tropetember

[tropetember]

Tropetember Day 9: 5+1 (Hard Mode Prompt - 5 times Character A’s kid calls Character B Mom/Dad + 1 time Character B acknowledges they’re their kid.)

@tropetember

Summary: Five times Neal acknowledges Belle as his mom, and one time Belle acknowledges Neal as her son.

Author's Note: Takes place in the modern AU from this post. Neal is supposed to be about six years old in this, but I don't know a lot about children so if I haven't written that accurately we can just pretend.

1

Neal had never really thought about siblings. He loved his mama and his papa, and their little family was enough for him. But now Mama and Papa were divorced and Mama was married to Belle. And now Neal had to think about siblings because Belle was having a baby.

“My mom is having a baby,” he says to his friends sitting around the table in art class. His mama is their art teacher, and Morraine glances skeptically over to where she’s talking to some of the other kids.

“She doesn't look like she's having a baby,” she says.

Neal shakes his head. “My other mom.”

Belle isn’t that, technically. Mama had explained to him how she was only marrying Belle to provide for her and her baby and so it was different than when she’d been married to Papa. She’d said it like it was a reason for Neal not to think of Belle as his parent. But Neal doesn’t know about different types of marriages and what they mean. What he knows is that Belle is nice to him and married to his mama, and as far as he’s concerned that qualifies her to be his mom.

“Oh,” Morraine says. “Well, that’s cool.”

Neal nods. He is kinda looking forward to having a sibling.

2

Neal and his friends are playing at the park after school under the watch of Morraine’s mother. They’re bouncing a ball back and forth, having given up on more elaborate games after the first few kids left for the night.

Another car pulls up to the curb. Neal, who’s just thrown the ball, looks over his shoulder and sees that it’s his mama’s car. From where he’s standing, he can just tell that Belle’s with her in the front seat, and he vaguely remembers something about her having an appointment today.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, angling towards the pile of backpacks they’d left by the picnic tables. “My moms are here.”

Dustin catches the ball but doesn’t throw it again. He and most of the others follow a few steps after Neal, peering with interest towards his mama’s car. Neal is far from the only kid in his class with both a mother and a stepmother, but his is the only family where they’re married to each other, and his friends are naturally curious about the whole thing. Neal shrugs on his backpack and waves goodbye as he runs toward the car. He can see Mama and Belle turned to each other, talking as they wait for him. As he opens the car door, he’s greeted with two loving smiles and two voices asking how his day was, and Neal thinks this may be a curiosity, but it’s my family.

3

Normally, Neal went to school with Mama and spent the extra half hour before class started in the art room with her. But today Mama had a meeting with a parent. A very important meeting that Neal was not allowed to sit in on. So this morning he’d slept in and Belle had driven him to school.

But now, just as his hand was on the car door handle, Neal remembers that his class is going on a field trip next week. And he’d forgotten to have Mama sign the permission slip.

“Wait,” he says turning away from the door and unzipping his backpack. “Can you sign my permission slip? It’s due today.”

“Of course,” Belle says. She takes his offered folder to write on and a pen from the cup holder and repositions herself to sign. Between her baby bump and how far forward she has to have the seat, there isn’t much room for her to write. But she manages it turned sideways and after a quick thank you and goodbye, Neal heads into school with her elegant writing spelling out ‘Belle French’ on the parent signature line of the form.

4

“Mom! Mom!” Neal calls as he runs down the stairs. He skids around the corner, letting his socks slide him into the kitchen. “Can you help me with my homework?”

He finds Belle standing at the island counter, stirring something in a mixing bowl. Neal hopes she’s making cookies. She makes the best cookies.

He clambers up onto one of the stools opposite her and peeks into the bowl, grinning happily when he sees that it is, in fact, full of cookie dough. Belle glances up at him. “Your mama’s not here, kiddo,” she says.

Neal uses her distraction to swipe a chocolate chip that had fallen on the counter and pop it in his mouth before responding. “I know,” he says, perfectly aware that Mama had gone to the grocery store not long before. He slides his workbook across the counter toward Belle. “So can you help?”

5

Neal sprawls out on the living room floor, coloring in his newest coloring book. Mama and Belle sit on their corners of the couch, reading. The same book, because it's almost time for book club, which Belle says will the last book club before the baby gets here.

Suddenly, Mama announces that she’s going to bed. Neal and Belle nod and say goodnight and go back to what they were doing as she leaves the room.

It’s odd for grown-ups to go to bed before their children’s bedtime, is something that children instinctively know. But for Mama, it’s not really unusual. The first time Neal noticed, he’d thought she was sick. He’d crept into her room with his favorite teddy bear that always made him feel better when he was sick and offered to ask Papa to bring her a cough drop. Mama had gotten a little teary and bundled both him and the bear into her arms and said, “I’m not sick, baby. Just a little tired.” After that, Neal didn’t have to be a genius to see that “tired” really meant sad and that Mama always got sad after she’d been arguing with Papa.

Which raised a question now, because hadn’t ever noticed Mama arguing with Belle. He sets down his crayon, looks up at Belle, and asks, “do you make Mama sad?”

Belle drops her book.

She casts a worried glance toward the stairs Mama had recently disappeared up. “I hope not,” she says. Then she turns back to Neal with the full force of her motherly concern. “Why do you ask?”

Neal looks down at his coloring book, a little daunted by the intensity of her reaction. He was only asking a question. “I think Papa used to make her sad.”

“Oh Neal,” Belle says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

A strange feeling settles in his chest, something like being about to cry but warmer. He finds himself leaping off the floor and running to hug Belle.

As she wraps her arms around him, she says, “I try very hard not to make you and your mama sad. I promise I’ll always do my best for you.”

“I know,” Neal whispers. He can tell that being married to Belle has been good for Mama, even if she still gets sad sometimes. “I’m glad you’re my mom.”

+1

Belle hadn't left the house since Gideon was born, so when she finally feels up to taking a walk, she knows she needs to. Milah carries Gideon up to the front door to see her off. If she’s trying to prove that she’s capable of watching him, she doesn’t need to. She loves the baby almost as much as Belle does, and Belle trusts her completely.

Belle kisses them both then turns and heads out for her walk, smiling into the fresh air. She walks the few blocks from their house to Main Street, then finds her feet carrying her in a familiar but long-ignored direction. She stops in front of her destination and takes in the nostalgic sight of it and the floral scent that smells like her childhood. Her father’s flower shop.

Belle hasn’t been here, or even spoken to her father, since she was married to Gaston.

It had gotten tiresome to talk to him, to always try to explain why she couldn’t “just leave” when she knew he’d never understand. It had been painful, too, because when her father insisted Gaston wasn’t good for her, she’d known he was right and she’d felt lost and trapped in the reminder that she couldn't do anything about it. So she’d gradually stopped visiting, stopped calling, stopped texting.

Not to say that Moe was a bad father. He’d been the best father she could ask for, when she’d been a child. He’d simply been out of his depth dealing with her first marriage. To be honest, so had she. She couldn’t blame him for that.

The shop door chimes, announcing her entrance. Her father looks up from the bouquet he’s arranging at his workbench. “Belle!” he exclaims and rushes over to hug her. Belle leans into the embrace. It’s as warm and loving as ever, as if he’s already forgiven her absence.

“It’s good to see you, Father.”

“I’m so glad you came back,” her father says, and tears spring to her eyes from how much she missed him.

“Me too. Oh! And you should come to dinner sometime. There are some people you should meet.”

He frowns at that. “Not more of Gaston’s friends, I hope.”

“No,” Belle chuckles. Once, she’d made the mistake of inviting him to one of Gaston’s dinner parties. The night had ended with him thoroughly disgusted by the arrogant jerks her then-husband hung out with and her thoroughly embarrassed by the same. It shows how far she’s come that she can laugh about the incident now. “No, absolutely not. I want you to meet my wife and our two children.”

#tropetember #fandom: once upon a time #ship: belle x milah #media: fanfiction #trope: 5 + 1

[tropetember]

goldenlight

by greymantledlady

Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken  |  Teen Wolf  |  12.5K

(angst, hurt/comfort, panic attack, guilt & redemption, Theo POV)

-

The taste of copper fills his mouth, and he forces his head down to see his own clawed fingers red and dripping with blood. ‘No,’ he chokes out, ‘no, no, please,’ and his shoulder collides at an awkward angle with something solid and unyielding, his knees seeming to buckle under his own weight until he’s sliding downwards, burying his face into the dark space beneath the cross of his wrists.

-

(for @tropetember day 25 - angst with a happy ending. Late, but I got there in the end!)

#tropetember #fandom: teen wolf #ship: thiam #media: fanfiction #trope: angst with a happy ending

[tropetember]

stuck in the middle with you by greymantledlady

Tim Stoker/Elias Bouchard | The Magnus Archives | 28K

'You know, Tim, some warning would have been just as well,' Elias says, and he sounds frustratingly, irritatingly cool and collected. 'I thought you might be coming up here to kill me.'

'People try that often, do they? I can't imagine why,' Tim says sarcastically, and yanks the collar of Elias's shirt so he can press his teeth into the vulnerable skin there. Elias makes another small – very small – sound.

'Melanie is making preparations to poison my tea as we speak,' he says. If you know what you're listening for, his voice is just the tiniest bit more breathless than before, and the triumph of it tastes like sweetness and Elias's expensive cologne against Tim's tongue.

'Good for her!' Tim says brightly. ‘I hope she succeeds.’

-

Or, the TimElias Season 3 enemies with benefits to lovers fix-it fic that nobody asked for, featuring Elias's redemption, Tim beginning to heal, Jon and Martin being their adorable selves, and Basira being tired of all this shit.

(for @tropetember day 22 - fix-it.)

#trope: enemies to lovers #trope: fix it #ship: timelias #fandom: the magnus archives #media: fanfiction #tropetember

[tropetember]

Wrote this fic: Room For Living as a sort of Epilogue to You'll Never Leave Me (if im already gone) as a @tropetember hard mode fic from prompt:

#13 Slice Of Life - The story of two characters written through scenes only happening in one room of their house. (A number of scenes of domestic life happening in the same room of the house).

Adam and Charlie's lives together as small moments in the livingroom of the lakehouse Charlie bought them. (The original fic is NSFW but this Epilogue part isn't and I think it could also stand alone without having to read the other.)

#tropetember #fandom: the mighty ducks #ship: banksway #trope: slice of life #media: fanfiction

[tropetember]

☆-☆-☆

@tropetember #30: hanahaki

@midamappreciationweek #2: golden

Blooming Gold

supernatural ♡ adam milligan/michael ♡ hanahaki ♡ whump ♡ lucifer's cage ♡ hurt/comfort

When Adam starts coughing, he figures it's only fair. He's been on a streak lately; getting Michael to show him the oceans when the first spinosaurus swam through them, beating the angel at draughts for the first time in a couple of years, building a decent tolerance for Lovecraftian matters so that when Michael's true form flashes before him his awe is more fond than terrified, the works. His shoulders shake with it and it's right as he realises he shouldn't be ill at all in the cage that it lands on his open palm. A small, golden petal the exact shade of Michael's wings.

When Adam starts coughing, he figures it's only fair. He's been on a streak lately; getting Michael to show him the oceans when the first spinosaurus swam through them, beating the angel at draughts for the first time in a couple of years, building a decent tolerance for Lovecraftian matters so that when Michael's true form flashes before him his awe is more fond than terrified, the works. For a man who went from ghoul dinner to undead orphan to angel hostage to permanent resident of Lucifer's cage, it's not bad, raelly. The cough persists, though, his shoulders shake with it and it's right as he realises he shouldn't be ill at all in the cage that he feels it land on his open palm.

When he uncovers his mouth to look at the offending object, his heart misses a beat. A small, golden petal the exact shade of Michael's wings. Son of a bitch. Motherfucker. Michael's taught him a few swearwords in enochian he could invoke as well, but it wouldn't change anything. Putting his book down with more calm than he feels, he slowly walks out of the house Michael built for him from his memories, through the garden and into the fantastic oldgrowth forest that expands interminably, or as long as Michael wants it. As he wants it. - He walks in light steps among a menagerie of wonders the archangel has created for him; a patch of magnolias that attract insects long extinct in the real world, a diminutive meadow inhabited only by a dozen glow worms flying in perfect spirals, termite mounds made of translucent soil, a salt water river with a stream that changes colour depending on which mineral he's decided to have bleed into it and now runs lilac. He stops at its banks with a sigh, lets the petal fall into the current and be dragged away. While that doesn't solve his problem, he feels better once it's disappeared into the rapids.

He also misses it immediately. It's as much a death sentence as tangible proof of his feelings. He toes off his shoes, rolls the cuffs of his jeans up and walks upstream in the water, ruminating his calamity until his heart aches and his brain goes numb, until he coughs up another golden petal. Suddenly angry at his own fate, he shoves it back in his mouth and tries to swallow. He regrets this in an instant, as his body seizes with nausea and he's spitting iit out a second time, followed by a coughing fit and three more petals. Great. As dejected as he feels, he's reached a decision. The only possible decision, really. He's not going to tell Michael. In the cage, he's not likely to die, and he's confident in his abiliity to hide it as long as he needs to.

Michael is as shocked by his cough as he was at first, and offers to 'take a look', but doesn't push once Adam turns him down. He knows the archangel still feels guilty about him being in the cage at all, about what Zachariah did to him, about many things Adam doesn't think he had much hand in, if he's honest. But that might just be his crush talking. He continues to pocket the petals and play the whole matter down, and as much as the worry in Michael's face weighs on him, it's something he can live with. He has an easier time with it once it's replaced by curiosity a few years later, as his cough doesn't get any worse or better. He knows Michael has questions but he also knows he won't press it. He realises it's not only not killing him, but also advancing rather slowly. After a decade, the petals have only grown in size, sometimes coming in pairs, when he shouldn't have made it past a year or two alive. By now, Michael has just accepted it as another human quirk of his, going as far as to tell him he thinks it's winsome in the way it reminds him of the human's mortality. He replays the comment in his mind a thousand times a day, and it cheers him up when he gets too miserable about his condition.

It all ends the first time he spits a flower out. They're examining Caravaggio's Death of the Virgin, and as he tells Michael about his art elective in college he starts hacking again. And doesn't stop. The angel's affectionate curiosity changes into concern as he moves closer to straighten him up and lay a hand on his chest. A shiver runs through his body, and then a pale gold aster bud lands on Michael's shirt and he can breath again, but he cannot bring himself to look at the angel. He looks instead at the flower hatefully as he normalises his breath. When Michael asks him to let him check him over, he's torn between guilt at refusing and gratefulness the angel doesn't understand what's happening. He smiles, fishes a handful of petals out of his pocket like it's the most natural thing and explains he was expecting it but isn't really worried. The puzzled look Michael gives him is so rueful he almost confesses everything, but instead turns back to the painting, asks something smart about Myriam.

He told Michael he'd just learn to cough around it when the angel didn't look like he was going to let go as easy this time, and he does. The archangel looked horrified at the perspective, crestfallen that he wouldn't accept his help or worried sick, but Adam manages. Even as the florets grow steadily in size and development, faster than he expected. It's one evening as they walk on the sea that Adam begins to cough, breaking the surface tension and losing his footing. With a stoic face,Michael holds him up above the waters, touches his fingers to his chest and has a perfect tatarian aster blossom land on his shoulder for his trouble. He doesn't ask Adam to let him help this time, and that makes it all the worse.

The archangel makes sure to stay by his side as much as he possibly can, as coughing up the flowers becomes more difficult and angelic intervention is required more often than not. A selfish, ugly part of Adam rejoices this, even as he hurts at the silent lament in his expression, but he cannot bring himself to do anything but try and hold onto the status quo. Until the soft golden petals come up tinted red with his blood. Michael reaches for his hand, knocking over half their go stones off the board. 'I know I don't deserve you trusting me with your body again, but this cannot continue.' His voice is low, tremulous and he swallows dry before continuing. 'You're hurting, Adam. Please, please let me help you.'

Adam squeezes his hand in his at that. The archangel doesn't believe he trusts him? Everything he's doing is for Michael, but he cannot bear to hear him this way, to think he'll go on feeling this way. 'Of course. Of course I trust you it's just- I don't trust my own body.'

Michael reaches into his jacket, pulls a golden flower out. Adam didn't know he was keeping them, but to be fair he's had plenty to distract him. 'It's not your body that's hurting you. It's this, whatever it is. Will you let me help?' Nodding yes is the easiest thing Adam's done in what feels like an eternity. The archangel's hands are light on his chest, the grace thrumming through them strong. His irises gleam with his grace and his expression is baffled. When he speaks, his voice is reverent. 'Your lungs. They're growing flowers. I think- I know I can uproot them...'

'No!' Uproot them? And lose every precious memory he has of the angel? Never. He'd rather die. If the thought was impossible when he started spitting petals, it's even worse now. They've grown so much closer since, he doesn't know losing all that wouldn't kill him either way. But Michael doesn't get this, he doesn't know. He looks ready to protest, but Adam threads on. 'You cannot, Michael, you don't know... We don't know what they are! They're pretty, besides.'

'They're harming you, that's what I know.' He takes his hands away to toy with the flower. 'I know humans aren't meant to have flowers in their lungs and you do, and matter how pretty, they're choking you.'

'But I don't mind. I like them because... I just like the way they remind me of you.' Michael's face fills with sorrow at this, but Adam is undeterred. 'Can you just- can you maybe, prune them instead?'

As put off as Michael is at the idea, he does. And it works, somewhat. His memories are intact and, if the price is coughing up petals and the occasional aster bud, that's just about the best deal he could have got, considering. He wishes he'd managed to come up with a different reason every time Michael's face clouds with guilt whenever he has to repeat the process, or when the blooms are stained with blood. At least he's better, he thinks, at least Michael knows he trusts him. They've managed to return to something similar to normalcy when the cage opens.

It's worse, back on earth. So much worse. Michael's fright rings through his head, and why is he still with him instead of in heaven? If he has to die, he'd rather the angel didn't have to see it. He's always loathed upsetting him. It's late at night, and he's on his knees in a deserted beach and Michael is with him, forcing an avalanche of flowers out in a mess of petals and blood at his knees. His throat is raw only a second before the angel fixes that, and the gesture has him crawling back, body shaken with sobs he cannot contain nor explain. Adam. Michael's voice sounds even more true inside his head. Inside his head, with his thoughts scrambled all over. Quickly, he puts everything behind a wall he knows Michael won't try to break down, and hopes he was fast enough, but why would he start getting lucky now. You're ill. You know this, you've known-

'Known I'm going to die if I don't get my love requited. No reason to make you sad.'

We're out of hell, Adam. Whoever it is, I can get us there in-

'You can't-' Michael rises one of his hands to wipe at his tears but he uses the other one to bat it away angrily. 'You can't because he is- because he won't- because...'

I'm an angel, and though I get no pride from it I believe you know how convincing angels are. He takes control of the vessel, and his words sound sadder in his own voice. 'Adam, I cannot save you, you know vessels can be destroyed, if you don't let me help you you will die!'

Adam's breath catches at the dread in his voice, the hopelessness, and he decides he's not going to die letting the angel think he owes him. He's not going to have him with him when he dies. He retakes control of his body. 'It's my choice, Michael, you don't-' he hacks and retches, heaves as more flowers begin falling off his mouth getting in the way of his words, of all his noble intentions, of everything he thought to say before casting the angel out. It gets in the way of his will to cast him out even, and when he manages to stop, he can only rasp out the words he's been dying trying to hold in. 'I love you Michael.'

ADAM. It's like a flashbang's gone off inside his brain, it takes him away from the flowers, his trembling body, his tragedy. He's inside his mind now, Michael's face inches away from his, expression intense yet unreadable as his hands reach out to hold Adam's face with the strength of desperation. 'I need you to believe me now, more for my sake than yours. I love you.'

Adam's heart races at those words, hands coming up to cover Michael's- until he realises that cannot be true. Michael feels bound to him by duty, he's trying to save his life. He scoffs, trying to get away, but the angel just gives him a knowing look and then he's inside Michael's mind. He's staggered. It's all about him. Adam sees himself through the archangel's eyes, and it's so different from anything he could have expected. How truly lovestruck he was all along; when Adam spent a whole week making bad Satan jokes to cheer him up after Lucifer left the cage, when he insisted they had a waterfight after Michael made his first lake, when at Michael's request he'd tried to explain what it was to have a mother. And how desolate he'd been at his illness, his insistent refusal to accept any help, the reveal of the petals he'd been hiding from him. How guilty he felt when he choose to keep having the coughing fits because he liked the flowers.

'Michael-' The archangel doesn't let go, keeps his ideas -his feelings- pouring out, so blatant Adam has no option but to understand. Michael wants him to live. There's nothing Michael would not do for him. Because Michael loves him. With this, he's released, he's finally back on his body that's as welcoming as a wet jacket in winter. Michael hums in agreement and zaps them to a cosy suite where he leads him into a hot bath. There, under Michael's attentions, tired off from the accursed flowers and the revelations the day has brought, Adam sighs happily as he relaxes into the feeling of his love.

#tropetember #fandom: supernatural #ship: midam #trope: hanahaki #media: fanfiction

[tropetember]

☆•☆•☆

@tropetember #29: fusion

Saviour

yellowjackets ♡ shauna shipman/jackie taylor ♡ bible universe ♡ 412 words ♡ ao3

Shauna knew she'd forsake her own personal, alive goddess when push came to shove. She knew her own mortal guile, and knew Jackie was aware. She wouldn't let it come to that. The chief priests and the elders were crafty, but she was guided by her fear for her mistress. The same mistress that had as much as commanded her to throw her to the wolves. Well, Shauna's always been good at looking at an order like it's an argument she's to poke holes into. There's no time for that tonight, it's not her logic mind that leads her out to the garden but her heart that she's usually so able at stifling.

And she expected to find her in communion, prostrated in prayer maybe, but Jackie looks anything but holy in the violet light of dusk. She's leaning back against a fence, idle hands tearing weeds off it nervously. There's blood stains in her face, and Shauna has never seen her bleed before today. She advances into the clearing, the sight of her lady's ichor too alluring to resist. Jackie registers her presence as another scarlet tear rolls off those hazel eyes she knows better than her own. She wipes it off with an annoyed gesture, leaving a red smudge before her hand goes back to the fence. They stand there, frozen in their emotion like measuring each other. Jackie's mouth twitches into a knowing smirk before she speaks.

'Come to share this cup with me, Shipman?'

'Came to knock it off your lips, mistress.' Jackie raises one golden, perfect brow at that. 'They don't deserve your death, like they never deserved your life.'

'And you do?' Her voice cracks, betraying her aloof tone. 'Would you even want it?'

'Will you deny me?'

Jackie's hand reaches for her in an invitation Shauna accepts, stepping closer, breath catching at the sight of another blood drop running down that loved face. Without thinking, she catches it in a kiss. It's hotter than she expected, tingling in her lips like mulled wine. When she pulls back she's crying as well, salt and water and ordinary as anything human, but Jackie brushes them away all the same. Her fingertips are still wet as she rubs her own blood into her disciple's mouth, as she slides her pointer finger to give her a taste of their combined grief. Shauna's breath is laboured, but it picks up at Jackie's voice. 'As long as you'll have me, never.'

#tropetember #fandom: yellowjackets #ship: jackie x shauna #media: fanfiction #trope: fusion

[tropetember]

♡^♡^♡

@tropetember #28: marriage proposal

midamap #1: silver

Archangels Don't Get Hitched

supernatural ♡ adam milligan/michael ♡ 2207 words ♡ marriage proposal ♡ flufffff ♡ falling in love ♡ first kiss ♡ touch starved ♡ ao3

Holding each other all the time. Finally kissing. Making out on the regular. This progression doesn't take from the fact that archangels just don't get married, so Adam should forget about it. Adam cannot forget about it. He wants to marry the first archangel and, considering their history, he'll be damned again if he doesn't at least try.

Archangels don't get married. The idea is ludicrous, and Adam figures it's kind of a 'married to god' thing, just like nuns. He wasn't thinking about that when he introduced himself as Michael's fiance though, he wasn't thinking much really, high on the rush of Michael calling him his boyfriend. He'd only wanted to correspond the declaration, and that's all it'd been. Michael's manager - and wasn't that a title- had left, they'd hung around for the day and then skipped town, lease and shelter be damned.

They'd left for Rhode Island, settling close to the shore. It's all new for both of them, and that goes well with the wonders their days are made of now. The way Michael's eyes linger on him, getting used to his dyed hair and glasses, his own shock at the angels unchanged appearance. It'd been too painful to look at his reflection every day and know he was entirely, hopelessly alone, that the eyes looking at him from the mirror were his alone. He doesn't understand how Michael could bear it, but intuits it was a similar sorrow that drove him to keep his vessel unchanged. All that's forgotten now, though, and he's as elated at Michael's fidelity as the angel is by his evolution. As they are at being apart, together. For days, they are functionally one person, unable or unwilling to break away more than strictly necessary. He falls asleep in Michael's chest at night, Michael holds him as he makes his way to the door for the takeout he ordered, they spend way too much time cuddling; reassuring themselves at their closeness. They kiss.

The first time he kisses Michael it's natural. It just feels right. The angel is spooning him lazily on the sofa as Adam reads him The Two Towers. When he makes it to the passage where Shelob paralises Frodo, he feels Michael hide his face in his shoulder, and the gesture is so honest, so alive he cannot help it when he puts down the book to turn in his arms and press a kiss to his lips. It's chaste, featherlight pressure that grows into something solid for an instant before disappearing. As he pulls back, he gets the impulse to hide his face but the intensity of the archangel's expression stops him. Eyes blown by surprise, cheeks tinted red, lips parted as he rises one limp hand to ghost over them. It just then occurs to him there's no way Michael's kissed anyone before. The notion is exhilarating and frightening in equal parts, and he finds himself gently replacing the angel's hand with his own, tracing his lower lip with his knuckles. 'It's okay.' He says breathy and as nonchalantly as he can manage. 'Frodo and Sam, and everything. It'll be okay.'

He goes to say something else, anything else to take from those implacable eyes that glisten with something he can't understand, but there's hands on his face pulling him close and Michael's kissing him with all the vehemence of inexperience, fingers tense on his cheeks, lips ever so soft on his. He smiles into it, giving him a peck before pulling back just enough to form words. 'Michael, are y-''

The angel's mouth is back on his before he can finish, experimental and skittish and, evidently, alright. Reassured by the contact, Adam lets his lips glide against the angel's, warm and enticing. Slowly, he guides Michael's hands from his face to his waist, which has Michael sighing into the kiss and holding him closer than Adam had expected, but still not close enough and he returns the embrace, tangling their legs as if they could melt into one this way. He pulls away at last, eyes half lidded in contrast to Michael's, which blink wide open at the loss of his touch. They kiss a lot that day, book entirely forgotten. Adam's personal high point is when, emboldened as the angel's hands start to wander, he nips at his lower lip getting a full body shudder and a low whimper he commits to memory as Michael's fingers dig into his hips.

They kiss a lot, all the time. Soft, playful pecks whilst they wait for the water for heat for their tea; forehead kisses as Adam drifts off; longer, tender kisses when he wakes. He loves the way he manages to render Michael speechless within seconds, and Michael doesn't mind at all as long as he gets to kiss Adam. The thought makes the human positively giddy. One evening, when Michael zaps them back home after they manage the Cliff Walk, he even feels brave enough to up the ante. Invigorated from their hike and seeking the archangel's warmth he kisses him hard, pushing him back against the door, getting a satisfied noise that ends in a whine when Adam teases his tongue along the seam of his lips. The sound gives way to an eager gasp, and he's glad for the firm hold Michael has on his hips, because he feels his knees go weak as the archangel's mouth welcomes him, pliant and wishing, and better than he could have dreamed because Michael's usual loss for words doesn't make him any less vocal at the pleasurable assault. The moans leaving his mouth under his tongue's ministrations are downright indecent and Adam never wants to stop kissing him. Fortunately, Michael is in the same page as he leads them into the couch without pulling apart. They kiss until Adam is breathless and his mouth is tender and still, Michael peppers kisses on his face as he carries him to bed.

And through it all, archangels don't get married, so Adam should really stop thinking about it. He cannot stop thinking about it, hasn't been able since he let the comment slip out. Archangels aren't supposed to french either, he reasons, and after everything they've gone through Michael isn't likely to have any real objections. He, however, probably won't understand it. And Adam wants him to understand. Growing up he knew he wanted to get married one day, he didn't want to be like John Winchester. Of course, back then he had a different idea of just about everything, but that's one thing that hasn't changed even if just about everything about it has. Because the person, the angel he'd like to marry is the first archangel no less. But he's learned about kissing and electric kettles and walking places versus flying, so Adam will be damned again if he doesn't at least try it.

So he coaxes Michael into staying home when he goes out today. They snog at the door for entirely too long, and still Adam thinks it was just this side of too easy. Maybe he's been to clingy. Right, clingy to the man who cannot wait for him to wake up every day. It's probably just his nervousness making him secondguess himself, and he shoves all that to the back of his head when he walks into the jewellery shop. He knows what he wants, and he's got the advantage of having the same ringsize as Michael. The thought gets a small laugh out of him, but the jeweller just gives him a knowing look, and what's to say he's not besides himself with joy at the whole affair, rather than finding yet another silverlining on the whole angelic possession to Lucifer's cage speedrun. He walks out a couple of hours later with a flawless round cut in a classic yellow band.

Walking back home, he's still not sure what he will say but that doesn't trouble him. The mere concept of the pair of them not understanding each other is risible. Maybe he'll cook them something. Michael likes very few human meals and, since he's introduced him to them, he knows how to make them. He makes a stop first for a bottle of champagne and then, in an inspired gesture, for a bouquet of asters. He imagined he'd be nervous, but he's brimming with anticipation as he closes the door behind him, calls out, 'Michael?'

'Wait there!'

His voice is tense, but not in a dangerous way, so Adam takes off his shoes and lingers. It's getting dark, and he'd have turned on the lights, but the archangel doesn't need them. Then again, he has a tendency to burn the bulbs out under distress. 'Alright. Is everything okay?'

'Everything's great! Did you have fun?'

'Lots. But I missed you more.'

'Me too!' When he zaps right in front of Adam, the archangel looks pleased, if a bit weary. He wastes no time before he's giving him a short, sensuous kiss and resting his chin on his shoulder. Adam lays his hands on the small of his back, taking in his scent like autumn flowers and lightning and. Burnt fabric. 'Is something burning?'

'It's not!' Michael steps back to take his hand as he walks towards the living room. 'Come on, I put it out already.'

'Are you okay?'

'I am.' He kisses the corner of Adam's mouth, something he does when he doesn't want to get distracted from what he's saying. 'I made grilled cheese sandwiches.'

'And I've got champagne!'

Michael materialises an array of coupes and flutes in the table, already holding a stack of the aforementioned sandwiches and a bowl of tomato soup and, as a delayed explanation for the darkness in the foyer, a considerable amount of candles. Adam sneaks a glance at their router which is still flashing its connection and he's relieved the archangel didn't overload the grid whilst he was gone. Michael is charmed by the flowers, setting them in a vase next to the candles but not within burning range. Probably. The grilled cheese is actually great, but the angel prefers the wine. He's glowing, telling Adam how he did burn a potholder but has restored it to its original state.

After their meal, they have the rest of the bottle in the living room and Adam is looking for a segue into his point when, of course, Michael seems to read his mind. His eyes flicker down before meeting the human's again, fierce and burning with love. 'I've thought about what you said, when you came back to me.'

'Yes.' He sighs, relieved. Then he realises he still doesn't know how he's going to explain any of it. He stalls. 'Fiance is French of course, but betrothed is not really used these days.' Michael raises an eyebrow at that. Adam pushes through it. 'Humans get married when they're in love. Not everyone who's in love gets married, though, it's sort of a case by case thing.'

'I know, marriage was sanctioned by heaven. Some marriages.' He tilts his head with a sceptic smile at that. Adam can't believe himself, how didn't he think of the religious component of the thing? Michael reaches for his hand. 'But I understand, this is not about heaven. Maybe I should say this is about hell. But maybe it's about the heaven you unfurl when you're with me.'

Michael presses a long kiss to the human's knuckles, and then he's taking a knee. The part of Adam's brain that understands what's happening has him transfixed in ecstasy. The part that hasn't caught up is mostly baffled by the archangel kneeling at his feet. He finds his voice has left him for good, but it doesn't matter because Michael continues steadfast. 'I'm not sure I'll ever understand what it's about, but there's nothing that would make me happier than trying to. With you. I love you, Adam, I- I want to marry you, may I?'

Adam's voicebox is still a deadzone but he nods overemphatically, joining the angel on the ground, crashing their mouths together and that's when his voice returns, conveniently, in the way of a stifled sob. He's laughing through the tears that follow when he pulls apart, shaking his head to help clear it. 'You can marry me any time you want, I-' He breaks off, fighting down his overjoyed giggles so he can continue. 'I even got you a ring.'

He fishes it out and slides it on Michael's finger, who lets out a shaky breath when it's in place and examines at it with a confused smile. He gets a glistening silver-white band from his pocket. 'I thought I was meant to give you this at the ceremony?'

'No way!' Or maybe he was? No, that's what the bands are for. But it looks like a band. Unimportant. 'Put it on, Michael, come on!'

He gives him the type of fond look that signifies he's being rather human, and Adam never wants him to look away. He extends his hand and the angel obeys. It's cold like glass against his skin and he loves it. Michael looks positively complacent once it's on, and he knows his wearing a nearly identical, if more watery, grin in his own face. Now that he's got the 'yes' out, the tears continue to overflow. Michael thumbs them away in such a tender way he gets a hold of it long enough to lean in and whisper a choked 'Love you, love you' before he's half kissing half tackling him on his back.

#tropetember #fandom: supernatural #ship: midam #trope: marriage proposal #media: fanfiction

[tropetember]

Art and Love

Tropetember Day 4: Retail AU

@tropetember

Summary: Milah goes shopping for a sketchbook and finds true love.

Read on AO3

Milah had been eagerly awaiting the chance to check out the art supply store that had just opened in town. She finally finds the time on the last day of the grand opening sale.

The store’s atmosphere is cozy, more like a cutesy cafe or a quaint bookstore than the chain retailer craft stores she’s used to shopping at. There are chairs and tables set up for artists to hang out and a nautical theme to the decorations on the check out counter.

The dark-haired man behind said counter looks up when she enters, and Milah finds herself looking into the most beautiful blue eyes she’s ever seen.

“Welcome in,” the man says, smiling brightly. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Um...” Milah glances down the nearest aisle, hoping he hadn’t realized she’d been staring. “I’m just looking for a sketchbook.” She can hear the awkward nerves in her own voice, and she wishes she had made a better first impression.

“‘Just’ a sketchbook?” he says playfully. “No need to undersell yourself. Drawing’s an impressive skill.”

Milah blushes. Usually, she hates for people to notice her nervousness and call attention to it. But this man had somehow done so in a way that made her feel more at ease, and slipped in a compliment to top it off.

The man introduces himself as Killian Jones, the owner of the store. As she follows him further into the building, he tells her about the different products he stocks and the inspiration behind his business – art therapy that had helped him after he got out of the navy and lost his left hand. Milah couldn’t imagine being so forward about her own mental health with a friend let alone a stranger, and she’s more than a little impressed that he’s so unashamed by what she would deem oversharing.

“Here we are – sketchbooks,” Killian says at last, and Milah is almost disappointed to have reached their destination. The tour of the store had felt more like a friendly conversation than a sales pitch.

“Thank you,” she says and starts searching the self for the sketchbook she wants, secretively watching Killian as he walks away.

--

Milah needs a new eraser. Then a different color marker. Then new colored pencils. Then she runs out of red paint and the blue is getting low, too, but she decides not to replace it until she absolutely has to. It’s not a financial issue (not this time, at least, she’s been squirreling away money). She spreads out her trips to the art supply store, only ever buying one thing at a time, because of Killian.

He always finds the time to talk with her (and when he’s busy she waits around to give him the chance). It’s more than the usual customer service chatter, or at least she thinks it is. She supposes Killian could just be an excessively friendly person. But if he pays this much attention to anyone else, she hasn’t noticed it. And she can’t help the jittery anticipation that she feels driving to his store, the smile that lights up her face when he catches sight of her with those dazzling blue eyes. Or, most importantly, the warmth and happiness she feels in his presence.

--

“I’m going to set up a showcase for local artists’ work,” Killian says one day. “Would you like to bring in some of your drawings?”

Milah loves the idea, even likes the idea of being part of it. But she’s self-conscious. Her art is good on a technical level, she knows that, but she’s not sure if the subject matter is good enough to display. She draws mostly fantasy – mythical creatures and knights rescuing princesses and the like – and her husband always tells her it’s “childish”.

“I’ll bring some in to show you, and you can decide if you still want them.”

Killian makes her feel worthwhile – like she’s someone worth talking to, like her hobby isn’t frivolous. He’s been testing her assumptions about herself practically since they met and now she’ll do some testing of her own. Afterall, if she likes her drawings, why shouldn’t anyone else?

Despite her earlier confidence, Milah almost backs out of the showcase. She’s put together a portfolio of the least whimsical of her drawings that she’s proud enough of to display. Still, the morning that she’s supposed to show the portfolio to Killian, she wakes with her stomach in a knot of nerves, worrying that it’s not presentable enough. She doesn’t know how she could bear it if Killian looked down on her because he didn’t like her art. She likes him too much for that.

She sits with Killian in the front of the store so he can keep an eye on the register. The store is quiet, though, and he flips through her drawings uninterrupted. He points out something he likes in nearly every picture, occasionally asking her little questions about the ideas behind them.

“These are all very good,” he says when he’s done. He picks a few for the showcase – a female knight facing down a dragon, a werewolf howling under the light of the full moon, a castle in a vibrant forest landscape – then says something Milah never would have expected. “You could make good money with a talent like this.”

“Really?” she asks. She’s thought before about selling her art. The extra money would make her life a lot easier. But “unmarketable” was another of her husband’s favorite ways to describe her art.

 Killian nods. “I have friends who would buy prints of several of these. And I quite like this one myself.” He holds up a drawing of a woman dressed in red looking out over the railing of a pirate ship, brown hair billowing behind her in an invisible sea breeze.

“You can have it,” Milah quickly offers, still stunned that he likes her art so much. Then she blushes. “That is, if you don’t find it weird that it’s supposed to be me.”

Killian studies the drawing closer. “Ah,” he says, “I should have recognized those beautiful curls.”

Milah gasps and blushes harder. It’s not that the flirtation is unwelcome, but surely a man as attractive as Killian, who owns his own business as well, would have better prospects than her.

Killian mistakes her stunned reaction for discomfort. “I’m sorry, I must have misread.  I thought you seemed interested.”

She was interested and she had acted it, he hadn’t misread there. “No, you were right, but it’s… complicated.” She grimaces. Interested was not the same as available, though if only it were that simple.

“I see,” Killian says, trying to smile away the rejection. “And does it make it more or less complicated if I say I think I could love you?”

“Less, I think,” she says slowly, the idea giving her much to think about. But one thing she knows for certain is she needs to be honest with him. “I’m married,” she admits. “But I think, maybe, I am not loved.” Milah had thought she loved her husband because she had thought he loved her. She had thought that what they had, unfulfilling though it was, was the best that there was. But Killian had already shown her better. He’d already shown more kindness, more appreciation, more investment in getting to know her, and if that was not even love but merely the possibility of it… Well. It gave her a new perspective.

And now she suspects she’s ruined it.

But instead of anger, Killian responds to her confession with softness. “You deserve more,” he says. “You deserve love.”

--

Killian talks her into a booth at the upcoming art fair. Half a booth, really, the two of them working off the same table but keeping their own profits. No matter how anxious she might be at the idea of more of her art on display for more people who have higher tastes and back their judgments with money, an entire day of Killian’s company is too good an offer to refuse.

Killian is, in his own words, “good with colors, not details.” His paintings seem to back that up – beautiful swirls of color that, while nearly formless, perfectly encapsulate the seascapes and sunsets they’re meant to represent. It’s a lot closer to her husband’s idea of “serious art” and as they’re setting up, Milah once again worries her art is childish. Killian, once again, is nothing but encouraging.

Milah’s tense at first, uncertain, but Killian’s so easy to be around and he doesn’t criticize the way she interacts with the people who stop at their booth. Customers ooh and ahh at her paintings as much as Killian’s and soon the rhythm of the day becomes surprisingly relaxing. Killian brings her coffee when he leaves their booth for a break in the morning and lunch at noon, gently brushing off her protests of not being able to pay him back with reassurances that he doesn’t expect her to.

At one point, a customer mistakes them for a couple. Milah laughs away the misunderstanding, wishing it was true so hard it almost hurts. She’s been thinking a lot about her earlier conversation with Killian – about the love she’s always dreamed of but realized she doesn’t have, that Killian apparently thinks she deserves. She doubts Killian still wants her in that way, as it’s been long enough for him to have moved on despite their continued friendship. But the hope for a better relationship has stuck with her. She wants to leave her husband, but she hasn’t yet been able to bring herself to do it.

In the afternoon, Milah takes a break and wanders around the fair, taking in the variety of other artisans present. A woodcarver selling wine racks and his wife who brews wines and meads and ciders to fill them. A young woman knitting with clumsy stitches and promising passersby that her wares are made by her grandmother who’s “much better at the craft.” Another carver who makes the most realistic wooden toys Milah’s ever seen. A bookbinder boasting a selection of stories written by her nephew alongside leather journals and classics with painted covers. A photographer specializing in birds. A woman selling little glass dragons. And several other painters and photographers, potters and jewelers.

Her husband would have been unimpressed by the whole affair, likely would have even called some of the pieces “tacky.” Most of their home decor comes from snobbish galleries, her jewelry from major brands. Her husband always cared more about how wealthy his selections would make him appear than about things like artistic merit or fun. To Milah though, the fair seems almost magical, and she’s already planning a few market scenes to draw inspired by its atmosphere.

Milah sells four pictures in total. It’s somehow both a pathetically small number and more than she’d expected, but then self-hatred had never been the most logical of pastimes.

Killian disappears briefly as they’re packing up and returns with his hand behind his back and a cheerful, almost goofy, smile.

“I got you something,” he says.

“Oh?” she asks, heart fluttering. Killian holds out his hand, still closed, then opens it to reveal a hair clip made of glass pieces arranged in the shape of a red and orange butterfly. “It’s beautiful,” Milah breathes. She traces her finger over the clip’s smooth surface, brushing lightly against Killian’s palm as she does.

“Let me put it on for you,” Killian offers, and she obligingly turns around. His touch is gentle as he sweeps back sections of her hair and pins the butterfly in place.

He doesn’t move away when she turns to face him again. They’re close enough it might as well be an embrace, his hand lingering near her face, fingertips on her jawline. It feels like the most natural reaction in the world when she kisses him.

 The kiss is impulsive and ill-advised and wonderful. But when his soft lips begin to move against her own, she realizes what she’s done.

Reluctantly, Milah pulls away. “I shouldn’t -” she starts. Then she thinks about how earnestly Killian had said “I could love you,” about the google search for divorce lawyers still open on her phone, about how days as perfect as this could never exist in the life she’d had before she met him. And she has to know.

“Could you still love me?”

When Killian nods, she kisses him again.

--

One Year Later

Milah breezes into Killian’s store with a smile on her face and a large envelope tucked under her arm. She feels lighter since she left her ex-husband, lighter still here in this store. As the place where she met the man of her dreams and made so many happy memories with him, it feels like as much of a home as either of their apartments.

“Hello and welcome -” Killian breaks off the generic greeting when he looks up and sees that it’s her. His entire face lights up. “Milah!” Milah will never grow tired of that look, that enthusiasm, the knowledge that as happy as she is to see him, he feels the same.

They share a quick kiss across the counter before Milah circles around to join him behind it. “I brought you something,” she says, holding out the envelope. Killian opens it carefully, pulling out a drawing to match the one she’d given him so long ago. It’s a drawing of her again, in the same red outfit on the deck of a pirate ship, only this time she’s nestled into the side of a dark-haired man in a long black coat, their arms wrapping tenderly around each other.

The woman in the picture is no longer alone. Now, she has someone to love and care for her. And for once the scene of happiness for her drawn-self isn’t a bittersweet depiction of something Milah can only long for. Because now she has someone to love and care for her in real life, too.

#tropetember #fandom: once upon a time #ship: millian #trope: retail au #media: fanfiction

[tropetember]

Fic: Thermodynamics [Barbie/Gloria]

Title: Thermodynamics Fandom: Barbie (2023) Characters/Pairing: Barbie/Gloria Rating: T Word Count: 9,043 Summary:

Barbie has some serious trouble grasping the finer points of weather and humidity, which leads to her very first encounter with human illness. Gloria takes care of her, and some very confusing feelings accidentally come to the surface. Written for prompt #3 "Sickfic" of @tropetember

AO3 LINK

Water is extremely complicated.

Barbie honestly doesn't think humans realize just how complicated it truly is. And she's not even just talking about its fluidity and how infuriatingly hard it can be to contain it once it's decided to go everywhere at once (she's working on her accuracy when eyeballing the volume of liquid she can pour into a glass). Oh, no. That's, like, beginner level water-handling. It's the way water affects... everything else that keeps tripping her up.

Sometimes there'll be a day when the heat is so oppressive Barbie feels like she's trying to breathe with plastic lungs. And Gloria will nod sagely and simply say "it's the humidity" right before suggesting she take a quick cool shower like that won't just add even more humidity to the mix. But it works, somehow, until it doesn't because she's out of the shower and her damp hair has gone from keeping her scalp cool to weighing her entire body down until she feels absolutely, indescribably gross.

"Yeah. It's the humidity," Sasha will say when Barbie mentions how she can't even tell where the dampness from the shower ends and her own sweat begins and are they sure she's not melting? It's the humidity but if you add more humidity by hanging a wet towel in front of the fan it helps. Yeah. Okay.

Eventually, by the end of her first Summer in the Real World, Barbie thinks she has somewhat grasped the basics of water when it comes to temperature. Water can cool you down if you drink it or pour it over yourself or blow air through it (the bowl of ice trick Sasha saw on TikTok worked even better than the wet towel one). But it will warm you up if it's naturally in the air (humidity is her least favorite word).

She can work with that.

"If you go out later you may want to wear a jacket," Gloria says over breakfast one late October morning, "it's a bit nippy outside."

Barbie likes the sound of that. Nippy. It sounds fun. Playful, even. She's nowhere near bored of the Real World yet, but she'll admit some things have become so routine by now she barely even notices them anymore, and that makes her a little sad. She misses the feeling of absolutely every experience being brand new and exciting. So, nippy weather, huh? Sounds like a good time to her!

As it turns out, she enjoys nippy. The cooler air feels so different on her skin. She gets goosebumps like when she takes too long drying off after a shower, but they're not exactly the same kind. She doesn't notice when she breathes anymore because she's been doing it for several months now, but she does notice when she breathes in the colder air. She feels it going all the way into her lungs. Through her trachea and into her bronchi and bronchioles and filling up her alveoli like tiny little balloons.

She loves Sasha's Bio textbook.

So, when a couple months later, she hears the words 'cold snap' while watching the weather report, Barbie is nothing short of delighted. Nippy was fun, so she's sure a snap can only be even better, right? A snap. Fun!

"Do you think we'll get any snow?" Sasha circles the coffee table for the third time, open backpack in her hand, like she's expecting whatever she can't find to magically appear if she looks at the exact same spot the correct number of times. "Like, not downtown obviously, but nearby? Hey Barbie, where'd you put my Chem book?"

"Oh, I left it on your desk. Thanks for letting me borrow it! I loved reading the little intro about water's specific heat capacity but I need way more information than that so I think I'll go to the library later." She feels like she's found the path to understanding water and its weird behaviors, and she can't wait to pay a visit to her favorite librarian. Sasha insists she should just Wikipedia stuff, but Barbie likes the face-to-face interaction and the fun of going from book to book like she's on a scavenger hunt.

"Okay, Nerd Barbie."

"Tone," Gloria warns, one finger pointing in Sasha's general direction in a slight sweeping motion that means she's not really in any trouble at all. You can tell a lot from the exact way Gloria points a finger at you, especially when you pay as much attention as Barbie does.

"Sorry," Sasha lies (Barbie can tell when that happens, too), already on her way to her bedroom, "but you gotta admit it is kinda nerdy."

Gloria chooses to ignore that particular comment and focus on the earlier part of the conversation instead. "I don't know about snow. Maybe. We got some nearby last year."

Barbie's been in the Real World for long enough to know even the things they do have back home, like snow, are completely different here. Because they're real. "Gloria? What does snow feel like?"

"It's like—" Gloria stops pouring coffee into her thermos to think for a moment. She can answer easy questions while doing other stuff, Barbie's found, but when it's a hard one, or when she really cares about giving a thoughtful answer, she has to fully focus on her thoughts. Watching it happen makes a very particular warmth start somewhere in the vicinity of where Barbie's heart is and then spread out towards her lungs and down to her lower abdomen where it pools like... like something both warm and fizzy, somehow. Like warm soda pop, but not nearly as disgusting as that sounds. She hasn't found an explanation to that particular phenomenon in any of the human biology books she's read so far.

"It's like a snow cone, but like, without the syrup obviously." Sasha's voice travels through the open door of her bedroom and snaps Barbie back to reality, pulling her focus away from the mysterious Gloria-related effervescence in her belly. "And it's cold. And wet. It doesn't look like it should get your clothes wet, but it totally does."

See? Water. Doing unexpected things once again, even in solid form.

"I'd love to see it. Do you think it'll happen soon?"

"Maybe, yeah! You heard the weather guy." Gloria grabs Barbie's house keys instead of her own car keys, like she does nearly every morning. And like nearly every morning, Barbie notices before Gloria does and picks up the forgotten car keys, jiggling them to bring Gloria's attention to her mistake. "Shoot, thank you, Barbie. Sasha! We're gonna be late!"

"And, you know," Gloria continues, her voice down to a conversational tone once again, "even if it doesn't snow right here, we can plan a weekend getaway some time. Do some sledding, maybe skiing or even snowb—"

"I vote Switzerland," Sasha interrupts, walking past her mother towards the front door, "for the chocolate. And the cheese. Wait, do you have a passport? Can you even get a passport?"

"Right," Gloria says, "let's aim for Big Bear Lake or even Tahoe this year. I don't think we're at the international travel level just yet."

Gloria winks at Barbie like she's in on some kind of joke. Like they've just told someone Barbie's spent most of her life in Australia and that's why she's not fully confident with American money yet, and it's funny because they both know that's not the reason but it's a completely harmless fib. Barbie has no idea why Gloria is winking right now (international travel does sound complicated, and Sasha brought up a valid point about passports, whatever those are) but she smiles anyway, the kind of smile that's so wide she can feel it on her cheeks and in the crinkle of her eyes. She may not know exactly what the joke is, but whatever it is is between her and Gloria, and that's good enough for her.

"See you at lunch time?" Gloria is already halfway through the front door when she asks, like Barbie hasn't had lunch with her every single day since she arrived in the Real World. She even has a favorite taco truck that stops near the Mattel headquarters every other day.

So Barbie just lets her smile answer for her.

Later, Barbie finds out the cold snap is not fun. At all. As it turns out, there is a drastic difference between nippy and cold (Sasha's insistence that it doesn't even get really cold in LA does not help Barbie feel any better about it), and Barbie is firmly against cold as a weather concept, thank you very much.

It's interesting at first. It's like nippy, but more. Sharper against her skin and in her lungs and on the tip of her nose. But soon enough it becomes uncomfortable. Just like the heat in the Summer, it seems to permeate her clothes and then her skin and all its layers until she feels like it's inside her and there's no getting rid of it. Gloria recommends a warm shower, which helps just like the cool ones in the Summer did. Barbie figures she can let her damp hair do what it did back then and become warmer with time, but Gloria already has the blow dryer in her hand when she steps out of the bathroom, and Barbie is more than happy to let her play with her hair for as long as Gloria wants.

On the second day of the cold snap, the weather guy informs there's a low-pressure system bringing in higher humidity, and Barbie breathes a sigh of relief. Humidity makes things hotter. It makes you sweat. If heat plus humidity equals being slowly cooked in your own juices, then cold plus humidity should equal something between pleasant and slightly nippy, right?

See, she's been reading about thermodynamics. It's all about equilibrium, as it turns out.

So you can imagine her surprise (and, frankly, outrage) when she goes out in a light cardigan and finds herself standing in what can only be described as an outdoors fridge. Ridiculous. It's ridiculous and wrong and downright unfair, because the air is cold and the humidity is in there and she's been reading those books that say the heat will go from the hotter substance into the cooler one until they reach thermodynamic equilibrium so why is the moisture not heating up the cold air? Why is the air somehow even colder than yesterday?

Barbie feels her eyes sting with tears and she's not sure if they're from the sheer frustration of feeling like the laws of Physics keep tricking her, or from the cold air hitting her eyeballs. She figures it's a combination of both of those things.

All she wants is to go back into the warmth of their home, but it feels like letting the humidity win, somehow. Like going back inside is admitting defeat. And Barbara Millicent Handler may be many things (she's still figuring out which things she is, as a matter of fact) but she's absolutely not the kind of woman who gets defeated by moisture, of all things.

No way.

So, frown in place and arms tightly wrapped around herself and her puny cardigan, she marches towards the library determined to figure out this humidity nonsense before lunchtime. It can't be this hard. Everyone else seems to get it. There has to be something she's missing.

Her favorite librarian is helpful as always, even offering Barbie a cup of hot cocoa from the coffee machine when she notices the way her teeth chatter as she asks for another book on thermodynamics.

"Is there anything in particular you want to research?" She asks, and is kind enough not to mention the way Barbie's eyes water all over again when her nearly numb fingers wrap around the warm paper cup. "We may have better luck finding exactly what you're looking for if we narrow the field a bit more."

Fifteen minutes later, Barbie's sitting at her usual table with a book about weather that has her feeling so giddy she's no longer thinking about the cold. Well, she's thinking about cold as a concept. Just not about how cold she was just a moment ago. Sasha can insist all she wants: there's no way her beloved Wikipedia would've provided not only the perfect book, but also the perfect hot beverage.

Once she's finished her cocoa, Barbie opens the book and immediately realizes she's found a whole area of knowledge she didn't even know existed. Weather seems simple enough on the surface, but the more she reads, the more she realizes just how much there is to learn about it. By page four she's feeling so full of excitement about all the things she's about to discover that she actually giggles out loud. By page ten, she's wondering why the weather segment is always so short when there's so much to talk about.

"Barbara?" The librarian's soft voice pulls Barbie's attention from a two-page illustrated guide to cloud shapes. She's got to tell Gloria about lenticular clouds. "I hate to interrupt your reading, but you always leave at eleven, so—"

"Oh?" Eleven. Gloria. Lunch. "Oh! Thank you so much, Evelyn."

She rushes out of the library with the reassurance that Evelyn will make sure nobody checks out the book before tomorrow and makes it to the bus stop with six minutes to spare (running helps with the cold, she finds) according to the clock on her phone. And she has only been waiting for a minute when she feels a drop of water on the very cold tip of her nose.

"Oh, no."

It doesn't rain often in Los Angeles, but she's already experienced a couple of rainy days and she can recognize the first sign. Rain is a lot like crying, in that you get one drop first and then a whole bunch of them with no warning at all.

By the time the bus stops in front of her, she feels like she's spent the last five minutes taking a cold shower with her clothes on.

The bus ride to the Mattel headquarters is not very long, but when she gets off at her stop Barbie feels like even her bones are soaked through. Her clothes stick to her skin, cold and heavy and wet, and (thermodynamic equilibrium!) seem to be sapping every last kilojoule of body heat out of her. She feels like there isn't an amount of hot cocoa in the world that could possibly warm her back up.

"Barbie! Oh, honey, didn't you bring— I should've told you to grab an umbrella. Why aren't you wearing your coat?" Gloria is waiting at the bus stop like always, dry under her umbrella and toasty warm inside her fleece-lined rain coat. "Why aren't you wearing your boots!?" Gloria looks at Barbie's soaked tennis shoes like the sight of wet feet is something out of her wildest nightmares.

"I just—" Barbie feels her chin tremble. It's half shivers and half wanting to cry from just how uncomfortable she feels standing in the cold (at least Gloria's pulled her under her umbrella so she's not getting rained on anymore) in soaking wet clothes. And shoes. And socks. "I just thought—" Barbie shakes her head just as the first tear falls, "I just don't get humidity, okay!?"

"Humidit—?" Gloria shakes her head slightly, like she's decided halfway through her question that she's not actually going to focus on that right now. "Oh, look at you," Gloria's fingers feel soft and warm against her skin when she gently brushes strands of wet blond hair away from her forehead, "why didn't you go back inside when you saw it was raining?"

Barbie shrugs and sniffles slightly. Sometimes being a real person is a bit much for her. There are too many things to feel all at once. And she was already close to the point of being overwhelmed by all the terrible feelings from before — cold and uncomfortable and wet and sad and confused and frustrated — but now there are all these new things added to the mix, and she doesn't even have a name for most of them. The feeling of being very close to someone under an umbrella while it rains. Is there a name for that feeling? The feeling when someone's voice is so soothing it feels like you're being wrapped up in the softest blanket in the world. The feeling when being near someone makes all the bad feelings fade into the background until they barely register anymore.

The feeling of someone catching one of your tears with the pad of her thumb and then pressing her warm palm against your cheek. Is there a name for that? Because it spreads from the point of contact between Gloria's hand and her face, filling her up with whatever the feeling is called until there's simply no room for cold anymore and all she can feel is that.

"I didn't want to miss lunch," she finally says, leaning into Gloria's touch and adding another feeling to the mix when Gloria smiles.

And for a handful of heartbeats they just stand there, Gloria's hand on her cheek, thumb brushing softly against her skin, like they're both a bit too busy feeling to do anything else.

"Let's get you home," Gloria finally says. She moves her hand away from Barbie's cheek and holds the umbrella in her direction. "Here, hold this for me for a second." And when Barbie does, Gloria quickly unbuttons her raincoat and slides it off to wrap it around Barbie's shoulders instead. "Better?"

Barbie nods. The fleece lining is warm from being wrapped around Gloria and it smells faintly of her perfume, and "home" is the closest she can get to finding a name for the feeling in her chest.

"Come on," Gloria lets Barbie hold the umbrella and loops one arm through Barbie's so they can walk close together towards the car, "I don't want you to get sick."

—-

Gloria practically shoves her into the hot shower the second they walk through the door. And if her brain felt even just a bit less foggy, Barbie would've had a thought or two about one kind of water being the cure for another kind of water, but she can't focus on that right now. She's never felt worse in all her months as a human woman. She's cold even if her skin gets warmed up by the hot water. She keeps shivering but she can feel herself sweat. She keeps sneezing, and every sneeze makes her head hurt.

"This is the worst day ever." Barbie pouts, sitting on the couch with a flannel blanket wrapped tightly around her body. The words scratch against her throat as they come out in the most annoying way.

"I know," Gloria says, tone sympathetic from the kitchen area, "I'm sorry, honey."

They've been home for a few hours now — Gloria decided Barbie's first brush with sickness was more important than the rest of her work day, and Mattel agreed — and Barbie keeps feeling steadily worse with every passing minute. At first she was just cold and wet. Now she feels like she's been run over by a cold, wet truck.

"Here," Gloria hands her a bowl of hot chicken soup and sits next to her, "it'll make you feel better. I promise."

It doesn't work right away, but it's delicious and it soothes her throat as it goes down so Barbie can't complain at all.

"How are your feet?" Gloria slips one hand under the blanket to feel around for one of Barbie's feet, both of them safely wrapped in the warmest, fluffiest socks she's ever worn. Barbie doesn't think she's ever seen Gloria look as horrified as she did when she saw Barbie's drenched socks before.

"Warm," Barbie offers, even if she's sure Gloria can tell when she lightly squeezes one of them.

"Good. That's good." Gloria lets go of her foot and fixes the blanket, tightly tucking it under Barbie's legs. "That's good," she repeats, softer this time, like she's talking to herself. She doesn't speak again until Barbie's left the nearly empty bowl on the coffee table.

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well." In her time in the Real World, Barbie's learned people often say things like 'I'm sorry' without really meaning them. Just because it's polite. But she can tell Gloria means it in the most literal, true sense of the words. She can see the sorrow in dark brown eyes, in the worry lines on her face, in the way she moves around Barbie, like she used to be made of the most delicate porcelain instead of plastic. "I wish I had a magic cure."

Barbie can tell she means that, too.

What Barbie can't do is understand why the thought of Gloria snapping her fingers and making it all go back to normal doesn't sound nearly as appealing as it probably should. She wouldn't miss the shivers or the sneezing, but she thinks she'd miss the way Gloria's stayed close all afternoon, making sure she's okay.

"You should go to bed. Chicken soup and rest is the best remedy for the sniffles."

Barbie nods. She's not exactly tired, but she doesn't feel like being awake either. Being sick, unsurprisingly, is no fun at all.

"Shouldn't Sasha be home already?" Barbie stands up from the couch, bringing the blanket along like a long, fluffy dress. "It's Wednesday so she doesn't have practice."

Gloria smiles the specific smile she reserves for moments when Barbie remembers details about her or Sasha. She's noticed.

"She's staying over at Mei's to finish a project. She asked for permission in the car this morning." Gloria watches Barbie take the first few steps away from the couch like she's not sure she'll manage without falling over, and breathes a sigh that sounds a lot like relief when Barbie manages to stay upright. "I'm here if you need me, okay?"

Barbie smiles, because she already knows.

—-

"Hey." Gloria's voice is barely above a whisper. Barbie's bedroom is dark except for the warm light sneaking in from the hallway through the halfway open door. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

Barbie has never had as much trouble figuring out whether she's awake or still fast asleep as she does right now, with Gloria sitting on the edge of her bed and tucking Barbie's hair behind her ear.

"How are you feeling?"

Barbie wants to answer. She wants to say she's not sure, because she isn't even sure this is really real or just a warm, hazy dream. But Gloria's fingertips brush against Barbie's warm skin as she moves her hand from Barbie's ear to her temple, and then Gloria's slightly cooler palm presses against Barbie's forehead, and all she can do is breathe.

"Oh, that's too warm." Gloria sighs, and Barbie feels the soft whoosh of the air leaving Gloria's lungs and hitting her skin as Gloria leans in to press her lips against her forehead.

It's not a kiss. It's just a press. The softest ghost of a touch. And Barbie realizes in that very moment that she's forgotten how to breathe, but her heart seems to have decided to beat twice as fast to make up for it so she figures she'll be fine.

Gloria remains so close when she pulls away that Barbie can't really tell if she's hearing her or just feeling the words against her skin when she speaks again. "Family trick. You can tell if there's a fever easier with your lips than with your hand."

Barbie nods, maybe a little dumbly. She's never had a fever, but she knows the concept of it. And she definitely feels like her body temperature is much higher than just a few seconds ago.

"Can you sit up?" Gloria turns towards the side table while Barbie rearranges herself against the headboard. The light from the hallway is enough for Barbie to make out a water bottle and a glass, and she watches with fascination as Gloria carefully pours some water and then shakes a little packet of something and adds its contents to the glass. "Here. Take this. If the fever hasn't budged by tomorrow we'll call the doctor, okay?"

Barbie nods again. She's never tried drinking water in bed — that seems, frankly, like the sort of advanced fluid dynamics she should not be trusted with just yet — but Gloria seems very sure of this whole process and Barbie doesn't think she can speak right now, let alone argue with Gloria's instructions.

As it turns out, she shouldn't have worried at all. Because Gloria's hands don't leave hers when she hands Barbie the glass. One warm hand remains covering Barbie's, steadying her fingers around the cool glass, and the other rests gently on the back of her head. It feels like a reminder that Gloria will catch her if she falls.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, it doesn't taste good at all, but I don't think this is the time to learn how to swallow pills," Gloria says, and Barbie looks into the glass even if she can't really see what the liquid looks like with such little light. She can hear it fizzling, louder and faster than any soda she's tried so far (and she's tried a few). It smells oddly... synthetic. Like it doesn't belong in the Real World. "It'll make you feel better. I promise."

It tastes even worse than she imagined. It tastes like nothing she's ever tasted in her short human life. It tastes like something not meant to go inside or even near a human body at all. It tastes so bad she lets out a horrified gasp at the end because she's honestly a bit surprised the awful taste didn't kill her.

"That was—" Barbie struggles to form the words around the lingering taste coating her tongue.

"I know." There's the slightest bit of amusement in Gloria's voice, even if she still mostly sounds concerned. "I know, honey, I'm sorry. Here, have some water. Wash off the taste."

Water only really helps a little bit. The aftertaste remains, gross and bitter and metallic— no. Not metallic. Plasticky. She wonders if her face will ever go back to normal again or it will simply remain in a slight grimace forever.

Barbie rests against her pillow once again with a sigh. She's oddly tired but in a nebulous sort of way, not in the same way she's tired after a long day or after a trip to the mall with Sasha.

"I hate being sick," she says, bottom lip jutting out in a slight pout. She hates that it makes everything she's slowly gotten used to about being human feel just off enough to keep her constantly uncomfortable. She hates that her thoughts feel fuzzy (not in a good way) and slow. She hates everything about it.

"That's a very human emotion, if it helps you feel better at all."

Barbie's never been to the desert. She doesn't know what a glass of water may feel like under those circumstances. But she thinks it must feel similar to hearing Gloria's soft voice right now. Like the one thing that feels good when everything else sucks.

"You help me feel better."

It's not the first time she's said something similar to Gloria. Barbie appreciates everything Gloria's done for her since coming to live in the Real World, and she makes sure to be very vocal with that appreciation. But it feels a little different when she says it right now. Like there's something extra weighing down the words.

"Yeah?" Gloria smiles, Barbie thinks, but there's not enough light to be sure. She thinks she hears it in her voice anyway.

Barbie nods and reaches for Gloria's hand. It's warm against her own even if it felt cool against her forehead before, and Barbie briefly wonders whether Gloria's lips would feel different against her hand, too. What they'd feel against her—

"That's good," Gloria says, soft and quiet like a secret, fingers squeezing Barbie's, "I want you to feel good."

And it feels like there's a weight to Gloria's words, too. It feels like the air around them is thick with things they both mean but neither say. And then Gloria leans in and Barbie thinks maybe she's going to check her temperature with her lips again, or maybe she's going to do something else entirely, and maybe Barbie's human body picks up on things her brain can't quite grasp just yet because she feels herself... react. Her skin tingles and her stomach flip-flops and her lips part because her breaths are just a little bit shallower and her heart beats just a little bit faster and she's fairly sure her entire nervous system has been rerouted to her hand and her fingers as they slot in the spaces between Gloria's and whatever Gloria is going to do Barbie just knows she wants it to happen, and then—

Nothing.

Nothing happens.

Gloria sits up straight once again and Barbie can tell what she feels is loss even if she still doesn't know what was going to happen.

"You should go back to sleep," Gloria says, a little breathless, fingers still tangled with Barbie's, "get some rest."

But Gloria doesn't stand up or let go of Barbie's hand, and honestly the thought of that happening — the thought of Gloria leaving her right now — makes something twist uncomfortably in Barbie's chest, so she decides to say something before Gloria can change her mind.

"Can you stay with me?"

Gloria doesn't answer right away. Her thumb rubs gently against Barbie's knuckles, and the air fills up with unsaid things once again, only this time it's uncomfortable and a little oppressive. It reminds Barbie of the humidity on hot summer days.

"I don't—"

"You don't have to." Barbie quickly clarifies, because something about this situation has clearly made Gloria uncomfortable, and that's the last thing Barbie wants. "Of course you don't have to, I'm sorry." But when she lets go and pulls her hand away, Gloria's hand chases it and holds it once again.

"It's not— that."

Is this conversation particularly cryptic and heavy on subtext, or is it normal and Barbie's cold-impaired brain is just a bit too slow to follow it like it normally would?

"I want to stay with you. I just wonder—" Barbie hears a sigh, and it's not an exasperated one or a tired one or even a sad one. It's a different kind of sigh. Barbie doesn't think she's ever heard Gloria let out that kind of sigh before. "Because you don't have all the context for this stuff, right?"

Barbie feels herself nod even if she honestly, truly has no idea what Gloria is even referring to. Maybe that's the lack of context she means.

"So I'm not sure if we're looking at things the same way or if you even— if you know what's happening sometimes. You know?"

Barbie is nearly sure this has something to do with before. With the moment Gloria leaned in and something almost happened but didn't.

"The last thing I want to do is hurt you. And if I cross a line and then you didn't want to or— God, or you didn't even know there was a line, I just—" Gloria shakes her head and squeezes Barbie's fingers for just a second, and Barbie still doesn't know exactly what they're talking about but she knows she wants Gloria to not be upset.

"I trust you."

Barbie's words are soft and quiet but there's nothing unsure or tentative about them and she thinks maybe that's why Gloria seems to snap out of her previous thoughts as quickly as she does.

"What? What do you—?"

"I trust you," she says again, "so I'm not worried."

It's not that simple, she knows. She knows almost nothing in the Real World is ever simple or easy, and especially not things involving feelings and worries and potential hurt. But she thinks maybe knowing Barbie feels like she's in excellent hands, like she has nothing to worry about as long as Gloria is with her, will help. Maybe it can be enough for now.

And it looks like it may be, for a while. Gloria doesn't speak for a few moments, and the silence that settles around them is comfortable and light to the point where Barbie feels herself relax into the pillows as her body grows heavier with sleep. She's tired but she's not as achy anymore, and the room is mostly dark and her hand is warm and safe in Gloria's. It would be so easy to just fall asleep.

"I just—" Gloria's voice is softer than before. So soft, actually, that Barbie doesn't feel like she's expected to make an effort to stay awake. "I don't want to ruin things. I don't want this to change."

Barbie isn't sure Gloria is actually talking to her. She sounds a bit like she's talking to herself, like when she's going through the shopping list in her head to make sure it's all in there before she leaves the house. But Barbie feels like maybe this is a rare moment where she knows something Gloria doesn't. Or, more accurately, she knows something Gloria knows, but isn't thinking about right now.

"But that's life," Barbie says, and even she can tell her words sound a bit muffled by sleep, "it's all change."

Her eyelids are so heavy. The room is mostly dark anyway, so she can't see Gloria but she hears a huff of something that sounds almost like laughter, but not quite.

"You were right, you know," Gloria whispers, like it's a secret, "it is terrifying."

It could be the disgusting powder in the water from before muddling her thoughts. It could be the fever, or the cold, or really just being so close to asleep that her brain isn't working right. But Barbie feels like it's been years and decades and centuries since she was sitting on that patch of plastic grass, fighting against the notion of change and imperfection and the unknown.

She was right, like Gloria says, in some ways. The cold is awful. She could do without humidity as a concept. Being sick? She would not recommend it. Pockets weren't really a thing in Barbieland but they're a basic necessity in the Real World and there seems to be a global plot to not put any in clothes marketed towards women. And you do not want to know what happens to milk when you forget it on the counter overnight in the Summer.

But now she knows what it feels like to drink a glass of water when you wake up parched in the middle of the night. She knows what it feels like to bite into a blueberry muffin and get that perfect spot of soft, warm, blueberry-infused cake. She knows the feeling of freshly washed sheets against her skin after a long day. She knows the smell of Gloria's hair when it's late at night and they stay up too late watching old films Barbie's never even heard of but Gloria insists they are a 'must watch' but then she falls asleep halfway through and Barbie pays more attention to the weight of Gloria's head on her shoulder than whatever cinematic masterpiece is playing in front of her.

"Yeah," she finally agrees, because she'd be lying if she said she's not scared at all about all the bad feelings she's sure she'll inevitably discover in her years as a human woman, "but it's worth it."

She thinks she sees Gloria nod right before she finally gives in and closes her eyes. A little later, she thinks she feels Gloria's lips against her temple once again, but she's nearly sure it was the start of a dream.

—-

Barbie's cold lasts less than twenty-four hours.

She's fine the next morning. A little groggy from sleeping twelve hours straight, but all her body parts feel fine and free from aches, there isn't a shiver in sight, and if Gloria hadn't made her promise she'd stay in the house just to make sure she's fully recovered, she would have happily taken the bus and joined her for lunch.

It's one of the most boring days she remembers, but she's fine.

She's fine the day after that, too, when she returns to the library and to her Weather Encyclopedia. She's fine when the cold snap officially ends and the weather goes back to a very boring yet pleasant "mild". She's fine! She's fine.

It's just—

Sometimes she thinks about those few hours between getting home soaking wet and miserable after her mishap in the rain and feeling (or imagining?) Gloria's lips against her temple. And the memories are just hazy enough that she wouldn't be able to say what exactly she and Gloria said, or what she did beyond sleeping and drinking the most vile — yet effective — medicine in the world, but the feelings.

The feelings are so clear in her mind she feels like her brain is taunting her by interrupting her normal thoughts with flashes of Gloria's hand around hers and Gloria's lips against her skin and a moment when Gloria leaned in and then nothing happened. And that moment haunts her in a way that has her unable to fully focus on things like dew point and wet bulb temperature and tsunamis. Her brain keeps circling back to it over and over and over again and she keeps hearing Gloria's words — words about missing context and lines that may or may not exist — and it's driving her a little insane.

She could ask Evelyn, of course. The librarian is so smart, Barbie's sure she could explain or at least point her in the direction of the right book to research it, but it feels... it feels...

It feels hers. Theirs, maybe. Hers and Gloria's. It feels like something she doesn't want to share with anyone else. And a few times she considers asking Gloria herself. Asking her for context or an explanation or even just asking her if she's aware that something almost happened, too. But it's scary in a way she can't exactly pinpoint, and though so far all the risks she's taken since this whole humanity adventure started have worked out for her, there's something about this particular one that gives her pause.

So she doesn't ask. And she's fine. Kind of. Mostly.

Until she suddenly has an epiphany. She's watching daytime television, which may not be the pinnacle of cinematic arts but has its charm. Soap operas feel like crash courses in human emotions, and Barbie likes to indulge from time to time. And she's doing just that when she witnesses a scene that makes her understand why light bulbs are used as metaphors for having ideas. Because she sees a very beautiful woman about to die in a hospital bed, and she sees the Ken-like man standing by her with tastefully glistening eyes, and she sees him confess his secret love for her. And it all makes sense.

This isn't her first 'deathbed confessions' scene, but she hadn't made the connection until now: people say things when other people are dying. Things they may not say when nobody is about to die. And it doesn't even have to be something as drastic as dying, actually. When she was sick, Gloria talked about lines and context, about changes and being terrified. Barbie didn't have to ask, Gloria just talked about them on her own.

Clearly, the way to get the answers she desperately needs is to recreate the exact situation once again. It's a foolproof plan.

So she... lies.

Okay, calling it a lie may be a bit of an exaggeration. It's playing pretend. A fib, at most. It's nothing, in the grand scheme of things. She feels suitably guilty, if that helps her case at all. And when she calls Gloria to tell her she won't be joining her for lunch because she has a bit of a cold, she makes sure Gloria understands it's nothing serious and she doesn't need to take the afternoon off.

She thinks that's just about as ethically sound as she can make this whole plan.

"Hey," Gloria says when she walks into Barbie's room, quiet and soft like last time, "how are you feeling?"

And then Gloria does it again. She presses her palm against Barbie's forehead, and Barbie's eyes flutter closed because when you don't actually have a cold everything feels a little crisper and sharper than when you do.

"I don't think you have a fever. You don't feel too warm."

Barbie's not proud of herself for what she does next. She just wants to make that clear. She's not proud at all but she does it anyway because there are some weaknesses that come with being a human, and this is clearly hers.

"Are you sure?" Did she just infuse her voice with just a hint of a pained tone? Perhaps.

"Well, I don't know," Gloria concedes, and then she leans in and presses her lips against Barbie's forehead and her hair smells like her conditioner but not exactly like it does when it's in the bottle (Barbie's smelled it). It's an entirely different, unique smell that's a mixture of conditioner and Gloria filling Barbie's lungs, and she decides a fib can be worth it sometimes.

"No fever." Barbie can hear the smile in Gloria's voice. "Looks like you're already on the mend. I'll make you some soup for dinner and you'll be just fine in the morning."

And Gloria is already turning to walk out of the room, clearly relieved and happy to see Barbie's sickness was nothing serious. And it's not that Barbie wants her to worry. She doesn't. Not at all. She just feels like she's missing her chance to finally know the answers to all the questions in her head.

"Wait! Wait, I—" She what? She's not going to fake a serious illness, that would be just plain mean. But she needs Gloria to stay. "I think you need to double check."

Barbie sees the second Gloria figures it out, because her entire stance changes. She flicks the light on and looks at Barbie with a slightly raised eyebrow that reminds her of the look she gives Sasha when she says there is no homework on a Friday afternoon.

"Are you faking a cold?"

Barbie feels her blood immediately rush to her cheeks. They feel so warm she's sure Gloria would believe she has a fever if she checked right now. And she's bracing herself for a lecture like the ones Sasha gets when she's far from honest about her school obligations, but Gloria sighs and comes closer instead.

"Why are you faking a cold?" Gloria sits on the edge of the bed, close to Barbie, both hands resting on her lap.

Barbie shrugs. This is a new feeling, actually. She doesn't think she's ever felt it, but it's one of those she's heard about enough to be able to name it. She thinks it's shame. It makes her eyes prickle with tears that fall as soon as she blinks twice.

"Hey. Honey, I'm not mad. Please don't—" Gloria brushes tears away with her thumbs and Barbie doesn't know what she's feeling anymore. Shame and something else, something warm, something big. Shame and too many things at the same time. "What is it?"

"I just—" Barbie's chin trembles, and she's trying not to let this turn into actual crying because she's really not very good at sobbing and talking at the same time, but she's a bit overwhelmed by it all. By her feelings and the things she doesn't know and doesn't even know how to ask about. "I just wanted you to talk to me again."

"But we talk all the time," Gloria says, brows furrowed even if her voice remains gentle, "like, literally all the time I'm not at work."

Barbie shakes her head. "Not like that. Not like— like the other night. When I had the cold."

"I don't know—"

"When you said I didn't have the context." Barbie watches as realization washes over Gloria. As brown eyes round and cheeks darken and she stands a little straighter. "When you said there were lines. That you might cross."

Gloria nods, slowly. Barbie lets the silence settle between them for a few moments, because she figures maybe Gloria needs some time to figure out what to say. But she doesn't. And Barbie's not about to let this conversation end here so she can go back to thinking about it constantly for another week, so she decides to press on herself.

"You leaned in, and then nothing happened." The moment is so vivid in her mind she doesn't feel the need to clarify further. Surely Gloria knows exactly what she's talking about. "Was that a line you didn't cross?"

"Yeah, I—" Gloria looks down at her hands, and then at the coffee table, and Barbie wonders if she's just doing whatever she can to avoid looking at her, "I'd say that's right."

Barbie sighs, relieved to finally have at least one answer. That moment did happen, and it was significant, and it wasn't just her own inexperienced human brain making it bigger than it actually was.

"What was the context?"

"What?"

"The context," Barbie folds her legs under the covers and wraps her arms around her knees, settling in for what she hopes will be an enlightening lesson, "you said I don't have all the context, so I want to know what it is. What the line was and why you didn't cross it. You know. Context."

"Well, I just—" Gloria looks at one of the flowers on Barbie's bedding, and then at her left foot, and at one of the pictures on Barbie's wall, and the more she looks away the more flushed her cheeks look. "There was— I mean I—" Eventually after a few more failed attempts to get out a full sentence, Gloria shakes her head and looks at Barbie once again. "You can't just ask that. I can't just answer that. That's not—"

"See? That's why I had to fake a cold!" Barbie just cannot believe Gloria would simply refuse to answer a question. She doesn't think that's ever happened before. And it really only serves to fuel her belief that whatever it was had a lot to do with her being sick and a milder version of deathbed confessions. "You talked about it then, kind of, so why won't you just tell me now?"

"Because!"

"That's not a real answer!"

"Well, it's the only answer I have!"

Barbie could just cry again from the sheer frustration of knowing there's this apparently essential bit of knowledge she doesn't have and is also not allowed to learn. It's like the freaking humidity all over again. Obvious for everyone except for her. Because she doesn't have the context. And for the first time since she met her, Gloria is not willing to help.

She's watched enough movies (and soap opera episodes) by now to know she probably should say something right now. It's an emotionally charged moment. An argument. She's angry at Gloria for the first time in her life. But she can't come up with anything to say, so instead Barbie shifts under the covers and slips out of her bed. Gloria can stay seated on it for as long as she wants. She just needs to not be with her right now.

But when she's walking around the bed to leave the room, she feels Gloria's fingers wrapping around her wrist. Lightly. Light enough that Barbie could easily keep walking and they would do nothing to stop her. The touch feels like being asked to stay.

"Wait," Gloria finally says when Barbie stops walking, and her voice sounds quiet and almost small and Barbie feels the anger melting away, "I'm sorry."

Barbie has already forgiven Gloria by the time she looks at her. Because she knows she really is sorry, and she knows she never wants to hurt her. Because Gloria's fingers are so soft and warm around her wrist, and there's something in Gloria's eyes that feels nearly as big as the feeling that lodges itself between her ribcage and her heart when she thinks about whatever almost happened when Gloria leaned in.

"I'll tell you. I just need to—" Gloria stands up without letting go of Barbie's wrist, and she reaches for the light switch to make the room mostly dark once again. "It's easier like this."

Barbie nods. Maybe it wasn't her illness making Gloria want to open up. Maybe it was just the lack of light.

"There was a line." Gloria's thumb presses against Barbie's pulse and Barbie doesn't tell her she's read you're not supposed to take someone's pulse with your thumb because you'll feel your own pulse instead. She just stays quiet and imagines the sound of both of their heartbeats at the same time. "When I leaned in." Gloria moves her hand, thumb sliding from Barbie's wrist to her palm, and Barbie's fingers wrap around Gloria's almost on instinct. "And what I nearly did— what I wanted to do," Gloria swallows and squeezes Barbie's fingers like she's keeping herself from running away, "was kiss you."

"Oh."

Barbie knows what a kiss is. She's never experienced a kiss — not a real kiss — but she knows what they are. And she wants one. It surprises even herself because if she's perfectly honest she doesn't know exactly what a kiss entails beyond lips touching lips (which really doesn't sound appealing at all out of context) but right now she wants Gloria to kiss her more than she's ever wanted anything in her life. It's a want that comes from somewhere she doesn't control, somewhere that's definitely not her brain because there's nothing rational about what she's feeling right now. All she knows is she wants the kiss that nearly happened that other night.

"I'm sorry if you—"

"Kiss me now."

"What?"

Barbie takes one step forward, closer to Gloria, and she feels like maybe she's stepped over one of those invisible lines herself. Because they've been physically close a million times before. They've hugged and held hands and fell asleep on each other's shoulders while watching movies. But this feels different. This jump-starts something, makes her feel like one of those magic balls that make your hair stand up when you touch them, gives name to a bunch of different feelings she hadn't been able to categorize before.

"Please," Barbie says, and she's so close now she can feel Gloria's breath against her lips, "kiss me now."

Gloria's lips feel soft and gentle and real. Barbie doesn't think she's ever felt anything as real as a kiss. It's short but it lingers, and when Barbie thinks it's over Gloria presses another, quicker, softer kiss to her lips that makes Barbie smile around a sigh.

"Good?" Gloria asks, still so close and so warm and making Barbie feel all kinds of things she now thinks are different flavors of want.

"Mhmm," Barbie manages, licking her lips and feeling a sudden urge to do the same to Gloria's, "again?"

She feels Gloria's silent chuckle against her skin just before she feels Gloria's lips again. And this time it lasts longer. Barbie's free hand moves to rest on Gloria's waist, to keep her close, and Gloria's lips part to suck on her bottom lip as Gloria's fingers slide into Barbie's hair, and Barbie feels like her world has changed completely once again and there's no going back from this.

She doesn't ever want to go back from this.

"Still good?" Gloria's whispered words come out muffled against Barbie's lips, and all Barbie can manage is an affirmative (she hopes) sound as she chases Gloria's mouth to kiss her once again, bolder this time, tongue nudging Gloria's lips apart and then sliding inside her mouth and feeling a new wave of want build up low in her belly at the sound of Gloria's moan.

They kiss for a long time. Barbie doesn't know how much time passes. She knows they go back to the bed eventually, sitting first and then Gloria is on her back and Barbie is on top of her and their bodies are pressed together, legs tangled and hands exploring warm skin under a work blouse and a sleep shirt and Barbie can't remember ever pondering the actual meaning of life, but she's pretty sure this is it.

Hours or days or weeks (under an hour, realistically) later, their kisses become less hurried. Less hungry. There's less urgency and more warmth, and they're back to just soft lips meeting soft lips until they're both smiling a bit too much to go on.

"Are you okay?" Gloria reaches up and tucks a wisp of blond hair behind Barbie's ear, her other hand still busy under Barbie's night shirt as her fingertips slowly trace the line of Barbie's spine.

"Yeah," Barbie's voice comes out low and breaks halfway through the word, and it makes her smile even more. "I'm very okay."

"We'll have to talk about all this," Gloria says, thumb brushing against Barbie's tingling bottom lip, "about—"

"The context?" Barbie offers right before she presses a kiss to the pad of Gloria's thumb. She's not sure whether Gloria laughs at the kiss or at Barbie's suggestion, and she's not sure she cares.

"Yeah. The context. We'll have to talk about that."

Barbie nods. She has a feeling kisses are like water, in that they're seemingly straightforward but there's a lot going on under the surface. She wonders, briefly, if there's an encyclopedia of kisses at the library, but then decides she'd rather learn from Gloria than read about it anyway.

"Will I have to fake a cold again so you'll talk to me about it?" She teases, and she feels Gloria's laughter under the hand she has pressed against Gloria's ribcage.

"No more faking, please."

Barbie nods and kisses her again. Just because there's nothing less fake than that.

#tropetember #fandom: barbie #ship: glorbie #media: fanfiction #trope: sickfic

[tropetember]

What Breaks A Man c1: It Begins Like This

Part 2 of The Emperor’s Left Hand, a Thunderbirds/Star Wars Crossover

@tropetember day 29 Fusion/Crossover My last Tropetember fic! Thank you so much for all the superb prompts!

Warning: Canon MCD

~

Scott was 14 when he ran away from home.

The trader he’d managed to bum passage on by promising to do anything if only they’d take him away turned out to be a sweet ride of a ship, and the crew were much nicer once he’d proved his worth – and that he could keep a secret.

The Mercury Argonaut was a beautiful ship. She was a Corellian light freighter, part of small fleet of smuggler ships out there. Most weren’t allied to any person or nation or idea, but Mercury had a higher purpose.

Scott had been delighted to find that the group of smugglers he’d fallen in with turned out to be part of the banned Medicines Sans Frontiers interplanetary group, known for wading into areas others – the Jedi – would not go into, bring medicines and foodstuff.

By the time he’d been with them a year Scott had worked up the ranks and held equal footing to most of the crew. His ability to fly the small speeders and shoot with deadly accuracy whilst doing so on some god-forsaken rock somewhere had saved not only the crew’s hides but, more importantly, their precious cargo too. Numerous times.

Travelling the galaxy held a deep thrill for him but he also saw more and more evidence that confirmed his mounting suspicions.

The Jedi weren’t keepers of the peace. They were elitists, staying in their ivory towers and not involving themselves in the issues of the planets they were supposed to be assisting unless orders came from in high.

He’d seen whole peoples ravaged by disease or famine and watched as Jedi had defended the market sellers rather than feed the populace. He’d heard stories of the religious order staying in their temples while those around them died or worse.

Scott also learned pretty quickly to fence off his thoughts and feelings. Jedi mind tricks might work on some, but they would not work on him. He practiced and practiced until every thought and every feeling was carefully hidden.

Scott Tracy didn’t smile anymore.

He still had melancholy days. He missed his brothers deeply. Their absence was a physical pain he carried with him always. But there was nothing he could do now.

Having never forgiven his parents for giving John up to the Jedi that had visited them, he’d ran as soon as he was old enough to get boarding. Not eight months later his home planet had been ravaged by a disease that killed almost everyone. Those who hadn’t died had been forced to relocate to other planets.

His Mom had died, as had his Grandpa. Of the rest of his family there was no trace. He asked and looked every planetfall they made but there was nothing.

It took almost an entire year before Scott could make it home. The planet was barely alive, its inhabitants now gathered into the major cities. The Mercury had dropped him off with a promise to return in three days.

It took a day to reach the farm on his borrowed speeder. It was completely desolate. The whole place had been green and thriving when Scott had left but it was a desert now. He wandered around the empty house full of ghosts, running his fingers along dusty surfaces and remembering.

Virgil’s little pudgy fingers banging tunes out on the piano, his eyes alight with wonder at the sounds. Gordon splashing around in the little pool their Dad had built for him. Baby Alan cooing at him as he pulled funny faces.

But John – John was everywhere.

His telescope was still in their shared room, pointing to the sky. His astronomy books still filled the bookshelf. There were still some of the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on the ceiling.

Scott didn’t know he was crying until he walked outside the back and saw the two grave markers. He fell on his knees on his mother’s grave and howled.

He slept that night in his own bed, hollow and worn out from grieving.

The next day he looked over the neighbouring farms to see if there was anyone who was still around that knew where his Dad and brothers and Grandmother may have gone, but there was no one anywhere near the Tracy Farm.

He made his way into the town and asked around but again there was nothing. No one left who had known the Tracys. No one who knew where they had gone.

No one knew anything.

The next day Mercury was back for him. There was a new crew member, a Trandoshan. Scott knew better than to look at an individual’s species, but there was something about this one that set his teeth on edge and fired up his Scooter sense.

Scott didn’t have time to learn the name of his new crew member. Less than 24 hours later the Trandoshan had let his team on board and the crew of the Mercury Argonaut found themselves in chains.

The Mercury burned while they were introduced to their new life.

For the Trandoshan were slavers. And Scott Tracy had just been sold.

#tropetember #fandom: thunderbirds are go #media: fanfiction #trope: fusion #trope: crossover

[tropetember]

☆-☆-☆

@tropetember #27: emotional constipation

Hemlines

outlast × mother gooseberry/ofc × women's bar

You've never really been to a woman's bar before. Even if they'd been as popular back in England, it's not like any of the models in your father's fashion house was willing to risk that kind of exposure, and going alone seemed like it'd be boring at best and disastrous at worst. You don't let that stop you now that you don't have much of a reputation to worry about. Or so you tell yourself after a particularly rough day at work. Truth is you're still in the payroll of a studio that caters to children, still rather inexperienced and crucially, still mixed. You're vexed enough after a hemline related squabble to not care. If worse comes to worse, Phyllis can very well read about an Englishwoman found drowned in the river, and the thought of her having to find a dressmaker that will put up with her punitive demands gets a grin out of you. If it all goes well though, it might just help you blow some steam.

You don't have a car, so you get a cab that leaves you a block away, as you're feeling like stretching your legs a bit either way. You're more angry about being nervous than you are nervous, so you manage to keep your head high as you enter, flounce your way to the bar and get a sidecar. Only when the bartender puts it in front of you you dare take a look around. It's a working class joint on a weeknight so it's not too crowded, but it's still more lesbians you've seen in your life. Feeling giddy enough to start applauding at nothing, you hide your excited smile in your drink as you tell yourself to keep your head. You've got no intention of giving your unworldliness away. You down the rest of your drink in one go and you haven't put the glass back down when the barkeep, lovely in a tight waistcoat and denim jeans, is sliding you another one with a wink. 'First time?'

Damn it twice over. 'Just in America.'

Five drinks later or six, of which you can only remember ordering two, you're quite sure everyone's onto you being as green as it gets, but are way past caring. You've joined a table of women who are at equal parts endeared and amused by your accent, which only gets more chavvy the more you drink but you really don't mind repeating what you said real close to their faces. Usually standing out would annoy you, but the atmosphere is too delightful for your pettiness to cut through it. Seeing women hold each other and even sneak kisses in the open still has you thinking you might be dreaming, and if you are you're sure nobody would mind if you think your interlocutor, Bill as she'd introduced herself, is worth the risk of going home with. You don't say that, instead you ask 'Can I tie your knot please?'

She raises the corner of her mouth and tilts her head like she's trying to figure you out. 'What?'

You don't reply, but reach out for her tie, hands buzzing from the liquor but you know clothes if nothing else, and she lets you undo it. A tulip knot has never been so hard to fix but she doesn't seem to mind it, not that her hand resting on your waist is helping. You sigh when you manage to pull it off, and she raises her hand to feel around for the changes.

'Leave it, please.'

'Since you said please...'

'You've never done one of those for me.'

That's a voice you'd recognise no matter how legless. Youe left eye twitches, and now you're convinced you're dreaming, or battling a nightmare. You stay really still trying to change the setting, and are just realising this is somehow real life as Bill looks to Phyllis then back to you. To her credit, she looks more entertained than anything, 'Forgot to mention you had a woman?'

You turn around now, properly angry at the whole thing and drunker than you should be. 'We're not...!'

Her voice, steady and exasperatedly confident, cuts you off. 'I'm her boss.'

'You're not my boss!'

She raises an eyebrow at that, then turns around. 'We're leaving now.'

'She's not!' You turn back to the table. 'We're colleagues.'

Your point is probably undermined by your exit after her, but you remind yourself you don't care about what any of them thinks about you and you've got bigger problems, on quick unbalanced footfalls that have you stumbling out into the alley until it's too much and you're narrowly saved from breaking your face against the asphalt by firm hands on your shoulders. Phyllis carries you until you're seated on the bonnet of her car and examines you critically. You tilt your chin up, like she's got any right to any part of this. You are not my boss.'

'Well I'm glad; because you're a mess.'

You cross your arms, unexpectedly affected by the comment. 'Nobody's asking you to unmess it.'

'But I think I will anyway.' She opens the car door. 'Get inside.'

Like hell. Just now it occurs to you to wonder what she's even doing there. 'Did you follow me?' She gives you an unimpressed look, points to the open door in a dramatic gesture, but you're over it and when you jump off the Corvette it's to lean back into the wall. 'I'm too smashed for carsex, cheers.'

'Obviously.' When she picks you up you're too tired to do anything but curse under your breath as she gets you inside. 'I'm taking you home.'

You're in the passenger seat. You were actually hoping to get to nap in the backseat but when she leans over to do your seatbelt, and of course shed be the type to have the bloody things installed, you find you don't mind much. She's wearing a different cologne than she wears for the show and her proximity warms your skin, and when did you even get cold? You lean your head in the window, looking down at the road racing under the wheels. Too fast. You feel the nausea trying to take over your body, and start humming out of tune until it subsides. Phyllis gives you a look between belittling and pitying. 'We have a show to do tomorrow.

'You're still not my boss, Phillys.'

'Mother' She corrects.

You huff, laying your head down and closing your eyes. 'Just because you've got a complex with your character...'

'Lots of people have complexes. You should probably try it next time you go out at night.'

Her voice is light and it ticks you off in a way you cannot explain away. 'Right.'

'Just a tip.'

'Well, I'm no waitress and I've never had a mother so I'm not about to start now.'

Your voice catches on the last word and you cannot explain why. You've never really minded not knowing your mother, but now you kindof do. It's been a long night. If she notices she doesn't accuse it, just rests her palm on your knee a moment before grabbing the stick shift again. 'We shall see about that.'

You actually are annoyed by that, but don't trust your voice to speak without breaking. Instead, you opt for turning on the stereo. You don't know the song, but Phyllis looks at you with chagrined indignation and you'll call that a win if it gets you to tomorrow.

You cannot remember going to bed, you don't even remember making it back. You do a lacklustre fullbody stretch before heading into the kitchen. You could still go back to bed, you figure you'll make it on time if you skip breakfast, and you're not feeling like breakfast at all. It's an attractive idea but as soon as you think that, you register the pot on your stovetop. Onion soup. You don't like onions, but you can easily picture Phyllis standing behind you at the table. And she'd tell you to eat. You'd probably argue for twenty minutes about it, but the hangover makes you pliant to the mere idea of her. You reheat it quickly and really, with the bread and cheese, it's not bad at all.

You smash your alarm clock against the wall. It creaks in a way that has you planning on shopping for a new one after work today, but it's a small price to be rid of the ringing. You really shouldn't have gone out last night and, while the memories get you to smile through your pounding headache, you're not entirely sure this is a step up from drowning last night in the Delaware, or whatever was the river you passed as Phyllis drove you back. Phyllis. You drag yourself out of bed, you've got a show to make after all, finding you're wearing the same clothes you went out with.

#tropetember #media: fanfiction #fandom: outlast #ship: mother gooseberry / oc #trope: emotional constipation

[tropetember]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, mentioned - Character Additional Tags: Pining, @tropetember, Set in season nine, sam gets better so castiel gets to go to the bunker afterwards, because he deserves to experience safety in humanity, jesusfuck im so mad right now, and it’s not important he’s in love and he’s happy it’s called delusion, convince yourself, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Matchmaker Dean Winchester, -goes wrong-, Unrequited Love, im mad at myself bc i make a point to not write sad shit, and while this is not like so super sad it’s not requited love and idk how or why, well i wanted 2 do the challenge to like experiment with things i wouldn’t usually write, and the experiment says this sucks! might do something about it after ive had a kip Series: Part 24 of i promised you a tropetember Summary:

Castiel is human, and staying at the bunker with the Winchesters. While he learns to navigate mortality, Dean sets out to get him a date.

#tropetember #fandom: supernatural #ship: destiel #media: fanfiction #trope: unrequited love

[tropetember]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hellboy - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Abe Sapien/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Abe Sapien, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Accidental Dating, was the tropetember prompt and im a bit unsure so. um, situationship - Freeform, how is that not a tag?, Didn’t Know They Were Dating, Pre-Relationship Series: Part 25 of i promised you a tropetember

@tropetember

#tropetember #fandom: hellboy #ship: abe sapien x ofc #media: fanfiction #trope: accidental dating

[tropetember]

Loid and Yor from Spy × Family for my Tropetember 2023 contribution for the prompt : Proposal.​

@tropetember

#fandom: spy x family #ship: loiyor #media: fanart #trope: marriage proposal #tropetember

[tropetember]

@tropetember 24: accidental baby acquisition

A Little Antichrist

outlast × waylon park/miles upshur × the cult baby is real × 589 words × ao3

'It's crying again!' Miles says with exaggerated distress as they make their way back to the jeep, holding the baby at a distance. 'I think it's hungry.'

'It won't be too hungry right away. It's probably cold.'

'I told you we should have killed it! The engine doesn't let women get actually pregnant, how is this thing even...'

'We're not killing a baby.'

'We could at least put it to a vote.'

Waylon stops on his tracks at this, looks at Miles like he can't believe him. 'A vote? We're two people having a disagreement there's no way to achieve a majority.' Miles shrugs. 'Okay, those in favour of killing the infant? This is the part where you raise your hand.'

'Nope. You've won me over to the no-baby-killing side.' He presses a kiss to the older man's cheek and resumes walking. 'Because you're cute when you're mad.'

Blushing like a teenager in the site of what's probably the largest mass suicide in the state is not something Waylon thought he'd do tonight, but here they are. They make it to the car and, as a show of good will, Miles offers up his jacket to wrap the baby up. He turns it down, in favour of his softer cardigan, but appreciates it all the same. He carries her inside, mumbling a lullaby while Miles drives away. They got a lot of material, and they haven't even checked the footage in the camera they found. It's been a difficult night, but they push through it.

'Stop when you see a supermarket, we'll have to get formula.'

'I knew it was hungry!'

'Stop calling her it.' He yawns.

'Right. Lynn wouldn't have liked it.' He looks straight at the road, but Waylon can tell he's going over the events of the night past. He puts his hand over the younger man's in the stick shift. He hadn't known the woman and was still horrified thinking of her gaunt corpse, the dead man at her feet cradling the baby.

'Were you close?'

'Not really. We were together on an assignment years ago, I was surprised when she called. I didn't know she wanted to have kids, let alone what she'd name them.' It's so fucked up, Waylon can't hold back a burst of hysteric laughter. 'What?'

His fit has upset the baby, who resumes her crying to Miles chagrin, but he just gives him a worried look. 'It's nothing. I just- When Lisa was expecting we used namebooks, do you suppose they had any back in the suicide cult?'

The last words are panted out through what sounds like sobs and now it's Miles who reaches for his hand, his usual annoyance at the mention of Waylon's wife forgotten. He snorts at the idea, in better humour than he expected himself. 'You know that's all online these days, don't you?'

Waylon sobers up enough to give him an unimpressed look. 'No, I'm actually the only software engineer who hasn't heard about the modern internet.'

'Shut up.'

They drive in silence until Miles pulls up in a Target carpark. It's well and truly morning by then, and it makes them hopeful even throught their exhaustion. The baby's fallen asleep, and Waylon moves as slowly as he knows to when he gets down in an attempt to keep her that way. Miles thinks they can also get a carseat here, but for the moment they're having enough trouble trying to settle on a formula category. It's no problem, they'll figure it out together.

#tropetember #fandom: outlast #media: fanfiction #ship: miles x waylon #trope: accidental baby acquistion

[tropetember]

Chapters: 5/5 Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic Characters: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic Additional Tags: Arranged Marriage, Historical, Pining, In Vino Veritas, Drinking Games, Love Confessions, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Friends to Lovers, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead is Shinsou Hitoshi’s Uncle, Minor Character Death, Parental Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic is Eri’s Parent, Single Parents, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Paranormal Liberation War Arc (My Hero Academia) Series: Part 3 of KvH’s Tropetember 2023 bullshit Summaries for the new chapters:

Chapter 4: Fusion (Blended (2014)) / Single Parents AU / Blind Dates Aizawa thought that taking his kid for a short vacation before the beginning of the school year would help both of them relax and hopefully face the new year with a positive attitude. If only he weren’t there too. Chapter 5: Whump / Hurt/Comfort / Canon Coda (Post Paranormal Liberation Arc) Taking this life would be so easy. Yamada wouldn’t even feel bad about it afterward…

Written for @tropetember 2023 for the correspondent tags mentioned above!

#fandom: bnha #ship: erasermic #trope: whump #trope: hurt/comfort #trope: canon rewrite #trope: fusion #trope: single parent au #trope: blind dates #tropetember #media: fanfiction

[tropetember]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sirius Black/Severus Snape Characters: Sirius Black, Severus Snape Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Retail, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Sirius Black is a Little Shit, Severus Snape is So Done Series: Part 3 of If we’re gonna waste our time (let’s waste it right), Part 2 of KvH’s Tropetember 2023 bullshit Summary:

Severus is tired. His job continues to be the worst, answering that ad was a mistake, and now Black won’t leave him alone. At least he’s secure in the knowledge that he’s never going to say yes… right?

Written for the “Fake Dating” entry of the @tropetember 2023 event

#trope: fake relationship #trope: retail au #fandom: harry potter #ship: snack #media: fanfiction