#it is so insane and ridiculous I am turning TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rosemarypasta · 4 years

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➤ pairing : oikawa tooru x female reader (karasuno manager)

➤ chapter warnings : slowburn (?)

➤ summary : You just recently joined the Karasuno boy’s volleyball team as their first year manager. As you grow closer to your teammates, you also unexpectedly grow closer to one of their biggest rivals, Oikawa Tooru

➤ chapter word count: 2762

-ˏˋ chapter two ˊˎ-

SATURDAY

8:00 AM

You woke up the next day super early to get ready for the practice match. Eight hours ago before collapsing due to an energy shortage, you made sure to set up an alarm for eight AM so you could have a full hour to get ready before going to the morning practice. You showered, brushed your teeth and ate some breakfast first thing in the morning. As soon as you finished your last bite of toast, you said goodbye to your parents and set off to school with thirty minutes to spare. You knew you could've used the remaining thirty minutes to chill for a second or do your homework that you didn't get to do yesterday but you figured that you'd start to freak out and question why you were doing all this in the first place if you didn't go immediately.

Physically, you felt tired and worn out from dodging stray volleyballs yesterday but you were oddly pumped and energized to go to practice. As you began to question your sudden surge of enthusiasm, your brain quickly reminded you of a reason why.

Oikawa Toru was a reason why.

You felt like a thirteen year old having a crush on the popular boy all over again. You've only seen him once and you find it ridiculous how much he has already been occupying your mind. He didn't even acknowledge you last night. He couldn't at least pretend to be interested in who you were and ask for your name. "Whatever." You mumbled to yourself as you tried to push the image of the Seijoh student away. But there is nothing wrong with finding a stranger hot anyway.

As you entered school grounds and walked towards the gym, you could already hear the squeaking sounds the volleyball shoes made. You looked over to see the time on your cell phone and confirmed with yourself that you were fifteen minutes early. So how are there already somebody practicing? You peaked through the open door and caught a glimpse of the red head sprinting to the opposite side of the court in a blink of an eye. HInata suddenly jumps vertically up but falls shortly, a volleyball joining beside him a second later.

"You jumped too fast!" A familiar voice yelled. There was somebody else in there this early too aside from Hinata. "Well maybe you just tossed too slow." Hinata pouted as he crossed his arms and legs like a toddler throwing a tantrum on the floor.

You giggled to yourself as you found the sight of a high schooler to be ridiculous.

"Ah! Y/N, good morning!" The redhead greeted you as he noticed you creeping from the door. "Hey." Kageyama greeted you briefly before picking up another ball from the cart you and Shimizu organized after yesterday's practice. Judging from the amount of balls already scattered throughout the gym floor, you could tell they have started way earlier than you previously thought.

The rest of the team quickly started to pile in the gym one by one. BY the time coach Ukai showed up, the whole team had already started their stretches. They seemed more fired up than yesterday.

You weren't the type to keep up with sports but you do know that your prefecture was quite well known for some of their volleyball players. You've heard of powerhouse schools like Shiratorizawa and Aoba Johsai but you've never heard of Karasuno's outstanding volleyball team. So if this is the performance and morale of a team full of nobodies, you wonder how insane the training is in the powerhouse schools.

The practice went by smoothly, no yelling or fights and most importantly, no injuries. They took frequent breaks to drink and rest in between different types of training. Despite it being a Saturday morning, you didn't feel worn out like you did during yesterday's practice. In reality, it was pretty entertaining watching them play a sport they are all so passionate about. Well, most of them seemed passionate. Tsukishima, the first year, seemed to be pretty good but anyone could tell that he was doing the bare minimum compared to Nishinoya and Hinata who were pretty much begging the coach to keep playing during breaks.

And before you knew it, twelve o'clock came around and the black and orange uniformed boys met their rivals for the day. Around the same amount of players in white and turquoise walked in the gym but as much as you scanned the crowd, you didn't find the familiar face you hoped to see. You sank into the bench you were sitting on and sighed. Was he not a regular? Then why was he so confident in beating Kageyama when he isn't on the team to begin with?

You contemplated whether you should ask Kageyama about him but you pushed that possibility away as you watched him do his final set of stretches to prepare for the match. You also thought it would be embarrassing if he knew you had an interest towards someone that was so ridiculously rude towards him. Though while debating with yourself, you caught Kageyama looking through the room and looking concerned for a while but shook it off swiftly before serving in the first set of the day. You knew Aoba Johsai has a pretty big volleyball team and they only brought twenty people to Karasuno so maybe Oikawa really wasn't a regular.

Two sets went by and both Karasuno and Aoba Johsai each had a win which means the last set they played would determine the first win of the day. With a blow of a whistle, Asahi was already throwing the ball in the air to serve but got distracted by the sudden entrance of a brunette in a white jacket.

"Sorry for being late everyone, it took me a while to get the ok from the doctor." He graciously announced as he leaned on the door with a white supporter on his right knee. "So you can finally play?" An Aoba Johsai player with spiky dark hair asked Oikawa to which he replied with a sparkly smile and an enthusiastic thumbs up.

"You guys lost the first set to them huh?" He casually spoke with a bright smile on his face that seemed sinister with the context and tone of the words he spoke. "Leave the rest to your captain." He smirked. He pulled the jacket off his back to reveal his white uniform with the number one printed brilliantly across his chest.

As if the whole ordeal was pre-planned, the timid looking boy that made Aoba Johsai lose their set point the last set moved back and joined the rest of the white uniformed team on the bench with a simple hand gesture from the coach. Oikawa swiftly moved to the back of the court. His legs parted and arms wide open, ready to accept the ball his black uniformed opponent was about to serve.

As soon as the ball left Asahi's grasp, Aoba Johsai was quick to react, even quicker than the last two sets they played. Each move the players made on court was filled with confidence and no hesitation was shown, as if a single person like OIkawa multiplied their skills by three just by setting foot on the polished wooden floors riddled with sweat. The brunette captain was quick to react when his name was called. He ran up to the front of the net, tossed the ball towards his teammate and allowed him to spike with all his might.

Watching the whole ordeal was mesmerizing despite being on, what seems like now, the underdog's team. As the ball left the spiker's palm, it zoomed in the air. You held your breath as you saw it in slow motion touch the area beyond the white line.

It was out.

You sighed in relief and sank back into the bench beside coach Ukai and Shimizu. You felt relieved that no one on the Karasuno team touched the ball since it looked like it was strong enough to break an arm. You turned to see them cheer as usual every time they win a point but the celebrations seemed to be duller than usual. They seemed tense, not letting their guard down as they briefly high fived each other.

"It's the grand king's turn to serve now." You overheard Hinata mutter to himself as he wiped sweat droplets from his forehead. The grand king? Who's the grand king?

You turned to the opposite side of the court and saw the pretty brunette spinning the ball on his long and slender finger. The Aoba Johsai captain threw the ball in the air lightly then proceeded to hit it to the point where the side where the ball touched his palm grew flat, parallel to his hand. You thought the last ball they hit was powerful but this time, you were sure that this one was strong enough to put a hole in the middle of the gymnasium.

The whole practice match went on for another hour and a half. The two teams played six sets in total. Two went to Karasuno while the other four went to the fashionably late captain's team. You felt bad that your team lost, despite how much practice they put even before the official practice hours had begun but you assumed that losing four sets in a six set game to a powerhouse school wasn't so bad.

Right?

Though, you thought the fired up ones like Nishinoya and Hinata would be bummed after losing a practice match but they seemed fine. They were mopping the floors as usual and were mingling with some of Aoba Johsai members who were still cooling down before journeying back to their school.

For your part of the clean up, you carried a crate of empty water bottles outside to the back of the gym to fill them with water. Carrying twenty empty bottles and filling them to the brim was no problem, but carrying them full back in was one. You took a deep breath in before focusing all your strength you had onto your fingertips but before you could even attempt to lift them, they seemed to float up on their own.

You realized the pair of hands on top of yours.

You startled yourself and dripped the heavy plastic crate to the ground as you jumped away in shock. "Sorry for scaring you, I just saw you struggled with it and wanted to help." The captain of the opposing team spoke, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah! No, it's fine. Thank you for your concern and help." You frantically replied back. You could feel your cheeks heat up in shame. You stepped away from the crate as he crouched down and picked it up like it was nothing.

"I'm Oikawa Toru, though I suppose Tobio-chan filled you in with that information last night?" He introduced himself as he began to carry the bottles in the gym. Your heart skipped a beat pathetically. He remembered you from last night. You let out a small sigh, disappointed at how easy it was for Oikawa to impress you this much by doing the bare minimum.

Though, despite your conflicting inner thoughts, butterflies unwillingly started to fill your stomach. "So are you Tobio's classmate? You two seemed pretty close yesterday. Was he walking you home?" OIkawa set the crate down carefully on the floor, speaking casually as if you were already acquaintances for a long time. "Yes he did but it was nothing special- Shimizu-senpai told me to have someone walk me home since it was already dark outside." Your face paced answer seemed desperate compared to how chill he was acting. "And we aren't classmates, I'm just in the same year as him." You didn't know why you were so eager to answer each and every question he asked. You knew he was just making small talk but you answered as if they were the final words he would ever say to you.

You could tell he was the popular type. The way he acted and played screamed like the jock pride and joy of Seijoh. His perfectly styled hair, charismatic smile and toner body had the ability to make anyone, whether they liked men or not, drool.

"OIkawa get your ass in the bus, we're leaving." The dark haired boy in the number four uniformed yelled from the opposite side of the room. "Well, I guess this is goodbye for now, Y/N-chan." He winked before running off to join his vice-captain who hit his head in response to Oikawa patting his hair once he caught up to his friend. You giggled at the sight of them bickering childishly as two of your seniors slid behind you.

"Don't be fooled by that pretty boy's charms, Y/N." Tanaka warmed, his face contorted in intimidation in an attempt to scare the rival's captain, which went unnoticed as he was already out of the gym, busy talking with his friend. "You two! Cut it out, don't spread rumours about Oikawa." Daichi sighed as he hit the two boys with odd hairstyles on the head. "They aren't rumours if they're true, Daichi-san!" Nishinoya managed to say as he winced in pain, rubbing the top of his head in sync with his buzzcut haired partner. "So what's the deal with Oikawa-san?" You replied in curiosity without thinking further. Tanaka and Nishinoya snickered at your response, satisfied with the reaction they sparked and straightened their posture, before clearing their throats. "Well aside from the fact that he nearly beat up poor Kageyama when he was only in his first year of junior high just because he wanted advice on volleyball, I'd say he's a decent guy." Tanaka informed in a low voice, looking around to make sure Daichi wasn't around to scold him.

Oikawa? Beating up Kageyama? He may look like someone from the popular side but he didn't seem the type to bully someone, let alone an underclassmen who was two year younger than him. You wanted to ask more from the two troublemakers but given the look on your face and how the three of you were bundled up like a group of moms gossiping about their neighbour's scandals, Daichi walked up to the second years with a sinister grin on his face but they were two steps ahead and dispersed on their own, pretending to be busy with cleaning up to avoid their captain.

After another hour of running practice outside, Daichi and Sugawara treated the whole team to some popsicles to cheer them up from the loss of the practice match and the team was shortly dismissed. You and Kageyama started to walk home together unintentionally and made small talk throughout the journey. You knew he was a nice person but you did pick up that he more or less lacked some social and communication skills. As the two of you talked about normal stuff, his answers sounded awkward and short but you were quick to realize that that was not the case when it comes to talking about volleyball so you switched the topic of the conversation to the practice match. You let him ramble on about his serves, Hinata's failed attempts at a block, and other various things you barely even noticed in the match. It was a nice way to familiarize with volleyball terms so you didn't mind. Besides,, he seemed pumped to talk about volleyball despite having just played it a while ago.

You were tempted to bring up oIkawa but you decided not to as you began to enter your neighbourhood. Although what Tanaka and Nishinoya said explained why Oikawa behaved superior and confident towards Kageyama the other day, it seemed more like harmless banter rather than petty bullying. Besides, a full three years have gone by since the supposed bullying so you were sure he has changed.

Right?

4:00 PM

"What's with that face, you look constipated." Iwaizumi abruptly spoke, sitting up on his bed as he pushed away a manga he was reading to narrow his eyes at his childhood friend.

Oikawa rested his head on Iwaizumi's bed and smirked, "That Karasuno girl seems like she's close with Tobio-chan." He sneered, shortly feeling a sharp pain on his forehead.

"Don't get any childish ideas, Shittykawa." Iwaizumi spoke sternly in his signature monotone voice as he retreated his fingers after flicking his captain on the forehead.

next: -ˏˋ chapter three ˊˎ-

previous: -ˏˋ chapter one ˊˎ-

#oikawatoru_mondayafternoons #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #oikawa x reader #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa toru #oikawa tooru #tooru oikawa #kageyama tobio #kageyama #oikawa #haikyuu x reader #haiikyuu!! x reader #hq #oikawa toru ff #fan fiction #haikyuu fan fiction #haikyuu!! imagines #haikyuu imagines

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 19: Martin

It shouldn’t really startle Martin when he falls asleep mid-conversation. After all, it’s been a rather traumatic twenty-four hours, both physically and emotionally. He’s in a decent amount of pain, and he needs rest to heal. He knows all of that, logically. But he’s also never been good at sleeping if there’s anyone else awake in the room, so when he wakes up in a dark room and realizes that the last thing he recalls is Tim starting—but not finishing—one of his terrible jokes, he’s not sure what surprises him more, the fact that he fell asleep or the fact that he actually feels rested.

Sort of, anyway. He’s sore all over—the painkillers have obviously run their course—but he’s not too tired to think, and he’s obviously slept deeply. He stares at the blurry void currently standing in for the ceiling and tries to figure out how he feels about that. It should be a good thing, but it’s…well, there’s no other word for it, it’s weird.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not that weird. Not as weird as the fact that he’s been talking to a future version of himself for eight days—somehow without knowing he’s blind—or the fact that his future self and Jon’s future self seem insanely close. Not as weird as being held hostage by a woman riddled with worms or attacked in his workplace by that same woman and her moderately-sized army of parasites. Not as weird as entities fueled by fear or an apocalypse being caused by a semi-immortal man currently disguised as an ordinary pencil-pusher. It is, in fact, the ordinary kind of weird, and really, Martin shouldn’t be getting hung up on it. Nevertheless, here he is, unable to understand when he came to trust the rest of the Archival team enough that he feels safe enough to fall asleep while they’re still awake to do things to him.

He really needs therapy, something he’s known for years, but several of the reasons he needs therapy tie into why he avoids therapy and it’s just a whole mess. The only reason he hasn’t done it that doesn’t tie into yet another trauma or blow to his psyche is the fact that he really can’t afford it. He’s barely scraping by as it is, and God only knows how he’s going to manage the need to move. He’s been in the same building for eleven years and rent’s gone up twice, and it’s still cheaper than most other places. Even if he does find someplace that doesn’t cost more, he’ll have to come up with the first month’s rent and the security deposit ahead of time, and then there’s the fact that he’s going to have to replace pretty much everything he owns that he didn’t manage to gather up for his temporary stay in the Archives; Jon and Sasha came back from getting their things and informed him regretfully that Mrs. Mattson had already thrown out what was left in his old flat and rented it out again. Add in the fact that he has to make up almost half of the fees at the home his mother insisted on moving into, and he’s not going to have the spare funds for, well, anything. Let alone therapy.

He sighs heavily and tries to sit up. It’s nice of Tim to let him sleep in the recliner, but when he first wakes up, it’s a bit of a struggle. And he honestly can’t figure out how he keeps lying back, since he’s pretty sure he falls asleep still sitting up. Maybe he’s doing it in his sleep, or maybe he’s just so tired he doesn’t remember settling back. Whatever it is, he discovered yesterday that it’s hard for him to use the appropriate strength to manipulate the recliner back into an upright position. Or at least to do it quietly. The others are still asleep—as far as he knows—and he doesn’t want to disturb them. He can tell himself all he wants that they need rest, that they deserve to have their sleep uninterrupted, that it’s been a rough couple of days for them too, but if he’s being honest it cycles back to his fear of the consequences of disturbing his mother while she was resting. Nine years and he still can’t make himself turn on a light before sunrise if the door isn’t firmly shut or listen to music without headphones after four in the afternoon. He wonders if he’ll ever be free.

The handle engages suddenly and the footrest goes down with a deceptively soft thwump that rocks Martin forward abruptly. He bites back a gasp of pain and waits for the world to stop swimming.

“Martin?”

The whispered call from not far away makes him flinch. Martin looks up, apologies ready on his lips, then realizes he’s not wearing his glasses and has no idea who was talking. He fumbles for them and puts them on just as Jon steps carefully around the end of the coffee table and perches on the end of the sofa next to him.

“I heard you starting to wake up,” Jon says softly. He holds something out—a mug. “I, ah, I was making tea anyway, so I thought…”

“O-oh.” Martin blinks in surprise and reaches out carefully to take the mug. “Ah, thank you?”

Their fingers brush, and it’s all Martin can do not to drop the mug or spill it on himself. He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks. God, it’s probably visible even with no lights.

“You’re welcome. I—you do so much for us. It seemed like high time someone did something for you for a change.” Jon pauses, then adds, “I hope I got it right. I—I know I haven’t exactly asked, but it—it seemed like what I remembered from after dinner?”

Martin takes a cautious sip of the tea and nearly chokes in surprise. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He can just make out Jon’s unfairly attractive smile before he brings his own mug to his lips. They sit in silence for a long moment, both of them seemingly lost in thought. Martin isn’t sure how much he’s actually thinking, though, beyond panicking slightly. It’s the first time he’s been alone with Jon, really, since he started living in the Archives. And after the last couple of days…he still has no idea where the two of them stand. If they’re on a friendlier footing, if they’ve found common ground, or if things are going to go back to normal once the initial shock wears off.

“What time is it?” he finally asks.

“About four in the morning. You’ve been asleep roughly nine hours.”

Martin exhales. “Christ, I had no idea I fell asleep that early.”

Jon tilts his head slightly. “Well, you’re healing. You’re likely going to do a fair amount of sleeping. We tried to keep it down.”

“I don’t mean to be an inconvenience like that,” Martin says, his stomach twisting. The idea that everyone has to be quiet because of him…

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin, you’re not an inconvenience.” Jon sets his mug down on the table and turns to face Martin fully. “I—I know I’ve been overly critical of you over the last year. I really am sorry. I never meant to—I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

“It’s—”

“Don’t say it’s all right. It isn’t. You’ve never been anything but diligent and conscientious, you’ve always gone above and beyond, and I—” Jon exhales. “The truth is, I-I was scared. I didn’t feel…adequate. Like I wasn’t up for the task. I didn’t—I never applied for this job either. Elias picked me, and I had no idea why. I don’t have a background in library science, o-or administration or anything like that. I couldn’t have told you why he offered me the job, but…well, I’m not sure I could have said no if I’d wanted to. A-and then you turned up in my office and said Elias had appointed you, and…I honestly thought he’d sent you to keep an eye on me. To, to report back to him if I stepped out of line or didn’t do the job properly. And then Rosie gave me a copy of your CV and I saw how long you’d been with the Institute, and all your credentials—”

“Most of which were fake.”

“Which I didn’t know at the time. I—I got intimidated.” Jon gives a small laugh. “I saw someone with more experience than all three of us put together and I thought, God, he wanted this job and didn’t get it and now he’s going to be reporting back to Elias every time I step out of line. I kept putting you down on the official recordings because—I don’t know, maybe part of me was hoping it would influence things in my favor if there was ever a dispute? And…I think I was projecting a lot of my own insecurities onto you. I am deeply sorry.”

Well, Jon won’t let him say it’s all right, but…Martin swallows hard and tries to smile. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry, too. I should have told you the truth sooner, but…I don’t know. I was afraid you’d fire me.”

“Considering the first interaction we ever had was me threatening you over that dog, I’d be afraid I’d fire me too.” Jon pauses. “I wonder what would have happened if I’d actually tried.”

Martin actually doesn’t want to think about it. He looks into the depths of the mug in his hands, then sets it on the end table where his glasses were previously. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“You didn’t—oh, you mean the ‘I heard you starting to wake up’ thing? I was already awake.” Jon sighs. “I honestly don’t sleep very well these days. I-it’s not just the nightmares, it’s also…the worrying. About you. All three of you, really, but—you in particular.”

“Me?” Martin’s voice is louder than he means it to be. Tim grunts from somewhere else in the room and both Martin and Jon freeze, but after a moment he makes an odd sort of snorfling sound and seems to settle back into sleep. Martin rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to be careful of the bandages.

“Why me?” he asks, remembering to whisper this time.

Jon is silent for a moment. Martin is about to apologize for having asked when he says, “I could be glib and say it’s because you were the one being stalked by Jane Prentiss, and that is part of it, but…it’s also just that it’s you. It’s not that I don’t think you can take care of yourself just as well as Tim or Sasha can. I do. It’s…I really wasn’t sure before the last couple of days why that was. I’m still not completely sure, but I think I have a bit of a better idea.”

“We worry about you, too, you know.” Martin desperately wants to ask what Jon’s idea is, but he also doesn’t want to pry. “Ask, erm, Martin Prime. I asked him what I could do to help and he said not to let you get hurt and I kind of panicked a little.”

Jon chuckles. “I suppose that is a next-to-impossible task.”

“No, I mean I panicked at the idea that you would get hurt,” Martin says. He wonders how much he can say without betraying how he feels. The Primes are close friends, that much is obvious, but he and Jon aren’t anywhere near that point and he doesn’t want to ruin his chances of even that by blurting out that he’s fallen for his boss like a ton of bricks. This is also probably not the time to bring it up. They’re all a bit…emotionally compromised right now, and he’s still not sure what’s going to happen when the adrenaline of the last two days wears off. Even if Jon’s just said he worries about Martin. Fleetingly, he wonders if Martin Prime ever told Jon Prime how he felt and when, and he wishes it was a question he thought to ask while they had some time alone in the last week. “I-I mean, that was my biggest worry when I realized Jane Prentiss had followed me home, you know? I wasn’t just worried about what she’d do to me. I was worried she might…follow me to the Archives. Come after one of you, but especially you. A-and then when she texted you after I made my statement…” He sighs. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. But there was a part of me thinking that if I needed to stay in the Archives, maybe the rest of you should have too, you know?”

“No, you’re—you’re not wrong. Truthfully, that was one of the things that I kept obsessing over last night,” Jon confesses in a low voice. “When I saw—when I realized—” He breaks off and looks away. “All I could think was that something had happened, that you could be hurt, and that you’d been alone and—God, I should have insisted we all stay. Or that you come stay with one of us from the outset. Although in retrospect…I’m not certain what would have happened if your counterpart had been alone in the Archives at the time. Not that I knew he was there, but…”

“Yeah,” Martin says quietly. He swallows against the sudden, unexpected lump in his throat. “I’m—I’m still glad you weren’t there, though. I-I was glad when it happened, and I was even more glad when I saw Jon Prime and…honestly, Jon, this sucks. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Least of all you. O-or Tim,” he adds hastily. “Or Sasha, but, I mean, she didn’t…not in their timeline, anyway.”

“No, but…that doesn’t mean we wanted you to have to get hurt, either,” Jon says. “It’s not exactly a fair trade.” He looks up at Martin. “A-are you in pain? Do you need your painkillers?”

The answer is yes, but Martin fights the urge to nod. “They, ah, they have to be taken with food. It’s—it’s not as bad as it was yesterday, at least.”

“Hold on. I think I can help with that.”

“Jon—” Martin begins, but it’s too late. Jon has already stood up from the sofa and headed in the direction of the kitchen.

Martin swears under his breath in Polish, then manages to get to his feet without hurting himself. He carefully picks up both mugs of tea and follows Jon, a bit more slowly. Partly it’s the pain, partly it’s force of habit. He doesn’t know where the joists or creaky floorboards might be, and it’s still early, he can’t risk waking people up because he’s walking too loudly. He’s already had one close call too many tonight.

He makes it to the kitchen. Jon is messing about with something, using the night-light mounted above the sink to see by. Martin can’t see what he’s doing. He sets the mugs down carefully on the table and asks, “What are you doing?”

Jon jumps and whirls around, brandishing a butter knife in one hand. He relaxes. “Martin—I didn’t hear you come in. I—I just thought—” He gestures at the counter. “It’s not much, but I thought I’d make you a sandwich at least. Get something in your stomach so you can take the pills.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Martin protests, feeling his cheeks heat up. “I-I can wait until—”

“I’m sure you can, but there’s no reason you should,” Jon says briskly. “It’s been enough time that you’re certainly able to take your painkillers, and you need them, so why wait and make yourself feel worse?”

There’s a certain amount of logic in that, Martin has to admit. “I just…don’t want to be a bother.”

Jon places a sandwich in front of him firmly and lays a hand on his arm. “Martin,” he says sincerely, “the last thing you are is a bother. Sit down and eat. I’ll be right back.”

He heads out of the kitchen, leaving Martin incredibly confused and slightly embarrassed.

Lacking any better option, he sits down to eat the sandwich Jon has made for him. He doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s certainly not what he bites into. The first taste of it on his tongue almost makes him cry, and he closes his eyes, savoring it.

He hears footsteps and swallows hastily, opening his eyes as Jon comes back into the room. He sets the pill bottle next to Martin’s elbow, then sits down next to him and picks up his mug of tea. “Is it all right?”

“It’s perfect,” Martin says before he thinks it through and almost swallows his tongue. Oh, well, no taking it back now—best to press forward. “I didn’t know Tim ate cherry preserves.”

“I don’t think he does. He teased me a bit about being ‘elitist’ the first time he saw me eating them.”

Martin stops mid-chew and definitely swallows a too-solid bite. It takes him a second before he’s able to speak. “You like them, too?”

Jon’s eyes widen. “Too? I—I mean, obviously you like them, you’re eating the sandwich—God, I didn’t even think to ask, I just assumed…”

“No, it’s—I’ve always liked them,” Martin says. “My—my granddad had a couple cherry trees in his backyard. He used to make preserves every year, and…I dunno. They just remind me of visiting him.” He takes another bite of the sandwich.

Jon nods thoughtfully. “I’ve always been fond of cherry preserves. Well, cherry anything, actually. My grandmother used to bake cherry pies on my birthday in lieu of a cake.”

Martin smiles. “Granddad always did that for me, too.”

“I’ll remember that for next year.” Jon smiles, too.

For a few minutes, there’s silence as Martin finishes the sandwich. When the last bite is gone, Jon takes the plate and gets up to wash it while Martin struggles for a moment to get the cap off the pill vial and shake out a painkiller. The moment feels oddly…domestic. Calm. Cosy. Martin isn’t sure what to do with it, but he decides to try and let himself enjoy it. It’s never worked for him before, but he can give it a shot.

Finally, Jon sits back down next to him. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” It’s not just the painkiller, which probably hasn’t actually started to work yet. It’s the tea, and the sandwich, and Jon being nice. He tries to figure out how to articulate it, then finally says, “It’s the first time in I don’t know how long that I don’t feel afraid.”

Jon exhales. “I know the feeling. I mean—I know I should be. The world is objectively terrifying, and learning what we learned today made that exponentially worse. But…this right here? I’m definitely calmer and more relaxed than I’ve been since I took the Archivist job.”

Something in Martin’s chest warms at the comment. It probably isn’t meant like that, but it’s nice to hear he’s not making Jon stressed by his mere presence, at least. And, hey, he can dream. All he says, though, is, “’S nice.”

“It is.” Jon takes a sip of his tea and stares into it for a moment, then snorts softly and shakes his head.

“What?”

“It’s just…something my counterpart said. While we were talking outside. I hadn’t thought about it before, but…he’s right.” Jon looks up. “He told me he hasn’t finished a cup of tea in years that—that his Martin hasn’t made for him. It just occurred to me that I’m the same way. Even when…those two weeks you weren’t in the office? When Jane Prentiss was—” He swallows hard. “I just realized that I would brew myself a cup of tea and it would just…sit on my desk and get cold. I never managed to drink more than half of it. I suppose it just tastes better when you make it.”

Martin doesn’t know quite how to respond to that. “You make tea just fine. This is perfect.”

Jon hums noncommittally. He seems to be debating with himself, then sighs. “You’re far more observant than I am at times…you know they’re together, right?”

Martin’s brain pulls up short. “Wait, what?”

“Our…counterparts. The Primes. They’re—they love each other. He told me that when I asked him, and…God, in retrospect, it’s so obvious. I-I suppose I just didn’t see it.” Jon looks suddenly nervous as he scans Martin’s face. “You’re more…in tune with that sort of thing than I. You did know, didn’t you?”

“N-no,” Martin manages to stammer out. Oh, God, he can feel his cheeks heating up. Jon’s right, though, in retrospect it’s obvious. He thinks about all the little interactions the Primes have had with one another, the way they both fuss over each other, the way they seem to know what the other is thinking. The lighthearted, affectionate banter, the near-constant physical contact. Jon Prime rubbing his thumb over Martin Prime’s knuckles to calm himself when he gets overwhelmed, Martin Prime reaching for Jon Prime instinctively when he needs a hand up.

Then, suddenly, he remembers the way Martin Prime spoke about the person who was coming back to meet him, when he assured Martin that if they’ve come through somewhere else, they’re looking for me. Logically, he knows now that person was Jon Prime, but he somehow didn’t make the connection between the two. It’s as if his brain saw Jon Prime walk in and instantly erased every conclusion that conversation made him come to. It didn’t occur to him, at the time, that Jon would even bother to bring him back in time with him, let alone be looking for him. Now he takes a mental step back, re-evaluates every moment between the Primes in light of that conversation, and wants to smack himself on the forehead for being an idiot.

“You’re right, though. I really should have figured that out sooner,” he murmurs. “God knows I had enough information to put it together. Guess I just assumed there couldn’t possibly be a universe where I—”

He snaps off the words as quickly as he can. Oh, God, he really almost said it out loud. Almost let Jon know how he feels. He’s not stupid, the Primes have a lot more history between them than he and Jon do, and he doesn’t doubt for a minute that they haven’t been together long, relatively speaking. Probably only since Jon Prime rescued Martin Prime from the Lonely. The circumstances that led them to this point are ones they’re trying to undo, and Martin seriously doubts he and Jon will ever get to that point. It’s best if he tries to let this thing die now and be happy for his counterpart getting this much.

Jon looks like he wants to ask him a question, but doesn’t. Instead, he says quietly, “They weren’t going to tell you. Us, I suppose, but…I asked him. How he felt about his Martin. Mostly because I was trying to figure out how I felt about you, and I thought knowing his thoughts would help untangle mine.”

Martin has to try twice before he can get the words out. “Did it?”

Jon gives a small, humorless laugh. “Not really. In truth, it just made things more confusing. I…” He rubs his thumb against the knuckle of his index finger, the same nervous tic Jon Prime uses when he doesn’t have Martin Prime’s hand to hold. “I-I got scared when I arrived at the Institute the other night. I was…there was all that chaos, all those lights and sirens and activity, and—and I realized you weren’t in the crowd. All I could think of was that there’d been a fire and you hadn’t woken in time, or that you’d been trapped and been…burned or breathed in too much of the CO2 or something. I tried to—they wouldn’t let me in after you. Obviously. That makes perfect sense, but…at the time, all I could think of was that you were in there a-and I needed to get to you, that I needed to know you were safe. I was staring at the idea of a world without you and I couldn’t face it. And then…Elias told me Tim and Sasha were down there, and then mentioned Jane Prentiss, and it all got worse and…I don’t know, Martin, I’m rambling. But Tim’s right. I was—I must’ve shouted down half a dozen officials trying to get one of them to tell me where you were, how you were, to—to let me see you. Everyone kept saying you were going to be all right, but I knew I wouldn’t believe it until I saw you.”

“I—I mean, if it had been Sasha or Tim—” Martin begins.

“I don’t know how I would have reacted if it had been them who was hurt. I was definitely worried about them, but…I don’t know.” Jon takes a deep breath. “I’ll be honest. I still don’t really know how I feel. I—I do care about you. I worry about you, I want you to be safe. Beyond that, I—I’m afraid I don’t know.” He manages a small, slightly roguish smile. “I don’t suppose you know how you feel.”

“Oh, Christ,” Martin practically whines. This is not how he wanted any of this to come out, and he doesn’t know if he should say it.

Then it occurs to him that Jon didn’t ask. Jon, who has just learned that he’s developing the ability to force people to answer his questions, and who is probably more likely to do it when he’s tired or stressed out, deliberately avoided actually asking a question. It’s a simple statement. He’s giving Martin permission to not say a word if he doesn’t want to.

Which…actually, weirdly, makes him want to.

He takes a deep breath. “O-okay. The truth is…I’ve kind of had a crush on you for a while. I wasn’t going to say anything, because it’s—I mean, I didn’t want to make things weird, a-and I know you—I was just trying for ‘he doesn’t think I’m a complete idiot’ for a while there. I also thought it was just a stupid workplace crush, and I was kind of hoping it would eventually go away on its own. It didn’t. Ever since I started living in the Archives, it’s just got worse. I guess that’s why I didn’t realize how the Primes felt about each other. I kind of thought I was projecting, o-or seeing what I wanted to see, maybe? I don’t know. But I do worry, and I do…I do care.”

“That’s not why you went back to Carlos Vittery’s apartment, is it?” Jon’s voice is so soft Martin almost doesn’t hear it, but his eyes are worried. “Because you thought I…?”

“No,” Martin assures him. “No, I—you know, I know I said I was trying to ‘make sure I’d done my due diligence’ and all that, but what was behind that was that I’d been…I felt pressured to go back. Like a nagging, persistent headache. I get it all the time, really, when I’m doing research. Remember when you sent me to track down that…that Angela woman? For the—”

“The man who was falling to pieces. I remember.”

“I know you got exasperated with me, but I literally couldn’t stop until I’d talked to every Angela I could find. I’d think ‘well, I’m not going to find her, I’m going back to the Institute now,’ but I’d get this blinding headache and it wouldn’t go away until I went ‘okay, just one more.’ It’s only got worse as time goes on. So no, I didn’t…get myself into this mess because I was trying to impress you or whatever.” Martin can’t help the small, nervous chuckle that escapes him. “’Course, if it did impress you, I wouldn’t complain.”

“What impressed me was that you kept your head well enough to survive and get back to your apartment, never mind the Institute,” Jon says warmly. “If it were me, I’d likely have done something stupid like go back for my phone when I realized I’d dropped it.” He sighs. “I—I don’t want to make things awkward. But I also don’t want to…promise anything.”

“I don’t expect anything, Jon.” Martin learned a long time ago not to expect anything. As far as he’s concerned, the phrase good things come to those who wait is inapplicable. In his case, it’s more like good things come to those who aren’t you. He has friends, in Tim and Sasha at least. That’s more than he probably deserves.

Jon studies him for a moment, then smiles slightly and holds out his hand. “How about I apologize for being such an ass to you, and we start with friends and see where it goes from there?”

This is the last thing Martin would have ever anticipated, but he’s certainly not going to object. He smiles in reply and takes Jon’s hand. “Deal.”

They shake on it—very gently, Jon is careful of the healing wounds on Martin’s hands—and then sit back. Jon studies Martin. “Did they tell you how long you’ll need to wear the bandages?”

“Until things stop bleeding when I take them off?” Martin shrugs. “Hopefully not too long. Some of them are…deeper than others. I’m supposed to make an appointment with my regular doctor for a follow-up in a couple of weeks.”

“We’ll make sure you get there safely,” Jon promises. He picks up his mug and salutes Martin with it. “After all, what are friends for?”

Martin grins, feeling more relaxed than he’s felt in a while, and salutes Jon back. “What indeed?”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #mentions of emotional abuse #acts of service as a love language

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lost-in-zembla · 4 years

Text

On Metamodernism

It’s tough to grasp metamodernism as an artistic movement but most of us live lives strongly affected by the concepts of metamodernism every day. You’re having a serious conversation with your friend about her mental health; simultaneously, you and your friend are part of a groupchat where you are currently making fun of the very friend you are supporting. This isn’t necessarily disingenuous; you are witnessing two different instances of a person and those two instantiations of you happen to be different depending on context and medium. In part, metamodernism is a kind of acceptance of our multiple selves, our tendency to oscillate between states or even inhabit both in a sort of human superposition.

I taught my friends about metamodernism in our groupchat as my friend Jarett consoled me via one-on-one text after the sudden implosion of my five-year long relationship and the fact that my life is generally unbearable—a fact that is more embarrassing when one considers how easy I have it. It’s sort of a shame feedback loop.

As I was explaining metamodernism for my own satisfaction, I thought that I might actually make an okay professor. I could teach American literature. Maybe.

So I get a job teaching at the local community college and my life slowly comes back together like a cut that heals. I am relatively respected by my students and I have some abstract sense purpose, the cracks in the surface of which are only visible if one spends a long, existential period of time contemplating the practical or, god-forbid, spiritual uses of an education in American literature what with the reality of a global climate catastrophe and the approaching drumbeats of right-wing strongmen leaders reaching positions of power all around the world.

But things are pretty good.

I get a parking space. I get an apartment that looks bad, then looks better. I start to open the curtains. I don’t want to hide so much. A year or two down the line I lease a practical car and people treat me with a bit more respect when they see me step out of it. I smile at people in the grocery store. At this point I can see peoples’ mouths when I go outside. When I see their mouths, they’re smiling. They can see my mouth. I’m smiling.

I get to know people and people think I’m lovely. The faculty all look up to me. How young and handsome and intelligent he is! He’ll sure go places, they say. And I do. I quickly earn a raise and then I’m head of the department. And so young! When I’m not inspiring awe I inspire smoldering jealousy. Women? Naturally. And I treat each of them with utmost respect. I value these women for more than the thousands of hours of hot naked ecstasy they provide me. I buy more fresh produce. I throw none of it out.

I single-handedly save the English department at the community college. Funding comes pouring in. Eventually, it becomes one of the premier colleges for literary studies in the Midwest. They rename a building after me. I just turned thirty. Before long, I’m offered a job at the prestigious private university in town, with nods toward a proverbial shoe in the door when it comes to tenure. Unheard of! But he’s just that good. My wrists and forearms become perceptibly thicker. People cross the street in front of traffic to shake my hand. I learn what the fuck “ketosis” is.

Then there I am one day in my cushy office. Rows of leather-bound books fill the shelves around the ample perimeter of the room. I’ve read them all, naturally. My hair has started to grey in places but damn if it’s not as thick and lush as the heart of the Amazon. A knock on the door. My office hours ended at one. I answer and it’s, oh, Claire from this semester’s modern American literature course. Of course I’ve noticed her in class. How could I not? But I’d always maintained a professional and appropriately avuncular demeanor in front of her. She’s twenty-eight, French, gorgeous. Naturally.

We discuss her essay on Light in August and I say to her, you know, Claire, it was the French who were among the first to notice Faulkner’s genius. She puts her hand on my thigh. In her accent that itself somehow resembles a beautiful naked body she says, The French notice lots of things. I slide my attractively thick forearm over the crowded desk space and knock the books and pens and everything onto the floor and—well, let’s just say that my life of success and talent has enhanced me in other ways. And it’s hot and insane and weird and papers fly everywhere. And it sort of just goes on like that for weeks and then months—the relationship, not that particular sexual event. At my age, after all the sex and drugs and joy and tragedy, sometimes I think that it’s the clandestine nature of the thing that really gets me off. Like I need more and more secret or shameful shit to fire off those tired old neurons. I start to become cavalier in front of the students. I begin to, perhaps, show my hand.

I get another knock on my office, sometime in the Spring. Bill, I say. Come in. He sits down and we engage in a tense discussion where every syllable is laced with a double entendre because he can’t just say it out loud, for Christ’s sake. That’s just not how these things are done. He’s old school, but firm, Bill. She’s graduating anyway, and something tells me when we can finally be together publicly then the thrill will already be gone.

The students already know. I’ve seen the screenshots. I’ve been memed. Things are tense in class and they can tell that I’ve given up. The fire in my eye that led to my meteoric rise has dimmed to a pathetic ember. Sometimes I take my Audi out on a dark highway outside of town and I press on the accelerator until I can’t go any faster. I have to stop myself from shutting my eyes.

One day in class, I look up from my papers and all the students are out of their desks, standing over me. They’re holding pencils and yardsticks that have been modified into edged weapons. What’s the meaning of this? They use my Tom Ford tie to tie my arms behind me and to my chair. They put me in the center of the room. I knew they would betray me. I’d always known. For years this notion has haunted the deepest recesses of my mind: these people, these kids, are going to be the ones to put this old dog down. Is this because of Claire, I ask. They laugh. They laugh because they think I’m an old fool. I am an old fool.

No, professor, Shellie says. She seems to be the leader. It’s much more serious than that, she says. O life! Everything I’ve ever done. I’ve stomped on people all the way to the top and now it’s all coming back to me, some sort of holdup in the karmic clerical system that led to forty years of consequences all delivered at once. Things were so easy for so long, so fun, that I forgot what it was like to live a life with consequences.

Shut up, she says. You’re here for a reason. What could she know? How did she mobilize all of these students? When did they make the weapons? How many questions could I possibly pose in sequence?

Professor, she says, we have one question for you. Anything, I say. And answer truthfully, she says. And I say of course, of course I’ll be completely honest. Okay, professor, she says, do you consider yourself… a historicist? At this very moment I know it’s over for me. Well, I say, it’s not so simple, Shellie. The mob is in an uproar. A fair bit of verbal sparring ensues. Shellie and the other students in favor of the transcendent nature of literature—whatever that means—and me in favor of a more context-based approach. Sure, if I thought that novels were a good way to learn about history then I’d deserve this. I’d deserve all of this.

How can you read these works outside of their historical context? What about Light in August for God’s sake? The mob lashes out again—not Faulkner fans, go figure—but Shellie shushes them until the classroom is as silent as the dusty hills of Jerusalem. Literature, she says, is timeless. And this essentially breaks me. I begin weeping openly. You might as well kill me, then, I say. They set upon me like a pack of hyenas.

A moment or an eternity after my head is pulled off my body like the Bacchae in that Euripides tragedy, I hear waves lap against the rocks. I feel in my face the salty breeze of the ocean. I open my eyes to find a beautiful Mediterranean island. It feels neither hot nor cold. The breeze from the ocean feels perfect, as though there were no storms to be found in any corner of the Earth.

Behind me, inland, I hear the sound of approaching footsteps. I turn around to find Vladimir goddamn Nabokov of all people. It’s perfect. So I tell him the story, how I was murdered by my students over two reductive and non-mutually exclusive schools of thought in literature—two schools of thought that are both perfect lenses through which to view Nabokov’s work. When I tell him he laughs his big Russian laugh and slaps me on the shoulder, and I laugh. Then he hands me a butterfly net and we skip through pleasant hills in that vast and timeless place forever and ever.

No. What’s happening? It’s all slipping away from me now. All the memories, the moments, the time, leaking out of my mind to become something ghostly, an image half-developed, a thought unspoken. I lift my head and look at my hands and there I am, lying on a couch in a high school faculty lounge. My hands are unwrinkled. My body is young. There is no Humanities Wing in my name, no tenure, no Audi. No Claire. Was it all just a dream? Could it all have been just a dream? Is it within the realm of possibility that such an absurdly bad trope could have manifested into my life naturally? Or am I the subject of a cruel and untalented god who simply bats me about and writes hack narratives for me to tumble through like some Sisyphean Rube Goldberg machine? Coffee. Need Coffee.

It’s all silly, anyway. Nabokov and myself cavorting through some weird Elysium? Ridiculous. If that was what the afterlife had in store for me, then Nabokov would probably be hanging out with Pushkin and Tolstoy while maybe Dostoevsky and I build a sandcastle. Maybe. But then, in all likelihood, Nabokov, Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and the other cool kids would kick sand in my face and walk off with whatever beautiful ladies happen to inhabit this weird Russian-literary Elysium that I’ve somehow ended up in. I haven’t thought this out very well.

What was this all about, again? Metamodernism. Easy. Let’s think.

Okay.

As I write this now, behind my computer, watching Youtube videos about sushi, wondering how the sushi will make its way into my writing through mental osmosis (not subtly, it turns out), I look at these instances of me, with the meteoric success or the banal day-to-day life, and I wonder who exactly I am. I am a thousand selves. I am nothing. I am trying to remember into the future who I am. I am a metamodernist—no, I’m not.

#metamodernism #literary criticism #my writing #vladimir nabokov #william faulkner #teacher #professor #teaching #teach #writing #writers on tumblr #writer #creative nonfiction #nonfiction #fiction #i don't know what i'm doing

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let-it-raines · 4 years

Text

Every Monday Morning (1/1)

Emma Swan likes her routines. She wakes up at four in the morning, goes to work as a host on The Morning Show, spends her day doing segments about cooking and this season’s fashion trends, and then she goes home to spend time with her son and help him with his homework. She’s finally found something stable, and she doesn’t like change.

So when the show’s regular chef retires and is replaced by Killian Jones, it throws Emma for a loop that she doesn’t necessarily like.

At least not at first.

Rating: Teen

a/n: So, I’m a day early as it’s her birthday tomorrow, but I realized today I won’t be able to post tomorrow because of family obligations. I think @searchingwardrobes might be okay with spreading the celebration out a bit!

Happy (almost) Birthday to the birthday queen herself ❤️ You are an absolute gift of a person who spends time writing stories for most everyone on their birthdays, and while I can’t do quite that, I thought I’d write you a little something because you absolutely deserve it! It’s been a joy getting to know you! I hope that you have the best day with your family! 🎉

Thanks @wellhellotragic for helping me figure out what to write about, even if I rejected everything. lol. And also, nonnie, I promise the “read more” is being used, so I’m sorry if it doesn’t work on mobile!

Found on AO3 | Here |

Tag list: @captainsjedi @wellhellotragic @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @xellewoods @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81

-/-

It’s five in the morning, Emma has coffee in her ridiculously oversized mug that Henry gave her for her birthday last year, and she absolutely does not want to be awake right now. She wants to be in her pajamas, and she wants to have to struggle to get out of bed and to have to make Henry breakfast that he’ll take two bites out of before deciding that he doesn’t actually want the pancakes she made. It’s been an obnoxious thing lately, his weird aversion to foods after saying that he wants them, and she’s really going to need him to grow out of that habit.

Kids are freaking weird, and after ten years of motherhood, she still has no idea what she’s doing.

“Stop twitching,” Ruby grumbles.

“I am not twitching.” “You are.” Ruby huffs, and Emma straightens herself in the chair before taking a slow sip of coffee. “It’s not easy to put your eyeliner on, and it’s even more difficult if you keep moving.”

“I am not moving, Rubes,” Emma insists before crossing her leg over her knee only for Ruby to slap it away so that both feet are on the bottom of the chair. “Okay, maybe I am a little bit, but I didn’t get the chance to workout this morning, and I’m feeling all jittery.”

Ruby hums, and Emma tries to relax her eyes so that Ruby can keep working on her makeup without it smearing. “Why not? Did you not sleep well last night?”

“We were up late doing Henry’s homework. I swear, I’m not that old, but some of his stuff I’ve never heard of. The math is killing me. I would never in my life want Neal to come back, but I feel like it would almost be acceptable if he could do this math.” “That bad, huh?”

“That bad.”

“Stop wrinkling your nose.”

“I am not.” “You are,” Ruby laughs as her finger hits the tip of Emma’s nose. “Give me ten more minutes, and then you can get dressed and take a few minutes to eat something and drink your coffee.”

“It’s Monday,” Emma sighs. “It’s Chef Rudianni day. I’m about to eat everything that he cooks when he does his segment.”

Ruby stops the light pressure of the sponge on Emma’s cheek, and she opens her eyes to see that Ruby is staring at her with an apologetic smile. Shit.

“Chef Rudianni retired last week, Ems. We’ve got a new guy, and whew, let me tell you, he’s as hot as the food that he’s going to teach you to make.”

Disappointment settles in Emma’s stomach. Maybe that’s just the lack of food…the lack of Chef Rudianni’s food. “You are shameless and also breaking my heart.” Emma groans and leans back in the chair while crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t care how attractive the new guy is. I wake up at four in the morning every Monday with the hope that I can get food from Rudy. It is literally the only thing that gets me through the day.”

“Being a host on one of the most popular morning shows in America doesn’t do it for you? You work for half a day and then are home in time to spend all afternoon with Henry.”

Emma grunts and waves Ruby away. “Yeah, whatever. You don’t have to rub it in my face that I’m lucky to make me feel bad about it.”

“That’s what friends are for, my darling. Now, arch your left brow. I need to fix that little stray.”

Ruby keeps prodding and plucking and doing everything that she does every morning to make Emma look camera ready and not like she’s waiting to die from lack of sleep, and while it’s usually Emma’s time to relax, she doesn’t get much of that when her producers come in and run her through this morning’s program. Emma never does any “real” news, which is perfectly okay with her. There’s enough darkness in the world that she doesn’t want to have to extensively deal with that while at work. Instead, she spends her mornings talking to people who run their first marathons at the age of sixty, tries on different outfits for each of the seasonal trends, and gets to pretend that she knows how to cook as she does cooking segments.

Chef Rudianni made it easy for her to pretend that she had something more than basic cooking skills, even if he did very obviously make fun of her off the screen, but she never cared about that because the food was that good.

She’s not entirely sure about this new guy, and she hasn’t even met him yet. He better be able to cook pie for Thanksgiving. That’s what’s she’s going to miss the most.

(Emma is obviously very hungry right now, and she’s not even technically supposed to eat that much of the food.)

“You look happy this morning,” David teases her as she settles down at her chair behind the desk.

“It’s Monday, and I’m tired.”

“Working on a morning news show was not your calling.”

Emma rolls her eyes and twists in the chair as Mary Margaret, the second half of the power couple of The Morning Show, sits down in her chair next to David, and Will Scarlet, their weather and sports guy, sits opposite of her. They’ve got maybe ten different hosts total, especially since this show lasts for five hours, but the four of them have been the main four for the last three years. It’s nice, even if their personalities can clash, but Emma likes to think that’s what makes it interesting. Mary Margaret and David are both so full of hope and happiness, and the energy radiating from the two of them make it easier for she and Will to be a little more optimistic about things.

(There was once an incident with Will laughing at a story about a woman who made her living making sweaters for dogs, and they had a month-long sensitivity training session afterward. That also may be why they are all unwaveringly positive on-air.)

Emma hums and reaches forward to grab her coffee cup, wishing and willing that the caffeine will help her make it through the day. “I think I was meant to be, like, a late-night host or something, but then I couldn’t get away with wearing slippers underneath the desk and would have to be funny all the time.”

“Does it hurt to wear heels even while you’re sitting?” Will asks.

“Why don’t you try it one day, Scarlet? I’ve got someone coming in tomorrow to show the fall color trends for shoes. I’m sure she could give you a pair to try on. You’ll look great delivering the news in some plum pumps.”

“I’d do it. You know that.”

“We’re live in thirty seconds,” their producers call out, and each of them turn from each other back to face the camera, coffee mugs put down and hair adjusted with perfectly white smiles etched across their faces.

Three.

Two.

One.

“Good morning, America,” David begins.

“And welcome to The Morning Show,” Mary Margaret finishes.

And thus they begin.

The first ten or so minutes is spent with David and Mary Margaret reading off little snippets of news before connecting it to their personal lives, talking about their kids and their relationship before throwing it off to Will and Emma and to banter back and forth. Emma never talks about Henry on-air. His existence isn’t something she shares with the world, mostly because she doesn’t want Neal suddenly popping back in realizing that he has a son. He would definitely try to take advantage of her again and use her job and Henry as some way to advance his life, and Emma isn’t here for that. So, she plays the part of a single twenty-eight-year-old woman and never shares anecdotes over her life at home. At least not ones that involve Henry.

Soon they all branch off into their different jobs and topics. Emma and Will both leave the main table so that Will can do the weather and Emma can set up to interview a college student who is taking Krispy Kreme donuts and putting his own spin on them, and like every morning, time flies by in a mess of interviews and segments and talking to all of the people who are both crazy and awesome enough to stand outside their studio window just to get a chance to see where they film.

It’s an insane life, one Emma most definitely stumbled into it, but she loves it.

Until she walks over to the fake kitchen they have on set and sees the new guy setting up whatever it is he’s cooking today. Emma stops in her tracks, the heels she put back on scratching against the linoleum floor, and she has to take a moment to collect herself. Ruby wasn’t wrong when she said that the new chef was attractive. He obviously is. Even from here she can see the sharp line of his jaw covered with scruff that’s a shade or two lighter than the black of his hair, and his eyes are so blue that Emma is almost positive they’re contacts. It’s ridiculous. He’s tall, but not outrageously so, and she can see the muscles in his forearms and biceps under the t-shirt that he has on.

Guys who look like that always know that they do, indeed, look like they do, and it’s never good news. They think they’re a gift to women world-wide, and Emma prepares herself for him to be the same way, especially with the way that he’s obviously flirting with one of their production assistants, Tink.

Why in the world did Chef Rudianni have to retire? She’s going to miss him and his sweet elderly man ways where he thought of her more like a granddaughter than anything else.

Taking a deep breath and reminding herself that she’s a professional, Emma walks toward the cooking set, grabs her apron off the hook, ties it around her, and walks up to the guy to introduce herself. He’s a once-a-week segment for four minutes, and it really won’t be that bad. It can’t be.

(Emma hates change.)

“Oh.” Tink jumps when she sees Emma, pink rising on her cheeks, “Mr. Jones, I’d like you to meet Emma Swan.”

The guy’s shoulders tense before he turns around, and Emma’s eyes are immediately hit by the blue, which is even more insane closer up. So is the brightness of the smile that seems to stretch all the way up to his eyes.

He better be a damn good cook.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, love,” he drawls out, the thickness of his British accent curling around his tongue. “Killian Jones, at your service.”

Emma forces a smile and nods her head as she reaches forward to shake his hand. “Emma Swan. Welcome to The Morning Show.”

“I’m glad to be here. Any tips for my time here? Who likes to steal food off the table? Anyone absolutely hate any certain kind of food? Anyone I should avoid?”

Emma releases his hand and cocks her head to the side, trying to size him up. “Just cook the food and smile for the camera when you’re supposed to, and you’ll be fine. Oh, and don’t expect me to be a good assistant. I’m not at all a chef. I faked it.”

He winks, and Emma has to grit her teeth. This guy is obviously a natural flirt. “That’s because you haven’t cooked with me yet.”

-/-

Killian Jones is even more charming on-camera then he is off of it. She has no idea what kind of television work he’s done in the past, if he’s done any at all, and he is every bit the natural at working the camera and the crowd as he takes her through the steps to make an absolutely fantastic end of the summer barbeque for the end of July that has her having to wipe barbeque sauce off her fingers in the middle of the segment. It’s also got everyone else coming over to check out the food, something that almost never happens, and Emma isn’t entirely sure how she feels about any of it.

It’s good for the show, at least. She knows that. She’ll simply have to get used to a little change every Monday morning.

-/-

“Mom,” Henry moans as he flops down on the couch, “I am starving. What’s for dinner?”

Emma shrugs her shoulders and gets up from her favorite chair in the living room to walk the few feet to the kitchen and the fridge. When she opens it, there’s barely anything inside. It’s half a gallon of milk, some cheese sticks, a bag of carrots, and then leftover lasagna Mary Margaret gave them a week ago. Emma needs to go grocery shopping, but she hasn’t had the chance recently. It’s been a crazy few weeks with work, the month of August and half of September flying by, and grocery shopping has been at the bottom of her list of things to do.

Mom of the year award, honestly. She needs to bite the bullet and pay the surcharge to have her groceries delivered, but the frugalness of growing up in the foster system has never really gone away when it comes to things like that. Expensive shoes? Sure, she can spend a few hundred dollars on that. Paying twenty dollars for a delivery fee? No, absolutely not.

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Emma looks at the complete lack of food in the fridge and decides that eating here is not an option. And she cannot eat takeout Chinese food or pizza again this week. That is not an option her stomach will agree with.

(She is making a change when it comes to their eating habits tomorrow. She swears.)

“How about we go out for dinner, kid?”

Henry sits up from the couch and puts his phone down, which is pretty much a miracle since this is the time that he’s allowed to use it, and he looks so much like Neal in this moment that her heart pangs. Or maybe that’s the consistent amount of junk food. She doesn’t really know.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, why not? It’s Friday night, and it’s not like we have anything better to do.”

“I mean, you don’t have anything better to do. I was going to play my game with Avery.” Emma narrows her eyes at him, and Henry holds up his hands in apology. “Sorry, sorry. Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you find a place we’ve never been, and we’ll go there?” Henry opens his mouth and Emma holds her finger up. “Within one subway stop of here. I don’t want to traipse across the city. Let me go put on some actual pants, and then we’ll go, okay?”

Henry nods his head before quickly grabbing his phone and looking up restaurants while she walks back down the hallway to her bedroom to change out of her pajamas and into a pair of jeans and a light sweater that will keep the chill away since every restaurant is inevitably freezing. She can’t wait until fall truly rolls around and the temperature dips so that she can walk around all bundled up and no one will say a word.

Of course, this is Manhattan, and no one cares if Emma is walking around in nice, clean clothes or a T-rex suit.

When she’s finished getting ready and has run her hands through Henry’s hair to try to calm it down despite his protests, they leave their apartment, saying goodbye to the doorman Henry has pretty much adopted into their family, and follow the GPS to the restaurant Henry picked out. Emma didn’t look into it too much. All she saw was that it had good reviews and food that Henry would most definitely eat without complaint, and she was good to go.

(Her rumbling stomach really helps her make decisions much more quickly than she would otherwise.)

The place is on a corner lot, black gates cornering off the outdoor tables that all have umbrellas open over them if they’re not already covered by the black awnings that extend over the windows and toward the bubble lights that are brightening the space even with the constant flow of street lights and car headlights that keep passing by.

Sweet William.

“Kid,” Emma hesitates as they wait for the crosswalk light to turn on, “this place is packed. I don’t know if we’re going to be able to eat here.”

Henry tugs on her hand, and she looks down at him to see him smile. “Can we please at least try? The website said we didn’t need reservations, and that it has really good cheeseburgers. And those Alexander drinks that you like.”

“You really shouldn’t know about my alcohol preferences.”

“I know that you really like piña coladas, but you’re always too embarrassed to buy those unless we’re at the beach with Mary Margaret and David.”

Emma huffs and tugs Henry closer to her side so that she can kiss his forehead. “I think you’re too observant for your own good.”

“I thought moms wanted their kids to be smart.”

“We do…to a certain extent.”

The light changes and suddenly there’s a rush of people walking across the street. Emma holds onto Henry out of instinct as they move along with the crowd and walk up to the restaurant. Emma doesn’t expect them to get a table, especially once they walk inside and she can see that all of the tables and booths are full, but she asks the hostess anyway. She gives Emma a tight smile, one that is definitely more annoyed than kind, and then they’re told that it’ll be a forty-minute wait unless they want to sit at the bar. Emma’s fine with that, especially since Henry is insistent on getting one of these cheeseburgers, so they’re quickly guided through the restaurant until they get to the bar in the back and are stuck in the corner on the little swivel chairs.

How in the world has she never heard of this place? It’s obviously popular and in walking distance of her apartment. Emma needs to get out more often, but that’s too much effort.

When in the world did she turn into an old woman?

Probably when she had a kid at eighteen and then began getting up for work far before the sun rises.

Henry catches her up on everything that’s been happening at school in the past week. His friends are all obsessed with some new YouTube blogger that she’s going to have to check out, and his science project is due in two weeks. Emma puts a reminder in her phone over that because they will forget about it, and Henry will come home the night before it’s due so that they have to make a last-minute trip to the store for absolutely everything he needs and neither of them will get any sleep.

“Wait, so what happened with Avery’s mom?” Emma asks Henry as she sips on her diet coke.

“She had to go to the emergency – ”

“Swan!”

Emma’s head flips so quickly at the sound of the familiar accent that she almost gets whiplash, and all of the sudden Killian Jones is standing in front of her behind the bar with a stupid grin on his face. It’s the one that he does whenever he’s made a joke after she spectacularly fails at some kind of cooking thing or spills food on her apron, and Emma is experiencing whiplash in more ways than one.

What the hell is he doing here?

“Jones,” she greets, nodding at him. “What are you doing behind the bar?”

He raises his brows, a signature move of his as she’s learned over their weeks of doing segments, but then they settle back down to their normal place. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Nothing,” he sighs as he leans forward and rests his elbow on the bar top. “Who’s this young gentleman? Your date for the evening perhaps?”

Heat rushes to Emma’s cheeks, as well as the urge to mutter a few curses, because this is not good. Not good at all. Only a few people at work know about Henry and those people are people who she spends time with outside of work. Those people are her family, bloodlines be damned. They’re not the chef who comes by every Monday morning and attempts to flirt with her while showing her how to make an apple cider bar for fall holiday parties.

Emma opens her mouth to try to save some face, but then Henry is speaking. “Henry Swan. You’re the guy who teaches my mom to cook on TV.” Henry leans forward and nearly knocks over his drink. “You’re not doing a very good job.”

Emma scoffs while Killian leans back with his hand on his chest and his entire face lit up with his laugh. A few people look over to them, but they quickly turn away while Killian keeps chuckling and Emma finds herself at a total loss for words.

Her son just called her a bad cook and also told someone that he’s her son. How in the world does she react to that?

“I’m trying my best, lad,” Killian chuckles, wiping away a tear from his eye, “but your mum is very much a beginner. Maybe if they let me come in for her show more often, I could help her out more.”

“Maybe,” Henry shrugs. “Do you work here?”

“Aye, I do. This is my restaurant.”

She hopes the floor is clean because Emma’s jaw is about to drop there.

Of all of the restaurants in this city, Henry had to pick this one.

“Cool, so you make the cheeseburgers? The reviews online say they’re really good.”

Killian looks at her, his eyes wide, and Emma realizes that he’s silently asking for her permission to keep talking to Henry. She doesn’t know how she knows that, but she does. Nodding, she tilts her head back toward Henry.

“I have other chefs that help me out,” Killian continues, “which is why I get to come out here and talk to you guys, but I did come up with the recipe for it. Is that what you ordered?”

“Yep. Mom ordered a salad and is making me eat part of it.”

“Ah, well, vegetables are important, and I promise that my salads are good salads.”

“I’ll believe it when I taste it.”

Emma snorts and hides her smile behind her drink while Killian looks back at her and moves his brows across his face. She didn’t know he could have this long of a conversation without flirting.

“Do you two want a table?” Killian asks them as he tugs up the sleeve of his shirt, and not for the first time, she notices the red scars that stretch up his left hand and arm. “I know we’re busy in here tonight, but I think I have a little pull to get you a table.”

“Thank you, but I think we’re fine. Right, kid?”

“As long as I get my cheeseburger, I’d sit in the bathroom and be happy.”

Sometimes Emma forgets that Henry is a ten-year-old boy who still finds the occasional fart funny and that he doesn’t have a great sense of hygiene, and then he says something like that to bring her back to earth and reminds herself that her kid is, indeed, a kid.

Killian stays and talks to them for a few minutes before he’s called off to sign some papers and disappears behind a set of double doors that Emma assumes lead to the kitchen. They don’t see or hear from him again that night, though their food gets to them much more quickly than most everyone else at the bar. Henry absolutely devours the cheeseburger, barely taking a bite of any of the vegetables that she puts in front of him, but she doesn’t expect anything less. Her salad is really good, though. She usually hates any salad that she has to eat (the pressure of being on TV and all), but she actually enjoys it tonight.

Even after she asks for the bill, and she’s told by the bartender that their check has already been paid and that they have a to-go box of a blueberry cobbler waiting for them at the front of the restaurant.

Emma is a sucker for any kind of cobbler or pie.

Henry seems to think that this has been the coolest night of his life, and she took him to Disney World in June after years of begging.

When Monday morning rolls around, Emma is as exhausted as ever, and she muddles through her routine of hair and makeup before rolling out onto the set and plastering a smile on her face that matches everyone else’s as they banter back and forth about their weekends. It’s fine, normal as ever, and then Emma is being shuffled over to the kitchen set in between takes where she sees Killian already in his show-provided apron.

Shit.

She forgot about this? How could she? It’s been a part of her routine for eight weeks now.

“Morning, love,” he greets, grin on his face. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She huffs and grabs her apron before tying it around her waist. “We obviously can’t stay away from each other’s places of business. What are we cooking today?”

“Healthy, easy meals that work perfect for leftovers for your kid’s lunch the next day.”

Emma’s heartbeat quickens, and she quickly looks around to see that everyone is distracted watching David and Mary Margaret go over some viral video. “Hey, so don’t mention Henry on air, okay? I never meant for you to meet him, and I don’t…he’s the best part of my life, but I like to keep my home life and work life separate.”

Killian nods and walks a little closer to her so that he sways into her space, his hand lingering close to hers. “I assumed as much, love. I promise you that I won’t mention him, and believe it or not, this was planned before I knew about your boy.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely a liar.”

He shrugs. “A liar who bought your dinner and gave you a complimentary dessert because I heard you were a fan of cobblers and all things in the pie family.”

“You know, just because you buy me dinner doesn’t mean I’m going to start liking you.” Killian winks before waggling those damn brows again, and Emma has to bite back her laugh. “Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

-/-

As the weeks go on and summer officially fades into fall, Emma continues to stick to her routines as all of the new parts of it become a little more normal. She wakes up early, occasionally getting to the gym before work but most of the time right after she finishes, goes to work to spend a few hours talking, and then runs errands before picking up Henry from school and spending her afternoon with him. Sometimes Ruby or Mary Margaret and David come over and on occasion Will takes Henry to the batting cages to practice his batting stance, but other than that, things are all the same.

Well, mostly.

She has gotten better about buying groceries more often (hello grocery delivery even with the delivery prices) and attempting to cook so that they can order less takeout, and Henry complains about her cooking a hell of a lot less.

(She really isn’t that bad.)

The one big change, however, is that every Friday night she and Henry wander a few blocks over to Sweet William to get dinner. It started out as an accident, mostly Emma craving a cheeseburger after going to a Pilates class that absolutely kicked her ass, and the two of them found themselves sitting at the corner of the bar again. That quickly changed as the hostess moved them to a booth that has comfortable seats and enough space to fit a few more people. Emma insisted that the bar is fine, but she was told that the owner insists that the two of them sit there.

(Henry is convinced that having a special table for him is the greatest thing in existence, and who knew that being treated specially at a restaurant would be such a huge thing for Henry?)

It goes like that every Friday night. She and Henry go to Sweet William, sitting at the same booth that is always reserved for them, and the two of them make it a challenge to try as many things on the menu as they can. Killian always comes out and sits with them for a few minutes, smelling of a mixture of foods that he doesn’t usually smell of on The Morning Show set, and he’s as charming as he always is.

Emma doesn’t trust it.

Except for the fact that she kind of does.

This is a coworker who is being kind to her and her son. He’s not doing anything untoward, and he’s not asking her for something. Not at all. Killian is simply being nice, entertaining Henry’s questions about what it’s like to be a professional chef and what it’s like to be on TV. Emma scoffs at that, telling Henry that she is literally on TV far more often than Killian is, but he doesn’t seem to care about any of that.

Professional chef obviously trumps Mom.

They learn that Killian moved to New York from London five years ago to open this restaurant after needing a change of scenery and getting all of the right paperwork and that he stumbled into working on The Morning Show because his restaurant manager saw the opening and applied for him as some kind of joke that ended up working out. In turn, Emma shares the story of meeting David when he came to visit the local news station she was working in and how that he offered her the opportunity to start working for the network. It took a bit of convincing, but she and Henry moved from Maine to Manhattan and had a bit of culture shock.

They love it.

The conversation never really seems to stop flowing, not at Friday night dinners and not during the Monday morning segments that keep on getting better and better as Emma becomes honestly comfortable bantering with Killian as she devours all of the food that he cooks. Ruby teases her about it, making far too many inappropriate jokes involving eating, and it only gets worse when there’s a stack of papers on Emma’s desk with printed off tweets talking about how many people look forward to having Emma and Killian working together.

“They ship you,” Ruby explains as she paints red lipstick onto Emma’s lips the day after a particularly funny Halloween segment where Killian made all of the food look both delicious and disgusting in all of its gory and spooky goodness.

“What in the world does that mean?”

“You have a ten-year-old. How do you not know what that means?”

“I think it’s a relationship thing, and he’s not interested in those, which I’m thankful for.”

“He will be,” Ruby promises, and Emma swears that doesn’t make her sentimental. “And shipping is, like, when you want two people to be together.”

Emma almost jolts forward in the chair, but she’s working particularly hard at not moving. She will not react to that. “That’s just weird.” “Eh, kind of, but also not really. You two are ridiculously hot and also have great chemistry together. I get it. Part your lips for me.”

Emma completely and totally pushes that entire conversation to the back of her mind as she finishes getting ready for work and spends her morning doing a Ninja Warrior course with a five-year-old who is a million times better than her at it. It’s actually ridiculous, and she really shouldn’t have worn tight jeans for this.

Not the best outfit choice. At least she got to wear sneakers and a sports bra. It probably would have been disastrous otherwise.

So things are changing, but even the new routines become actual routines, which is exactly what throws Emma for a loop when Henry asks her if he can spend the night with Avery Friday night. She says yes after checking in with Avery’s mom, and after dropping Henry off with his backpack and a promise to see him at noon tomorrow, Emma goes back to an empty apartment that never seems quite right when Henry isn’t around.

Emma’s all about her alone time, something she doesn’t get a lot of even with Henry getting older, but she’s thrown by not having him with her tonight. What does she do? Treat herself to a spa night? She doesn’t really need one. Her job pretty much keeps her pampered all the time. Maybe she could read a book? Or watch a new TV show? But what TV show? There are so many that she’s behind on, and she wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Food would probably be a good start.

And without really thinking about it, Emma grabs her purse, zips up her boots, and walks out the door of her apartment to find herself at she and Henry’s usual Friday night spot, the little reserved sign with their names waiting for them.

Except she’s by herself.

Until someone is sliding a piña colada in front of her and then sitting across from her in the booth.

“How in the world do you know that I like these?”

Killian grins, one of those dumb ones that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle. “Your boy told me that you love them but that you have some ridiculous hang up about ordering them.”

“They’re not on your menu.”

“I know a guy.” Killian nods his head toward her. “Where is the lad tonight?”

Emma hums and takes a sip of her drink. It’s freaking fantastic, and she’s got to thank Henry for spilling her secrets to Killian. Or, at least, that one secret. “He is spending the night with a friend, so he abandoned me to eat by myself.”

“Kids, they betray us all.”

“You’ve been betrayed by a kid?”

“No. I find myself to be too charming.”

She snorts, not really meaning to. “Don’t get too full of yourself, Jones. One day you’ll probably have children, and they will betray you.”

He reaches up to scratch behind his ear. “Eh, I don’t know about that.”

“What? You don’t want kids?”

Wow, Emma. Just go for the personal, why don’t you?

“Don’t answer that,” she blurts out. “That’s too personal of a question, and I should have never asked it.”

Killian reaches over and places his hand over hers on the table, warmth spreading up over her arm. “It’s fine, Swan. I don’t find you intrusive. I think I’d like kids someday, but I’m thirty-four now, not seeing anyone I see a future with, and my relationship history isn’t the best.”

“I can understand that.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a twenty-eight-year-old single mother to a ten-year-old. Do the math.”

Killian smiles and reaches up to adjust the collar of his shirt so that she can see a flash of dark chest hair and the slightest bit of ink. “Aye, I know. I didn’t want to presume. Is Henry’s dad – ”

“He doesn’t know that he exists,” Emma blurts out before downing far too much of her drink. This is too sweet for large gulps like that but really damn good. “I never got the chance to tell him. I was seventeen with no resources except for a slightly sympathetic foster mom and a part-time job as a video editor at a local news station, and Neal just disappeared into thin air one night.”

“What a bastard.”

“You’re telling me,” Emma scoffs. “It’s why I asked you not to say anything about Henry. I’m not ashamed of him. He’s the best thing to ever happen to me. I just…”

“You don’t want Neal to try to come back now that you’ve made a bit of a name out of yourself,” Killian finishes for her, and for the first time in all of the times that she’s told this story, someone understands. “I left London because my brother died in a Naval accident, and my long-term girlfriend left me because my grief was too much for her. She tried to contact me for the same reason the other day. On some level, I understand you even if I know having a child makes things more complicated.”

Emma’s heart absolutely pangs. Sharing tragic backstories and the scars on her heart is not her thing, but something about this man makes the words nearly flow out of her without hesitation. It’s not something she’s used to, not in the slightest.

“What was his name?”

“Liam. He, well, he’d call me a bloody idiot for naming this place after him and after the flower. It was my mum’s favorite, most likely why she named Liam what she did even if we never called him William. I thought it was a great way to honor them both, especially since they’re the people who taught me how to cook.”

“It was.”

Killian tightly smiles before lifting up his hand to wave a server down. “Though, I had a miserable experience with a dish gone wrong that nearly burned down my kitchen and took off my entire arm, so I’m not sure how great of teachers they actually were.”

“You have a restaurant that’s always packed, so I’d say they did a pretty good job.”

He leans forward as a server gets closer to them, and heat does not curl in Emma’s stomach when Killian winks. Not at all. “Or maybe I’m simply that naturally gifted, darling.” She opens her mouth to say something, but then Killian is turning away. “Wendy, can you tell everyone in the back that I’ll be dining out here tonight? Miss Swan is just about to help me come up with our seasonal menu since she has a real thumb on what the public wants.”

“Yes, sir, I can do that.”

Emma arches her brow. “Just invite yourself to my dinner, why don’t you?”

“Would it make it up to you if I pay?”

“You always pay. Every employee in this place refuses to take anything other than a tip from both me and Henry.”

“Huh, wonder why that is.”

They spend the next few hours picking apart the menu, arguing back and forth over food and drink preferences and the pros and cons of classics and specialties, and Emma has never laughed so hard over food. In fact, she’s never laughed so hard in her entire life. She’s spent so much time with this man but usually in short spurts, so she’s never actually gotten to see what he’s like or learn too much about him. He’s still quick to make an innuendo and slow to accept changes or any kind of criticism to the menu, but by the time the restaurant is closed and all of the tables are cleared, they’ve figured something out.

And had a few too many drinks that have her laughing even more.

They also have her accepting Killian’s offer to sleep in his guest bedroom in his apartment upstairs. She should say no, should not at all be accepting an offer like that when she has a perfectly good place ten minutes away, but she’s tired and the thought of getting to bed soon feels too good to pass up.

Her routine changes just a little bit more, and she embraces it for once in her life.

The alcohol makes it be a little less terrifying.

-/-

Killian does an entire segment on pies on the show Monday morning.

He says that it’s for Thanksgiving, but she knows that it’s for her.

He also adds more to the menu at Sweet William.

-/-

After that night, Henry starts inviting Killian over to the apartment for cooking lessons, claiming that both he and Emma could learn to be a little better so that they could eat more than one good meal a week, but Emma knows that there’s some kind of ulterior motive in Henry. There’s a sparkle in those brown eyes of his, and even though he claims that he wants to cook (as much as a ten-year-old can), he always seems to find himself in the living room so that Emma is left with just Killian.

Sneaky kid.

Who gets even sneakier when he invites Killian to Thanksgiving dinner with them. Emma was going to do it. She honestly was, but Henry beat her to it. And that’s exactly how Emma shows up at David and Mary Margaret’s house on Thanksgiving with Henry, Killian Jones, and three pies.

Every single person there is thoroughly intrigued and confused.

Emma is too.

She doesn’t bring men to holidays. She doesn’t bring men around at all. And she especially doesn’t bring men around who sit with their arm around her shoulder or who press their hand lightly into the small of Emma’s back as they stand in the kitchen and debate the different types of dressings to go with turkey.

Except that’s exactly what is happening here, and it sends a little thrill down Emma’s spine that she can’t quite place.

(She can, but it’s almost too terrifying to do that.)

Killian knows most everyone from his mornings on the show, so Emma doesn’t spend her time trying to ease him into things. He does that completely on his own and charms everyone the way that he always does even if she sees him scratch behind his ear, which is undeniably his nervous tick. And hopefully, just hopefully, no one is asking him a million questions like she’s getting asked about whether or not the two of them are dating and does he know that a weird section of the internet ships them?

They’re not, and he does. They laugh about it over wine and Emma’s really gross lasagna on the nights Killian has off from the restaurant.

The day passes in a blur of football and too much food, and before Emma can even blink, the three of them are packing up leftovers and getting an Uber back to Emma’s apartment. Henry crashes as soon as they get there, mumbling something about being too exhausted to take off his shoes, and then he disappears into his room while Killian puts the Tupperware containers into the fridge.

“You don’t have to do that,” she tells him before adjusting her shirt from where it wrinkled. “I can do it.”

“It’s fine, love,” he insists and he puts the leftover apple pie away next to the one he made for her to stay here. “Should we get some coffee and watch a movie? Are you one of those who is ready to celebrate Christmas already?”

“The turkey has been eaten, Jones. It’s time for Christmas. If I didn’t feel like I was dying from overeating and having to talk to people all day, we’d be out getting a Christmas tree right now.”

“Would I be the one carrying it?”

“You know it.”

“It would be my pleasure. I think the pine would mask the smell of kitchen on me.”

Emma turns the coffee maker on, and while it percolates, she starts straightening up the kitchen, putting away dishes in the dishwasher and wiping down countertops, but since they cooked (they being mostly Killian) in the kitchen of Killian’s restaurant, there’s not much to clean up. It’s what has her looking at Killian as he stares down at his phone, fingers typing away a message before the screen goes black and he’s placing it in his back pocket and looking at Emma with the softest smile that she’s ever seen.

And maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s that she’s feeling good…hell, maybe it’s because Emma wants to do something for herself for a change. Maybe it’s that her reasons don’t matter. All she knows is that she’s stepping forward and pressing her palms to Killian’s cheeks and kissing him.

She’s kissing him.

He doesn’t kiss back, not at first. There’s a bit of a grunt, one that doesn’t necessarily sound pleasant, but then his hands are pressing against her back and his lips are moving over hers while he backs them across the kitchen until the sharp edge of her counter is hitting her back. His kiss is warm and tastes of apple and cinnamon and quite possibly a bit of the rum he had right before they left. Emma groans when his teeth nibble down onto her and his hand snakes up underneath her shirt so that she can feel the heat of his palm.

Everything about him is warm and inviting, and as his tongue runs over the seam of her lips and she parts her mouth for him, Emma realizes that it’s been like that the entire time, even when she was upset with him simply for replacing Chef Rudianni and daring to be something different.

Emma almost likes different now.

No, she does. When it’s the right kind of different and a change that she’s okay making.

Killian pulls back, and Emma realizes that they’re both panting, foreheads pressed together and noses squishing into each other’s cheeks. Emma nearly giggles at the thought of her having beard burn.

She’s the height of maturity. She also doesn’t care. It’s been a long time since she’s felt like this.

“That was,” Killian breathes out.

“Definitely happening again,” she smiles before kissing him again.

Little by little they manage to make it out of the kitchen and back to Emma’s bedroom, both of them careful not to make any noise so as not to wake Henry, and once the door is locked behind them, clothes are shed and Killian’s lips run across her body, whispering words that sound sweeter than anything else, until he’s driving her into madness in a way that she hasn’t felt in years.

Maybe not ever.

The good changes keep on coming.

(So does Emma.)

-/-

Henry barely bats an eye when Killian is there to make them breakfast in the morning even though Emma is more than sure to make sure everything stays appropriate for him. She’s not really sure how to navigate dating around Henry, and when she asks him if he’s okay with she and Killian being together, he tells her that he wants her to be happy.

He also says that he wants to keep getting free cheeseburgers.

-/-

A year later, Killian names the cheeseburger at his restaurant after Henry.

The piña colada is named after Emma.

-/-

Every Monday morning and every Friday night turns into every day, and Emma is more than okay with that change.

#every monday morning #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan

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iamnotbrianmay · 5 years

Text

hey ho (here he goes)

Hey boys! So i have this short fic i am currently working on and I wanted to share it with you! Hope you enjoy!

Brian has never in his life thought about murdering someone.

Not when Freddie had sold off half of his closet to buy himself a new pair of shoes. Not when Roger dumped a pot of coffee on his notebook, halfway through revision for his semester exam. Not when John had drunkenly thrown up in his room and then decided to let him perish from the smell.

But everyone is bound to break eventually, and it's no surprise that the first person Brian May wants to murder is an underaged child.

The gremlin in question is currently sat crying at the other end of the sofa, scissors in one hand and half of Brian's hair in the other. The guitarist has a hand hovering over his head. Close to the place his locks used to be. Space which is now empty.

He hasn't had the time to check at himself in the mirror, but he knows it's terrible by the sheer amount of hair, and the worrying amount of length, his little cousin is holding in her pudgy fists. He stares at her horrified, as she weeps her heart out, wailing about how she didn't know that snipping his hair with scissors would make it shorter.

His heart aches for the little runt. Yearning to hold her close and tell her that everything is going to be alright. It's just hair, nothing they can't fix. But his brain is going at a hundred miles per hour screaming about how his head feels wrong, wrong, wrong and it's only when he runs his fingers through his hair, and he feels how extremely short it is, that Brian's reality comes crashing down on him.

He bolts out of the living room and into the closest bathroom. His family members scream after him, worried about the fact that their boy just ran past them, shoving every person aside. He bursts into the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror, doing his best not to cry. He is a twenty-eight-year-old man, in a rock band, with a best selling album which has been topping the charts for almost three weeks now. He can't start crying because of a hair cut.

But oh god, is short an understatement.

It's curling around his face in an unruly fashion, framing his face like a fucking cloud, and making him look ridiculous. One half of his hair is long a pretty, the other half looks like Brian's worst nightmare.

His mom bursts into the bathroom then, worried and with her hands covered in onion and mince. And as she sees her son, she lets out a soft gasp and covers her mouth, "Oh no, Brian, baby, what happened to you?"

Twenty-eight years of experience and hardships are not enough to keep him from bursting into tears the second after the words leave his mother's mouth. To Hell with it, he thinks, rockstars can also cry.

His appointment at the hair saloon went as incredible as anyone could have expected. Meaning it went like shit. Not only was his usual hairstylist, Gema, away for the holidays, but he also had to endure MTVs top fifty songs of the past ten years. List which contained an ungodly amount of Queen songs. Usually he would have been thrilled at the prospect, but at the moment it seemed like the world was laughing at his face as the video for Killer Queen (and his beautiful hair) was shown in the large television on the wall.

They tried to salvage as much of his hair as they could, which wasn't much, and sent him home with a bag of chemicals meant to help with the growth of his hair.

Everything felt so wrong now that he didn't have his hair. His neck had become so extremely sensitive to temperature, and he felt so naked with his ears out in the open. The one good thing about the whole ordeal was that absolutely nobody stopped Brian on his way home. Something that hadn't happened to him since before the release of A Night at the Opera.

The threw open the door to his house, glad to be happy for the first time that day, and rushed to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, hand coming to tug at his now criminally short curls. God knows how long he stayed like that. Mouth agape, eyes wide, and hands running through his locks, tugging at them every so often.

Brian was so distracted by the turn of events he completely missed the sounds of his door unlocking and bickering. Everything seemed a thousand miles away, and he was only brought out by the sound of glass smashing. He turned around and stared at the offender, only to find his three best friends looking at him with wide eyes. Shards of the broken glass had flown everywhere, and by the position of Freddie's arm he could guess who had been holding it.

Brian thanked the gods for the fact that he had decided to wear a hoodie, and quickly scrambled to cover his hair, even if he knew it was of no use. They had seen it. They had seen what had happened and probably were thinking about how horrible he looked now. He looked like a little boy. Like one of those old pictures his father had of him scattered all over the living room. He must have looked like he had when Roger had first joined Smile, all afro and lack of confidence.

Oh god, he had returned to being a teenager, hadn't he?

The first one to snap out of it is Freddie, he takes a step forward, mindful of the glass, and reaches out to Brian, "Oh darling, it looks amazing."

Brian nearly punches Freddie, "Of course it doesn't look amazing! It looks like shit! I look like shit. I want my hair back."

Yeah, he definetly is throwing a tantrum. John's expression softens, and just like Freddie he takes a step forward, "What are you talking about? You look cute, Bri. I promise."

"It was really brave of you to change your hairstyle after all this time."

"Not brave," Brian mumbles, tugging his hoddie even lower. "I didn't want to change it."

"What was that, darling?" Freddie asks, "I couldn't hear you."

"I wasn't the one that cut my hair," Brian repeats himself, then launches into his story about how his cousin had been playing with his hair. How she had been braiding it and 'making him pretty' and then how she had cut a chunk of it out. Nothing he could do about it, not a choice he made. Freddie and John looked like they were seconds away from wrapping Brian in a gigantic blanket and helping him plan his cousin's murder. Roger on the other hand was still staring at him dumbfounded.

Was it really that bad? Had his cousin messed up so badly that now Roger, person who Brian had slowly but surely tried to woo, thought he looked hideous. He buried his head in his hands, no longer wanting to see the incredulous expressions on his friends' faces, or Roger's disgust. Because, of course, Brian May hardly ever did something half assed. If he was going to look ugly, he might as well look ugly enough for Roger to realise that Brian wasn't worth his time.

John and Freddie grabbed Brian and lead him out of the bathroom, making him sit down in the living room and bringing over a glass of water while the guitarist wallowed in hate and pity. He watched as they fussed around the house, bringing him blankets, food, his laptop and some crappy movies. Everything to make him feel alright. But nothing was working. Not really.

All he could see were Roger's eyes, and imagine as his best friend took him to a restaurant and very gently let him down. "I'm sorry Brian. I know we have been flirting for a few months, and I know that we had even considered becoming something but I don't think we can do this anymore."

That was his inevitable fate, wasn't it? He was going to lose everything he had worked so hard to get because of a fucking haircut, and dear lord he might actually go insane if that does happen. He is so lost in thought he doesn't notice the small fight John, Freddie, and Roger have, or when the brunettes leave, he only gets pulled out of his head when Brian feels a callused hand touching his cheek, and when he looks up, he is met with two beautiful baby blue eyes. They look large and bright eyelashes framing them. He trails his eyes over Roger's features, his button nose, his lovely lips, and finally his beautiful, long, blonde hair.

Roger is so unfairly pretty that it felt like someone had punched the air out of him every time he gets to look at the blonde.

"Hey," Roger pressed their foreheads together, "you got lost in your head again."

Brian swallowed, "Sorry."

"Don't be," the blond answered, "what happened to you must have felt horrible." Brian nodded, making his nose bump Roger's. The younger boy giggled, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"There is nothing to talk about," Brian shrugged, "I just guess I'll have to deal with looking like this until it grows back."

"I think it's cute."

"Roger."

"I mean it!"

"I look like—" he stopped himself, unsure of what he looked like exactly, "I look horrible."

"No you don't." The blonde insists, "You look like you did when we first met."

"That's why."

There is a second of silence in which Roger is looking at him like he can't quite understand what Brian is saying. Then he pulls away. He feels Roger shift until the younger boy is basically straddling him, then he feels Roger's hands on his cheeks again, "Brian May, are you telling me that you believe you are not the prettiest person alive?"

Brian made a face, "What kind of question is that? Of course I don't think I'm the prettiest person alive."

"Well, that has to change."

Brian can't help but feel like he is a teenager all over again with Roger in his lap. They are both pouting and being silly. Two internationally recognised rock stars, on the couch, acting like love struck teenagers. He feels Roger's finger slide from his cheeks to the nape of his neck and Brian has to suppress a shiver.

"Can I take this off?"

Brian stares at the drummer for a few seconds, trying to find the tiniest amount of mischief in his eyes. Trying to see if Roger would laugh as soon as the hood was out of the way. But the blonde was looking at Brian as if he had hung the moon and the stars. As if he is the prettiest creature on earth. The guitarist nods hesitantly.

He feels the soft fabric of his hood uncover his face. Feels the air of the room hit the back of his neck. And sees as Roger lets out a sigh at the sight of Brian's curly hair, "Beautiful."

Maybe Brian's disbelief shines in his eyes.

"You are beautiful, baby." He presses their foreheads together again, "Absolutely stunning."

The kiss is unexpected, but most certainly not unwelcome. Brian is frozen for a couple of seconds before he lets himself be kissed.

Okay I have a very important question for you all! Would you like the next chapter to be smut or fluff? Cause I got ideas for both.

tell me if you want to be added to the tag list!

Official Artwork for this fic is this lovely piece made by my girl rose ( @riveter-rose), go give her some love!

#Maylor #Brian May #roger taylor #freddie mercury #John Deacon #Queen #slash #fluff #fanfic #My writing

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missmarquin · 5 years

Text

A Rip in Time

A Yuri On Ice Star Trek Inspired AU by @missmarquin and @theangryuniverse.

Read on A03!

Prologue

There is a lot resting on my shoulders, here.

He could feel it, the weight of his father’s expectations. He had joined Starfleet to get away from his strict and traditional family, but what a stupid idea that had been. Admiral Nikiforov was one of the most renowned Commanders in the history of the organization, and the moment that his own name had been uttered on the roll call lists, all eyes had turned his way.

That was the moment that Victor had decided to show off, rather than coast through the Academy on a low radar. Brilliant, flamboyant, and incredibly gay, he let his talents speak for themselves. He graduated a year early, with grades that were far above par. He was a prodigy when it came to military tactics and planetary navigation, and several of his maneuvers already graced the pages of textbooks.

But it hadn’t been enough. His first assignment had been on his father’s ship, but the man had been so embarrassed by having a gay son, that he had requested Victor to be immediately transferred. Despite happening nearly eight years prior, it still stung.

And now, there he stood on deck three of the Beta Centauri Space Station. Staring out of the forcefield, towards the port where the USS Agape was currently docked. Crewman in spacesuits walked along the hull, making their last minute inspections before it set off. The ship was a prototype model, brand new and sleek, and never-been-flown.

And she was his. Victor had been gifted this amazing Command, marking his place in history as the youngest Starfleet Captain ever, at the age of twenty-seven.

“Did he bother to show up?” he asked, but the moment the question left his mouth, he already knew the answer. Eight years was a long time, but not long enough for a bitter old man to realize that his son wouldn’t ever bring home a girl.

“I sent the invite, as you asked,” another man responded, following it up with a sigh. Victor turned to look at Admiral Yakov Feltsman, his lips twisting into a knowing small, knowing smile.

“I didn’t expect much, honestly,” he replied. “Even making history isn’t good enough for that old fool.”

“Fool indeed,” Feltsman said, “but still technically a superior officer.” He didn’t really mean anything by it though, and Victor laughed.

“I think I get a pass this time, being his son and all.”

“He’d court martial you on the spot, if he heard such informality.”

“He’d court martial me for plenty of other things too, if he could have his way.” Silence stretched between them, and it didn’t take a genius to know exactly what Victor meant. Finally, he back back to look at the ship, and said, “I know that I deserve this. I don’t have to sit here and wonder, ‘Why me’. But I can’t help but wonder-- will I do her justice? Will I do my crew justice?”

The Admiral reached out, pressing a hand against his shoulder. “That’s a question that every Captain asks, and it’s not just the first time. Every Mission brings such a question, and it never gets easier.”

At that, Victor frowned. “If you’re trying to give me a pep talk, it isn’t working.”

“I’m not done,” Feltsman continued with. “It’s a good thing. Imagine if it did get easier? Captains would get sloppy, and when Command is sloppy, people die. It is a good thing to be confident, but it is more important to question yourself. It keeps you in check, and it keeps your crew safe.”

Victor had served on plenty of ships, and he had saved plenty of lives. But never before, had he been responsible for them. But he was the most confident person he knew, and despite his momentary apprehension, he would remain that way.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said, reaching over to return the shoulder grasp, trying not to think of things that had happened before. There was nothing good about getting lost in his past. “We’re not going to war, or anything,” he finally finished with.

“That’s more your father’s style,” the Admiral said with a smirk.

Victor smirked back. “Now who’s breaking protocol, with all that informality?”

Feltsman just threw his head back, and laughed in response.

…..

How the fuck did I get here?

The question had been his constant mantra for the last four hours.

Initially, it had been what the fuck am I doing, as he stepped onto the small transport ship. Looking back at his mother, who should have been the concerned one. But she had looked excited for him instead, leaving him feeling like he was going to hurl.

Yuuri Katsuki didn’t do space.

He had graduated the Academy with flying colors, and he could crack complicated alien languages with little more than a few lines of dialogue and a decent set of headphones, but intergalactic space travel?

Absolutely the fuck not.

He was actually impressed with himself, now that he thought about it. He had only wanted hurl, the entire trip to the Space Station, but he hadn’t.

Yet. There was still plenty of time, and despite Beta Centauri being stationary, despite his feet firmly on the deck floor, and the gravitational control systems working to a perfect tee--

There was just so much that could go wrong. Space was dangerous. It was dangerous, deadly and worst of all, permanent. If you died in space, you stayed in space, where there was nothing else. And that freaked him out the most.

He had wanted a post on Earth, preferably. In the end, he would have taken any planet, really. He wanted his feet firmly on the ground, where you could stand nice and solid, and you couldn’t get blown out of the sky, careening to your death, or suffocating in space, or--

There he went again, thinking of the worst of things. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to settle himself.

Why the fuck am I here?

A slightly different question, with a slightly different answer. He had been posted to the USS Agape, and for whatever reason he had agreed. Clearly, he was sick.

Or insane.

And still not entirely convinced that he had made the right choice.

Someone stepped right next to him, dropping their bag onto the metal grate of the floor. “Seriously, what a beautiful ship, and she’s all ours!”

Yuuri winced slightly. There was literally nothing beautiful about that death trap sitting out there, and the idea of spending the next few years on there was slowly looking less and less appealing, and he--

He paused, taking a deep breath again. “Nishigori-san,” he said politely, as he turned to look at her. “I would appreciate it, if you wouldn’t remind me about my grave mistake of taking this assignment.”

Yuuko blinked back at him innocently, but he knew better. Finally, her lips curved into a smile. “At least you aren’t alone, you know. At least you have your best friend here.”

Best friend was pushing it, but he was incredibly fond of the woman, and her stupid husband. He had always been a bit of an outcast and a weird kid, and at the academy, they had looked right past that.

They also spoke Japanese, which was an instant comfort.

“It’ll be fine, Yuuri,” she said, opting to drop formality. She had always been casual around him, and he had always struggled with following suit. “I mean, you heard about who our Captain is, right?”

No, he hadn’t, and he told her as such. She looked at him dumbfounded. “I didn’t really read the brief,” he admitted. “I thought that if I did, I’d chicken out and well…” He cast a wary glance back towards the ship.

“You know, I’m honestly surprised that you haven’t passed out.” He was too, but he didn’t waste his time telling her that. She opened her mouth to continue. “Anyhow, we’re under the command of the illustrious Captain Victor Nikiforov. I could just about die, I do believe.”

That made Yuuri come to a full-stop. “Isn’t he the one that destroyed half a ship, with some crazy maneuver?”

Yuuko nodded enthusiastically. “He managed to survive on limited life support, while it took the fleet over two days to find him. Kind of amazing, yeah?”

“And isn’t he the one that the Riki Tiki Niki is named after?”

“I mean, it might be a ridiculous tactic, but it works. Apparently.”

Yuuri just stared at her, like she had lost her mind. It worked, sure, but only if you had a death wish, and didn’t mind being catapulted into dead space if it didn’t. Victor Nikiforov was famous for a million things, not limited to being insane.

“I’ve made a mistake,” he said, breathing faster. “This was a mistake, I can’t… Nishigori-san, I can’t do this--”

He felt two hands press against his shoulders, turning him to face her. “If you say what I think you’re going to say, I won’t hesitate to slap you. Seriously Yuuri, you haven’t worked your ass off to get anywhere but here.”

“Why couldn’t I have been stationed on a planetary outpost? That would be nice, and most of all safe.”

“And useless. Yuuri, this is an exploratory mission. A Xenolinguist of your caliber is necessary.”

“There are plenty of others to choose from,” he said, his throat feeling dry. But she shot him an unconvinced look. “Right?”

“Like I said, Yuuri,” she said, slinging her arm around his shoulder, and motioning to the ship. “You won’t be alone. Takeshi and I will be here with you, every step of the way.”

“More like making sure that I step onto that damn ship,” he muttered.

“Damn right.”

Yuuri sighed and pulled away from her, before leaning over and picking up Yuuko’s bag, and handing it to her. “Then let’s go, before I actually change my mind.”

I’m crazy, he thought, as they left the corner and headed towards the gate. I’m absolutely, fucking crazy, and I will regret this the rest of his life.

Yuuri decided that he could live with the regret.

He just had to survive space first.

…..

I’m tired of all these fucking ships. I’m tired of rules, and captains, and missions that I won’t ever finish.

Six ships. That’s how many ships Yuri Plisetsky had served on, within the span of a year. And he was tired of being kicked off of one, and immediately thrown onto another. The USS Agape would be no exception, he was sure.

He couldn’t help that authority pissed him off. It wasn’t his fault that Starfleet Captains were rigid, unfunny jerks, who couldn’t take a fucking joke. Or you know, something as simple as a suggestion.

Then again, his idea of a suggestion, usually consisted of blowing off an order entirely in favor of a different direction. Sometimes, those directions worked.

But most of the time, he was just some punk who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

This ship was different than the last, smaller and sleeker in design. And brand-spanking new, from what he had heard, not even broken-in. Different, than his usual assignment. When Starfleet had realized that he had no intention on listening to authority, they had started stationing him on clunkers. Part of him wondered if they were just sick of him.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

He frowned, as distant memories of a mother who didn’t give a shit surfaced, before swapping to a much preferable one of his grandfather. He had told his mother he wanted to soar through the skies, and she had laughed, saying that the idea was ridiculous. Which was ironic, coming from a dancer that was way past her prime. But then he mentioned it to his grandfather Nikolai, who had only ruffled his hair and told him that he would need better grades for that.

Guess which parent he had listened too?

But it hadn’t been easy. Starfleet Academy was built upon rule after rule, classes and grades, and an overall sense of superiority that had pissed him the fuck off for years. The moment he had turned eighteen, had been the best moment of his life.

And then his first position had been a miserable disaster. And then the next… and the next… and the--

This would be the seventh time, he would try to do this whole thing called responsibility, and quite frankly, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Suddenly, the bag hanging on his shoulder felt heavy, and not because of his belongings within it.

“They said that he asked for you personally,” Kenjirou Minami said from next to him. They weren’t friends, and they barely knew each other, but Yuri recognized his face well enough to remember having classes with him at the academy.

“Who?”

Kenjirou blinked, like he was surprised that he had offered to grace him with words. Yuri reminded himself to make these the last words that he ever said to the man. “Captain Nikiforov, of course.”

It was Yuri’s turn to pause and think. Finally, he blurted, “Why the fuck would he do that?”

The other man shrugged. “Not a clue,” he said, before turning and heading towards the gate.

Yuri hated the way that he followed after him, like a pet cat.

….

I super didn’t design this engine to actually be built.

Really, Otabek Altin hadn’t.

It had started out with mindless tinkering about with temporal mathematics, which had led to theories. He loved theories, and he just had to write them down, and so he did like always. It looked like gibberish to just about anyone except him, and there was literally no credibility to it, aside from the fact that Otabek was a literal genius when it came to these kinds of things.

But then his sister had found the stupid doodle he had made, covered in tons of equations, and she just had the brilliant idea to turn it into Starfleet.

And they had just had the brilliant idea to think that it actually might just work.

Sure, he liked to build engines. He liked the way that tools felt in his hands, and the way that oil and grease stuck to his skin. It was therapeutic, pulling things apart and putting them back together, in the warm heat of the engine room.

He hadn’t meant to design such a thing, and he certainly hadn’t ever planned to build it.

Otabek had met with Starfleet though, despite being a lowly engineer that only fixed warp drives. They had decided to task him with building this ridiculous engine that he had theorized, offering him as many grants and personnel that it would take.

Three years later, and it worked.

Well, at least it had in tests. Moving an entire ship was another matter, and while they had run test drives for months, throwing an entire crew aboard and calling it a mission was something else entirely. And he wasn’t sure that he wanted that responsibility.

He didn’t do people really, he only got along with engines and his sister Maya-- and that was only because they were twins. He had never liked serving on starships, and after having a team of scientists and engineers forced to work with him for several years straight…

Well, he wanted some alone time. And it didn’t look like he was going to get any.

He had to admit though, the USS Agape was just as impressive looking, as the first time he had seen her, for her initial testing.

Maya leaned against him, waiting a long moment before saying, “You know, if you think any harder, you just might break your face.” He didn’t warrant that with a response, prompting her to frown slightly. “Really, what’s going on in that head of yours?”

“The first time we took this engine on a test run, the Temporal Warp Drive blew out half of the ship’s hull.”

He eyebrows rose high and she let out a low whistle. “You told me that the first test hadn’t gone well, but damn Beka.”

“The second time we tested it, the engine imploded instead, throwing half of the ship into a space-time rift that had been ripped into the atmosphere. It took nearly three days to close it, and make sure nothing was damaged beyond repair.”

“And…?”

“The USS Eros was immediately decommissioned, and this one was built.”

Maya hummed lightly at that. “You’ve never been a worry-wart, Beka,” she chastised.

“Even if the Agape has been through extensive testing, that was with a skeleton crew. This time around there’s not ten people, there’s a hundred.” He pointed to her. “Even civilians.”

“And think of the future, when this engine works out perfectly. You’ll have literally changed space travel!”

“If, not when.”

“No,” Maya hissed, “when.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him shrewdly. “This isn’t about the ship at all, is it?”

“I want to go home, and I want to work on my bike.”

“Why work on a bike, when you could change history?”

Otabek to sighed, before looking at her. “I never wanted to change history, Maya. You made that decision for me.” When she had turned over his work to his commanding officer.

She leaned forward and patted his chest. “Which is why I’m here,” she said sweetly. “I take responsibility for my actions.”

“You’ve always wanted to own a lounge aboard a starship. This isn’t a punishment for you, it’s your damn dream. What was it you used to say? All Starfleet and no play, makes Maya very bored?”

She pulled back with a grunt. “Not everyone is an anti-social technophile of a hermit, who would rather grease up an engine, instead of a woman, if you know what I mean.”

“Maya--”

“You know Beka, I was only thinking of you. I was tired of seeing you mope around your garage--”

“I don’t mope--”

“--covered in who knows what. You’re an engineering genius, made top marks at Starfleet and could have your pick of a Command, and what do you do? You tinker with engines all day in a dirty jumpsuit, and you let that rank go to waste. You’re worth so much more, Beka.”

Otabek sighed. “It’s not about worth, Maya. I like fixing engines. I like working alone. I prefer it.”

Maya only shook her head, tutting at him. “What a waste,” she said with humor. And then she left him, heading for the gate. Otabek sighed again, this time dragging his hand down his face.

New goal-- get to the ship, find the engine room, never leave.

When put that way, it didn’t sound so bad.

#Yurionice #Yuri on ice #Fanfiction #Yuri On Ice Fanfiction #victor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #otabek altin #Yuri Plisetsky #Star Trek AU #gays in space #victor x yuuri #Otayuri

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fckeddiemunson · 7 years

Photo

The Guitarist - Chapter One

ALRIGHT SO I GOT BORED AND WANTED TO DO THIS I WILL UPLOAD AGAIN SOON AND YES IT WILL BE SMUTTY

Harry wasn’t sure how he ended up in a crowded venue, surrounded by beefy guys with beer in sleeveless leather jackets. But there he was regardless. He wanted to be alone, but not be alone. Going anywhere public would have been futile and resulted in hastily taken pictures and the definite hassle of paparazzi. It took him a while to think of a place, but he was driving down a quiet street of London when he saw an advertisement for a small metal band, playing a show of about 500. The tickets were dirt cheap and the risk of someone recognising him there was so slim, Harry was convinced he could use a fake name with no second glances. Harry hadn’t the faintest idea what kind of show he was in for, but he was excited to witness something new. Something where cameras weren’t watching and he could just watch, without being watched. He was to the left of the stage, people packed in closer but he stood his ground, at a good distance from the stage.

The lights dimmed completely and a dark red light illuminated the stage, hauling in whistles and screams from the audience. Harry chuckled and whistled with them, relishing in the feeling of being on the other side. Harry blended in and didn’t feel too out of place with his black t-shirt and tattooed arms, but he knew he was different. Harry dressed like a rock star but had the personality of a bumble bee dancing around a stage in a flower crown. He was a delicate creature who liked the simplicities of life and liked his privacy. He had learned over the years who he was and that person should not have been at a metal concert. The band was called Living With Insanity and he felt somehow captivated to their contrasting elements and desire for something new.

The band came on one by one, in traditional fashion and his eyes landed on the lead guitarist. The guitarist was a girl around 20, wild curly dark brown hair and cascading tattoos down her slim body. He felt entranced by her playing, the way her fingers plucked the riffs and murdered the solos. She stood on his side of the stage and mainly looked out at the crowd, smiling. Harry could just see her hazel eyes wondering the crowd as she danced across the strings on her black electric guitar. A few men in the crowd heckled at her during intervals but she took it in her stride and answered their crude and ridiculous pleas. He was captivated by her, nobody else mattered in the band, the crowd’s screams dulled in his ears as he listened only to the playing of her guitar. His body moved to the playing of her guitar, much like rest of the crowd. Her eyes wondered out to the crowd, searching for faces but Harry knew this attempt was pointless in such a dark venue. The show came to a close and all Harry wanted to do was find that girl and talk to her. Her aura on stage was enthralling and he felt possessed by it. He wandered lethargically out of the venue and to the back of the building where he saw them packing up. Chords lay tangled everywhere and she was crouched down wrapping them around her arm, cigarette between her lips and hair wild.

“Hey.” Harry said softly as he walked up in front of her, her eyes darted up and eyebrows quirked at him.

“Hi.” She replied in a huffed tone and continued wrapping up the chords.

“I’m Harry” he said with an assured tone, attempting to strike up a conversation, maybe even help her.

“I am aware. I’m Piper” Harry was slightly taken aback but didn’t let it faze him.

“Can I help you with anything?” Harry said, grinning and looking down at the chords she had to wrap up.

“Sure, just don’t mess up the chords.” She handed him a loose chord, making brief eye contact with him. Piper wasn’t quite sure why Harry was at their show, in fact she was quite confused.

“What are you doing here, pretty boy?” Her tone was somewhat accusing but she was mostly outrageously curious.

“I came to enjoy the show.” He said sincerely, Piper’s expression was somewhat hard and unreadable.

“Yeah okay.” Piper went back to wrapping the chords and took a ling drag of her cigarette causing Harry to cough innocently. Piper rolled her eyes, her expression covered by her cascading looks.

“Look, I just wanted to tell you the show was really good by the way, and you are an amazing player.” Harry smiled at the girl, her piercing mixed hazel eyes looked at him, attempting to decipher his meaning.

“Look, flattery will get you nowhere, pretty boy.” Piper retorted, accusation lacing her soothing voice.

“I wasn’t- ” Harry was cut off by Piper standing up and walking away, he quickly got up to follow her, desperate for her attention. Harry almost slapped himself for being so whiney. Piper turned around and took a step toward Harry to which he took one back. Piper took another and so did Harry, he felt his back touch a wall and Piper stood awfully close to him.

“Pretty boy, what do you want?” Piper spoke softly, holding a firm and slightly frustrated tone.

“A drink, with you.” Harry’s breathing had quickened and he could feel the hair on his neck rising in nervousness.

“I don’t do the whole mega star thing.” She gestured to his body and he shook his head.

“I’m not like the media portrays me.”

“And what would that be?” Piper challenged

“A stuck-up asshole with too much money and who doesn’t care.” Harry breathed out quickly, burning under Piper’s stare. Piper weighed up her options, she could either go home to her messy liquor filled apartment and drink herself to sleep or she could go out with popstar Harry and go to a poncy bar with a dress code.

“I pick the bar.” Piper stepped away from Harry and he exhaled sharply, nodding while looking her in the eye. Piper asked one of the roadies if he could pack up the chords and she told Harry to wait while she collected her belongings. He waited anxiously, somewhat intimidated by her. They started walking down the alley way, Piper led the way, her strides fast and snappy, Harry kept up with his long legs. He couldn’t help but trail his eyes down her body when she got slightly ahead, her jeans clung tightly to her figure and her hair flowed wildly behind her, mimicking her fierce personality. Harry didn’t want to seem like the other guys she clearly disliked so he kept his eyes down on the road as they walked. Harry didn’t even expect to acquire her number at the end of the night but her endearing personality attracted him, in an unexpected manner. He usually went for a quiet girl who didn’t cause the media any scandals, although, he felt Piper admired privacy and didn’t want hers stripped away from her.

“So, how long have you been playing guitar?” Harry smiled as they walked down a quiet street with a few lone people lurking around.

“Since I was eight. How long have you been singing?” Piper looked at Harry, making an attempt to be nicer than she had.

“Ever since I could talk really, but I didn’t think I had any real potential.” Piper couldn’t help but roll her eyes, but hid them from Harry who was watching her intently.

“Yeah, well singing seemed to turn out pretty well for you.” Piper attempted a smile that ended up like a pained Cheshire cat. Harry however smiled his toothy grin back and Piper stopped at a door. The door led to a downtown bar, the slightly dodgy and dirty part of town. Even as a teenager, Harry didn’t venture down here, unlike Piper, his life was more sheltered than hers. Harry had lived a relatively normal and cosy life as a child compared to the backlashing harsh life of Piper.

The lights inside the bar were dim and a few strippers adorned poles in the back corner of the room. Middle aged men threw money at them, their white singlets showing their protruding beer bellies. Shift workers loved this place. They loved the dark decor, the cheap strippers and the near twenty-four-hour service for any and all needs. Harry felt a bit uncomfortable but slung his body down on a faux leather lounge that was chipping and peeling. Piper ordered shots for the two of them, clearly knowing her way around the claustrophobic, smoke ridden bar. She laid down on the lounge opposite him and he coughed slightly, engaging her attention.

“So, tell me about your life?” Piper was shocked by his constant optimistic glow but shrugged, sitting up to look him in the eye.

“I bust my ass in a band that is seemingly going nowhere, but I love making music so I stay. I work occasionally at this bar when our gig money doesn’t cut the rent and electricity and water bills. I could’ve gone to university; my marks were good enough but I chose the band life and started touring the UK with a bunch of twenty-five-year old guys who learnt pretty quickly that I was an equal member of this band and we got along ever since.” Harry wasn’t expecting such a length response, but he was glad they were managing to get a conversation rolling. Piper didn’t ask about his life and she knew it would completely shadow her small little life.

“What was your first job?” Harry questioned as their shots came and they downed them simultaneously.

“I used to work at a coffee shop that was on the river. It was lovely there, but they changed owners and it wasn’t the greatest after that. What about you?” Piper seemed to look fondly back on this memory, a smile curled on her lips and Harry wanted to see more of it.

“I used to work in a bakery.” They made eye contact and Piper giggled at Harry’s answer.

“What?” he giggled back at her, confused at her sudden outburst, but intrigued.

“I’ve lived a safe life and I am a huge rock star and I used to work in a bakery.” Piper taunted him, Harry’s grin widened as he shook his head at her impression.

They ordered another round of shots, this time Harry watched her drink hers before he downed his. He watched the scrunch of her nose as she swallowed and the crinkle of her eyes as the spirit hit her throat. His eyes stared into hers as she bit her lip, hollering for more shots. Shot after shot they took and soon they were huddled together on the same lounge, Harry ran his hand through her dark curly mess. Harry’s phone began to buzz relentlessly and Piper had ended up turning it off and shoving it in her pocket, claiming he wasn’t allowed to have it. Harry was surprised by Piper’s demeaner in her drunken state. She stopped pretending to be an intimidating guitarist and let herself laugh and smile. She snuggled into his chest as they sat there, the music subtle in the bar, a few truck drivers had stopped and then left again. They had been there the longest, cheesy laughing at every shot they took and slamming the glasses down on the scratched dark wooden table.

“I think we better go.” Piper stated, in between every word a hiccup.

“I’ll call my driver.” Harry said loudly and started patting Piper down in an attempt to locate his phone. He found it and smirked at Piper before taking it off her. Piper dazily sat up from the lounge and stood up, stretching widely as Harry made the call.

“Okay, let’s go!” Piper was in an excited state and dragged Harry up from the lounge, he grabbed his coat and stumbled with her out the front door. They stood in the freezing air, dancing from foot to foot, trying to keep themselves warm. Harry felt light headed and looked towards Piper, her face lit up as she made eye contact with a freezing Harry. Harry saw a car turn a corner, recognising it immediately he walked closer to the road. It was being followed by several vans, he knew they contained paps. He looked to his driver and his driver was shaking his head, Harry knew he had been stalked on the way over. Piper seemed gleefully unaware of them and Harry wanted to keep it that way, knowing that even in her happy drunken state, she would lash out, claiming he was something he wasn’t. He wrapped an arm around her waist and hustled her into the car as soon as it pulled up. He saw the distant flash of a camera but didn’t turn his head in acknowledgment and instead buckled himself into the dark car.

“Piper, where do you live?” he slurred lightly but smiled earnestly at her. She seemed somewhat more aware and gave the driver explicit directions, her hands gesturing as she spoke. Harry tried to take a mental note of her place when they arrived, it was in a quiet street. The apartment building towering menacingly over the drunken boy. He stepped out of the car with her, walking her to the entrance of the building. Piper regained a sober moment and pushed him unexpectedly against the red brick wall.

“Like I said pretty boy, flattery will get you nowhere.” She breathed to him, her eyes flutter as she leant in and kissed the corner of his mouth teasingly. He tried to kiss back but she stopped and smirked at him, fumbled with her keys and unlocked the apartment entrance.

“See you later, pretty boy.” Her voice, like velvet rang in his ears as he walked back to his car, already in need to see her again.

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #weird concept #smut #i like #harry #cute #hot #af #baby #beauty #guitar #love #harold #the guitarist

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biketrash · 7 years

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Hotter ‘n Tandems Hundred

With the sun still asleep, we were unloading the tandems. Many might think it to be ridiculous to be awake this early. For us, that barely scratched the surface of our insanity. Today, Marde and I, were riding our second Hotter than Hell Hundred on our tandem. In a year’s time we have forgotten the sting of the saddle sores, the heat of an unrelenting sun, the never ending headwinds. All we could recall was the satisfaction of finishing a hundred miles on our bicycle. At least that’s how we sold it to Donald and Amanda. “Get a tandem” we said. “Ride a hundred miles” we said. “It’ll be fun” we said. Donald and Amanda have a natural talent for the tandem. Whatever their weaknesses may be on single bikes, they are quickly overcome on a two seater. They ride faster and can go farther working together. In the few months they’ve shared the horsepower at the rear wheel, they’ve clocked in several high milage rides. Today, however, would be their first triple digit ride. That is, if they made Hell’s Gate in time.

Pre ride smiles

We find ourselves packed in with many other tandems, along with recumbents. Among our ranks are even a few recumbent tandems. The organizers are well aware of the herky-jerky start hundreds of tandems and recumbents initiate. Starting us with the 10K+ single riders that will participate today is a recipe for disaster. Instead, the Cat 1&2 (pros and pro like) take off first, quietly and without fanfare. At an average pace of nearly 30mph, they are not worried about making Hell’s Gate on time. Marde and I will focus on a 12-15 mph pace. That will keep us on track to make the gate. Donald and Amanda should have no trouble pacing with us.

Marde’s view

Hell’s Gate is a timing strip laid out at mile 62. This imaginary gate closes at 12:30. If you are late, you will be turned to a shorter (75 mile) route. Donald is determined to make it. Everybody needs a good challenge every now and then. At roughly 6:45, they release our rag tag renegade fleet of odd looking bicycles. The race for the gate is on! Thinking in race terms, makes the first miles hard. It’s not as tough physically as it is mentally. You have to pace yourself. Start too fast and you just won’t last. With the cool morning air and relatively flat road, it’s hard to not push yourself. This is, after all, the best you’ll feel all day.

EZ chair riding

In the initial chaos, we lose Donald and Amanda. The nice thing about the tandem is that I won’t lose Marde. We wind our way through a sea of flashing red lights and catch up to our tandem friends. Before we realized we’ve made it very far, we arrived at the first rest stop. We were ten miles into the ride already. Donald and Amanda were as excited as they were at the start, they were ready to hit the road again. A quick photo with the Beatles, a banana, and we’re off just behind the first surge of a 10K+ armada of single bikes that had finally caught up to us. With the weeble-wobble bikes spread out, it was easier to keep up with Donald and Amanda. That is, until the hills began. North Texas doesn’t offer the worst hills ever cycled. Still, a tandem is a slog as it progresses up them. The slog turns into a rocket as the handlebars angle back down though. This super speed will be thwarted time and time again, as single riders will eclipse us as we make our way up each hill. Brakes will get much use as we avoid running over the (now) much slower pack of riders. Occasionally, we are able to get around, but the slope turns back skyward and the tandem slows to molasses. This yo-yo effect continues all the way to mile twenty and rest stop two.

The Force was strong at the second rest stop

Pickles and cookies are scarfed down. Our metabolisms have ratcheted to high boil. From this point on, everything consumed will be turned directly into energy. Still feeling great, we get back on the road. The gate waits for no one. The sun has been up for awhile now. Luckily, we can’t see it. An overcast is hiding it from us and subsequently keeping the temps not so Hell like. We are not complaining. Well, except for the headwind that has developed. I’m complaining about that. This isn’t my first HHH though. Headwinds come with the ride. I know that and I still come back. The ride is definitely worth it, yet for this moment I will bad mouth this wind. A hard left takes us off a narrow two lane and back on Business 287. A shoulder and a recent repave has us clicking off the miles with little effort. The surrounding riders are now a mixed assortment. Mainly single riders, but still a fair number of recumbents and tandems remain. A plethora of color. I enjoy seeing the many different brands of bicycles and their approach to finding what works for the consumer. Marde is enjoying the latest train we’ve seen today. Donald and Amanda are simply enjoying the ride on roads the’ve never seen before.

A stampede of singles

We are coming into the sleepy town of Electra. Marde’s phone begins ringing. It’s our daughter Makaidi attempting to FaceTime us! Having just recently enlisting in the Navy, we are adjusting to a new life of not having her home. It’s a tough transition, but Marde and I are extremely proud of her choice to join the Navy. “What are y’all doing?” Makaidi asks. “Just riding” is Marde’s response as she pans the phone around allowing Makaidi to see the cyclists all around us. The conversation is all too short. Marde and I will take what we can get. The third rest stop is in Electra. There is an endless line of people doing the pee dance. Legs crossed while shifting side to side. Marde hears the music and joins in. I find myself making repeat trips back to the cookies as I kill time. I also top off our waters. With Donald and Amanda by our sides, we head out of Electra. A hard right sends us due north along with a tailwind. Oh, blessed free speed. If only for a few miles, we will savor this beautiful thing.

It’s a tandem life

Heading east on Texas 240, we are in full push to make Hell’s Gate before the 12:30 deadline. The clouds are beginning to break up, revealing a bright blue sky. We are still twenty plus miles away and the clock is ticking. The wind is hitting us on our right side. I miss the push of a pure tailwind. With the increasing sunlight, I am appreciating the cooling breeze though. A pure tailwind has a stagnate feel because you are flowing with the wind and not feeling it actually move. Find the silver lining. The cool breeze is our silver lining. Determined to take in the day’s full suffering, we push hard. We could easily pull back a little and miss the cut-off. It would mean twenty-five less miles. Our mental stress would be eliminated. It was, after all, completely self imposed. We could ride through the Sheppard Air Force Base. We have heard great things about riding through the base. If only we’d slow down and hurt less. Instead, we embrace the challenge a century presents. We want that one hundred miles! We make it to Burkburnett knowing we are close on time. Still full of excitement, we keep the speed up, blowing by the final rest area prior to Pyro Pete. “You still have plenty of time!” a voice calls out over a PA system. We are taking no chances. Full of hot air, Pyro Pete towers over cyclists anxious to get their picture taken with him. We too, are anxious. We are also relieved. We made it to Hell’s Gate! Donald and Amanda will make their goal today, provided they can tough out another thirty-eight miles.

Hell’s Gate with Pyro Pete!

After the gate, Marde and I relax a bit. At our more relaxed pace, we fall behind Donald and Amanda. Regret from skipping the last rest area creep in. This fat boy needs a break and takes one. Marde shares a protein bar with me. We don’t want to bonk now. A few miles later, we arrive at an official rest area. With the realization that we could have easily made it without our impromptu rest stop, we share a laugh. As we refuel, Donald and Amanda are prepared to leave. Pushing seventy miles and they are still smiling. Marde and I will spot them a head start while we grab a chair in the shade. Partly cloudy skies and vast expanses are easier to take in with the current pace. Farm houses, windmills, and strange old trucks catch the eye. We can also take advantage of what a tandem really allows a couple to do. We can talk. We won’t solve world peace or figure out the mathematics of flying to Mars. We don’t need to. Just the simple conversations that keep a relationship working. With just over twenty miles to the finish line, we are reunited with our fellow tandem travelers. With a catch in his back, Donald was taking an extended break. This allowed Marde and I to catch up at our meandering pace. A century is a hard goal to achieve. It gets especially hard in the last fifteen to twenty miles. From saddle sores to cramps, and even a catch in the back, a tired body finds the final miles hard to manage.

Ready for the final push

Donald will need an impromptu break along with the official rest areas to make it to the city limits of Wichita Falls. The rest of us need it to get our butts off of saddles that have turned evil. As the city’s skyline comes into view however, our pains all seem to recede. Rolling through the downtown streets, numb hands regain feeling. Crossing the finish line, the excitement from the day’s start hits us again. We made the century! It was a long hot day full of fun, bicycles, and friends. This is my third Hotter than Hell Hundred in a row. Two years ago I rode it solo. Last year Marde joined me, making it all the better. Now, my friends Donald and Amanda came and conquered the hottest hundred miles in North America. I like the trend. Perhaps next year, you’ll cross the line with us!

#texas #wichita falls #cycling #bicycle

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jungblue · 7 years

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DOCTOR DREAMY | PT.1

☾ pt1 | pt2 | (ongoing)

pairing: jimin x reader

genre: fluff, slight angst, eventual smut + expecting parents au

word count: 4,724

request: sperm donor ex-boyfriend jimin

description: Okay, maybe in hindsight asking your ex-boyfriend, who you never really got over, to be your sperm-donor wasn’t the brightest of ideas.

cr.

“I want to have your baby,” is a particular string of words that is only considered acceptable in a certain number of situations.

Maybe between two lovers getting lost in the moment of their heightened feelings, and somehow the words just slip — that’s probably the most common occurrence of the phrase. Or maybe it’s a night out, alcohol in your system, and the words just sort of spill past your lips to the most ridiculously attractive stranger you’ve ever seen before you can even think to stop them. Even that, can still be considered at least borderline passable usage of the phrase. Hell, even the instance of a teenage girl proclaiming her love for her favorite celebrity with the heavy proclamation is still considered normal for the most part.

These, along with a few far-fetched others, were the only situations you could think of that allowed for the usage of those six words to be passable, yet, here you were, uttering that exact phrase, when you were in absolutely none of them. You weren’t getting caught up in the moment with lust-glazed eyes, you weren’t drunk and spewing nonsense at a bar to some guy, and you most certainly weren’t some star struck teenage girl staring up at her celebrity crush’s poster.

No, you were none of those things.

Instead, you were sitting across from your ex-boyfriend telling him that you wanted to have his baby… Yeah, totally passable usage of the phrase, right?

There was a thud as Jimin’s water bottle slid from his hand, eyes wide, mouth parted, shock resonating on every inch of his face. “W-what’d you just say?”

“I wanna have…your baby,” You replied hesitantly, every ounce of feigned confidence you had managed to say it with the first time around completely disappearing.

“That… That’s what I thought you said.” His brows furrowed together as he sat back in his chair across from you, shock slowly fading into a look of pure bewilderment.

“Look, let me explain—” You tried to say, but then suddenly Jimin’s short intermission of stasis ended.

He stood up from his seat, quickly making his way across the living room to sit beside you on the couch. “Y/N, are you alright?” One hand came down on your forehead, the other pressed to your carotid to find your pulse.

You couldn’t help but laugh, “Jimin, I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

His hands pulled back, but his perplexed expression only grew further. “What the hell? Why’re you asking to have my baby then? No, no, there’s gotta be something wrong. C’mon, Jin’s on shift at the hospital right now. I can get him to check you out.” His hand wrapped around your wrist, attempting to tug you from your seat, but you didn’t budge, and instead pulled him down to sit next to you. He fell back, and you could already see the protests forming on the tip of his tongue.

“Can I explain?” You asked before he could get a word in however.

He opened and closed his mouth several times, clearly conflicted on how exactly he should proceed with the situation, but after a few seconds of him doing nothing but staring at you like a deer in headlights, he finally nodded.

“Thank you,” You sighed, glancing up to find Jimin licking at his lips nervously, a habit that he’s had since you first met him in your first year of college almost ten years ago.

Your breathing was a bit shaky as you tried to collect your thoughts on how you wanted to explain this to Jimin. You had of course thought about it beforehand, but when you knocked on his door earlier, and he greeted you with his always happy smile on the other side, all of your practiced words immediately vanished.

“Okay, so before I start, promise that you’ll listen to everything I have to say before you try and rush me off to get an MRI or whatever,” You laughed nervously, trying to ease some of the prominent tension in the air.

Jimin hesitantly nodded in response. “Fine, just please tell me what this is all about. I’m worried.” He looked genuinely concerned, to the point that you were almost amused, but of course you understood where he was coming from. It certainly wasn’t everyday that you got asked by your ex-girlfriend if you’d make a baby with her, so yeah, you definitely got his concern.

You took a deep breath, heavy air filling your lungs, but you knew this needed to be done. You knew you needed to, at the very least, ask, or you might end up regretting it forever, and that was something that you couldn’t have biting at the back of your mind for the rest of your life.

“Okay, so you obviously know how old I am,” You finally started.

He nodded, “Twenty-eight, just like me.”

“Okay, so yeah. I’m twenty-eight, and I really...want to have a baby.” You paused, wanting to measure his reaction. It didn’t change much, but you could see that the gears in his head were turning, and he could probably guess where this conversation was headed. “You know, we’ve both been so non-stop since we graduated college. You with medical school and me with law school, and because of that I feel like time went by way, way too fast… Because now I’m here. I’m twenty-eight, and all of the guys I date aren’t guys that I could ever see myself with long-term, and it’s just… It’s just I don’t want to run out of time, Jimin.” Your voice wavered slightly towards the end, but then suddenly you felt a hand wrap around your own. You glanced up, catching encouraging eyes, but they still managed to hold a glint of concern.

“Hey, it’s okay,” He whispered, a soft, delicate whisper that told you regardless of the ending to this conversation, everything would be fine, so that gave you a slight amount of courage to continue.

“You know I love kids, and that I’ve always, always, always wanted them, so I just don’t wanna wait until it’s too late. I saw all of the trouble my sister had to go through when she was trying to get pregnant at my age, and my mom told me her stories too, so that probably means the same thing for me, because genetics and all that, so yeah. I just don’t wanna wait until it’s too late.” You paused for a second, fearing that everything you were saying was sounding completely ridiculous and irrational to Jimin. “Sorry, I’m just—”

“No, no, I get it!” He quickly interjected. “I completely get it. I was there when your sister and her husband were trying back then. I saw how much it affected you, and of course I know how much you love kids, and how you said you’d want some eventually. So yeah, I get it. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” His hand squeezed around yours once more, sending a comforting wave of relief through your chest — but also something else, something that you didn’t want to feel anymore. Maybe longing? Awful, pitiful, longing.

You simply smiled in response, “Thanks, Jimin.”

“No, it’s fine,” He waved it off before leaning forward, pulling you into his shoulder for a comforting hug. You couldn’t help but sigh in relief at the familiar contact. It was, again, moments like these when you experienced that dreadful sensation of longing. Longing for what used to be between you and Jimn. He had always been there to make things better, even if everything was going to shit. So yeah, you couldn’t lie to yourself that easily. You missed this about being with him — more than you should.

Your thoughts of longing thankfully ceased however, when Jimin spoke again. “Y/N,”

“Hm,” You hummed, pulling yourself away from him hesitantly, but that was when you saw the look of uncertainty return to his face, and he was once again licking at his lips.

“Well, it’s just that earlier you said…” He trailed off, clearly not knowing how he should navigate this territory of conversation.

Oh, that’s right. Now this was going to be the difficult part.

“You said you wanted to have a baby with… With me?” He finished, voice high as the odd question rolled off of his tongue.

“Right…” You said slowly, trying to buy yourself more time to figure out how exactly to set up this absolutely insane proposition. “So, hear me out?”

“Okay,” He replied quickly, more than likely wanting to get everything out in the open already.

“So we’ve already established that I want to get pregnant, like soon, and so I’ve been thinking a lot about how exactly that’s going to happen...” You watched Jimin’s eyes widen once he realized where this whole thing was headed, but you continued before he could say anything. “And I’ve thought about this a lot. I’m not dating anyone right now, and even if I was I doubt he’d be a guy I’d consider having a kid with. So then I thought about sperm donors, and… I don’t know. I just really wanna know the guy who is gonna make up fifty percent of my kid, you know? And so after all that thinking, the only person I could think of… Was you.”

Jimin was pretty speechless after that. Mouth parted as if he wanted to speak, but nothing was coming to him.

“I know it’s a lot to ask.”

Jesus, how much of an understatement was that?

“I just really don’t know what to say,” He finally started, eyes wild as you watched his mind race. “Like of course I wanna help you in whatever way I can, but… A kid? That’s so much responsibility, and we.... Well we aren’t even together anymore for that exact reason of, I didn’t have the time back then to put a hundred percent into our relationship, and honestly my schedule is even worse now that I’ve started my residency at the hospital. So how the hell could I ever raise a kid?”

Mirrored expressions of something followed after that. Not really regret, you didn’t regret your’s and Jimin’s decision from back then, but again, it was something like longing.

Limited time, along with many others factors, was the reason you and Jimin broke up a little over four years ago. Together for six, not for four. It was still so strange to think, even after all of that passed time apart, you had still been together with Jimin longer than you had not.

You were almost twenty-four when the two of you ended things. It was your second year of law school, his second year of med school, and things between the two of you were just not what they used to be. Finding time to just simply text each other was few and far between, and getting to see each other was practically a miracle since your schools were almost four hours apart. Driving down and sacrificing study and sleep time was something that neither of you could afford to do if you actually wanted to pass your classes. So you both tried long distance for a while. You both really, really tried, but in the end you only made it two years before things fizzled out, and you both said it was probably better to end things.

Jimin was the one who initiated the talk, but hey, one of you had to do it. He came down when he managed to get a break in his schedule, and the two of you talked, trying to figure out anyway you could make it work, and in the end you couldn’t find one. Your lives were only going to get busier with each passing year, more guilt weighing you both down, so you thought it best for the both of you to cut it off. It hurt, it hurt so much, but it was in all honesty what needed to be done back then. Always feeling guilty about not having the time to speak to one another, wandering eyes for people that you actually did have the time to spend with, so, yes, even when you look at him now, you know that back then it was the right decision.

And after that decision was made, of course time continued to pass. As expected you both got busier, but eventually you both made it to the finish line. He graduated from medical school and you from law school, and it was great. You both managed to score jobs back in your hometown, and once that happened you reconnected. You still didn’t have time for each other, but it was more than you’d had before. Then you became friends — just friends, a context that you’d never really known with Jimin, since the two of you’d started dating so soon after after meeting each other all those years ago.

He was of course different, you were of course different, but only in subtle ways. He was at his core, still the same Park Jimin who ran his longboard into you on the second day of classes freshman year. He was still the same Park Jimin you couldn’t help but fall in love with after that. He was still… The same Jimin, and you still loved him even in this very moment — which is why you had considered that asking Jimin to do this for you wasn’t the best of ideas.

You’d always wanted a kid, but again you wanted it with a guy you knew. But not just any guy, you wanted it with someone who you at least used to be able to see yourself being with for the rest of your life. And at this point in time, the only person that fit that bill was Jimin, so you had to at least try.

“I know,” You finally replied after several minutes of thinking about the past. “But I want you to know that it would all be on me. The baby would be all of my responsibility, not yours. We can get an agreement signed saying you’re essentially a sperm-donor kind of deal, and that you have no financial or parental responsibility to the baby.”

“This is crazy,” He whispered, sitting back into the couch as if to carefully absorb your words before speaking again. “I don’t know... That just seems really unfair for all of the responsibility to be on you, when I would be part of the reason it was happening in the first place.”

“Jimin, I’ll be fine. This is what I want. I’ve already talked to the firm, they’re totally cool with me trying to have a baby, and having to take maternity leave and all that. I really, really want this — but I definitely don’t want you to feel obligated.” That was the absolute last thing you wanted. Of course you’d love for Jimin to agree, so that you wouldn’t have to go the actual sperm-donor route, but you would also want him to be a hundred percent okay with everything. “So please don’t agree just to make me happy if the idea makes you uncomfortable. I just wanted to ask at least, but please, please say no if you don’t want to.”

Once you were done saying your piece, you decided to simply wait it out. Let everything you’d said to him sink in, and let him make a decision for himself. And so you sat there, knees curled to your chest, eyes wandering anywhere but towards Jimin. Again, you didn’t want to pressure him, so you focused on everything else. The bareness of his walls, it mirrored your place pretty well actually. You didn’t have time to decorate, or take pictures to hang anywhere. You were getting lost in the idea of all the sacrifices you and Jimin have had to make over the years because of your busy lifestyles, when you heard him clear his throat.Your eyes glanced back to find his awaiting eyes.

“So,” He began, licking his lips nervously. “If… If we were to do this, how exactly are we gonna like go about it? Sex, or other methods…” He trailed off.

You felt a slight heat creep up the back of your neck. You and Jimin may have been together before, but it’d been a long time since you’d spoken about stuff like this. The most the two of you had done since you broke up was a drunken kiss on New Year’s Eve last year.

“Well, I was thinking that a direct approach would be best, so sex, but not if it makes you uncomf—”

“No, no, it’s fine!” He said suddenly, but the exclamation causes hope to spring into your chest.

“Wait, so… Does this mean you’ll do it?”

You watched the way he trapped his bottom lip between his teeth, another habit he’s had for as long as you could remember. “Can I think about it? I just don’t wanna say yes now, and then change my mind on you when I think about it later. This is just a lot to take in.”

“Of course!” You said quickly, unable to help the excitement creeping into your bones. “Thank you, Jimin. Even for just considering it.” You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. You smiled when you felt him immediately return the embrace.

“It’s nothing. Anything for you,” He whispered into your shoulder, making your heart squeeze. You honestly could’ve stayed there forever, but suddenly a buzzing alarm went off. “Shit,” Jimin muttered, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I have to get ready for my shift.”

“It’s okay. I have to catch up on some paperwork at the office anyways,” You said as you stood up from the couch.

“So... I’ll call you?” He asked, a little hesitant.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

“I’ll try not to take too long with my answer, okay?” He looked apologetic about the fact that he was making you wait, and you couldn’t help but smile. He really was perfect.

“Jimin, it’s okay. Take all the time you need. The fact that you’re even considering it, is amazing. I know this is insane, and that it’s a big deal, so I don’t care how long you take to decide, even if the answer ends up being no, okay?” You really did want to assure him that he should feel no obligation over this. As far as Jimin’s responsibility in this entire situation, it’d be just that of a sperm-donor sort of deal, as you’d said before.

“Yeah, it’s pretty insane,” He laughed. “But I’m gonna think about it seriously, and I’ll call you or we can meet up or whatever.”

“Cool. I’ll talk to you later then,” You said simply before giving him a quick hug and turning to leave. But as soon as you were about to open the door you felt the sudden urge to say one more thing before you left. “Jimin?”

“Yeah?” He answered, quickly turning back around to face you.

“I know when I was explaining why I wanted it to be you, I basically said it was because I didn’t want it to be with someone I didn’t know... But it’s more than that,” You paused for a moment, taking in Jimin and all that he was to you, before continuing. “I just want it to be with someone I really care about.” You watched the way his eyes quickly crinkled in tiny crescent-moons, the same ones that’d made your heart race since the day you first met him. “Plus, if they get your eyes then I’d really love that,” You laughed a bit, and he followed along.

“Yeah, I… I think that’d be nice,” He whispered, lips curving into a grin.

Eventually you left and headed for your office downtown. You got settled in quickly and before you knew it, it’d been hours and the sun had already set.

After you left, Jimin headed for work.

The entire situation was kind of surreal, and he still couldn’t believe that it had actually happened. When you asked him if you could come over to his place earlier that day, Jimin couldn’t in his wildest dreams imagine that that was what it was going to be for. The echoed proposition of your words were still ringing inside of his head even as he rushed around the ER.

Jimin tried to work diligently, doing anything he could to quiet his racing thoughts, and that was working pretty well for a while, until one of his ER patients decided to have a girlfriend who was eight months pregnant — great.

“Yup, eight months, so not too much longer,” She said, practically beaming as she rubbed a hand over her stomach.

“That’s really good. Hopefully there won’t be any more accidents before then,” Jimin chuckled, motioning towards his patient who had broken his arm falling from a latter.

The girlfriend sighed, “Yeah, he’s seriously the most accident prone person I know. But hopefully this little guy doesn’t follow in his footsteps.” She whispered, once again smiling down brightly at her rounded tummy. She looks really happy, Jimin thought to himself, and because of that he couldn’t help but let his mind drift back to you.

Ten years. Ten long years is how long he’d known you, and for those ten years he’d never stopped loving you. Not when you did long-distance for two years, not when you broke up and left his heart inevitably crushed, never — not once. But now here he was, all these years after the two of you had broken up, and you were asking if he’d have a kid with you. That is, in pretty reasonable terms, in-fucking-sane. Yeah, that sounded about right. But not insane in the I’d-never-consider-that-in-a-million-years type of insane, more of an I-can’t-believe-that-happened type of insane, and now Jimin wasn’t sure what to do.

He always admired your love for kids when the two of you were still together. Always swooning and fawning over a cute child that would pass the two of you by. Being together for those six years, you’d both of course talked about kids. The consensus back then was, ‘yeah, I’d love to have them one day.’ and that was true for both of you. But now it seemed that ‘one day’ was actually here, which really baffled Jimin. Had it really been that long since then? Had life actually passed the two of you by so quickly, that it was already that ‘one day’ that you’d talked about when you were so young, and first falling in love? Now that, that was insane.

“Dr. Park?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! What was that?” Jimin asked, slightly flustered as he was quickly broken from thoughts of the past.

“No it’s fine! I was wondering how much longer you think we’d have to stay?”

“His arm is all good, so we just need to get him his prescription and discharge papers, and then he’s good to go.”

“Okay, thank you. No offense, but hopefully we won’t have to see you again for a while,” She laughed.

“No, I completely understand. I don’t want to have to see you in here again, Mr. Kim,” Jimin chuckled. “You’ve got a baby on the way after all.”

“Trust me, no more accidents, promise. Gotta set a good example for the little guy over here.” Jimin watched as his patient turned to face his girlfriend and soon to be son, adoration overflowing as he reached his non-broken arm out to squeeze her hand. His eyes drifted to her rounded stomach, mouth quirking into a dimply smile.

“Well, I hope things go well for the two of you,” Jimin said. “A nurse will be by soon with your papers.”

Thank you!” They both beamed, waving Jimin off as he exited their room.

Once he was out of their sight, he couldn’t help but release a deep breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Jimin wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something strange swirling deep within his chest after the interaction, but it of course had everything to do with you.

His mind was racing with thoughts of you, you, you. You, the girl he wished to be happy more than anything in the world, and now here he was being presented with the option to do just that. But was it a good idea? Was it a good idea to agree to this, with strange feelings of back then still tearing at his mind.

These thoughts bombarded Jimin until he felt a hand come down on his shoulder, once again breaking him from his distractions.

“Jimin?” He turned around to find Jin, a close friend, but also the head neurosurgeon at the hospital, standing before him.

“Oh, hey. What’s up?”

“Nothing, but is everything good with you? You’re just standing here, staring at the walls, weirdo,” Jin chuckled.

“No, everything's fine. Just a really… Weird day,” Jimin laughed, nervously scratching at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well we all get those. You wanna head to the the cafeteria and grab some food?” Jin said, motioning down the hall.

“Yeah, sure.”

On the way to the cafeteria Jimin’s mind inevitably started to race once again. Jin was going on about some patient he had today, but Jimin couldn’t find it in himself to focus, not with such a burning question raging at the back of his mind.

Should he do this? Was it a good idea? How would he feel years from now, considering it did work? So many questions, so many possibilities, yet he had no idea how to sift through them all to find his answer. Because of this, the question falls past his lips before he could stop it.

“Have you ever thought about… Having kids?” Jimin asked as they sat down at a nearby table, causing Jin to furrow his brows at the sudden inquiry.

“I mean… Of course I’ve thought about it, but I’m just so busy, you know?” Jin shrugged, giving the answer that was really the last thing that Jimin wanted to hear. But honestly what else did he expect?

“Why? You’re not thinking about having kids, are you?” Jin laughed, clearly joking, but Jimin didn’t budge, causing his friend to stiffen. “Wait, you’re not seriously thinking about having a kid, right?” Jin was now leaning over the table, eyes wide, mouth agape.

“It’s… Complicated,” Jimin said, his voice raising at the end, and he couldn’t help but laugh at Jin’s bewildered expression.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened since I saw you yesterday?” Jin whispered harshly, as if the information was that imperative that it needed to be kept secret.

“Just… This thing with my ex—” Jimin tried to say.

“You wanna have a kid with your ex!? I’m… I’m so confused.” Jin said, threading his fingers through his hair to dramatically rub at his temples.

“No, it’s… You know what, it’s too hard to explain,” Jimin simply sighed.

“I’ll say,” Jin huffed. “I mean, a kid is just a lot of responsibility. The type of responsibility that we don’t have the time for because of our jobs.”

“Yeah, but besides that. If you did have the time, would you want to have a kid?” Jimin probed further, needing to talk these strange feelings through.

“I mean, I guess, but I also haven’t really ever been with someone that I could see myself having a kid with or marrying, so I’ve never really thought about it to be honest.”

Jimin nodded, “So if you did have someone you could see yourself being with forever, you’d have a kid?”

“Maybe,” Jin shrugged, making Jimin bury himself deeper into his own thoughts. “But I'm assuming since you’re asking, that's what your ex is for you?”

Jimin couldn’t help but smile at that, “Always has been.”

The incessant ring is what woke you up. Your eyes fluttered open, sleep still grappling to you as you lifted your head from the desk. Papers scattered across the floor, causing you to groan as you reached for your phone, but when you saw the name that appeared across the screen, that annoyance immediately washed away.

“Hey,” You answered.

“Hey, I’m on break, so I can’t talk long… But I just wanted to call to tell you something.”

“Okay, what is it?”

There was pause before he answered, an incredibly long pause that had your heart hammering inside of your chest, but it was smoothed over with a string of words that left you breathless and with a tear-stained face.

“I wanna make a baby with you.”

→ part two

#bts scenarios #bts fanfic #jimin #park jimin #bts #jimin fanfic #bts fluff #bts angst #park jimin scenarios #jimin fluff #bangtan #kpop fanfic

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laurajanecostello · 7 years

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In this day and age, it seems many people are fixed on the idea of “natural” birth. No pain relief, calm, lovely, magical birth. As natural as the Earth around us and just like we used to do in the “old days”. It seems to be considered “superior”. I saw an article recently about the amount of women who develop birth trauma because they didn’t get to follow their birth plan.

I have one major issue with this. In the “old days” a hell of a lot more mums and babies died in childbirth. You barely hear of of mothers dying in childbirth nowadays, but only twenty years ago it was somewhat commonplace. And don’t get me started on the amount of mums and babies who died soon after birth because of lack of medical intervention.

When I got pregnant, I imagined I would have a water birth with probably just gas and air as pain relief, but I never said I wasn’t open to what I might need. The way I saw it was I wouldn’t know what I needed until I was doing it, so nothing was off the table. Then my blood pressure went up and the water birth idea went out of the window. Fine with me – I could have fought for it, but the thing was it wasn’t that important to me. Then at twenty eight weeks, Eden was still very much in a frank breech position. I didn’t like the idea of the ECV procedure to turn her and I have seen far too many breech births go wrong, so I got my brain used to the fact that if she didn’t turn, we would be on our way to scheduled ceasarean-ville. Again, it took some getting used to, but I soon adapted to the idea. Then of course, at thirty four weeks, she flipped!

I had to get used to the idea of “natural” (read – vaginal!) birth all over again and for some reason at that point the idea was pretty scary. I had gotten used to the idea of a scheduled surgery to give birth to Eden. Knowing the time, knowing the place and knowing pretty much exactly how it would be going down. Being thrown back out into the world of “it’ll happen when it happens” was quite unnerving, however I started putting together a birth plan in my mind. Normally, I’m a great planner. Tell me I’m going on holiday and I will plan it to the hilt, but for some reason I really struggled to plan bringing Eden into the world. My birth plan ended up being along the lines of –

“I want to be active. I would like an epidural when I ask for one. I would like to use gas and air if possible. I would like delayed cord clamping and for Amy to cut the cord. Immediate skin to skin if possible. Baby can be given IV vitamin K at birth. We will be formula feeding from the start“.

I absolutely did not understand how some ladies manage to come out with several pages of detailed instructions. My biggest concern was that I had never done this before, so I genuinely had no idea how my body would fare or whether things would go as planned. Essentially, I didn’t want to set myself up for disappointment by expecting too much and not getting it. I wanted to make loose plans just in case things changed quickly. Just in case something went wrong. I don’t know whether that was my fear from infertility and loss partially making me think that maybe this wasn’t actually happening, but I just felt unable to plan for it.

Then came the offer of induction due to my blood pressure. I accepted this immediately because not only did it give me some kind of a schedule, but by that point I was in for observations basically every other day, I felt like hell and my BP was just going up and up despite the medication to bring it down. I had real fears about pre eclampsia and dragging my butt up to hospital every other day was getting tiring. My induction was booked for two days later at 38+3. I still stuck with the same plan and pretty much got what I wanted when it came to Eden’s birth. Maybe that’s because I had barely any expectations.

I don’t understand why there is so much pressure on women to have a “natural” birth nowadays when in a lot of cases going the “natural” route would mean the death of us or our babies. I’m all for having preferences, but planning a birth to the hilt scares the hell out of me – especially when you’ve never done it before. How do you know how your body will cope? Every single baby and every single birth is different. A lot of women say we are “made to birth” but that is simply not true. If you want to get right back to nature, humans are basically made to die at the age of 30… Just looking at the amount of women and babies who die in childbirth in the developing world proves that we are not made purely to birth.

Modern medicine is fantastic. We save the lives of so many mothers and babies nowadays and that is admirable. Through C section, forceps, induction and other “unnatural” things, we bring a child into the world alive in many more cases than we would have managed before. That’s admirable. Well, it’s more than admirable, it’s incredible! I know quite a few women who, had it not been for procedures like those described above, would not be holding healthy babies.

So, can we quit shaming each other for birth choices or birth necessities? The amount of times I’ve heard someone say that a mother who gives birth by ceasarean hasn’t really given birth is insane. A woman who didn’t “feel all the pains” and chose to have an epidural hasn’t really given birth. A woman who was induced and didn’t “go naturally” didn’t really give birth. A women who has help from ventouse or forceps hasn’t really given birth. A human came out of all of these women, therefore she gave birth. It’s as simple as that. That’s the crux of it.

We need to stop making people feel bad for how they had their babies. How you give birth doesn’t make you a parent. How that baby comes out of your body isn’t integral in making you a mother. Being a mother is more than that and it’s about time we stopped pressurising women to have these “perfect, natural, healing” births. Birth is about getting a child safely into the world with mum safe too. That’s all as far as I am concerned. So much birth trauma comes from pressure to have these low intervention births. I understand why people want low intervention. I understand why women plan “natural” births, but what I don’t understand are the people who refuse medical intervention in an emergency.

So, go ahead with your birth plans. Make them as complicated as you wish. Do your hypnobirthing classes and all of the other things. Bring your essential oils. Or don’t. On the other hand get your scheduled C section, get your epidural, take your gas and air or your pain relief drugs. If all is going well it’s your choice! But just remember, if you or your baby have a medical emergency it will be medicine that will likely save both of your lives, not nature. And remember that your experience is yours alone. Let’s stop shaming and start standing together as mothers. Maybe empowering woman and not having some ridiculous birth “hierarchy” will help combat birth trauma?

Just remember – there are no medals for birthing your baby.

#lesbian #mummies #trying to concieve #donor sperm #babies #two mums

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jackswimmermann · 7 years

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You Know I Was Down For You...Chap. 3

Fandom: Check, Please! Pairing: Adam “Holster” Birkholtz/Justin “Ransom” Oluransi Rating: T Note: The Oluransi and Birkholtz families make an appearance in this chapter. I may actually love their sisters more than them oops.

“Holster, do you have plans tonight?” He looked up from his daydreaming when Jack called out to him.

“Rans is coming into town. Other than that I guess not. Why?”

“Why don’t the two of you come over for dinner?”

“You know we can’t say no to Bitty’s cooking.”

Jack nodded as if he expected as much. “How about eight o’clock?”

“It’s a date.”

AO3: x

[1][2][Chapter 4]

Adam’s mother bustled around the kitchen prepping for dinner while he made himself comfortable at one of the tall chairs of the island. He had offered help, but much like Bitty in the Haus, his small, blonde mother promptly ushered him out of her way.

Setting up a cutting board with carrots and celery, Katherine placed herself at the island across from her son. She started chopping like she was preparing food to feed an army.

“It just feels so…sudden.” Katherine complained in the midst of her chopping frenzy. Adam tried not to laugh.

“I’m a 24-year-old, college graduate. How sudden can this really be?” Adam reached for the beer in front of him but his mother swiped it first, leveling him with a challenging look. He settled back in his chair in surrender. “Besides, Maggie’s been up my ass for years asking when I’ll finally move out so she can get her own room.”

Adam’s step-sister, Margaret, turned around to stick her tongue out at him before returning to her fridge-raid.

“If it wasn’t for the Haus I probably would have been looking for a place by Samwell after sophomore year.” Adam continued.

“Well…yes, but I’m sure you would have been looking with your boyfriend then. Now you’re gonna be all alone in a new city.”

Adam sighed, running a hand over his face and counting to ten. “I’m a big boy now, Ma, I think I can take care of myself. And for the last time, Ran-Justin is not my-”

“Oh I know, I’m sorry.” Katherine, having run out of vegetables to chop, started in on a loaf of bread Elizabeth, another one of Adam’s younger sisters, had brought home from the bakery.

A text notification interrupted the lull in conversation. Ransom. Maggie made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whip cracking, before fleeing the kitchen.

Elizabeth, who had been sitting behind Adam at the dining room table cleared her throat. “She just uh,”

“Yeah, I know.”

His mother, finally, put down her knife.

“Alright. What exactly is the plan?”

Adam shifted in his seat. “Justin and I are meeting at Niagara Falls like we did every year for Samwell. Then we’re cutting across to Boston first so he can get settled with-” Katherine sent him a sharp look. Katherine had never been a fan of hockey nicknames and refused to use them around the house. She absolutely did not believe Adam whenever he insisted no one knew Shitty’s first name. “Uh...Knight and then down to Providence so we can spend some time together before Falconers’ practice starts. Depending on how long everything takes at the Falls and in Boston I might head to Providence a little before him to start getting the apartment in order, but otherwise that’s the plan.”

“Do you already have your apartment?” Elizabeth piped up, abandoning her laptop to sit beside Adam at the island. Elizabeth had been gone most of the summer for some kind of volunteer work she was doing with the education department of SUNY. She had only just gotten back two weeks ago and was a little out of the loop about everything. Though with the way his mother was acting, one would think Adam had left everyone out of the loop.

Not that he had been making a habit of that or anything lately.

Adam nodded, pulling out his phone to show Elizabeth some of the pictures he had taken the last time he was in Providence. A few weeks prior, Adam had gone down to Providence again to meet with the real-estate agent Jack had introduced him to before. Ransom had some kind of family reunion the same weekend so he couldn’t come with but Adam kept him on a video chat for all the walkthroughs. Ransom typed up Excel sheets as they went along and helped Adam make a decision before he headed back to Buffalo.

His mother, who had already seen the pictures many times, came around to look at the pictures with Elizabeth. Adam rolled his eyes, but let them look, answering any of their questions as best he could.

“We’re going too.” His mother finally said, going around to the fridge to get out the marinated chicken for dinner while he gaped at her.

“I'm sorry, you're doing what?”

“We’re going to Providence. Four extra pairs of hands will do you better than just one or two setting up an apartment. And I still need to give it my seal of approval. I'm mad enough you made these big choices without telling me, your mother, the least you can give me is a chance to make sure you're living okay.”

Adam looked to Elizabeth for some kind of confirmation that he wasn't imagining this. She smiled at him, shrugging as she handed back his phone.

“Oh you and Justin can have your date and you can relax in Boston with...your friend. We’ll just go ahead to Providence and start setting up the apartment. Then you only have to worry about putting your personal touch on things when you get there.”

Adam stood up instinctively to help when his mother started getting out pots and pans as she talked. She thrust some of the larger ones that were in her way into his hands.

“That’s a really nice…offer but mom you don’t have to-”

“I am offering nothing, Adam.” Katherine jabbed at him with a small frying pan. “I am your mother and I am telling you what is going to happen. Now go set the table.”

Adam shared an incredulous look with Elizabeth.

“Did I just get ordered into accepting her help?”

_X_

The first Oluransi Adam saw when he arrived at Niagara Falls was not Ransom but Mr. Oluransi, at the family car, rummaging around for something. For a moment Adam sat in his car, unsure if that was truly the Oluransi’s old, beat-up mini-van Ransom swore was safer than it looked or if he had imagined it. However, there was no mistaking the middle aged man who appeared from the car a few minutes later triumphantly brandishing a digital camera. Ransom was very nearly the spitting image of his father. Twenty more years and a few less squats and there was Ransom’s future.

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder Adam climbed out of his car and waved. “Mr. O!”

Mr. Oluransi turned towards him, smiling and waving when he saw him. “Adam! Glad to see you made it. Safe drive?”

Adam smiled, letting the older man pull him into a hug. “Of course.”

As they walked Mr. Oluransi launched into the story of the family’s drive to the falls and why he was out at the car instead of admiring the view with his family complete with changing voices and wild arm movements. It wasn’t a very complicated tale but by the time the two caught up with the other Oluransis Adam was wiping tears from his eyes, face red from laughter. Mr. Oluransi was good at that. He had a knack for story-telling like no one else Adam had ever met. It was hard not to feel comfortable around him, especially while in the middle of his storytelling.

Mrs. Oluransi met up with them first, stopping the two men to give Adam a once over before pulling him in for a hug and a kiss on both cheeks.

“Adam I swear you look taller every time I see you.”

“And Joyce, my one true love, you look more beautiful every time I see you.” Adam replied, catching her hand to place a kiss on the back of it. Mrs. Oluransi, Joyce, laughed tossing her head back while she waved him off. Adam bit back a smile. Ransom may have looked like his father but his laugh was 100 percent from his mother.

“You boys are ridiculous I tell you, completely insane.”

Adam turned to wink at Mr. Oluransi, who he never quite felt right referring to as Jay despite Mr. Olurnasi’s insistence. “I haven’t forgotten about you however Mr. O, Joyce may be my one true love but you are my favorite, my hero, my-” Mr. Oluransi swatted at him. He was trying to keep his expression schooled to something serious and disapproving but Adam could see the twinkle in his eye.

“I thought Justin said you grew out of flirting with everything that moves.” An arm linked up with his, tugging him away from Ransom’s parents. He turned to find Ransom’s older sister, Jessica, pulling him towards the falls with a determined expression.

“Does it count as flirting if everything I say is genuine?” Adam shot back. Jess rolled her eyes.

“I don’t care what you call it as long as you hurry it up. I actually have stuff to do today, but mom insisted I stick around for pictures so flirt or woo my parents afterwards, please.”

Adam bat his eyes at her. “Anything for you, Jess.”

Ransom and his younger sister, Jasmine, were looking down at the falls leaning, probably, much further than safety regulations would recommend over the rails. Adam couldn’t hear what they were saying over the rush of water, but Jasmine was gesturing at different parts of the falls and the two looked to be talking a mile a minute. Jessica whistled to get their attention.

Ransom turned his 100-watt smile on Adam when he saw them and Adam felt his pulse spike. He could only pray Jessica wasn’t paying close attention to him and his weird behavior. It had obviously been too long since Ransom & Holster were together if his body started reacting weirdly. Ransom moved away from the railing and was headed towards them when a solid weight ran into Adam, knocking him to the side. Jessica quickly released her hold on his arm. He managed to stay on his feet but just barely. He righted himself, looking back at Jasmine from where she clung to his back.

“How!? How did that still not knock you over?” Jasmine complained, thumping his chest half-heartedly. “I’ve been working out all year.”

“Well I guess you still have a way to go.”

Jasmine groaned, knocking her head against his. “It’s not fair. I got Justin with that when he came home.”

Adam tsked, shaking his head at Ransom while he tried in vain to deny Jasmine’s claim.

“Jasmine Elise what do you think you’re doing?” Joyce scolded as the Oluransi parents joined them. Grumbling Jasmine wiggled off of his back.

“I’ll get you one day Birkholtz.”

“I look forward to it.” Adam held out a hand towards Mr. Oluransi. “I’d be happy to take those pictures for you.”

Adam managed to get quite a few pictures of the Oluransi family and different combinations of parents and children before Joyce managed to wave over someone else and ask them to take the pictures for them. For the next ten minutes Adam was shifted around, smiling into the camera with the rest of them. When the stranger finally returned the camera to Mr. Oluransi, Jessica was practically running in place she was so antsy.

“I’m going to be so late.” She moaned, trying to sound as miserable as she possibly could. The Oluransi parents were suddenly very absorbed in their camera. Rolling her eyes Jessica turned her attention back to Ransom, pulling him into a tight hug. “You’re gonna do great Justin.” Ransom smiled, curling himself around his sister’s smaller form and whispering his thanks. A camera shutter sounded a few feet away.

Jessica broke their embrace to press a kiss to Ransom’s forehead. She turned to Adam, punching him on the arm, lightly. “Congrats on the draft.”

Adam wrapped Jessica in a hug, pressing a sloppy kiss to her cheek despite her groans. “Ugh. The second little brother I never wanted.”

The Oluransis, and Adam, waved farewell to Jessica as she flew to her car, muttering about appointment times all the while.

Mr. Oluransi turned back to the family, clapping his hands together. “How about letting us take you boys to an early dinner before you hit the road?”

Ransom and Adam exchanged looks. That wasn’t exactly the normal routine for their Niagara Falls trip but neither was the entire Oluransi family joining them, or their impromptu photo shoot.

“We just have to do one last thing,” Adam said, pulling out his phone. Ransom nodded, pulling Adam towards the railings without another word to his family.

A few minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Oluransi and Jasmine, followed by Ransom and Adam left Niagara Falls in search of an early dinner.

And across the country the Samwell Men’s Hockey team was receiving two snapchats, one from Ransom and one from Adam, of their annual selfie at Niagara Falls.

_X_

“You’re late!” Shitty called down from his balcony as they pulled up roughly eight hours later. Someone else in the complex called for him to shut up. “Thought you boys had gotten lost.”

Adam rolled his eyes, climbing out of the car. Ransom followed suit, muttering something under his breath.

A different neighbor climbed out onto their balcony and looked up at Shitty.

“Some of us are trying to have a peaceful night, Knight. This isn’t a frat house. Keep it down.”

Shitty’s eloquent reply consisted of two middle fingers.

Adam shared a look with Ransom. “Are you sure you want to room with him? We could leave now while he’s distracted.”

“I heard that Birkholtz!” Shitty called down, turning his two finger salute to the blond. “Keep it up and you’ll sleep in the car.”

Adam grinned. “Bro, NHL remember? I can actually afford to just go get a room.”

Shitty waved him off. “Bullshit, you haven’t done squat yet. Give me a minute and I’ll be down to help carry stuff up.”

Adam turned to Ransom again, holding up the keys. “Last chance.”

Ransom shoves his shoulder, swiping the keys. “Shut up, Holtzy. Grab a bag.”

Thankfully between the three boys it only takes two trips to get everything of Ransom’s from Adam’s car to Shitty’s apartment. Mostly because Shitty’s guest room was already furnished with all the necessary furniture and Ransom just needed to bring his necessary personal belongings. Adam was dropping off the last box, an extra, yet-to-be-assembled bookcase from IKEA, when Ransom and Shitty started arguing in the living room.

“Would you just tell me how much the damn rent is already?” Ransom was pleading. Adam couldn’t help but think he sounded like Jack when Shitty was being particularly difficult.

“For the last time Oluransi, I’m not taking your money!”

Ransom had explained to Adam during the car ride that Shitty was particularly unforthcoming with information about the apartment despite having offered his spare room to Ransom so the new med student wouldn’t have to look for an apartment. Adam moved to lean against the doorway while the two bickered.

“Shits, I don’t want to mooch off of you would you please-”

“You’re not. We are both equally mooching off of my obscenely well-endowed parents. If they suddenly lose all of their money and we run the risk of being homeless, then we can talk rent.”

Ransom made a low, frustrated noise and turned to Adam. “Holtzy.”

He shrugged. “We all know how you can get when you’re stressed Rans, maybe it’s best that you can tackle this first year without having to worry about a job or bills.”

Ransom looked highly insulted. “You’re taking his side?”

Adam held up his hands in surrender, turning on his heel. “I’m…gonna go see about setting up this bookcase.”

Half a bookcase, two rants, and four beers later the boys fell into bed in a mess of limbs and mismatched sheets. Shitty hung around long enough to get teary eyed, whispering about missing his boys, before he finally decided there was more comfort to be found in his room.

Adam still had his glasses on and he could feel his arm starting to fall asleep under him but he felt too tired to move. “I really thought the three of us would be sharing for a while there.”

Ransom responded with a quiet, airy laugh. He settled heavily against Adam, evidently unbothered by the extra metal and glass stuck to Adam’s face. Adam shifted and his free arm naturally went around Ransom. The room was quiet save for their matched breathing and the soft puttering of the overhead fan. It was nice. Closing his eyes, he could feel himself starting to drift off. The sheets smelled like the Oluransi house and Ransom was pressed close enough that Adam could smell his cologne. It was relaxing, comforting almost.

“Have you heard from your family? Did they get to the apartment okay?” Ransom whispered. Adam started to nod but it felt like too much effort.

“Mom was texting me pictures while you two were arguing.” Adam thought about showing Ransom the pictures but reaching for his phone was definitely too much effort. “They’ve already started arguing amongst themselves about what is the best layout for the living room.” If his eyes were open, Adam would have rolled them. That was exactly the kind of behavior he had expected from his family. The room was drifting back into silence but Adam wanted to fill it suddenly. “Apparently Savannah is leaving some of her stuffed animals in my room so I won’t be lonely when I get there.” Adam couldn’t see Ransom’s smile but he could hear it in his voice when Ransom “aww-ed.” Adam smiled softly as well. “I think I’m gonna head over tomorrow, maybe after dinner.”

“You should take your glasses off before you break them.” Adam opened one eye to look at Ransom. Rans was still lying on his back but he turned his head to face him. “Seriously you break your glasses more than anyone I know.”

“Too much work.” Adam mumbled into the sheets in reply.

Ignoring his muffled, whiny complaints Ransom wiggled the glasses off of Adam’s face and put them on the bedside table.

“I’ll probably be here another day or two.” Ransom finally added. “Then I’ll head down. If that’s still okay.”

Adam opened his eyes again to study Ransom like he had grown another head.

“What the hell, Rans? Of course it’s ‘okay.’ It’s not like you have to ask.” He tried to keep his expression as serious as possible while half of it was still smashed against a mattress. “Ever.”

Ransom brushed Adam’s bangs out of his eyes. “Good night, Holtzy.”

Adam wrapped his arm tighter around Ransom’s middle. “Night Rans.”

_X_

Adam’s family stuck around for a day and a half after he arrived in Providence. Most of the larger furniture had been placed before he arrived so all he really had to do was move things into his preferred layout. This morning his mother woke him up, obscenely early, to go shopping for things he didn’t bring with him, that she was positive he would need. Adam had input on looks for certain things but overall he was there as more of a pack mule than an active shopper. After lunch the family packed up and headed back to Buffalo. Adam loved his family and between three little sisters and the Haus, he was used to being in a lively environment. He couldn’t deny however that he much more relaxed he was when he was finally alone.

Adam had a few more hours before Ransom arrived and in almost no time at all he found himself leaving his new, unfamiliar apartment, itching to do something. Unfortunately, Providence was still a mostly unfamiliar city and there were only so many places he knew how to get to.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to the ice rink.

Shouldering his duffle bag, Adam headed into the practice facility of the Providence Falconers with an odd, nervous energy buzzing just under his skin. Officially he was a Falconer. The contracts were all written up and signed, he had met the team, was given a key and access to the facilities. And yet the feeling that he did not belong washed over him as he walked through the door. It was still bizarre, months later, to think that he had gotten this far. That he, Adam Birkholtz, was now a NHL player (even if he hadn’t done much playing yet).

The nervous buzz didn’t fade as Adam wandered the facility. It certainly showed no signs of disappearing after two wrong turns. The only time he felt himself start to relax was as he traded his sneakers for his skates in the locker room and headed out to the rink.

Adam heard the laughter before he saw the other inhabitants.

“I told y’all this was a bad idea from the get-go. Honestly what would the fans say if they could see you now?”

He may have been able to excuse the laughter but there was no mistaking that southern drawl.

It was a bit silly for him to think he might find the ice rink empty, but he certainly never expected to see Alexei Mashkov and Jack Zimmerman on their asses on the ice, while one Eric Bittle laughed at them from the other end of the rink. For a moment Adam thought he might be hallucinating but then Bitty spotted him on the side lines. Adam watched the realization wash over Bitty. There was surprise, a little embarrassment, happiness, and then he could only hope he imagined the horror he saw take over Bitty before the southern schooled his expression back to something cheerful.

“Holster!” Bitty waved, drawing the attention of the other two hockey players his way. Mashkov grinned and waved as well but Jack’s expression was unreadable. Trying not to read too much into their reactions he made his way onto the ice.

“So, is this the way real NHL players play hockey?” He chirped. Jack’s expression finally relaxed into something a little friendlier while Mashkov laughed. Bitty sighed, crossing his arms over his chest with a fond look.

“Jack apparently mentioned he had an ex-figure skater on his old team and Tater wanted to meet me. They wanted to learn a jump. Thankfully neither of them got high or far enough to actually hurt themselves.”

Adam arched a brow at Jack. “They?”

“Zimmboni was good. Even if cheater.” Mashkov, Tater, explained cheerily, shoving Jack lightly.

“Just because I’ve seen Bittle do a jump before does not make me a cheater.” Jack argued stubbornly but his bright eyes betrayed his serious expression. Adam got the feeling this argument had started long before he had arrived on the ice.

Bitty rolled his eyes. “Mind helping get these two on their feet again?” He asked, bumping Adam’s arm lightly with his own.

Once up right, Tater looked more than ready to try the jump a second time. Adam and Jack hung back while Bitty started to explain the steps again, only to be cut off by Tater’s cell phone ringing in his pocket. If he wasn’t mistaken, Tater’s ringtone was The Star-Spangled Banner. And as an ex-choir boy it was not often he was mistaken about things like that. Jack didn’t seem to think anything of it, but Adam noticed Bitty’s expression showing confusion at the song choice as well. Tater didn’t bother to answer, or even pull out, his phone but he gave Bitty an apologetic smile.

“I have to go. Thanks for lesson, Itty-Bitty!” Tater headed off the ice, waving goodbye to Jack and Adam as he went.

Adam started doing laps once he knew he wouldn’t be in the way of their jumps. Nothing serious or taxing but something to keep him moving.

“So are you officially all moved in?” Bitty asked, skating up besides him after two laps. Adam studied Bittle as the ex-figure skater kept up with him. Nothing about Bitty seemed off and he didn’t seem to be treating him any differently. Still Adam couldn’t shake the flash of near-terror he had seen on Bitty’s face. Adam looked away.

“A few boxes here and there still but otherwise I’m set.” Adam confirmed. “What are you doing in Providence?”

Holster knew he didn’t imagine it that time. Bitty froze as if Adam had just caught him doing something bad.

“I was visiting Jack before I headed back to Samwell for the year.” Bitty finally said.

“Isn’t it a little early to head back?”

Jack skated up alongside Bitty. “Bittle is hoping to make it back before anyone else and finally get rid of the green couch.” Jack snitched with a grin. Adam slapped a hand to his chest.

“Eric Richard Bittle. You wouldn’t!”

Bitty groaned, glaring at the two of them. “That horrid thing is a hazard and I am getting rid of it before someone gets sick or dies from contracting something off of it.”

Adam and Jack both chirped Bitty for his worries but Bitty wouldn’t budge from his stance.

“I can’t believe it. The Haus won’t be the same without the couch.”

“The Haus will stop being a bio-hazard without that damn couch.” Bitty muttered. Then he scowled. “Well maybe not, but I have to try to make it a little better.”

The three skated for another hour and a half before Bitty and Jack started getting ready to leave the rink. Adam stayed on the ice taking slow, lazy laps. He just wanted a few more minutes to himself to clear his head and then he was going to head home. His fingers were starting to go numb in the cold.

“Holster, do you have plans tonight?” He looked up from his daydreaming when Jack called out to him.

“Rans is coming into town. Other than that I guess not. Why?”

“Bitty’s been itching to cook something in my kitchen. Why don’t the two of you come over for dinner?” Jack said with a nod to the locker room where Bitty was still changing.

“You know we can’t say no to Bitty’s cooking.”

Jack nodded as if he expected as much. “How about eight o’clock?”

“It’s a date.”

#Rita Writes #omgcp #holsom #fic #holster #ransom #adam birkholtz #justin oluransi #repost #1.9.17 #fic: you know i was down for you #fic: ykiwdfy

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thebeautifulmountain-blog · 7 years

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Journal Entry.

Day 3, Month 3 of the Year 233. I spent much of the day sifting through an old book I had discovered in the ruins. It was perhaps an ill-fated day to venture into the ruins, or maybe it was fate. Three is the number of the Lost God after all, perhaps she guided me here.

An old book, yes. It seems that even two hundred years later the tomes of the precursors hold together. It is a stronger and sturdier book that most of those in my own library back home.

I think I must remember to send some of these to my daughter.

But more important, and as to why I decided to write today, this old book I discovered is significant. It is different to those other books I have found elsewhere. It doesn’t surprise me that it is still here despite its obvious value. Gold trim, fine leather, it would be worth a good price to an archivist or a collector that would never know the true value it has.

Inside, in great and painstaking detail are illustrations of the world as it was. Cross-referencing it with my own atlases has revealed much to me.

It seems that much less has changed than we realised. For instance, the city of Mesogrin was here before the Reaping, though its boundaries were much larger encompassing all of the ruins. It sat upon the same northern coastline of the Firelight Sea and to the west was a forest we now call the Ironsnarl.

Far to the south linking the coastlines east and west of Mesogrin was the Southern Dam, that has not changed. It seems that even then the Firelight Sea was a small part of the greater Fog Ocean. Far north was the Sorrow Ocean, to the east of Mesogrin was the Glass Pillar Sands and the Ashfields. To the west of Mesogrin was the Fjords of Myrn and Farza. All of that is unchanged.

The differences as I can tell are the cities, all of them are familiar names washed away by time and resettlement. Two centuries has turned grand cities into dust and sand and ash. And then there is the Sunderline. On the old maps I found the entire place does not exist, nor is there mention of the cavern complex that snakes from the Sunderline out underneath much of the known world.

The great rift in the world, the Sunderline as we all know it, divides the world in two. Separates the West from the East. It is entirely missing.

No record that I find can tell me what happened, I am unaware of when exactly this ancient map was made, but by my judgment it was very recent during the Reaping. It has information I know to have been recently discovered when the Reaping began. On this old map, the rough path that the Sunderline now follows is marked as a wall.

I will need to investigate further.

Day 27, Month 8 of the Year 233.

I sat down, not truly knowing what I would be writing today. I am not at camp, it feels wrong to leave this place. I have found something remarkable, I sit in the hall of a ruined cathedral. I am unsure how to describe it other than transcendent.

Stained glass windows that colour the beams of light, each of them falling on the central altar. It seems impossible, but they are arranged like a clock-face. Twelve at the top surrounding a portal in the roof, then twenty four, then forty-eight I am

assuming. I lost count on the fourth row but there are seven rows of them each a different colour and a different pattern. Some are broken of course, but each somehow manages to shine in focused on that stone altar.

Upon the altar is nothing but holes where runes must have been inscribed. No doubt thieves stole the valuables here long ago, even going so far as to pry free the metals of the runes. There are a few prayer mats, not a great deal else.

Judging by the decor, it being so plain and inoffensive, these people worshipped the Lost God. Her faceless avatar is probably hidden somewhere deeper in the catacombs to save it from looters.

I suppose I should be glad that the cult of the seven pillars didn’t find this place like so many others I have stumbled upon in my research. Yet, seeing it so barren adds a sorrow to the beauty and awe. I’d very much like to bring my daughter here some day.

Notes on the Seven Pillars.

There are some who foolishly devote themselves to the cabals of the evils we have come to know as The Seven Pillars, demons by any other name. The seven demon lords refer to themselves as Pillars, in some vain appeal to a believe they hold up some kind of roof.

At face value they have a noble goal, they proclaim their desire to save humanity. But their insane notion of saving humanity involves the wholesale slaughter of women and men and children. This “Reaping” was the downfall of the old world.

But those who worship these vile fiends speak of immortal souls trapped in the pain and suffering of life. What a ridiculous notion. This mystical nonsense is why humanity has fallen so far, and why so many millions have died. Why the true God died.

But, I am an academic and I should be impartial.

Each Pillar represents, and this is in their own words, a method of control. As I understand there is; Might, Bribery, Intoxication, Desire, Hatred, Faith and Fear.

Each therefore has their own cabal, with their own cultures and their own philosophies. Each Pillar is the incarnation of this method of control and when united present themselves as the structure that holds up the fabric of all societies. Their followers fanatically follow what they will readily admit is a ridiculous idea; utter devotion to only one of these methods.

If they were not so vile they would be fascinating as they have a good point. These are truly how most societies organise themselves and those who are in power stay in power. Be it through might, or bribery. Some are more metaphorical than others, and truly if it weren’t for their masters I would admire these fools for their social experimentation.

Those that live by Might for example will fight one another for physical dominance. Those who are strongest typically have a higher social standing. It is a wonder how they remain functional, but perhaps it is the existence of the demons themselves that holds them together.

The three types of demons are themselves an extension of the Pillar, an embodiment of their philosophy. For instance, the High, Low and Lesser demons of the Pillar of Desire, are physical manifestations of that. Succubi are the Higher Demons of Desire, lustful creatures that are capable of seducing virtually anyone they meet. Those who fall into their snares are usually lost forever to their cabal of love-slaved fools. The Lower Demons of Desire, the Lamia, are far less alluring and instead show signs of other philosophies slipping through - such as the use of intoxicants and treasures to woo people into their fold. Lesser demons are... the only elegant way to put it is, they are the bastard offspring of unrelated demons.

It is not uncommon for the Pillars to crosspollinate, I have had the great misfortune of a run in with a Succubus that tried to convert me to the path of the Intoxicated. Little did I know at the time, and I will definitely avoid drinking so heavily in the future.

Perhaps the best way to think of them is as tribes. Though most of them look as though they are animals to one another, it is obvious by the existence of the Lesser Demons that they are one species as with Humans. And that they have the same moral and philosophical flexibility as humans, but it is their cultures that they are surrounded by upon birth that makes them the way they are.

Do not mistake my words for being soft - evil is evil, and even more so knowing they have free will. I do however see why the weak-minded could become drawn to them.

Notes on the Lost God.

We know relatively little about her, other than that she was referred to by the precursors as She. Or, The Redeemer. Or, The Merciful. The stories that remain in collective consciousness are interesting ones. We do not name her, for she has forsaken her name to give language to humanity. We do not depict her face, for she offered it so that we may know beauty.

She was the one who created the Mesogrini to fight against the Pillars.

She died destroying the Uniter of the Pillars.

It is said that she was a human once, who rose to become God after discovering magic. And that when humanity angered her by summoning the Pillars, she could have easily erased us all to start over. Instead she stayed her hand and gave us the choice of redemption.

It was under her guidance that the Redeemer Knights were formed, and would go on to protect humanity since the end of the precursors.

Given how much she has done, it seems a real shame that we know so little else. A handful of stories about what she has done and a thousand references as little more than “Her, She, The Redeemer, The Merciful, God.”

Perhaps I’ll find answers about her in my expeditions south.

#fantasy #fiction #writing

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the-freckle-game-is-strong-blog · 7 years

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ECT

(This is an old story I wrote, featuring Riley/Steampunk one of my own characters, a while back before tumblr was my main platform. I figured now I’m returning to the fandom I might repost it here. This is not her origin story but if you’re unfamiliar with my character, it’s still easy enough to follow and a nice introduction. It’s a little NSFW know. And the format is buggered cause it was moved from wattpad ahhh) Chest aching, heart pounding, vision blurring. Not So Steady Legs Pulling herself to her feet, Riley let out an agonised groan as she found her balance. Looking around, the Scot rubbed her temples as she got her bearings. After recovering from her umpteenth stumble that day, the battered woman let out a sorrowful cry; salty tears dripping down her bloodied albino skin. It was a wonder she even had to strength to pull herself together long enough to even drag herself into the hospital. - Everything from then onward was a blur to her. She barely remembered having her wounds stitched and being x-rayed so they could perform the correct operations to realign her broken bones. She supposed they had been too scared after that to rouse herself from her anaesthetic induced slumber. How long she’d been under, she didn’t know for sure. However, she did know where she was when she woke up. She’d been here before for a total of five minutes before she had blacked out from herself again for that half of the year. - “ Here at Saint Frances’ Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane we pride ourselves in our care of wayward young lambs like yourself, Miss Blackwood, ” The voice droned into her head, causing Riley to squirm slightly as she kept her gaze to the ground. “ However, we will not tolerate another escape attempt like last time is that understood? Young lady? ” The snapping of the woman’s fingers caused her to jump in paranoia, looking around in twitchy panic. “ U-Understood, ” Riley assured her in response, wiggling slightly in her seat; tugging at the restraints keeping her bound to her chair. “ Lovely, well then, now that we have that out of the way… I am Sister Agatha, I will be watching over your progress and your therapy until such a time the Lord blesses you with your sanity again, ” The Nun told her, patting her head. “ Now, given your current mental position, our personal program is beginning with a little round of electroshock therapy, ” At the mention of this particular flavour of cure, Riley sat bolt upright in fright. “ Wait, w-what? ” The albino stuttered, receiving another pat on the head, her ginger rooted hair fluffing up even more as consequence. “ Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, doll. Doctor O'Hara will oversee everything. He’s done this to patients hundreds times and his success rate is a thousand to one, ” Sister Agatha assured her, taking dainty steps towards the doorway as a sharply dressed man stepped inside. He was a young but mature man, dressed in long coat and formal shoes. His hair was waxed with obvious care and she was sure she could see the tinge of blusher present on his cheeks. Overall, he was a very well groomed man. Of course, the devil can be beautiful. He was once an angel, after all. “ Good evening, Sister Agatha, ” O'Hara said on passing to the Nun, who bowed her head slightly on her way out. Turning his hawklike green eyes on Riley, he flashed a grin as his hand slid over the control lever for the ECT machine. “ And you must be Riley. My, my… I’ve heard a lot about you, my girl. I must admit, I have a morbid curiosity when it comes to murder. How many victims have you claimed now, miss Blackwood? ” He asked, as he let his hand fall from the controls as he began to prepare the syringe containing the anaesthetic. “ I haven’t… I didn’t… ” Riley struggled, continuing to writhe in her chair, shaking almost. “ Your file says twenty one. Twenty one people… Mm, but I think it’s more. If you weren’t satisfied with one, what would the extra twenty matter? So give me a rough idea here, how many more bodies should we be owing credit to you for? ” O'Hara asked, as he continued to fiddle with items just out of the Scotswoman’s sight. When he didn’t receive a reply, he continued on in monologue. “ Well, no matter. I’m sure none of them could be quite as interesting as your first two. Sororicide and matricide… Not to mention the first also being infanticide. I do wonder what makes you tick. What makes people like you tick. I’ve long dreamed of the day I finally get to pull a serial killer’s head apart… Fantasied about what I’d do if I got a hold of that Jeffrey Woods fellow or one Natalie Ouellette. Of course, I never imagined I’d ever get the chance. At least not anyone interesting. I’ve picked apart murderers before but even here they’re not really anyone of importance. All the greats are still out there, causing chaos on the great turntable of life. In here, it’s all the same. None of them have any sort of method behind their madness… And then you arrived. To think, you turned yourself in. Oh, I’m dying to see all the little things you have wrong with you, ” He practically gushed. To say Riley felt sick, was an understatement. Weren’t these Shrink Doctor types supposed to help? Sure, working in a mental asylum would chip away at anyone but this guy? He was positively cracked. The mad Doctor brought up the needle to her body, delivering a pressing and acute pain to her wrist while she struggle and that was when Riley knew this had been a terrible choice. - Weeks had passed as slow as decades. Riley had lost track of what day of the week it was surprisingly fast. She received electroshock therapy from Doctor O'Hara, thrice a day just like the mushy meals they served her. Most cases only ever needed eight treatments in total and even most who had it prescribed regularly only got it three times a week. There had been some talk of lobotomy at first, when she seemed unresponsive to treatment but it soon died down after she became the role model of a good patient. She didn’t speak, she didn’t fight and she didn’t resist her medication like far too many of her ward mates were known to. At the present moment, she sat restrained and hooked up to the ECT machine. Usually, anaesthetic was applied but it seemed O'Hara had become impatient of late as he played jigsaw with her psyche. This wasn’t the first occasion however this had happened and, while she could not recall it, this was not the first time her body had been through such extreme punishment. The distortion was almost similar to Slender sickness and that soothed her, in a twisted kind of way. The pain, the memory loss, the being powerless to stop it… It was just a more controlled version of her entire adult life. She wasn’t sure if she should shriek in agony or laugh at the irony. Either way it didn’t matter, her jaw was strapped shut and the best she could do was whimper. “ Now, now… Riley, ” O'Hara said, tutting at her as he pushed the leaver of the machine down to off. “ Why must you be so difficult? If you would just talk to me, maybe we wouldn’t have to continue with this, ” The Doctor mused, as he undid the leather keeping her head bound. Looking up through her bloodshot, once vibrant purple eyes, Riley shook her head a little bit in response. “ No… ” She whimpered, crying. “ What do you mean ‘no’? Do you want me to turn the machine on again? ” O'Hara snapped, unimpressed. “ No… ” Riley repeated, through her tears. “ Why? ” The Doctor demanded in irritation. “ I’m not allowed… I’m not the one in charge here… ” The albino answered obediently from behind her scruffy hair, that was currently hanging all over her face; in bloom with ginger patches that needed to be redone. “ No, you’re not. I am, and I’m telling y- ” “ No you’re not, ” She responded, cutting him off; much unlike her. Usually, she was too stricken with fear to do anything considered rude towards him. Coming a brow, O'Hara watched her carefully. “ Well, that’s just ridiculous but I suppose you are mad. So, share with me some of that perspective, little dove. Tell me, if I’m not in charge… And you’re not in charge… And we are the only two people here… Who is in charge? ” He asked her. His response was barley audible and sounded something like 'her’ but equally it was too soft to confirm. “ Louder, miss Blackwood, ” He encouraged. “ I am, ” This time the girl’s voice came much clearer, know it had a certain edge to it now. A cocky sneer spread across her pale and chapped lips. Her eyes seemed to return to the lively, untameable violet that suited them so well; staring a hole into the Doctor’s soul from behind her bangs, that somehow now seemed more blue than ginger rather than vice versa. And, quite suddenly, his heart was pounding violently and he was afraid. It all seemed to happen so fast after that. The lights, the lights that had been so reliable all the years he’d worked there, began to flicker on and off like a war drum on steady but challenging beat. Drawers and cupboards came flying open as unsecured pieces of furniture were knocked over in wake of a unseen power. Windows began to bang open and closed, in time with the creaking of the doors and the staircases. In each flash of light he had between the darkness, O'Hara only grew more unsettled. He could feel himself panting as he took in the images that he was graced with by the blinking lightbulb and the much duller light of the pale blue moon. The first gasp of brilliance painted a very similar picture as before for him. There sat his patient, or at least, his patient’s body. There was something very different about Riley now. What it was, he couldn’t say for sure but he could feel it. Primal survival instincts that man had not used since the days Mammoths roamed the world were kicking into overdrive, old dust being blown aside in wake of this ancient danger. What happened next only seemed to confirm his worries. One second she was there. The next time he got to see the chair… Remained only wires and empty space. She was gone. She was not in her chair. And then she was right in front of him, barley inches from his face. As he backed up, he fell over something unseen. Continuing to back away even in this less than optimal position, he couldn’t find his voice to scream. If he did, guards would be here in seconds. They knew he was in here attending to one of the most infamous female killers of this century… Why weren’t they here already? How had they not heard all this clatter? “ Hi. What’s your name, you little abomination? ” This question came accompanied by sudden tranquility. The chaos came to a stop. Everything came to a stop. Now it was just him, her and silence. “ Y-You know my name, miss Blackwood, now… Please… Return to your chair. Now, Riley! ” He commanded. Why, why he wasn’t shouting for help was a mystery. Was it because he was curious? Because he was now, for the first time, really getting somewhere with her? Perhaps. “ 'Riley’? My, my, my… I’m afraid you have me confused. Riley’s the wretched little trembling coyote. I am miss valour wolf. I admit, it is quite a transformation but not one word of a lie. She’s the pathetic mouse who bows her head. I am the bad bitch she calls on when we need to get shit done. My name is Steampunk the Purple Eyed, stud muffin, yours? ” Steampunk asked, as she fiddled with the buckles of her undone straitjacket; naturally it couldn’t be done up in order to strap her to the chair. How she’d gotten out of said chair was beyond him- That was when he noticed it. It hadn’t been too noticed because of the straitjacket before and because he hadn’t been paying so much attention to it, his head was other places… But now it was hard to ignore, his eyes snapping to it in horror. The unnatural shape of it, the already obvious selling and the way it hung limply. She had dislocated her own wrist. The thought alone was enough to make him sick. She had managed to force her bones out of place, enough so she could slip out her hand and undo her restrains and she’d done it scarily fast too. Almost as if she’d done it before. It didn’t even seem to bother her, she seemed barley aware of how it flopped around loosely as she made hand gestures. Dislocations were never a pretty site but some of them were pretty mild, like the arm. Painful, yet but nothing too horrific but wrists? They required surgery followed by casts for as many months. She’d just inflicted a gut-wrenching, long term injury upon herself and she was giving it all the attention of a paper cut. “ I-I apologise, m-my name is Oliver, Oliver O'Hara, ” The Doctor stuttered out, holding his hands up defensively. “ Ah, okay. Oliver~ I’ve always loved that name. What a ring that is, huh? Oliver… You can name your kid after a food and a vital internal organ, how great’s that!? ” Steam cheered, giggling as some orange froth rolled off her tongue. “ I love kids, but God… People are awful at naming them. Like, poor Riley for example. Her dad named her that. You know what his name was? Rylan. If gramma or gramps ain’t called Rylyn or Ryland or something, I owe you ten bucks. I think everyone should do what my dad did, let a faceless demon name your kid when they come of age to join the life of servitude. Worked out great for me, I like my name, ” She babbled. O'Hara honestly didn’t know what to make of this sudden turn of events, or how he was supposed to react. Well, any normal person would scream or run but he was… Well, he was intrigued. “ Fascinating… Dissociative Identity Disorder… ” He muttered, watching he as he shakily got to his feet again. “ Actually darling, I’m a lower class Slenderbeing who just happens to be tethered to this meatbag’s soul since I manifested from her, ” Steampunk corrected, “ Nice try know. ” “ Mm, and delusional… Schizophrenia, perhaps? ” O'Hara considered, receiving a scoff. “ Darling, please, I’m far too gorgeous for your silly little labels. Do I look like a discount coat to you? No, I’m designer. ” “ Make that Narcissistic Personality Disorder too, ” He added, mesmerised as he grabbed a notepad to scrawl in. “ So, not much of a screamer? Can imagine the wife is too please by that, ” Steam commented, receiving a quirked brow. “ You’re standing in a room with a celebrity killer and you’re acting like I’m a one eyed kitten, ” She grumbled. “ I’m morbidly curious abo- ” “ Who was it? ” Steam interrupted. “ Excuse me? ” O'Hara responded with a frown. “ I said, who was it? Who’d you kill? ” The albino asked. “ What’re you- I- I have no idea what you’re talking about, ” The Doctor insisted. “ Then why are you standing two feet from a serial killer and acting fascinated instead of scared? I can see it in your eyes, you’re frightened… But only because you know you’re not on par with me, ” Steam continued. “ So go on, morbidly curious? Sure, but not about me. About yourself. You want to know why you did it, and why you want to do it again, dare I say… How to do it again? ” She suggested. “ Sororicide, it’s a very particular kind of murder… You’d know that yourself, ” O'Hara answered the question, if in a round about way. “ Ah, a sister… Gotcha, ” Steam said, nodding her head a little bit. “ Sisters, ” O'Hara corrected. “ It was… Glorious… ” He said with a nod of his head. Steam reached over, which caused him to flinch before relief swept over him as she only gave him a pat on the back. “ Well, perhaps I can make you a deal. I’m good but I’m not psychic and I’m too weak for my usual means of transport. Distract the guards outside long enough for me to slip away and then maybe my tongue will be loosened enough to let slip some trade secrets, ” Steam suggested, giving a playful wink. - It was an odd turn of events that ended up with Oliver O'Hara sitting in the living room of his plush, well decked out apartment and sharing a drink with Riley 'Steampunk’ Blackwood. “ So, who is it you’re planning to murder now, Oli? ” Steam inquired. “Well, I’m out of biological sisters… So I thought I might as well start with the Biblical ones. Beginning with that Sister Agatha, damn, I’ll enjoy that, ” He told her, closing his eyes as he envisioned it. “ Well, aren’t you just the sickest little pup, ” Steampunk considered as she stood up, looking out the window as she began to slip off her straitjacket. “ Wait, what’re you doing? ” He asked her, staring at her enthralled as she threw off the garment. “ What? You didn’t expect me to keep that on, did you? Don’t tell me you’re a virgin, ” She teased, as she adjusted her bra strap slightly. “Shut up. ” “ Make me, ” The albino challenged him, only to find herself pinned with lips on hers. - Steampunk hummed to herself, as she stared at the glimpse of the sunrise the open window near the bed provide. Feeling O'Hara’s fingertips trail down her bare skin, she shivered softly before turning around to face him; ignoring the slight squelching the wet sheets made. “ Well, I definitely need that, ” She purred softly, flashing a coy smirk before slipping out of bed; pulling on her panties and his shirt that he’d discarded the night previous. Making her way through to the kitchen, she heard him follow behind her as she poured herself a glass of water. “Yeah, me too, pussy cat. ” “ 'Pussy cat’? Fuck off, ” Steam responded, scrunching up her nose and shaking her head a little as she swirled her glass; nearly choking on her drink as she felt him spank her. Her eyes narrowed in dangerous warning. “ Sorry. It’s just, I haven’t done that in forever. Not since my sisters died, ” He said, leaning against the wall. “ What? Celebratory fuck? Blow all the inheritance on a hooker? ” Steam asked, her fur thoroughly bristled. She had quite obviously been rubbed the wrong way. “ Why would I spend cash on some skank when I had two warm bodies? Oh, you wouldn’t believe the things I did to them, alive and dead, ” This sparked Steampunk’s attention end. “ Oh, really? ” She inquired, as she walked over to the sink; the water she’d drank coming from the fridge rather than the tap. Dunking her glass under the water, she fidgeted around in the murk with her good hand for a moment before she felt a slight pain and saw a tinge of Crimson on the soapy water. Her fingers found the handle and tightened, waiting. “ Didn’t think you’d be into that… But, tell me, you’d never do that to me, would you? ” Steam inquired. “ Never, doll face, ” O'Hara answered coolly. “ Then tell me, how come you picked up that handgun on the way out of the bedroom? ” The Proxy asked, turning her head to look at him accusingly. The Doctor’s eyes widened and the hand he had hidden away behind him began to swing around to fire the gun, right through her skull. But he wasn’t quick enough. Even if Steampunk had been a regular human, she was still far more experienced than him; even with a blade that wasn’t her weapon of choice. If she was armed, she was dangerous. Her hand came out of the sink in a flurry of water droplets that soaked both of them, the knife she brandished cut through the air with sharp precision despite being dirty. Her aim was perfect and before he even had a chance to take the shot, Steampunk glided her blade through the skin of his throat; burying it deep before whipping it along as if she was doing something as easy as opening a zip. Warm blood squirted out of his neck like a sprinkler, splattering Steampunk in the foul smelling bodily fluid as O'Hara let out desperate gurgling noises; his eyes widened in mighty surprise. “ You shouldn’t look so shocked, love, I’m a black widow after all. Soon enough I would’ve bit you, ” She assured him, watching as his body went limp and fell to the ground with a loud thump. He toppled like a tree, a crimson puddle growing around him from the moment he connected with the floor. His handgun clattered off to the side somewhere, sliding and disappearing under a table. “ I mean, you electrocuted the living shut out of me for weeks. Well, my body at any rate. You really think I was gonna let you get away with that? Nu-uh, I just prolonged your life because I was… Morbidly curious, ” She declared to the corpse, coy smile on face as his blood trickled down her body. “ Besides… What sort of sick fuck doesn’t regret hurting their sister? What you did to those poor girls… Murder I can sympathise with but not that… I wish I could’ve had the time to toy with you before you died. Castrate you maybe, that could be fun… You’re lucky. I would’ve tortured you until your sisters ghosts error laughing their asses off at you, you evil prick, ”. Gathering herself up, Steampunk sighed and in a very theatrical, over the top action she drove her knife right into his groin. “ Close enough. Have fun having no junk in the afterlife, dickhead… Ah, shit! That’s what I should’ve done! I should’ve made you an actual dickhead, fuck! Why can’t I think because I act? ” She complained, shaking her head as a familiar static began to wash over her and dictate her actions. “ Took you long enough to find me, Governor. ”

#Creepypasta #Creepypasta OC #Proxy #Slenderman #Steampunk

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