure what made you say it. It’s not like you were hardcore dedicated to trying it.

Whatever the cause it had Pogue chiming in save the situation.

“What prince charming means is that we would love to give a demonstration sometime.”

Caleb down at his watch because of course he still wore one instead of just using his phone like most other people. “Damn. Our hour is up Y/n and I’m late getting my next client. But we can hit the punching bags next time, if you want…?”

“Sure. Uh. Does Wednesday work for you?”

Both of the men nodded and Caleb called over his shoulder as he jogged to the lobby. “It’s a date. Schedule it online and I’ll approve it.”

The word kept replaying over and over. Date. Date. Date, date, date. He probably didn’t even mean it like that but it didn’t stop your heart from fluttering.

Waving goodbye to Pogue wit a promise of seeing him next week, you bounced off to grab your phone from the locker room. There was nothing wrong with scheduling your next session ASAP.

It’s a date.

_______________

Pogue boxing does make a fetching image. Pogue and Caleb in the ring sparring together even more so. Debating whether to make a part 2.

Caleb always seems to be the hardest for me to write so I hope he sounded okay in this. This has been sitting in my drafts for a while and I decided to finally post it.

Thanks for reading!

#the covenant #caleb danvers #pogue parry #caleb danvers x reader #pogue parry x reader #the covenant imagines

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queenofanime · 3 years

Text

New Parent!?

(Atsumu Miya Writings)

Part two here

"And you remember when Shoyo-kun received that spike perfectly"

"Can you believe Kageyama still doesn't acknowledge it. Kageyama Baka, Baka!"

" Shut it human-tangerine"

"Oh, or when Ushijima hit that jumping serve in the last game?"

"It was more like a home run"

In this very moment part of the MSBY Black Jackals and part of the Schweiden Alders were having a small gathering. A little party, reminiscing high-school years and moments of youth, not that they were old or anything but oh boy, how time has changed.

The said party was being held in non other than Atsumu Miya's apartment. Being a professional Volleyball player did have its advantages, since the apartment could be considered a mansion with the latest technology.

All men were talking and laughing when the sound of the doorbell interrupted them.

"That must be the pizza!" yelled Bokuto who until now was complaining about being hungry

Lazily, Atsumu grabbed the spare change from a corner table and headed for the door.

As soon as he opened the door, his brown orbs were met with other cold brown orbs, just like a mirror; and it wasn't the pizza delivery guy.

There at the other end, stood a girl. She couldn't have been older than 16 really. The air she radiated was vaguely familiar. Her clothes were messy and disheveled. Her hair unkept.

"May I help you?" asked the blonde. His eyebrows scrunching down in confusion.

The girl didn't respond, in fact, she just stood there analyzing him, taking in every detail. Her gaze roamed from one feature to another. Letting out a sigh, she then took a crumbled paper out of her dirty torn up backpack and handed it to him.

Atsumu seemed to hesitate for a second. Fidgeting with the paper, he took in the information that was handed to him. Since the paper was a little deteriorated, the writing was hard to read, but ultimately he understood the gist of it. The paper was non other than a birth certificated and a parental blood test.

His breath grew heavy, his hands trembled ever so slightly. He shifted his vision to the girl once again, looking for any sign of a prank or joke, but he was only met with a poker face.

"...Hey dad"

Was the last thing he heard before passing out.

***

Of course, after the commotion the twin had just pulled, the six people left in the living room went to check up on his friend immediately, and were met with quite a sight.

A grown ass man spread in the floor completely knocked out and a teenage girl (who resembled the grown ass man) holding her laughter to the best of her abilities and failing miserably.

The pizza long forgotten.

***

Time seemed irrelevant. Atsumu was sited in the head chair of the dining room staring directly at the child who was sited in the opposite side of the table. Her gaze never wavering. Both of them subconsciously began a silent staring contest. Neither one of them backing out. This only made Atsumu realize that the girl was just as competitive and a sore loser like himself.

A few minutes passed before he broke contact with her to see the crumbled paper spread out in his hand.

What in fact was killing the man was the simple fact that he could not remember the child's mother. He remembered knowing she was pregnant. He remembers telling her to abort it. He remembers the fight, the tears and the yelling. Yet... he can't seem to remember her. Looking back, he was only 17, so of course his sense of responsibility was nowhere to be seen. Oh but karma never seems to forget does it.

Tension was high in the air. Bokuto and Hinata were sited in the table as well. Even with their social skills and bubbly personalities they didn't seem to know what to say.

Hoshiumi, Ushijima and Kageyama were siting in the living room, trying to avoid whatever the hell was happening. Still the tension was very much present.

As for Sakusa; he was minding his own business in the kitchen. Preparing a peanut-jelly sandwich for Bokuto who was still starving.

"You have no idea who is my mother do you?" (Y/n) finally spoke.

Atsumu narrowed his eyes at this. She had seen through him quite easily. But admitting, that in fact, he didn't even remember her name was a no no. "I do know who your mother is. How horrible of a human being do you think I am."

"Define horrible." remarked the girl. "Now, what's the name of my mother?"

By now, everybody was looking at Atsumu. Hinata even had pleading eyes. Praying that his team setter knew the name of said woman. With a defeated and frustrated sigh, the man openly admitted the truth. (Y/n) snorted at this.

"Her name was Ava Kim" She then stated. The setter scrunch his eyebrows at this revelation. God, how could he forget Ava. Such a simple name. Plus she was beautiful and hot.

Sakusa perked his ear at the use of past tense. "Was?" He then proceed to ask.

"She's dead." Without even bothering to look at him, the girl responded with a straight face. "Died 11 years ago."

Regret, sorrow, guilt, you name it. Miya Atsumu was feeling every overwhelming emotion. He didn't even knew that Ava had died.

"You are just 16 and your mother died when you were 5, what the hell were you doing?" Asked Kageyama, a little too blunt.

"Foster care, but you wouldn't know how that feels now would ya?" Answered (Y/n) with the same bluntest as him. "I got tiered of it, so I ran away."

This was quiet a dramatic situation, painfully awkward and incredibly frustrating. Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

"Now that must be the pizza!" yelled the owl.

"How is it, that after three peanut-butter jelly sandwich you are still hungry!?" asked Sakusa completely bewildered.

"Oh did you guys order pizza?" (Y/n) asked. A little glimpse of happiness could be seen. For the first time she seemed to let her guard down and show a little of enthusiasm. With her reaction to food, she might as well be Bokuto's secret love child.

It didn't take long for (Y/n) to devour her plate. Sad eyes, filled with petty stared at her. She must have been starving for just how long?

Obviously the party was cut short and soon everyone left, leaving a tangled, almost broken relationship behind.

"Look it's late kid. I've left a new toothbrush and some clean clothes in one of the guest rooms, which now will be your room. We can have a proper talk tomorrow."

The girl only nodded, she too was very tired. Leaving the dirty dishes in the sink, she headed up stairs without a word.

#miya twins #miya atsumu #haikyuu!!#new fathers #child reader #haikyu x y/n #atsumu fanfic #atsumu fanart #parenting #daughter

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leossmoonn · 3 years

Text

Helping Hand [Kol Mikaelson]

masterlist

pairing - kol mikaelson x fem!reader

type - fluff

note/ request - “hey can i request a kol fluff where the reader and him babysit her sister's babies and they prefer kol” this was so cute, enjoy!

summary - kol helps you babysit and you both learn the kids prefer kol

warnings / includes - children (jkk i hate love kids), flirting, kissing

————

*gif isn’t mine*

Babysitting was supposed to be easy. You loved babysitting. You did lots in your youth. You worked very well with kids. Well, at least that’s what you thought before your sister dropped her kids off.

“Lacey needs to be in bed by 7, otherwise she just won’t sleep the rest of the night. The only thing Noah will eat are chicken tenders. You have those right? Try to get him to eat some carrots, too, okay? Thanks,” Your sister, Monica, said.

She handed you a duffle bag full of baby supplies and games for Noah.

“Oh, and Noah likes to watch Paw Patrol, but if you want him to calm down, put on Aladdin or The Little Mermaid. He likes the monkey and Ariel. Oh! And-”

“I got it, Mon. I used to babysit when we were younger, remember?” You said.

“Right, right. Okay, well if you need to know anything else there’s a little folder Dan and I put together.”

“Noted. I doubt I’ll need it, though,” you chuckled.

“You probably will,” Monica laughed breathily. She then bent down to Noah.”Be good for Aunt Y/n, okay, my loves? Mommy and Daddy will be back in the morning.” She got back up and kissed Lacey on the cheek, causing the baby to babble.

“Bye, Mommy!” Noah exclaimed.

“Bye, honey!” Monica waved. She then left, picking up her dress and heading over to her car.

“Have fun!” You shouted as the drove away. You then shut the door and smiled at the baby in your arm and the 5 year old on the ground.

“Hey, so what do you guys wanna do?” You asked.

Noah looked around, spotting your cat. “Kitty!” He shouted, running full speed to the cat.

“Oh, Noah, please don’t! Hazel doesn’t like it when people run at her!” You exclaimed, running over to him with Lacey still in your arms.

You saw Hazel jump to the ground and run upstairs. Noah pouted and looked to you.

“Kitty didn’t wanna play,” he said. “Well, cats generally don’t like to play with people they don’t know, Noah. Why don’t we watch some TV and play with some of your toys. Kitty might come out if we are calm,” you smiled at him.

“No! I want Kitty now!” Noah screamed, running up stairs.

“Noah!” You shouted. You went to run after him, but Lacey giggled in your arms, reminding you that you had another kid to look after.

“Alright uh, why don’t we put you in your playpen, okay?” You suggested.

Lacey babbled again in reply.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you smiled.

You carried her to your living room where Dan, Monica’s husband, had set up the playpen. You set Lacey in, setting in a few toys. You then turned on a baby monitor, setting it right beside the playpen. You took another monitor and clipped it to your pants so you were able to hear Lacey at all times. You then started to go upstairs, hoping that Hazel didn’t attack Noah.

“Hazel? Noah?” You called out.

“Are those your other partners, darling? I don’t think I agreed to an open relationship with you,” a sexy, Australian voice sounded from behind you.

You stopped in your track, holding the railing as you turned around.

“Kol?! What are you doing here?” You asked, a big smile on your face.

“Well, I was taking a stroll around the neighbourhood and couldn’t help but be curious as to why there were two children being thrown into your house,” he explained with a smile.

You chuckled and climbed back down the stairs, walking over to him. “They’re my sister’s. That one is Lacey,” you said, pointing to the baby in the playpen.

“Oh, my. She is adorable!” Kol exclaimed, walking over to the baby.

“Yeah, she is,” you nodded. “I uh, I have to go and check on Noah. He’s my sister’s 5 year-old. He was chasing Hazel.”

“Want me to help?” Kol asked.

“No, it’s okay. I got this. I’m great with kids,” you reassured.

“Oh, I bet,” Kol smirked. “What?” You asked, crossing your arms around your chest.

“Nothing, nothing. Now go, I’ll stay with Lacey,” Kol smiled.

“Alright,” you sighed, turning around on your heel.

You ran up the stairs, going straight to your bedroom, knowing that that’s where Hazel liked to hide. You busted through the door, groaning as you saw Noah on his stomach, reaching under your bed.

“Hey, Noah, leave Hazel alone, okay?” You asked.

“I want to see see Kitty!” Noah exclaimed. “Well, Kitty needs to some to adjust you,” you explained.

“Why?” Noah asked. “Because cats are shy and reserved, unlike dogs who like people,” you answered.

“C’mon, why don’t we go and get you a snack,” you suggested, getting on your knees.

“I’m not hungry,” Noah grumbled. “Then how about we watch a movie? Your mom told me you like Aladdin and The Little Mermaid, right?”

“Yeah, but I wanna play with Kitty,” Noah said.

You rolled your eyes, your irritation building. “You have to let her come to you okay. I know it’s a little annoying, but that’s just how cats are.”

“Noah, why don’t we go and play with your trains,” Kol said from your doorway.

Your head snapped up to him, glaring. “I told you I got this.” “Yeah, it sure sounds like it, darling,” Kol chuckled. He got down next to you, smiling at Noah.

“Who are you?” Noah asked, looking at him.

“I am Kol. Y/n’s boyfriend. I didn’t realise she was watching you and your sister today,” Kol smiled.

“Yeah, she’s my Aunt,” Noah said. “I know, she told me. So, what is the problem you are having here?” Kol asked.

“I want to pet Kitty, but she’s hiding,” Noah pouted.

“Ah, well cats are pus-”

“Kol!” You slapped his arm. Kol rolled his eyes, “Cats are annoying. I prefer dogs, myself. Why don’t we just bring your toys up here and wait until the cat comes out?”

“Okay!” Noah smiled. He got up to get his toys from downstairs.

You scoffed, “Why does he listen to you and not me?”

“Because boys listen to other boys. Unless it’s their mother,” Kol explained.

“Wow, so even 5 year-olds are sexist?” You asked jokingly. “No, not like that,” Kol rolled his eyes.

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Well let me get Lacey since we are staying up here.”

“No, no. Why don’t I deal with Noah, you go and watch Lacey,” Kol said.

“Hm, alright. You have fun in your little boy’s club,” you smirked, getting up.

“Will do,” Kol smiled at you. He got up with you, putting his hand on your waist and pulling you in.

“Kol, no,” you giggled. “Just one kiss, love,” Kol said, looking deeply into your eyes.

You sighed, knowing you wouldn’t be able to resist him. You put your arms around his neck, leaning up to press your lips against his. You melted into him immediately, kissing him chastely. You pulled away after a few moments, hearing Noah’s footsteps approach your room.

“Have fun, gorgeous,” Kol winked at you. “Will do,” you chuckled.

You went downstairs, going over to Lacey who was standing up in her playpen.

“Wow, you’re stronger than I thought,” you chuckled. You went to the duffle bag, pulling out the folder Dan and her made. You went to Lacey’s feeding schedule and looked at the clock.

“Looks like it’s time for dinner,” you smiled.

You got out the bottle of breast milk that Monica had packed and heated it up, going back over to Lacey. You set the bottle on the coffee table, grabbing Lacey out of her playpen and laying her down in your arms. You then grabbed the bottle and attempted the feed her, but she kept resisting.

“C’mon, Lacey. I know you’re hungry,” you said. “I know I’m not your mom, so it’s a little weird, but you can trust me.”

Lacey looked up at you, smiling and giggling. Her little hands reached out for the bottle. You breathed out in relief.

“That’s it, good girl, Lacey,” you cooed as you put the bottle gently in her mouth.

She drank for a good few moments before she pulled away.

“All done?” You asked as if she could answer. You set the bottle down, lifting Lacey up gently.

“Okay, do you wanna be burped?” You asked again.

Lacey looked up a you, a mischievous grin on her lips.

“What is that looks for?” You giggled, lifting her up to your shoulder.

As you were would to get a cloth, Lacey then spit up on your shoulder and in your hair.

“Oh, shi-sugar!” You exclaimed. “I must have fed you too much, I’m sorry,” you apologised to the squealing baby.

You set Lacey down in her playpen, going over to your kitchen to get a washcloth. You came back to the living room to find Kol with Noah in his arms.

“I heard you shout, you okay?” Kol asked. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just got spit up on, though,” you groaned, gesturing to your hair that was now sticky due to your sister’s breast milk.

“Yikes. You must have fed her too much,” Kol said.

“Well obviously,” you rolled your eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve taken care of a baby, you know?”

Kol chuckled, “Are you sure you’re prepared for this?”

“Yes. I am CPR and First Aid certification. I have the Pediatrician’s number. I took 10 baby-sitting classes when I was 16 so I was able to do baby-sitting as a business, so I’m pretty prepared. It’s just some kids are more difficult than other’s,” you shrugged.

“Wow, I never knew you did all that to be able to watch children,” Kol said, genuinely surprised.

“Yeah, well, if a kid dies on your hands, you can go to jail,” you sighed.

“Americans are so weird. Back in the day, if a child died while you were taking care of them, it probably means they were weak and didn't deserve to live,” Kol remarked.

“Don’t say that in front of the kids!” You scolded. “And yeah, that was in like, ancient times. I’m glad it’s changed.”

“Are you calling me ancient?” Kol asked. “Hm… yeah,” you smirked.

“How rude. I know why these kids don’t like you, then,” Kol teased.

“Who’s the rude one now?” You challenged, going to your laundry room to put the washcloth in the dirty basket.

You came back to Kol and Noah sitting on the couch with Lacey on Kol’s lap.

“I think you have competition, babe,” Kol laughed. “Well, she’s cuter than me, so I’ll let it pass,” you laughed, sitting down with him.

“Can we watch little mermaid?” Noah asked.

“Yeah, of course, buddy,” you nodded. You turned on the TV, going to Disney+ and starting the movie.

“Did you guys get to see Hazel?” You asked.

“No,” Noah shook his head sadly. “Aw, well, I’m sure she’ll come out now that we’ve given her space,” you reassured.

“Yay!” Noah exclaimed. You couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. You watched half of the movie before you started to feel tired. You had your head on Kol’s shoulder and your arm locked with his. Kol had one of his hands on your knee, his other on Lacey’s back and supporting her as she was sleeping on Kol’s chest.

As you felt yourself start to doze off, Noah then started to talk.

“I’m hungry,” he whined. You yawned and sat up. “Do you want chicken fingers? I’ll fix some for you.”

“Yeah!” Noah smiled at you and nodded.

You went to get up, but Kol’s hand on your thigh brought you back down.

“What are you doing?” You looked to him. “Let me do it. You’ve been running around trying to take care of these children,” Kol said.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine. And I’ve barely done anything.”

“Yes, you have. And I can tell you were about to fall asleep before Noah announced his hunger. Let me do this,” Kol insisted.

“Ugh, fine. What about Lacey?” You asked, gesturing to the sleeping baby.

“You can have her,” he said, picking her up and setting her on your lap.

“Alright,” you sighed, taking Lacey into your arms.

“I’ll be back,” Kol said. You smiled up at him and nodded, turning your attention back to the movie.

Not even a minute later, Lacey started to cry.

“Oh, no. Lacey, what’s wrong?” You asked.

As she wailed, she pointed to Kol, who was placing fries on a baking pan.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” you muttered. “I’ll be back, Noah.”

Noah nodded, his eyes focused on the movie. You got up, taking Lacey with you.

“What’s up?” Kol asked as he set the pan in the oven.

“You seriously didn’t hear her crying,” you gestured to the sniffling baby.

“I did, I just thought Noah did something,” Kol shrugged.

“Hm, nope. She wants you,” you said. Kol shut the oven with a smile.

“Really? I feel so honoured.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just take the baby. I feel bad enough she spit on me. I don't want her to keep crying because she doesn’t want me to hold her,” you frowned, holding Lacey up.

“Maybe she needs her diaper changed,” Kol suggested.

“No, I changed her diaper in the beginning of the movie, remember?” You said.

“Yes, but babies poop and pee all the time. Let’s check,” he said and held up Lacey to his nose.

“Oh, yeah, she needs to be changed,” Kol cringed, handing her to you.

“What! Why me?” You asked. “Well, because she obviously wasn’t crying because of you,” Kol said.

“She’s gonna pee on me. I know it,” you said, taking the baby back.

“That’d be funny,” Kol chuckled.

You glared at him, making him apologise.

“Sorry. Fine, I’ll stand there with you. I’ve never changed a baby’s diaper, anyways,” Kol said.

“Yeah, and you probably never will,” you sighed. Kol frowned, “Well, you never know. We can always adopt.”

You smiled, “Yeah, true.”

You two went to the living room, grabbing the duffle bag and going to the bathroom. You cleaned up Lacey successfully, Kol clapping.

“Wow, I would never be able to do that,” Kol said.

“Next time I’ll give you a chance,” you smirked, lifting Lacey back up.

“Alright, let's go back and relax,” you said. Kol nodded and walked with you to the living room.

You were pleasantly surprised to see Hazel there next to Noah.

“I see you’ve got the Kitty,” you smiled.

“Yeah! She likes me,” Noah giggled. “I bet she does,” you nodded. “Kol, can we play with the trains?” Noah asked.

“Yeah, of course, buddy,” Kol smiled. You went to the couch with Lacey, Lacey sitting up and babbling while pointing to Kol.

“I think someone wants you, babe,” you chucked.

Kol got up and took Lacey, setting her down on the floor in-between his legs.

“Need any help?” You asked laying down on the couch.

“Nope,” Kol said. “Okay,” you sighed, closing your eyes.

And before you knew it, you were fast asleep. Kol smiled fondly at you, getting up quickly and placing a blanket over you. He then grabbed all the pillows and another blanket, creating a little play space for Lacey.

“Alright, you sit right there and if you fall, the pillows will be there to support you,” he said.

He then started to play with Noah.

“How long?” Noah asked. “How long what?” Kol asked.

Noah pointed to you and then back at him.

Kol chuckled. “Oh, I see. Well, we’ve known each other as friends for 2 years. I asked her ask out 2 years ago and we’ve been dating ever since.”

“Do you love her?” Noah asked, looking up at Kol with big, innocent eyes.

Kol chuckled, staring at you as he spoke. “Yeah, I love her. I love her a lot.”

Noah giggled. “My daddy says ‘i love you’ to us and my mommy every night.”

“He’s a good man,” Kol said. Noah nodded, going back to playing with his trains.

You woke up 2 hours later to faint singing and a dark room.

“Kol?” You called out once you got more awake. You looked around the room, starting to panic once you realised Noah and Lacey weren’t in the room.

“Noah? Lacey?” You called out. As you started to get up, Kol walked into the room.

“Kol? Where are the kids? I-I accidentally fell asleep,” you breathed out.

Kol gave you a smile and walked over to you, wrapping his arms around you.

“The children are fine, darling. They’re both sleeping,” he explained, pressing a soft kiss to your head.

“Oh,” you chuckled. You looked up at him with a thankful smile. “Thank you so much for helping today. I’m afraid my baby sitting skills are a little rusty.”

Kol shrugged with a smile, “No worries. I like helping you and spending time with you. Plus, I have discovered I’m actually good at taking care of children.”

“You are. Who would’ve known under all that murder-vampire-ness, you would have a soft spot for kids,” you smiled.

“I also have a soft spot for you,” Kol said, setting his hands on your hips and leaning in.

“Oh, is that so?” You smirked, entangling your fingers in his hair,

“Mhm,” Kol hummed, pressing his lips to your’s.

————

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kjack89 · 3 years

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An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 5/?)

Continuation of the E/R Bridgerton AU, regency-era fake-marriage shenanigan-fest, and we’ve actually gotten to the marriage part! Or, at least, the wedding. (Chapter 1 tumblr | AO3, chapter 2 tumblr | AO3, chapter 3 tumblr | AO3, chapter 4 tumblr | AO3)

As much as this Author positively loathes to gloat, there comes a time when even the most modest among us must utter those four words everyone hates to hear: I told you so.

Both the Marquess of Enjolras and Mr. Grantaire emerged from their duel with not a scratch upon them and with the Marquess sworn to uphold the honor of Mr. Grantaire’s sister and rectify the situation he caused by joining her in matrimony. As befits the magnitude of the scandal, a special license has been purchased – for who knows what sum – so that the whole affair can be concluded before the Dowager Marchioness even has a chance to book a carriage out to the country to meet her soon-to-be daughter-in-law.

Much to the relief of both the Marquess and his fiancée, this Author presumes.

Still, a wedding may signal an end to impropriety, but scandals are wont to continue of their own accord, especially when one can hardly imagine the Marquess settling quickly or quietly into married life. A storm is brewing, one way or another, but rest assured, Dear Reader – this Author will be here to cover whatever may come next. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 6 MAY 1831

Enjolras hated to admit it, but he was nervous.

He really hadn’t thought he was going to be, but as he stood at the front of the small, unassuming chapel dressed in the best clothes he could purchase on a moment’s notice from the village, his stomach felt like it was doing somersaults somewhere around his knees, and his palms were sweating so much that he was tempted to wipe them on his trousers.

Perhaps nerves were to be expected. After all, it wasn’t everyday that he got married.

Granted, the wedding itself was going to be a simple affair, just Enjolras with Madame Hucheloup in front of the vicar, whom Enjolras had met once, briefly, the prior day and who had been as drunk as Grantaire had promised, so much so that when Grantaire told him that Enjolras would be marrying his sister, the man did not even hesitate, despite presiding over her burial some two decades prior. He seemed equally drunk that morning, swaying slightly as he hummed off-key, waiting for the ceremony to start.

Joining Enjolras and his not-so-blushing fake bride would be Grantaire and Le Cabuc as witnesses, with only the four of them any wiser to the fact that the entire thing was a farce. Then the only final piece of the puzzle was getting a suitable dowry from Grantaire to give to his mother, and then, finally, Enjolras would be free.

Well, free until such a time came as when he would need to ‘bury’ his fake wife, but that was a future problem, and one he was not inclined to think too closely about at the moment.

Especially when he had much bigger concerns: particularly, the fact that Grantaire and Madame Hucheloup were running late.

He glanced over at Le Cabuc, who looked almost bored, and chanced a look back at the vicar, who didn’t seem at all concerned with the fact that time was stretching on and there was no sight of either of them. Enjolras was just about to excuse himself to go track down Grantaire and Madame Hucheloup himself when the woman in question appeared in the back of the parish, out of breath and – far more concerning – dressed in her usual clothes and not the wedding dress that Enjolras had dutifully purchased to continue the façade, clutching a valise assumedly containing other clothes.

Enjolras frowned and hurried to intercept her. “Beg pardon,” she said breathlessly, her face flushed red as if she had run the entire way from the house. “But there’s been a change.”

“A change?” Enjolras repeated, stupidly. “What kind of change?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Himself is on his way, he’ll explain everything.”

Enjolras would have much preferred that she explain, but given that she looked like she was about to topple over at any given moment, he supposed the polite thing to do was to walk her to a seat before heading to the back of the chapel to await Grantaire and whatever explanation he brought.

So he did just that, depositing her in a chair before hurrying to the chapel door to intercept Grantaire and find out just what explanation he could possibly—

He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Grantaire hurrying towards him, dressed not in his Sunday best as was anticipated but rather wearing, of all the garments in the world, the wedding dress.

Enjolras was certain his mouth fell open as he stared at Grantaire, temporarily unable to speak. There was a very small, distracted part of his brain that noticed that despite the dress not having been tailored for him by any stretch, it somehow fit Grantaire rather pleasingly.

He shook his head to clear it of that thought and wrenched his mouth open. “What in the bloody hell—”

“Language,” Grantaire chided, sounding stressed as he finally arrived at the door. “We are on consecrated ground, after all.”

It was a patently absurd thing to say, and accounted for Enjolras spluttering in response, “Yes, we are, so perhaps you can explain what in God’s name you’re wearing?!”

Grantaire drew himself up to his full height and scowled at Enjolras. “I’m wearing a wedding dress,” he said. “As for the reason I am wearing said wedding dress, which I believe is more to the point of what you’re asking, you should know. You’re the one who helped pass the damned thing.” Enjolras stared blankly and Grantaire elaborated, “The law was updated recently, requiring one male and one female witness for any nuptial ceremony.”

Enjolras had a sudden, horrible memory of celebrating a law passed through the House of Lords that was meant to help keep young women from being forced into marriage with their father and brother as the sole witnesses, an all-too-common occurrence. Granted, the efficacy of the law remained to be seen, since too many mothers were frequently willing to go along with such plans, but it was a start, and—

He shook his head to clear it. “And so Madame Hucheloup needs to be one of the witnesses,” he said instead, finally putting together the pieces to which Grantaire had been alluding in his usual, maddening way.

“Well, I thought about simply making up a woman’s name and forging the signature on the certificate,” Grantaire said, “but seeing as how I rather suspect that this particular marriage certificate will face more scrutiny than most, it didn’t seem a particularly wise course of action.”

Grantaire was almost certainly correct about that, but still Enjolras felt something like despair. “Was there no other woman that you could get to be a witness?” he asked, a bit desperately.

“Another woman whom I trust with my reputation, and far more importantly, with yours?” Grantaire asked, arching an eyebrow. “At this late of date?”

“Then someone who would pretend to be a bride for the day?”

Enjolras knew it was an idiotic question the moment he blurted it, and the look Grantaire gave him reinforced as such. “If I would not trust them to be a witness, what makes you think I would trust them to exchange marriage vows with you? Even if using a false name, I know not the legal ramifications and I would not have someone trying to take you for all your worth.” Enjolras blinked, fleetingly touched by the lengths to which Grantaire seemed determine to go to protect him – or at the very least, to protect his estate. “No, that was not an option. Meaning the only option available to us—”

“—Is you wearing the dress and pretending to be the bride.”

Grantaire grinned at him. “Personally, I think it looks quite fetching on me.”

As if to illustrate his point, he ran a hand down the bodice of the gown, a hand that Enjolras could not help but follow with his eyes as it skimmed the creamy fabric that dipped and clung in all the right places— “That is hardly the point,” he snapped, tearing his eyes away.

“No, the point is that the vicar, drunk though he inevitably is, will start asking questions soon, so it’s best we get this over with as soon as possible,” Grantaire said bluntly, his smile disappearing.

When he later thought about it, Enjolras could come up with no rational explanation for what possessed him to say it, but somehow, he found himself scoffing, “Quite the romantic, aren’t you?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Romance?” he repeated, exasperated. “Is now really—” He broke off without warning, and Enjolras was surprised to see his expression soften as he looked up at Enjolras. “Enjolras,” Grantaire said quietly, the exasperation gone from his voice and replaced by something gentle, something entirely unfamiliar that Enjolras could not quite put a name to. “What there is between us is the stuff of fairytales, of legend. What Helen felt for Paris, or Samson for Delilah, pales in comparison to the depths of my feelings for you, and were I to search every corner of this world I know that there is no one with whom I would rather share the remainder of my days. Will you do me the honor of joining me at the altar and becoming my husband?”

Enjolras couldn’t help himself – he snorted a laugh. “Very well, I suppose I deserved that,” he said briskly. “But I do hope you manage to find some actual sincerity when saying your vows, or even the vicar might realize this is a farce.”

He offered his arm to Grantaire, who took it after settling his veil over his face so that not even Enjolras could read his expression. “I’m beginning to think you wouldn’t know sincerity if it were to bite you in the—”

“Shh,” Enjolras hissed, and for once in his life, Grantaire fell silent as the two of them traversed the short aisle to take their place at the front of the chapel.

“Ah,” the vicar said, smiling at them both. “Welcome, welcome. We are gathered here today, in the sight of God and—” The vicar let out a loud hiccup and Enjolras bit his lip hard enough to almost draw blood to keep from laughing. He glanced sideways at Grantaire, but couldn’t tell if the man was as amused as he. “—and the witnesses gathered here,” the vicar continued, “to watch as the Marquess of Enjolras and the, er, the…”

He trailed off, clearly casting about for the proper title for Grantaire’s sister, and even though he could not see Grantaire’s face, Enjolras could clearly tell that he was rolling his eyes. “Mistress,” Enjolras supplied helpfully, as it seemed the most appropriate title.

“Yes, that,” the vicar said, nodding at him, continuing without pause, “and Grantaire join together in the bonds of Holy Matrimony. You may face each other and recite your vows.”

Enjolras obediently turned to face Grantaire, hesitating before reaching forward to lift the veil from Grantaire’s face as was tradition. After all, with the vicar no longer facing him head on, it seemed doubtful he would notice that the features underneath were decidedly male.

Grantaire arched an eyebrow as Enjolras lifted his veil, but luckily, made no comment, simply reaching out with his lace gloved hands to take Enjolras’s in his own.

The detour from traditional vows had been Enjolras’s only insistence when planning the ceremony, and he was doubly glad he had insisted on it now, since he was not certain that he would make it through if he had to make the usual promises of honoring and cherishing to Grantaire, especially with Grantaire looking at him like that. Instead, he had opted for seven simple words borrowed from the rather utilitarian vows made by some medieval French men upon joining their households in common purpose with each other.

“Un pain, un vin, et une bourse,” Enjolras said, the meaning as simple as the words themselves: one bread, one wine, and one purse, the three things he and Grantaire would now share, bonded as they were by this ceremony.

Grantaire tilted his head slightly, a soft smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He had told the vicar that his sister would opt for equally simple vows, and had assured Enjolras that Madame Hucheloup would not surprise him. But Madame Hucheloup did not stand across from him now, and Enjolras knew without any doubt that Grantaire was going to say something else entirely, and he half-dreaded what words would possibly come out of Grantaire’s mouth. “Une vie et un amour,” Grantaire pronounced, and Enjolras was surprised that the breath seemed to catch in his throat at the simple words, an answer and a challenge to his own.

One life and one love.

Well, he had been the idiot who had asked for some semblance of romance.

The vicar was saying something else, but Enjolras seemed to have temporarily lost his ability to hear, staring still at Grantaire, at that small smile still on his face, trying to figure out why or how he suddenly had the urge to lean in and kiss that smile off of his face.

Without warning, the vicar cleared his throat loudly and Enjolras jumped before glancing almost guiltily back at him, but if the vicar noticed, he gave no indication of it, simply intoning, “What the Lord has brought together, let no man tear asunder. By the power vested in me by the King and by the Lord our God, I now pronounce you married. You may kiss—”

The words weren’t even out of his mouth before Enjolras had leaned in to press his lips against Grantaire’s.

It was over almost as quickly as it had happened, Enjolras pulling away before his brain had time to process what had just happened, or what he had just done, and he felt stricken as he scanned Grantaire’s face, looking for some reassurance that he had not made a grave error.

But Grantaire’s face was entirely unreadable as he reached up to again cover his face with his veil before turning back to the vicar, who was smiling at them both in a sort of genial, patronizing way that for some inexplicable reason infuriated Enjolras. Or perhaps it was just that Grantaire had dropped his hands and turned away.

Either way, as the vicar completed his benediction, Grantaire finally turned back to Enjolras, leaning in to tell him in an undertone, “Madame Hucheloup brought some clothes for me. I’m going to change and then we can return home.”

Enjolras nodded dumbly, tempted to ask how they would explain the sudden disappearance of Enjolras’s bride to any onlookers or the vicar himself, but decided it was not worth it. Especially since the vicar took his leave immediately upon the conclusion of the ceremony, mumbling something about being thirsty as he staggered past Enjolras and Grantaire, assumedly heading back to the rectory.

As Grantaire disappeared somewhere to assumedly change, Enjolras felt slightly aimless, milling about the chapel with nothing really to do besides sign the paperwork, which took about twenty seconds. Without any better option, he approached Madame Hucheloup, whom he reasoned had undoubtedly seen her share of weddings. “I beg your pardon for not asking sooner,” he started, “but is there something I’m meant to be doing for this?”

“Other than standing up at the altar as you just did?” she asked with a smile. “No, m’lord. Ordinarily you’d be greeting guests and such, and overseeing – which is to say, and begging your pardon for wording it such, paying for – the wedding feast, but seeing as how you’ll not be having any festivities…” She trailed off and shrugged. “Other than that, you’d be planning the honeymoon trip, I suppose, but again, I’m not sure what you and Himself have got planned there.”

She gave Enjolras a look that he couldn’t quite interpret and he shrugged as well. “Nor do I, I suppose,” he told her with a tight smile. “Very well. Thank you for your help. You and Le Cabuc can return to the manor if you’d like – Grantaire and I will be along soon enough.”

Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure he had any real authority to give orders to Grantaire’s household staff, but neither Madame Hucheloup nor Le Cabuc complained at the dismissal, simply taking their leave – and leaving Enjolras by himself and feeling, quite possibly, more aimless than before.

While his nerves earlier had been expected, this inexplicable feeling of being unmoored was not. Frankly, as the marriage and the wedding to precede it were both shams, he hadn’t expected to feel anything more than slightly embarrassed at the whole process. But embarrassment was really the furthest thing from his mind as he thought about how he had felt standing in front of the vicar with Grantaire.

It should have felt even more of a farce than just the fake wedding itself, exchanging wedding vows with a man. At the very least, he was fairly certain it was a sacrilege, or making a mockery of the sacrament itself.

And yet, it hadn’t felt that way.

Enjolras had never pondered his nuptials save as a thing to be dreaded, had never pictured himself facing some faceless woman and binding himself to her, so he had no frame of reference for how others might have anticipated feeling, but he wondered if others also discovered upon their wedding day that it just felt...right. Like something he was meant to do.

Were he more inclined toward the philosophical, he might’ve wondered if there was a deeper meaning he should be reading into that, or if this should inspire some deeper questions about fate or predestination, but Enjolras had never been one for such discussions, preferring to focus on the here and now, the tangible ways in which he could affect change. And he did not dwell on them now, instead shaking his head once more to clear it of errant thoughts before going to find Grantaire to see what could possibly be taking him so long to get changed.

He did not find him at all in the chapel and was about to give up and head back to the house alone when he caught sight of a lone figure standing out in the small cemetery next to the chapel. Even without being able to make out any of his features, he could tell it was Grantaire, and he frowned slightly before heading over to join him.

“Grantaire?” he called when he finally drew close, and Grantaire looked up, startled.

“My apologies,” he said, something like guilt flashing across his face. “I completely forgot I had offered to walk back up with you.”

Enjolras’s frown deepened, because something about Grantaire seemed off. Not just that he was back in his usual clothes, though that was certainly a brief disappointment to Enjolras, but something about the set of his shoulders and the tired look on his face. He glanced at the small, unadorned stone Grantaire stood in front of, sudden realization hitting as he read the name: Adélaïde Grantaire.

“My sister,” Grantaire said, unnecessarily. “I just wanted a moment with her. She—” His voice broke and he coughed, once, as if to try to hide it. “She would have been greatly amused by today, I think.”

“The idea of you in a wedding dress?” Enjolras guessed, aiming for levity.

But Grantaire shook his head. “The idea of me getting married at all, really,” he said with a short, dry laugh. “We used to joke about it, her and I, when we were small. She told me that a handsome prince would come along and save her from her suffering, and I would tease that I would marry a handsome prince, too, and we would be princesses together.” He shook his head again, but fondly this time. “Hence why she would get great amusement at my marrying a Marquess in her name.” His smile faded. “Sadly, there was no prince in this or any land who could have saved her, no matter how many stars she wished upon.”

Enjolras bowed his head in understanding. “May I ask how she died?” he asked quietly, hoping Grantaire would not think he was intruding. He had refused to talk about his sister earlier, but Enjolras felt like something had changed between them and he might be willing to say a bit more.

Grantaire just shrugged. “She was very ill for much of our childhood,” he said matter-of-factly. “She and my mother were stricken with fever at her birth – my mother succumbed to it. Adélaïde got better, so to speak, but she was never truly healthy. Then when she was nine…” He trailed off before taking a deep, shuddering breath. “It was quick, at least, in the end. Which was a comfort in its own way.”

Enjolras wished he had some eloquent words of comfort to offer, but he felt tongue-tied instead. So in lieu of words, he reached out and gently rested his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, squeezing it once before letting it fall back to his side. Then he cleared his throat. “So she wanted to be saved from illness...what did you hope your handsome prince would save you from?”

“My father.” Grantaire flinched, whether from the words or from the memories they stirred. “He...he did not like me much. He was mostly indifferent to Adélaïde, but he seemed to find fault with everything I did.”

“He beat you.”

Enjolras said the words evenly, but his vision seemed to flash red in front of his eyes at the thought. Any parent hitting their child was a heinous thought, but for some reason, the idea of Grantaire as a child making desperate wishes to escape with his ill sister made his blood boil.

“Well, he rarely carried it out himself, but yes,” Grantaire said, his tone turning matter-of-fact again “And after she died, it got worse. Thankfully, when I went off to school, he was stationed abroad, and has never returned.” He snorted a humorless laugh. “God only knows how disappointed he would be if he could see me today, but I think he and I are both content to pretend the other does not exist.”

Enjolras was not so content, knowing that there was a man out there somewhere with such little regard for his own son, and it took him a moment before he could manage a response. “If he ever comes back, I’ll kill him.”

Grantaire looked sharply at him, searching his expression for a moment before his own softened. “A noble offer, but I don’t think we’re in much danger of that happening.” He nudged Enjolras lightly with his elbow. “Thank you, though.”

“It is the least I can do...as your husband.” Grantaire laughed and Enjolras hesitated before adding, “I promise this arrangement involving your sister, and now you, I suppose, will be only temporary. As soon as everything is handled with my mother, I will find us both a way out of this so that you can return to your memories of her in peace.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I rather wish you wouldn’t,” he said, as if confessing a secret. “It’s been surprisingly pleasant, sharing a devious plot with you. And...sharing this part of myself with someone as well.” He gestured towards his sister’s grave before giving Enjolras a hesitant smile. “Besides, I’m certain our friends would hate for us to return to our usual animosity.”

“Our friends can adjust,” Enjolras muttered.

Grantaire laughed again. “Even so,” he said, before adding, with a beatific smile and a fluttering of his eyelashes in what he clearly deemed an alluring way, “Besides, you can’t be rid of me so quickly. After all, we haven’t even had a chance to have our wedding night yet.” Enjolras blanched and Grantaire laughed once more. “Now come, it’s time we returned to the house before Madame Hucheloup sends a search party after us.”

They started off together, silence stretching between them for a few minutes before Enjolras remarked, off-handedly, “Do you know, I believe that was the first time you’ve called me by my name.”

Grantaire frowned. “When?”

“When you were doing your little mocking proposal.” Enjolras gave him a look. “Normally you call me ‘my lord’ or ‘Apollo’ or some other asinine nickname.”

“I’m sure I have called you by your name before,” Grantaire scoffed, but he didn’t quite meet Enjolras’s eyes when he said it.

Enjolras wanted to counter that, and drag the matter into their usual bickering as a way to pass the time, but something caused him to hold his tongue. And as they made their way back up to the manor, he could not help but notice that the time passed just as easily in companionable silence, and that their hands kept brushing against each other as they walked.

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #les miserables #fanfiction #chaptered #part 5 #bridgerton au #regency au #nobility au #canon era #fake marriage #wedding #death mention #implied/reference child abuse

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harryhandstan · 3 years

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I am so excited to finally be posting this for y’all! Thank you so much for all the hype and support it is very much appreciated. :) this is my piece for @goldenbluesuit‘s Christmas Fic Challenge! my prompt was the song “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?” from the movie Frozen and I hope you all enjoy how I’ve incorporated it into my Dad!Harry series. You don’t necessarily have to read the other parts to understand this one, but I’ll link them below in case you want to re-visit them.

I Want Your Belly ❄ Wonderful and Warm ❄ Washed Away in You

Thank you to @tbslenthusiast and @heartbreakweatherharry for reading over this for me and giving me such amazing feedback!

Word count: 2.3k

You still couldn’t believe the little wonder that had been created by you and Harry existed to be yours. Things hadn’t been perfect, far from it, but it was definitely a new and fun adventure you were both eager and terrified of.

The first challenge presented was finding a name perfect enough to fit your son. He was alive for 24 hours before you discovered one you and Harry were absolutely sure of. Even seeing it written on his birth certificate made your heart swell with pride.

It’s your mother who asks first, “Well, are you two gonna make a formal announcement to the press before us grandparents get to know the name of our grandson?”

“Think we’ve made them wait long enough, Harry.”

He smiles at you from across the hospital room where he sits in a chair, the baby resting peacefully on his chest. You’re propped up in the bed, wrapped in the soft pink robe given to you by him just a few days ago. Anne sits nearby, a proud grin on her face at the sight of her baby with his.

His eyes dart from the baby to you, “You wanna tell them or shall I?”

“You tell them. You’re the one that found it, been bragging about it all day too.”

“Alright then,” He gently lifts the baby, turning him to where the whole room can see him, your son’s face now scrunched up by the light from the window shining on him, “Ladies, meet your grandson, Sterling Edward Styles.”

“Oh, you didn’t,” Anne giggles, reaching over to pat your leg, “You’ll never hear the end of it, love, letting him name the baby after himself.”

“Hey! S’her idea to give him my middle name. I picked the first,” His features switch from temporarily offended back to beaming, “Wanna tell ‘em what it means, darlin’?”

“Sterling means ‘starling’, or as Harry likes to call him..”

“Our little star.”

5 weeks later, your son certainly lives up to his name, charming everyone he meets. Sweet smiles and coos at strangers from his carrier when you’re at the grocery store or falling asleep in Auntie Gemma’s arms when she comes to visit. You were not surprised he already had his father’s charismatic ability to make everyone fall for him so quickly.

With Harry’s schedule as busy as it had been, it hadn’t been easy to adjust to life together as new parents. As much as he had tried to push things back or reschedule to have more time off with you, there was only so much that he was in control of and he was away from you and Sterling more than he liked.

So it’s no surprise when he comes home one evening and the space you share is mostly already decorated for the winter holidays. He smiles warmly to himself when he hears you singing along to the movie playing from the tv, peeks around the corner to see Sterling tucked away in his swing, his eyes open and bright. Your back is turned so you don’t hear Harry approaching, continuing to sing aloud as you work.

“We only have each other, it’s just you and me, what are we gonna dooooooo?” You spin around, expecting to only see Sterling watching you, yelping when you find Harry, giggling at the shock on your face.

He bends to look out the window, “Could be wrong, but I think you have to have snow to build a snowman, yeah?”

“You’re early! I wanted to surprise you,” You weave your way around boxes to greet him, “Left the tree for the 3 of us to do together though.”

“S’nice of you.” His hands remain in his pockets as you move closer, tired eyes looking down at you, lazy smile as you work your arms around his waist. He doesn’t make you wait long, freeing his hands from his pockets to wrap around you.

He buries his face in your neck, “Missed you today.”

“We missed you too, H.”

He pulls back, turning to look down at Sterling, his arm still holding you close to his side, “He’s growing too fast. Can’t believe he’s already 5 weeks.”

“5 weeks and 3 days,” You remind him, “All the mommy blogs say we have an infant now.”

“S’that s’pose to mean? ‘Course he’s an infant.”

“Just means he’s growing out of his tiny baby stage.”

He directs his attention back to the movie playing, laughing as he teases you, “Least y’could’ve done is found a proper Christmas movie t’play while you put up decorations.”

You shrug, “It’s close enough to count. Plus he LOVES it. Think Elsa might be his favorite.”

He can’t resist anymore. As comfortable as his son may be swaying back and forth in his swing, he bends to scoop him up, one hand cradling behind his head and the other behind his back to easily support him. Sterling clearly doesn’t mind, a grin developing when he realizes who it is disturbing him.

“Don’t care what anyone says, bub. Y’ll always be daddy’s baby.”

You never doubted Harry’s capacity to love his son, but you definitely questioned his expertise and knowledge of the basics of caring for a child. He had become somewhat experienced now, tackling late night diaper changes and early morning feedings or anything else in between without complaint when he could.

Though he had done great, you were never too far away that you couldn’t offer assistance when he needed it. So when he gets a rare day off and suggests you let him stay home with the baby while you run errands, you’re hesitant.

“Do ya not trust me?”

“Of course I do. You know I do. I just don’t want you to get overwhelmed.”

“S’just for a few hours, right? You can write out a list of his schedule if it makes y’feel better.”

Sterling’s stretched across your lap, dozing off while you try to finish the last of your breakfast. Harry stands at the counter, drinking coffee out of a bright pink mug. You look between your almost sleeping son and then back up to Harry, chewing a bite of toast as you contemplate the idea.

He doesn’t take offense to your hesitation, quite the opposite actually. He adores the sight of you, Sterling’s face squished against your chest; one of his hands tucked under his chin, the other wrapped around your side, his little fist holding tight to your t-shirt. It’s the purest form of love in his eyes, to see the bond between mother and son grow and deepen with each day. Makes him reminiscent of his connection with his own mother, fills his heart with so much joy knowing he had chosen someone that would give his son the same sweet upbringing he had.

He makes his way back around the counter to you, a hand resting on the top of Sterling’s head as he bends down to kiss the top of yours. He moves his hand, repeating the act of affection to the top of the baby’s head.

“Really proud of you, y’know that right, baby? Been so amazing watching you take care of yourself and our little boy, never doubted for a second you were meant for this, but it’s been more incredible than I could’ve ever imagined.”

“Proud of you too, H. Know you’ve had a lot of guilt about being gone, but Sterling and I love you so much. He already lights up at the sound of your voice when you FaceTime us from set, and I see the way he grins at you before he falls asleep when you’re here to tuck him in at night.”

His eyes meet yours, sees the moment you make your decision to say yes, deep exhale of warm breath trapped between the two of you, “You have to promise to call if anything happens, if you need anything at all. Don’t care how small it is.” He nods firmly, further setting your mind at ease, “He should sleep most of the time I’m gone, but I’ll prepare another bottle just in case I can’t get back in time.”

You feel silly for feeling so protective, and you were thankful to have Harry as your partner on this journey. His patience and support had been more than generous, covering you and Sterling in more love and adoration than you’d ever known could exist from one person. He kisses you again, on your lips this time, a hand cupping one side of your face before gently lifting Sterling from your arms, shushing and bouncing him a bit when he starts to whimper from the sudden change in his comfortable position.

“S’okay, bubs. Daddy’s got you, g’nna have us a lil’ boys day while mumma’s gone.”

You rush through whatever tasks you had scheduled that seemed so important that morning. Suddenly the groceries you needed and last minute presents you were dropping off at the post office to mail to out of town family didn’t matter, nothing did but getting back home to your boys.

It’s quiet when you shut the door behind you, almost too quiet. As much as you always prayed he would, Sterling never slept through his morning nap, so you’re surprised at the possibility of him still sleeping peacefully. Not that he was old enough to make too much noise yet, but still the silence worries you enough that you don’t even take the time to put away the groceries. You set the bags on the kitchen counter, making your way through the house to the living room first.

All your concern fades at the sight of Harry on the couch, Sterling snuggled in his arms with his back pressed against Harry’s front, his little body covered in a red and white striped onesie with a reindeer on the front, matching pair of green socks on his tiny feet. It’s such a comforting image, you once again question why you had any doubt at the thought of leaving the two of them alone. Harry hasn’t noticed your presence yet, or if he has he hasn’t said anything, and you’re content to keep it that way for a few more minutes to observe the vision set before you.

You notice the movie that’s playing, it’s the same one from a few nights ago that Harry teased you for. You cross your arms, quirking one eyebrow upwards before you repeat Harry’s words from that night out loud, “Boys day, huh? Could’ve at least found a proper Christmas movie to watch while I was gone.”

“I’ve decided you’re right, it does count. I can see why he loves it so much.” He looks up at you from where you lean over back of the couch now, a soft “hi” falling from his lips, tilting his head up to accept the kiss you offer. Sterling coos, and when you look down, he’s looking up at you too.

“Mommy missed you too, baby boy.”

“Come sit with us, lovie, watch the rest of the movie.”

“Gimme a minute to put the groceries away and I will.”

“I’ll pause it and come help.”

“No, stay,” You run your hand through his hair, pushing the curls away from his face, “There’s not that much, I got it.”

You work swiftly to put everything away, taking a minute to change back into your pajamas before you rejoin them, curling yourself against Harry’s side under his free arm. Sterling’s dozing again, most likely falling into a milk coma from the bottle he had just finished, but it doesn’t stop the two of you from continuing to watch the same movie together. You offer to take Sterling or put him in his swing, but he just shakes his head no, clinging tighter to him and you.

“S’my favorite part, this song.”

“What? It’s the saddest one. Elsa and Anna’s parents die in this one.”

He shrugs, careful not to shuffle Sterling and disturb his sleep, “Maybe, but s’catchy, gets stuck in my head more than the others.”

He begins humming along to the intro music, nudging you softly to persuade you to start singing along with the character on the screen. You sit up, dramatically clearing your throat before you do. Harry knows more of the words than he cares to admit, but would rather hear the lyrics sung by you. He giggles at you as you even change your voice to mimic the silly parts.

“It gets a little lonely. All these empty rooms. Just watching the hours tick by…”

Harry provides the tick-tock part, clicking his tongue off-tune to the ones playing in the song. That’s enough to make you laugh out loud, temporarily forgetting the sleeping baby now resting on Harry’s chest. He shushes you playfully, his body shaking through his own laughter thankfully soothing Sterling enough that he doesn’t wake up.

You compose yourself as the song turns slow and mournful, tucking yourself back to Harry’s side again. His hand works around to cup your waist, squeezing lightly to pull you closer, the vibrations of him humming along again a comforting rumble against your body. His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper as he sings the last notes of the song.

“We only have each other. It's just you and me. What are we gonna doooooo?”

Your eyes scan the whole of the room. Your boys nestled together next to you, the tree in the corner of the room the 3 of you had decorated together a few days before, the pile of presents that had already accumulated underneath it. You spot your favorite ornament, a silver star with Sterling’s full name engraved on the front, “Baby’s First Christmas” etched on the back. Sterling’s first present from your family sent from home. Well, what used to be your home for the holidays. A smile spreads across your face at the simple happiness and realization that this is your home now.

Harry, Sterling, and you; sun, moon, and star, spending your first holiday together.

Thank you all for reading! As always likes/rbs/and comments are more than welcome. Tell me what you think here!

tag list: @taintedwonder, @cock-a-doodely-doo

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