#it’s statistics and I’m trying so hard but it’s not enough

[darlingfreddie]

Me being this 👌🏽 close to dropping out is kind of hilarious since this is my second to last semester

#this math class I’m taking is so fucking hard but I need it to fulfill my degree requirements. I’m gonna throw up #it’s statistics and I’m trying so hard but it’s not enough #I think I have undiagnosed dyscalculia but it’s too late to get a diagnosis and some help now lmao #I just literally can not comprehend mathematical concepts at all like I can do it in pieces sometimes but I can’t solve problems on my own #idk sorry for venting I’m just so stressed and the prof for this class is awful

[nereidprinc3ss]

light of the morning

in which spencer sneaks into bau!reader's hotel room and they share a little more than just the bed

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom!spence x sub reader, munch!spence, unprotected piv sex (dont do that), creampie (hate that word btw) praise, mentions of having to be quiet because morgan is right next door LOL, fluffy, established co-workers/friends with benefits, soooo idiots in love a/n: here is the promised smut. i am literally kicking my feet and twirling my hair and giggling and blushing at my own writing. I'm gonna have a freak out. requests are open like my legs

It’s late when the knock finally comes. Late enough that you’re dozing on the bed above the covers. 

It takes you a moment to reorient yourself—you’re rubbing your heavy eyes when you finally get the door. 

"Hi."

"Hey," says Spencer, hands awkwardly shoved into his pajama pants pockets. It’s funny, really. He never gets any better at this. 

You step aside and he enters the room, looking around as you close and relock the door. 

"Did I wake you?"

"How could you tell?"

"You’re in pajamas. And you look tired. I mean—you don’t look bad. You never look bad, I just meant… you don’t look tired but you’re not—I didn’t mean to—"

"Relax," you yawn, putting him out of his misery. "I was joking. I know I look tired." You glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. "It’s late. We have to be up early tomorrow."

"Yeah, I got, uh, sidetracked. Sorry."

He was reading. If it was anyone else, you'd be offended--but a sinkhole could open up under Spencer's feet and he probably wouldn't notice if he was absorbed in a book.

You shrug, a knowing smile lifting the corner of your mouth. 

"It’s fine. But I don’t know if tonight is a good night. I really am exhausted."

His eyebrows dart up. 

"That’s fine. That’s totally fine. I’ll just, uh—"

When you don’t move from in front of the door, he pauses, unsure. You bite the inside of your cheek, studying his rangy frame and choice of clothing. Blue pajama pants, slippers, grey CalTech zip up hoodie. It feels wrong to describe a 6'1 man as adorable, but that’s how he looks in his sleep clothes. There’s a very real chance, you find yourself thinking, that you are the only member of the BAU to ever see him in something other than slacks and a button-down. He looks so cozy that you kind of really want him in your bed even if he’s not doing anything but sleeping. The invitation slips out before you can think too hard about it. 

"You could… stay, anyway, if you want?"

His mouth parts slightly, and those eyebrows raise again. There’s a moment of awkward silence and you are very much beginning to regret your offer, wondering if you somehow violated the sanctity of your co-workers/friends with benefits situtationship. Clumsily you try to backtrack. 

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, you can—"

"No, no! You didn’t, I just don’t want you to feel obligated to invite me to stay in your room. I’m right across the hall, I can go back if you want me to."

You smile awkwardly, silent relief replacing the brief anxiety. 

"It’s fine. It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before." And not like you wouldn’t have ended up doing it tonight anyway, if things had gone as originally intended.

He chuckles, looking to the floor and nodding. The blush on his face does not go unnoticed by you. "Fair enough."

It’s incredibly endearing how nervous he still gets after six months of this little arrangement. 

"Do you wanna get your stuff, or…"

"No, that’s okay. I’ll just go back early tomorrow. The chances of someone seeing me leave your room are significantly higher if I do it so soon after entering."

You squint, unable to tell if he’s fucking with you or if that’s an actual statistically sound probability. And then you realize, blissfully, that you don’t really care. 

"Okay, well. Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to brush my teeth."

Once you’re enclosed in the bathroom, hotel vanity lights blinding you as you brush, you find that there is a jittery sort of apprehension buzzing in your chest. But that’s silly. As you yourself pointed out, the two of you have shared a bed many times over the past few months. But the sleeping together is always a byproduct of the sleeping together. Never have you shared a bed in a completely decent, virtuous, strictly non-sexual manner. It’s always been a matter of convenience—less bother if he doesn’t have to worry about sneaking back into his room in the middle of the night when you’re both exhausted. Or maybe that’s just what you’ve been telling yourselves. 

You rinse your mouth out and exit the bathroom, flicking off the light and finding that Spencer has indeed made himself comfortable. The hotel room is dark and he’s already under the covers, fiddling with his phone. 

"What time should I set the alarm for?" He asks, looking over at you as you crawl into bed, drawing the covers over yourself. "I was thinking 6:23. That should give me enough time to—"

"Sounds perfect," you affirm, wiggling under the blanket as you get comfortable. He schedules the alarm and sets his phone on the bedside table, dousing the room in complete darkness. Your eyes stay open despite, waiting for them to adjust. A few moments of utter silence and stillness pass, and you can tell Spencer is completely stiff next to you. 

"Spencer."

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. Like he’s even more wired about this whole situation than you are. 

"You know you don’t have to avoid touching me at all costs, right? I’m not a leper."

He looses a nervous laugh. 

"I know. We’ve just never really done this."

You frown at the darkness.

"We’ve definitely slept in the same bed before."

"Yeah, but… this feels different."

That, you can’t argue with. Can friends with benefits share a bed just to be near each other? Does that blur some line? And why does it feel more intimate than the sex? 

Screw it. If there is one thing you don’t want your relationship with Spencer to be, it is uncomfortable. Uncertain, you can work with. But not uncomfortable. You reach for him, hand sliding under the duvet—and find his hand already waiting for yours. 

"I don’t think it’s that different," you lie, interlacing your fingers together slowly. 

"Prolonged physical non-sexual contact does have measurable health benefits…" the words are murmured, like the moment is fragile and he doesn’t want to shatter it. 

"Can’t argue with the facts," you breathe, trying to modulate the shakiness of your voice. But you have a feeling you’re doing about as good of a job at concealing your nerves as he is. He shifts.

"Can I…"

"Yeah."

Your heart is pounding as he slips one arm under your neck and the other around your waist, pulling you close. Instinctually you curl into him, slinging your top leg over him as you’ve done before, but always dismissed as post-sex brain chemicals making you feel all warm and fuzzy. A neurological reaction that is so solidly scientific, neither of you ever questioned it. But it feels bigger now. 

He exhales as you settle against each other—a sound of relief that mirrors your own. He’s so warm, so safe as he envelops you, physically and sensorially. In such close proximity, so clear-headed, you notice each layer of his scent. Toothpaste, lavender, vetiver, detergent. You sort of feel like a creep, but you can’t deny how comforting it is. Nor can you deny the pirouette your heart does when he begins minutely rubbing your back, like he’s not even thinking about it. 

"Goodnight," you whisper into his shirt. 

"Goodnight," he whispers back. 

You fall asleep pretty quickly after that. 

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

It’s unclear what wakes you up—maybe it’s the blue-grey dawn light filtering in through the filthy window (doubtful, it’s still mostly dark) or maybe it’s the blinking green digital clock on the nightstand. 5:02 AM. Your alarm will go off in an hour and 21 minutes.

Sometime in the night you shifted, turning over in your sleep, but Spencer is still holding you close. The arm slung so casually over your waist is slightly domineering, but you manage to rotate again and face him once more. Mere inches away from his face you can see every detail. His expression is so peaceful, it makes your heart ache. 

But you’re just friends. 

Perhaps he felt you moving, because his eyes flutter open and you watch as they flood with consciousness. He takes you in, takes in his arm over your waist. For a split second you’re nervous he’ll pull away. 

"What time is it?" His voice is scratchy with sleep. 

"Five."

"Why are you awake? We have over an hour til the alarm goes off."

"Sometimes waking up early is okay."

His eyes flicker between your own, and momentarily you’re paralyzed as you realize this is a limbo state for the two of you in which you’ve never operated. You don’t know what’s acceptable. You don’t know what to do. Being close to him feels so good, that the idea of separating hurts. But you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, or—

He leans forward and kisses you softly. In the blue light of dawn, rather than frenzied and hidden in the dark, a desperate tear of clothes and teeth and hands—it’s almost freeing. All the anxiety you were feeling just seconds ago begins to melt. 

Friends. 

"You looked anxious," is his whispered answer after he pulls away a moment later, like a kiss is the simplest remedy in the world. He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. "We should go back to sleep."

"I don’t want to go back to sleep."

The corner of his mouth twitches as he studies you.  

"No? What do you want?"

Emboldened by your mutual indiscretion, it’s your turn to kiss him. You feel him smile against your lips, hand finding the back of your neck and raking up through your hair to pull you closer. 

The delirium of sleep seems to have softened you, filed down the rough edges of your boundaries and kicked away the lines in the sand. What’s a kiss or two when you’ve just woken up? A small, innocuous display of affection while you’re still barely conscious. Nobody could fault either of you for that. People don’t think clearly when they’ve just been asleep.

So what if your lips part against his, and his other hand finds its way under your shirt to stroke the bare skin of your waist and hips? So what if you hitch that leg over him again and press closer?

Spencer breaks the kiss, still ghosting over your lips. 

"I thought it wasn’t a good night?"

"It’s not night time anymore, is it, genius?"

You sneak another kiss, nipping his bottom lip gently as you pull away. 

Instead of whatever array of responses you were expecting, Spencer smiles slightly, eyes almost sparkling in the faint light. The hand on your hip moves to your face, gently thumbing across your cheek. He begins to say something, and stops himself—biting his lip to hold back the words. 

"What?" you ask, heart dropping. Illusion fracturing. 

"I was just—" he begins, pausing for a moment before the words all come out in a rush. "I was just going to tell you how beautiful you are, but I don’t know if that’s something I should say, or if it would feel too… I don’t know…"

He trails off. A rare instance in which he doesn’t have the words. 

You do. Intimate. Real. Romantic. And he’s right, it does feel too much like all of those things. But that doesn’t mean you don’t like it, perhaps more than is strictly good for you. 

"It’s fine. Thank you."

He continues chewing on his lip for a moment. 

"Did I just ruin the mood?"

"No," you laugh, "not at all."

"Thank god," he sighs, surging forward again. 

"Since when do you thank god?" You manage between kisses. 

He moves to press his lips to your jaw and down your neck. 

"Do you want me to talk about the historical and cultural transition of religious expressions into ubiquitous secular colloquialisms right now?"

"Kind of," you breathe.

"No you don’t," he murmurs against your neck as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "You want me to take your clothes off."

Well, he’s not wrong there. 

You help him tug the shirt over your head before leaning back into the pillows as he situates himself over you and lavishes more kisses down your neck and collarbones, pausing to suck a mark only when he knows it’s low enough to be covered by your clothing later. 

You gasp when his lips brush over your nipple, before running his tongue over the sensitive skin. He glances up at you, and though his mouth is occupied, you can see the humor in his eyes. He loves how sensitive you are—how easy it is to get a reaction out of you. 

Of course, you continue to prove him right when he takes the other into his mouth, trying to hold back your little whimpers as he darts his tongue over the peak. Maybe somebody else wouldn’t hear them, but Spencer does. He’s hyper attuned to the sounds you make. Something of a catalogue has begun to form in the back of his mind; he knows exactly what each noise means and how to get them out of you. 

Once satisfied, he moves to press a kiss to your sternum. 

"You’re gonna be quiet for me, right?" Another kiss above your bellybutton. "Because Morgan is sleeping right on the other side of that wall, and we don’t want to wake him up."

"I’ll be quiet," you promise, somewhat breathlessly. Spencer’s mouth trails lower until he’s pulling your shorts down your legs, leaving you completely naked. He tosses them somewhere on the floor and hooks your legs over his shoulders. 

"Good." He plants one last kiss to your thigh and the next one lands right between your legs. 

You regret the need to be silent almost as soon as he drags his tongue over your clit. It’s not like the two of you have ever had the privilege of making a lot of noise, as the hotel rooms are always so close to each other, but it doesn’t make it any easier. 

Instead you opt to rake your hands through his hair and try to take deep breaths. But he knows exactly what you like—he knows starting light and slow, teasing around your most sensitive spot will work you up to the brink of insanity, just like he knows gentle circles make your back arch and elicit the prettiest little moans. 

"More," you beg, and the hands wrapped around your thighs rub soothingly, reassuring you that if you can just be patient you’ll get what you want. 

He takes your aching clit into his mouth, sucking lightly and you’re forced to clap a hand over your mouth, muffling the sob of pleasure you can’t hold back. Spencer keeps it up until you’re practically riding his face, teasing your dripping entrance with the tip of his tongue when you get too close. 

"Fuck, please, Spence," you whisper through your fingers, hips rutting in your desperation. Somehow it always ends up like this—with him in charge and you begging. Not that you have a problem with it, of course. 

He hums into you, and if the way his tongue moves back to circling your clit with newfound fervor is any indication, is apparently satisfied with your entreaty. 

You gasp and try to control your breathy moans, but his mouth feels so good on you that your vision is going out and you’re losing touch with reality ever so slightly. You use the last of your brain power to bite down on the back of your wrist, hoping it adequately muffles the noises you make as you come on Spencer’s tongue and he greedily continues lapping at you. There’s really no way of knowing—your ears are ringing anyway. 

When you come to a moment later he’s peppering kisses on your thighs, rubbing your hips gently. 

"So pretty," he murmurs, climbing back up so your lips can meet again. "Everything about you is pretty."

You paw at his shirt, signaling that you want it off as you moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue, feel your slippery arousal staining the kiss. Spencer helps you, sitting up briefly to unzip his hoodie and pull off his shirt. 

You’re the one to drag him back down, and you notice that he pulls the covers back over the both of you in a sweet gesture he probably didn’t even think about. 

"Need you to fuck me," you beg, reaching down to try and undress him further. 

"So crude. What happened to my nice, sweet girl?" He mumbles against your neck, but helps you with his pants anyway. 

"You must have me confused with someone else."

"Doubtful."

You don’t have much time to consider what that could mean before he’s running the head of his cock over your clit and you’re gasping into his mouth, saying please like it’s the only word you know. 

"There she is," Spencer croons, slipping inside you slow enough for you to feel every inch but quick enough for it to expel all the air from your lungs. Once he’s opened you all the way up, impossibly deep and close, you’re seeing stars, barely breathing. His head has dropped to your shoulder but now he drags his lips up your neck and jaw. "We okay?"

It’s been a while, you realize, since that last case in Maine. He always takes some getting used to. Hardly able to think around the pressure of his cock you nod, trying to string together a few words. 

"Fuck, I need a second." The words come out choked, but you manage. Spencer rubs your hip, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. 

"Relax, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you."

He curses to himself, dropping his head momentarily. You’re so fucking soft, and warm, and perfect, he can’t think straight. But he has to try because he has to take care of you. 

"Spence," you gasp, failing to verbally communicate the intensity of the physical sensation. 

"I know, baby," comes his sympathetic coo. "You know you can take me. Deep breaths."

"Mhm," you squeak, trying to take follow his directions and soften your muscles. Spencer keeps rubbing soothingly over your hips, stomach, whatever he can get his hands on, really, pressing kisses all over your face and telling you how good you are, how perfect you feel for him. After a few moments he feels you fluttering around him and experimentally pulls out halfway, before pushing back in equally as slowly. Your jaw drops as he begins to leisurely fuck you, arms wrapping around his back. He gets deeper than you expect every time, rubbing you raw and stretching you out in the most delicious way. 

"Perfect, baby. Such a good listener, did exactly what I asked."

You cry out when he begins fucking you impossibly deeper, but still so slow and sweet.

"You feel so fucking good for me," he groans. "This is what you were made for, huh?" You agree enthusiastically, eyes fluttering shut. 

"Only for you."

Just three words—but he wasn’t expecting to like hearing you say that as much as he does. A strong desire to possess you overtakes him—one that he’ll probably have the decency to feel guilty about later, but for now feels fucking fantastic and intoxicating. 

"Only me?"

You moan an affirmation. 

"Good. I don’t want anyone else fucking you, do you understand me?"

"Yes!"

"I’m the only one who gets to touch you," he breathes, speeding up ever so slightly, "nobody else is going to feel you like this. Such a good girl, spreading her legs for me at five in the fucking morning. You’re not doing this for anybody else, baby."

"Uh-uh, please, pleasepleaseplease Spence—"

He knows what you need, reaching a hand down between your bodies to rub your clit. 

You gasp an airy, high pitched curse, hips twitching but unable to escape the near-punishing rhythm of his own. It’s obvious that your orgasm is close, but you can’t even warn him, too overwhelmed with pleasure. He kisses you, swallowing your moans that have probably become just a bit too loud given the whole hotel thing. 

No words are exchanged between the two of you as you near the finish line for a change, open mouths slipping against each others in what is too messy to be called a kiss. Your orgasm body-slams you, a choked silent scream as you tighten around Spencer and he seems to come at nearly the exact same moment—deep inside you, slowly rolling his hips in a few more strong thrusts as he finishes. 

You let out a delayed moan at the sensation of being filled up, still pulsing around him as he comes to a halt, buried inside of you. He drops his head to your neck, and you can feel each breath against your flushed skin. Other than the panting, you’re both silent for a while. Spencer seems to gather himself sooner than you do, finally breaking the quiet. 

"You okay?"

All you can manage is a little squeak, at which he looses a breathy chuckle. His hand slides to your hip, gently stroking the skin with a thumb. 

"Need your words, angel girl."

"I’m okay," you coo into his shoulder, but he has to strain to hear it above his own breathing. 

"Yeah? Why so quiet?"

But it seems that at least for the moment, he’s gotten all the words he can out of you. When he tries to move, you whimper indignantly, clutching onto him tighter. 

"I really did a number on you this time, huh?" He laughs when you nod into him. "Are you falling asleep?"

"Mhm," you hum dreamily, little puffs of warm air slowing against his neck. 

"You can have…" he cranes his head to check the digital clock, "48 minutes."

"An hour."

He settles his weight on you once more, pressing a chaste kiss to your throat. His voice is low and gentle as he admonishes you. 

"I said 48 minutes."

But it doesn’t matter—you’re already asleep, or close enough to it. Spencer takes the opportunity to shift you to your side, and the way you wrap around him like a vine even unconsciously makes his heart ache. He really should go now—the earlier he gets out of your room the less likely certain complications will arise—but how can he possibly leave you like this? A vulnerable, dreamy girl with tangled hair haloing around her on the pillow case, clinging to him with blind trust that he’ll watch over her as she sleeps? No—there’s no way he’s leaving yet. Instead, he brings you closer. 48 perfect minutes will go by far too quickly, he’s sure. 

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid smut #criminal minds smut

[the-californicationist]

he helps you study

After agreeing to let him use you whenever he wants, Captain Price fucks you freely while you’re studying, making you read your chapter out loud.

Warning: Free use, prior explicit consent, domination

Two more chapters and you’d finally be done. This statistics class was killing you, and going back to school after having already been in the workforce for so long had made it even harder. There were discussion questions due tomorrow, and you needed to finish them tonight. 

You heard the door to your bedroom creak open, and John’s heavy footsteps padded on the carpet. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you gave him a half-smile,

“Hey, honey. I’m not finished yet, but I’ll be there soon. I know you wanted to watch a movie. I’m sorry I -”

You felt his hands pull your pajama shorts and underwear down to your thighs in one, rough movement.

“Hey! I don’t have time for this. What are you -”

“Read. Your. Book,” his voice was so close to your ear, and the way he bullied you with the weight of his body on your back made your breath catch in your throat. 

You heard the tell-tale jingle of his belt buckle. Then the zipper. Turning your attention back to the book was impossible. He noticed your distracted look and sank a fingertip into your pussy, playing gently at your entrance, convincing it to swell, anticipating his cock. 

“I told you to read, sweetheart. Out loud.”

You swallowed, trying to find your place on the page, 

“Chapter 12. Misuse of statistics can produce subtle but serious errors in description and interpretation…“

You felt his weight crush the mattress. Your captain was situated behind you. He spread your legs open and pulled your hips back, lifting your ass up in the air. The cool air of the room rushed over your exposed flesh. You felt his mouth begin to lick your folds, not for your pleasure but for his. 

“…subtle in the sense that even experienced professionals make such errors…oh, shit, John,” you cried out from the feel of his tongue as it laved through your folds. 

He stopped eating you, and you felt him lean forward. Then, his cockhead was prodding at your hole. He was wetting it with your own fluids, using his dick like a paintbrush before pushing forward into your tight, unprepared walls. 

“Ahh, honey, wait!” You tried to slow him down, looking back at him.

What you saw when you turned around was a warning. You had agreed to free use after he had asked you for it, and he had warned you about his rules. He would take you, whenever, wherever, and however he wanted, and you were not to complain. You had to use the safe word. 

You didn’t use it, squeezing your eyes shut in a pleasurable kind of pain, returning to your book,

“…and serious in the sense that they can lead to devastating decision errors. For instance,” you had to stop again. 

You couldn’t continue. His cock felt too damn good. You were moaning, feeling yourself being stretched out by your captain, experiencing a sudden flood of wetness as your body attempted to accommodate its favorite guest. 

“For instance, what, pretty girl?” He asked cruelly, fitting the tip of his thumb into your asshole as he pounded himself forward, slamming his weight into you, stretching both of your holes.

You were struggling to concentrate, and the words came out in strained, staccatoed bursts,

“For instance, social policy, medical practice, and the reliability of structures like bridges all rely on the proper use of statistics…”

John fucked you faster, shaking the bed, grunting and moaning without shame, gripping onto your hips fiercely and without mercy. You could feel how impossibly hard he was. His thickness overwhelmed you even with lube and plenty of foreplay. Like this, raw and sudden, it was enough to make you drunk on his lustful work. 

“Keep reading, love. This tight little cunt is gonna make me come,” he growled low and tense through his clenched jaw, using his thumb to push deeper into your sensitive ass. 

“Even when statistical techniques…” you whispered, incapable of projecting your voice without it turning into a wanton moan. 

“That’s it, baby, that’s it. Good girl,” he took his thumb away in order to play with your rigid clit. It sent sparks through you, making you clench down around him. He groaned louder.

You tried to read, not wanting to displease your captain, trying to be a good girl, just for him. Whatever he wanted, you were eager to give it. 

“…are correctly applied…”

“God fuckin’ damnit! That’s what I want, love. Come for me. Squeeze this cock for me. That’s it. That’s it, babe,” John leaned forward, his chest pressing down on your back, fucking you like a hound, his other hand grasping the sheets as he tried to hold his full weight off of you. 

He knew exactly how you liked your pussy to be played with. His hands were huge, and his long fingers could apply the most delicious pressure against your swollen folds, making your legs tremble and shake. 

“…the results can be difficult…” 

You couldn’t breathe. You came so hard that you saw stars, keeping yourself from moaning to give him the obedience he was craving. He screamed loud enough for the both of you, pumping harder and harder into you like a steel piston, spilling inside of you in hot, thick ropes. 

“…to interpret.”

You were both panting, ragged and well-used. He pulled himself out of you as slowly as he could, setting your legs back down, and leaving you on the bed, wet and soaking in his come. You heard his belt buckle clinking again, being fastened by its panting owner. He pulled your panties back up, making sure to scoop his escaped come back into the fabric so it would smear against your lips. Then, your shorts, positioned on your waist with care. 

Closing the door to the bedroom, John left you there, holding your textbook, shaking like a leaf. 

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #captain john price #cod #john price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x you #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price smut #john price smut #afab reader #Female reader #x female reader

[nonasuch]

here is a fun little star wars scenario that has been pinging around inside my head like a screensaver:

so let’s say there’s some very zealous, very low-ranking fresh young Imperial officer on duty the day they take the Senator from Alderaan into custody. 

and he is very very nervous because a) he’s been here for like a week and b) none of that week required him to be in a room with Darth Vader. which he now is. so he is trying to focus very very hard on Doing Everything Exactly According To Protocol, as a means of not focusing on the seven-foot evil wizard standing fifteen feet away.

and part of the protocol for processing new prisoners is to make a new file for them in the prisoner database, and enter all their biographical details and vital statistics and a gene sample and their known associates and the nature of their terrible crimes against the Empire and so on. which he does! very meticulously!

except the computer keeps throwing an error message. the stupid thing keeps beeping at him, this awful grating little noise that makes his shoulders ratchet up tighter and tighter every time it honks at him, and he can’t fix it and Darth Vader is right over there—

except oh god oh fuck the beeping noise must be annoying Darth Vader, too, because he’s coming over here and our poor junior officer is convinced he’s going to die before he even lives long enough to send his first paycheck home to his poor widowed mother —

he stammers out an apology. Vader just stares at him. he swears he’ll figure out the problem right away, sir, it’s probably a bug in the system, it’s just that for some silly reason it keeps saying this gene sample doesn’t match the one on file for the Senator so he can’t get her logged as a new prisoner just yet —

“Dismissed,” says Vader. the poor kid flees, gratefully.

Vader considers the matter. in fact, his underling was correct: the gene sample, which he saw taken through his very own helmet lenses, does not match the official record of Senator Leia Organa, heir to the throne of Alderaan. so: perhaps the sample on record was falsified. not impossible, but very, very difficult. and ordinarily a crime attempted by the lowly and desperate. he cannot see any need for it, in the daughter of a queen.

another possibility presents itself. Alderaan has no history of using royal doubles, as some worlds do. but Bail Organa has worked closely with royal houses where the practice is long-established. perhaps he was inspired. perhaps the girl they captured is not Leia Organa at all.

Vader runs the gene sample against the ship’s database. it is woefully incomplete, of course, containing only a fraction of the Empire’s billions of citizens: the ship’s own complement, a selection of known criminals and Rebels they might encounter, high-ranking officials whose identity must be confirmed should the Emperor require their presence. unlikely that this girl, whoever she is, would have a record here, or even a partial match—

the computer beeps at him. it’s a cheerful beep, this time, not the error message that stymied the junior officer. the computer reports that the gene sample is a partial match for Pooja Naberrie, the Senator from Naboo. they are, with eighty-nine percent probability, first cousins.

and Vader just. kind of stands there. for a minute.

when he goes to Leia’s cell, there’s no interrogation droid with him. he goes in. he shuts the door behind him. he stands there, silent, for frankly a worryingly long time, until Leia has run through her entire stockpile of  “how dare you, I’m a member of the Senate on a humanitarian mission” and “whatever you want, you can’t possibly think I would be of any help” and “well, if you’re going to interrogate me, get on with it already” and “are you even listening to me?” and  falls silent herself. 

Vader has been listening to her. he has also been listening to the Force, which seems to think that she’s not lying. obviously the humanitarian mission part is bullshit, that goes without saying. but the “I’m Senator Leia Organa” parts and the “I won’t help you” parts? yeah. he searched his feelings. he knows them to be true. the Force is singing in his head, bright and clear, in a way it hasn’t for nearly twenty years.

there’s still Tarkin to deal with, though. Vader turns and leaves the cell without a word.

Tarkin wants to blow up Alderaan. this is unacceptable, obviously, and Vader forbids it on the grounds that the Queen and the Viceroy possess vital intelligence, not disclosed to their daughter, that must be acquired. said intelligence being, not that he’s saying this out loud, how the fuck Bail got his hands on his daughter, and who else knows about it.

“the fate of the galaxy rests on it,” is what he does say out loud. from the way the Force harmonizes with his words, that might even be true.

so the Death Star just. parks there. in an incredibly threatening orbit around the planet. they issue a demand that the Organas surrender themselves, or else, but apparently the happy couple just left for a low-tech weekend retreat in the mountains, what awful timing, they’re sending someone to fetch them right away. Vader shuts himself up in his quarters, to seethe and watch the surveillance feed from Leia’s cell. he’s not really paying attention to much else. 

and it’s not like a random freighter getting tractored in for being an incredibly obvious smuggling vessel is the kind of thing you’d alert Darth Vader over, anyway. 

so he’s still sitting there, one great big thought filling up his whole entire head, watching Leia take a frustration nap, when her cell door opens. 

and a trooper comes in.

and the trooper takes off his helmet.

and he says, “I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.”

(continued here)

#i have no idea what happens after that but it's definitely not the plot of star wars: a new hope #star wars #not fic

[adonis-koo]

sweet nothing • 9

| in which he patiently waits one day at a time|

↳ Description: being a guest at the Jeon Estate after a mishap of being kidnapped and dragged into your brothers affairs isn’t all that bad. Truth be told it brings you a lot closer to the mobster and owner of the estate Jeon Jungkook himself.

His two rules are simple, don’t cause trouble and don’t give him a hard time. Somehow you manage to constantly do both in the most endearing way despite being pregnant and waddling around most of the time.

Pairing: Jungkook/reader, ???/reader

↳ Genre: slice of life AU, mafia!AU, pregnancy, there’s like…a little bit of a plot but not a lot, future smut? maybe? it's very domestic!

Word count: 2.9k

Previous | Next

Note: no matter how many scenes i write, they're all sad and i'm kinda sorry bc i said this fic wasn't going to have much plot but it somehow has a lot of plot now??? and its kinda sad??? HERE YOU GUYS GO THO

The commotion going on in the estate wasn’t difficult to tell, men had been actively walking more than their usual rotations required and Jungkook knew this was a sign you were causing some sort of chaos as you seemed to do every day now. 

And upon following the trail it led him just a door down from your own room, items being moved and you were currently pouting as you sighed. 

“Do tell me what your idea is for this little renovation project.” Jungkook hummed, leaning against the door, not actually annoyed at how much you always move things around in his estate in fact…Dare he say he felt a little endeared. 

And Jungkook found himself falling into old habits, habit he found himself missing, such as being able to take the time to admire you, all thoughts of work fading from his head at the sight of your dress, just past your knees and a faded checker blue, flowing sleeves that went to your elbows for room and of course the ever growing bump. 

Your hands were set around it seemingly pouting over something before his words drew you out of your thoughts, “Jungkook, I didn’t realize you were home so early.” 

“I have a meeting I have to attend in person later,” Jungkook replied, “You didn’t answer my question.” 

There it was again, that small pout he hadn’t realized he missed so much until it dawned your lips once more, “Well…” You seemed a bit hesitant before you spoke, “I gave it some thought- what we talked about a few days ago, about a nursery and I figured you were right. It’s better we be prepared for it then not.” 

Jungkook was relieved to hear this because while he was trying his hardest to get something on Wonho, there was a smaller, more selfish part of him that enjoyed this, enjoying having you at his estate.

An even smaller part of him not wanting it to end so soon, he had to let go of you once and no it wasn’t fair, but even there was even the slightest chance…well, he didn’t want to let it slip through his fingers and have to let you go once again. 

Jungkook only nodded, “So what's with the look then?” 

“Well,” You gave him a sheepish smile, “I had all of this stuff moved out and realized I have nothing to actually put in here…” 

Jungkook couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him as he pushed off the frame stepping into the room, “Hm, that’s a strange way to ask for money.”

“Jungkook I wasn’t-”

“I’m teasing relax,” Jungkook cut you off, your lips tugging even poutier, you had always been like this, since day one in fact, always worried he’d think you were using him for money, always trying to deter him from paying even if you didn’t have the means to actually afford it yourself. 

It was sweet, “But you’re also in no position to not accept it and I have more than enough money to afford it- it’s a win win.” 

You stared at his outstretched hand, black shiny amex in his hand, “I don’t feel right just using it.” 

Jungkook sighed wistfully, “You didn’t seem to feel too guilty helping your brother with rates and statistics for drug sales.” 

Your lips parted somewhat in surprise, “That was different…!” 

“You’re right,” There it was that stupid teasing, charming smile of his, “It was probably worse.” 

You knew he was only teasing, but something about it made you feel gross still, you had a reason you were in that room, a reason that is long gone from you now, “Well it doesn’t matter anymore does it?” 

Jungkook paused at the sight of your expression dimming as you continued looking out the open window as your hand absently rubbed your bump, “I haven’t done that for a long time now…”

“Y/n I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” You cut him off softly looking back at him and there was an unmistakable look of regret in his eyes, not wanting to cross any lines with you but you were afraid they already had, “I just…I guess I just have some regrets about getting involved….I never wanted to hurt anyone,” You whispered out, “I had a reason I was there and it had nothing to do with the money...For myself at least.” 

Jungkook frowned, there were still so many things he didn’t know about you, your time together having been cut short when you both had first met, “What other reason could there be?” 

It was an indirect question, rather than a rhetorical one, you knew what he was asking. 

You hesitated, but then again, you supposed it didn’t matter now, it was all in the past, no matter how dull it made your heart ache. 

“Well…” You let out a soft sigh, “I’m sure you remember I wasn’t exactly financially stable, and for me that was fine. It was enough,” You nodded to yourself in thought, “It wasn’t much, but it was enough.”

“Until…?” 

“I received a phone call,” You mumbled, recalling the event, “A foster agency, telling me that they did a DNA test on one of their cases and it came out as a match on me and my brother. Just a week old, dropped off right outside the police station.” 

You had to bite down on your tongue, you had thought you were over it, but it still stung just as raw, “Since we were her only blood family I was given the opportunity to adopt her…” You let out a sigh trying to keep it together, “Except I was too poor, I didn’t even come close to having a qualifying salary to show that I could be responsible for her and take care of her…”

“What about Wonho?” Jungkook cocked his head to the side, baffled at this information. 

You let out a loud scoff, bitterness that you had tried so hard to let go of coming back up as you shook your head, “Wonho didn’t give a shit, told me that it wasn’t our problem but I struck a deal with him, if I helped him up until his annual evaluation with you for his first year of work, he’d help me get the expenses that were required to foster her.” 

Jungkook’s brows furrowed as he shook his head, “And?” 

There it was, that little niggle in your head that was angry about it all, angry at Wonho, angry at yourself, especially at Jungkook, “Well all of it fell apart. Very quickly, one thing after the other. I mean obviously you dropped off the face of the planet for months so Wonho wasn’t making money- I got let go of my job because of the murder- everything went void.” 

Jungkook looked away with a long inhale as if he had been mentally prepared for the moment you’d finally cave and say it, but it wasn’t as if you were wrong, you were simply stating a fact, he completely ghosted you and civilization as everyone knew it and just like that, he had left your life as quick as he entered. 

It was difficult to not be angry about it when he was the one that convinced you that the very thing you were afraid of wouldn’t happen, just for a few short months later, let it happen. And you were sure he had his reasons, you were certain of it, but it didn’t change the fact that he left you with little to no explanation and just like that, never bothered to come back, didn’t even so much as send a letter, a proper apology, nothing. 

“I’ve…” Jungkook’s eyes squinted on the ground, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, about what happened.” 

You shook your head, “Jungkook, it’s been two years,” Your voice softened, his eyes glancing up to meet yours and once again you felt the dull ache that never went away, “I shouldn’t of brought it up, I’m sorry…it’s in the past now, life went on.” 

“Well it didn’t for me.” Jungkook let out a small breath and you could hear a hint of bitterness in his voice. 

Your lips quivered a little, “Do you have any right to say that?” 

“Probably not,” When did he get this close to you, “But it doesn’t change how I feel.” 

Old feelings were like a dam bursting inside you and you began to shake your head, “I’m not ready to talk about this Jungkook- can’t we just keep pretending like nothing happened?”

Jungkook shook his head, “We’ve both tried this and neither of us are good at it Y/n, I can’t, not when I have a second chance.”

You raised your brows, “No! No this is…” You took an immediate step back, “This is not what this is Jungkook, what happened is over. I’m only staying here because Wonho has a target on his back and you were kind enough to keep me out of the crossfire.” 

“Maybe that’s how it started out,” Jungkook replied just as quick, taking another step closer to you, “Look…I know it’s not fair,” He frowned, as if he hated saying it, “I had every intention to stay out of your life, it wasn’t fair to drag you along back then and that’s why I didn’t, but…You’re here now, right in front of me. So yes…I do see it as a second chance, and if there’s any way I can make it right, I will.” 

You groaned, “It’s not just making it right anymore!” You wanted to scream! “I have baggage now Jungkook!” Your eyes threatened to water as your hands dropped from your stomach, “A lot of it. It’s not just me anymore I’m getting ready to have a baby, you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for.” Jungkook sharply replied, eyes brewing with anger, “And what I’m asking for is you, all of you.”

“You had your chance and you left me, plain and simple, you left. I don’t understand why now…Out of all the time, two years later, now…!?” You hadn’t meant to raise your voice, but you were angry, perplexed, scared. 

Scared just the way you were when he was upfront the first time in that stupid bakery you wanted nothing more then to pretend like didn’t happen, you wanted to pretend like you never got drunk at that stupid bar, that he wasn’t late that day, that he didn’t sat down and offer to pay for your meal for making you wait. 

You wanted to pretend like he had actually listened for once when you declined him asking you out, that he didn’t visit you every morning at work, and more then anything you wanted to pretend like you had a stronger will, that you didn’t let him convince, your mind was flooding with so many memories of him. 

His hand trailing down your thigh while drunk in the back of his car, his eyes when he saw the bust in your lip, his smile when your fingers intertwined with his, his skin etched into yours for the first time, ushered sweet nothings that he’d love you forever. 

But at the time you didn’t realize that forever would only be a short three months then just like that, it was over, and oftentimes you were left many sleepless nights wondering, was it even love? Everything had happened so fast, it felt like forever. 

But two years later, standing in front of him you realized it had been two agonizingly long years since you saw him in person. 

“I made a choice,” Jungkook defended himself, “I stuck to that choice…I was leaving you alone, even if I didn’t want to and then…” He ran a hand through his hair, revealing his face in full detail his eyes baffled as if trying to understand himself, “Suddenly one night you’re dropped in the middle of my office. I didn’t have any pretenses, I was just being nice letting you stay here, I had fond memories of our time together, I didn’t want to let you get caught in the crossfire- it was the least I could do after everything.” 

You crossed your arms as he continued, “And then…I don’t know,” He muttered, “I look at you, I see your smile, I see you standing here pouting and trying to do it all yourself, like you always tried to do. And suddenly it’s two years ago and we’re both drunk sitting at the bar talking about what it would be like to be in love. And I feel the exact same way I did back then, looking at you and wondering if maybe I had finally found it.” 

You felt physically sick, it was like he was intentionally wanting to break your heart all over again, “You sent them to raid my home, you can’t tell me this wasn’t planned…”

“I didn’t expect them to fuckin’ kidnap you Y/n!” Jungkook let out a hurt laugh, running his hand through his hair, “In fact I gave them direct instruction to do the shakedown while you were at work and to not destroy your apartment- you were supposed to be at work!” 

“Well I wasn’t!” You shouted back, “I wasn’t feeling well and my coworker offered to cover! You can’t do this to me! You can’t, not after all this time…” You voice died down, “You can’t just…open all of this back up as a second chance because you’re feeling nostalgic over a fling-”

“You were never a fling to me-”

“That’s how I felt after you left-” You suddenly winced, hand immediately pressing to your stomach, instinctual almost despite the pain coming from your chest, Jungkook’s eyes immediately widening and he had closed the small gap between you both. 

“Let’s get you sat down…” Jungkook murmured and you couldn’t help but stare at his hand, big and calloused, multiple rings just the way you remembered, pressed against your bump and a wave of intense sadness thrummed in your heart, what you’d give to go back and change everything. 

You were too tired to fight his touch, and a smaller part of you crying– begging inside your mind to just give in, to put your worries aside and roll the dice again, maybe he’d actually keep his promise this time. 

But you refrained from leaning against him too much as he sat you down on the bed in your room, phone immediately in hand as he called Doctor Choi, after hanging up the air was thick with a silence and tension. 

Jungkook sighed as he sat on the edge of the bed, “...If you don’t wanna talk about it, we won’t. I don’t want you going into preterm…But…I want you to know I didn’t make that decision because I wanted to, and I didn’t do it easily either.”

You self soothed, rubbing your tummy as your eyes closed, “I know you didn’t. At least that's what I told myself the last few years, that surely there was a really good reason…And you wanna know the worst part Jungkook?” You whispered, sad eyes as you opened them to look at him, “I waited…I waited every day, sat at that stupid register hoping you’d come, even after Wonho stopped talking to me I went to the Red Light anyways, hoped maybe you’d be there. There wasn’t a day I didn’t check my phone only to be disappointed by your name not being on the screen…”

It was silent again before you tried to hold back your tears, “You broke my heart. Right in two, promised you wouldn’t leave me, and then you did. And now you’re asking me for another chance?” 

You said you wouldn’t cry, but here you were softly weeping in your bed, feeling like a child once again, helpless and wondering why no matter how hard you tried, nobody ever stayed, you had thought he was different, but it turned out he was just like the rest. 

Jungkook’s hands cupped your cheeks, thumbing the tears away as he pressed his forehead down to yours, “For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” He murmured, “I’m just as much a sinner as anyone else, I’m ill-tempered and cruel, I’ve killed a lot more people then you could ever imagine, but most of all Y/n, I’m selfish, I’m not really a good man. But I could be good, for you.” 

“You don’t know how bad I really want to believe you,” You whispered out, “But I had so long to think about it, to look back and realize I know nothing about you. It was my own fault really, you’re not a good man and I knew that back then, just like I know it right now.”

“I know I hurt you,” Jungkook had a sort of determination in his eye, the kind that you knew was unwavering, he meant every word he was saying, “But there hasn’t been a day I wished it could be different. I’ll do whatever is necessary to earn your trust again.”

You pressed your lips together for a long moment, “I’m not saying it isn’t possible, but you have a long way to go if you really want it.” 

Jungkook’s long slim finger traced down your jawline, “I’ll take it one day at a time, just like the first time.” 

#bts #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #mafia bts #mafia jungkook #jungkook imagine #bts au

[obessedwithfictionalmen]

Finals season

Callum Turner X Female! Reader

Summary: Callum spoils his girl as she studies for finals.

Warning: None

Word count: 500 words.

A/n: I wrote this for myself, I'm studying and working my butt of for finals. I'm going to try to keep posting, but yeah. :)

Books were displayed on the table; her laptop was opened, and empty cups of coffee were all over the table. Y/n was studying for her finals, and she was tired. She’d been at it since 8:30 this morning, it was 23:15. Callum entered their house, he’d been away all day for his press tour. He knew that his girlfriend was studying hard, and he decided to buy her a gift. He bought her flowers and a ring. Not for a proposal, but she spotted the ring a few weeks ago and she loved it. The ring was gold and had a small aquamarine stone on top of it. It was really simple, but it was pretty. When he came in the kitchen, he smiled at the sight of his girlfriend, she was a mess and looked so tired. ‘’Hey love, how are you?’’ he asked as he kissed her on the cheek.

Y/n looked up to him, she had dark circles under her eyes, her hair was held by a hair clip, and she was dressed in sweats. ‘’I’m okay, how was your day?’’ she asked, her voice sounded so tired. ‘’Great, how long have you been at it?’’ he asked, pointing out her books. ‘’Since this morning’’ she admitted. He sighed as he sat next to her. He pulled out the flowers and handed them to her. ‘’What are they for, thank you’’ she smiled, looking at the flowers and him. ‘’Well, you work so hard, and I have another surprise’’ he said, taking the box with the ring out of his pocket. ‘’I’m not proposing, but remember a few weeks ago? When you saw a ring’’ he said, opening the box, showing her the ring. ‘’Cal, it’s too much’’ she smiled. ‘’It’s not enough, you work so hard my love. I’m so proud of you and you’re so smart and amazing’’ he praised her. Y/n’s eyes filled with tears, she was so tired, she needed to hear those words.

‘’I’m so scared of failing, I feel like I’m forgetting everything’’ she says, looking at the books on the table. ‘’What are you working on?’’ he asked, getting closer to her. ‘’I have to write this paper on the impact of disinformation on kids. I have to quote a lot of stuff, hands all the books. And I have to find so many statistics and it’s driving me nuts’’ she blurts out. Callum places a hand on her back, in support as he looks at what she wrote on the laptop. ‘’Hey, you got this, you’re the best.’’ He kissed her cheek. She leaned her head on his shoulder, taking a deep breath. ‘’Thank you for the flowers and the ring. I really appreciate it and I needed it’’ she whispered. ‘’You’re welcome, I’m really proud of you, love. You got this, I know how hard you’re working and it’s going to pay off. I’m sure you’ll get straight A in your exams. I love you, Y/n’’

#callum turner #callum turner x reader #callum turner imagine

[arealphrooblem]

A Good Roommate Is Hard To Find

Synopsis: Civilian has harbored a secret crush on his roommate for a long time, only to find out that said roommate is the newest villain on the scene during a robbery at his job.

CW: death threats, knives

There was only one thing worse than having a crush on your straight roommate: having a crush on your straight villain roommate. 

Actually worse than that were rent prices, which kept Civilian from running as far in the opposite direction as he could get after he gave his statement to the police. 

A statement that contained a big, gaping hole. 

Because it couldn’t be true, right? It had to be a coincidence. Lots of people had weird, star shaped birthmarks on their ribs. It was a huge leap of logic to assume that the villain who had just tried to rob the bank that morning had the exact same birthmark as Civilian’s roommate for the past two years. 

Or maybe he just imagined it. It had been a very traumatic day. Civilian went home after the police released him and had a massive panic attack in the shower for about forty five minutes and then pressed two weighted blankets on him in bed like a panini grill. 

Having a group of villains stride into your workplace, guns blazing, would do that to you. As would getting stuck in the crossfire between said villains and the Hero from behind a desk, praying a stray bullet or laser beam wouldn’t hit and kill you. 

It was only a coincidence that Civilian had seen the birthmark. Near the end of the fight, one of the villains had been thrown over the very desk Civilian cowered behind, hitting the wall hard enough that even Civilian winced in sympathy. 

He laid there for a moment, dazed, half his torso exposed from a rip in his clothes, that stupid, undeniable birthmark on full display. Civilian could only stare at it, head dizzy as if he also took blunt force trauma to it. The villain groaned and sat up. 

For one agonizingly long second their eyes met. Civilian felt like a kitten spotted by a hawk. This was it. His time was up. He’d be just another statistic on the news -- 

But the villain just put a finger on his lips -- a silent command for silence -- that Civilian could only nod helplessly at. Then the villain slipped away in the chaos and disappeared. 

And besides, it couldn’t be his roommate because his roommate was in Colorado, visiting some online friend of his and going mountain biking or whatever. 

Two days after the attack, Roommate burst through the front door, dumping his duffel bag onto the floor and stepping towards Civilian with a scary single minded determination. 

It took every ounce of control not to flinch when Roommate cupped his face, gaze roving over his features as if looking for injuries. 

Roommate himself looked untouched from the fight. It almost made Civilian second guess himself. But he hadn’t spent the last two days analyzing every detail his love-sick brain had filed away for the last two years to doubt himself now. 

That villain and his roommate were the same person. 

“I saw the news,” Roommate said. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt? I tried to change my flight but this was the soonest I could get in.”

The lie hurt. Obviously Roommate hadn’t been mountain biking in Colorado for the past few days so it begged the question: what else did he lie about? Was this concern just an elaborate play at innocence? But if his roommate was taking the time to craft this act of concern, then he must not think Civilian knew. 

And if Civilian valued his life, he’d have to keep it that way and force normalcy. 

“I’m fine,” he said, trying for a smile and coming up with a grimace. “I mean, I’m not fine. It was fucking scary, but I didn’t get hurt. So there’s that. Work’s given me a week off and then. . .”

Roommate scowled. “And then what? They can’t possibly think you’d be okay working there again after only a few days off? You should quit.”

“Quit?” Civilian’s eyebrows raised. “And we both get thrown out on our asses? We’re lucky enough to have this apartment as it is.”

“I have enough savings to get us through for a few weeks while you find another job,” Roommate insisted. 

“I thought you blew it all on Colorado,” Civilian joked weakly. 

And where the fuck did those savings come from? he wanted to ask. But he didn’t dare. 

“Not all of it. Seriously. You should think about it.”

Something gleamed in the roommate’s eyes, like a warning. Civilian swallowed thickly and nodded. 

“Okay. I’ll think about it. I just . . .I think I’m going to go lay down for a bit. It’s good to have you back. You’ll have to tell me all about it when I wake up again.”

Roommate’s face lit up with a smile and Civilian’s heart twisted in his chest. “I have so many good photos. It’s beautiful out there.You should come with me next time.”

“Yeah sure,” said Civilian thoughtlessly, thinking only of the dark safety of his room. 

“Get some rest.” Roommate nudged Civilian towards the hallway. “I’ll order us pizza.”

Civilian nodded and forced his steps to slow as he made his way to the bedroom. Once the door shut and the fan turned on, he buried his head under his pillows and tried to get his breathing under control. 

Faking normalcy was going to be harder than he thought. 

"Oh you're starting dinner already?"

Civilian jumped at the sound of his roommate's voice, the knife slipping and nearly cutting  into his fingertip. A quick glance over his shoulder showed his roommate leaning against the opposite counter, arms folded loosely over his chest. 

Just a casual chat. And yet it felt like a fist suddenly gripped Civilian's heart. Even after three days, it still felt like walking the knife’s edge every time they were in the same room together. 

"I, um, got bored," he said, thankful to be facing away so his terror wouldn't show as he fought it back down. "I didn't know you'd be home so soon."

"I took a half day at lunch. Did some shopping. I got you more of that tea. It seemed to help you sleep."

A hint of guilt colored his roommate's nonchalance. Or maybe Civilian just imagined it. 

"Thanks," Civilian said.

Focus. Focus on the potato. Cube the potato. Be the potato. 

Heart thudding in his ears, his concentration on chopping vegetables, Civilian didn't hear the movement until his roommate's head appeared over his shoulder. 

"What are you making?" he asked. 

Civilian swallowed down a lick of sudden hysteria. 

Get a fucking hold of yourself he thought. There is no reason why he'd be suspicious unless you're acting like a lunatic!

"Soup," he managed to croak. "The, uh, kind at the Italian restaurant you like."

A bribe. A hope. A way to remind himself that he knew his roommate, right? They've lived together for two years. 

And true to form, his roommate's eyes brightened. "Oh excellent! We haven't had that in ages."

"That's because chopping all these vegetables is a pain in the ass."

A thick tension rose and tightened between them. Civilian concentrated on chopping, trying to ignore the heat at his back as his roommate didn't step away, didn't leave. Just watched him. 

"You're using the wrong knife, you know," the roommate said softly. 

" . . .what?"

The roommate reached over Civilian's shoulder to the knife block on the counter and pulled one out. It was small and two fingers wide, short and wickedly sharp. Fear clenched Civilian's throat with icy hands. 

"You're using a butcher knife," his roommate murmured against Civilian's ear. A shiver fluttered down his neck. "That's for cutting meat. You need a paring knife for vegetables."

" . . .Oh." Was it just him or did the kitchen suddenly feel low on air? "I'll . . . remember that . . .for next time. . ."

"Why don't I take over? At least for the chopping."

Civilian tightened his grip on the knife, an instinctive gesture he had no control over. But even though Roommate had offered help in the kitchen many times, that same instinct screamed not to let him. Something felt different this time. 

"I got it," he said, forcing lightness in his tone. "You know you're hopeless in the kitchen."

"I'm good with knives, though." Civilian swallowed down another spike of cold terror. "It's the least I can do if you're making me my favorite."

The paring knife rested just inside Civilian's peripheral, deceptively harmless. 

"Why don't you put the gnocchi on to boil," he said. "I'm almost done here."

His roommate sighed, a rush of air against Civilian’s cheek. "You're always so stubborn," he said with sad fondness. 

The paring knife moved like a flash and suddenly it's cold steel pressed light as a kiss just under Civilian's jaw. 

His breath froze in his lungs. 

"Drop the knife, Civilian."

" . . .Roommate?" It wasn't difficult to pitch his voice high in uncertain fear. To pretend shock. "What are you doing?"

"I know that you know."

"Know what?" Civilian breathed and then cringed at how unbelievable it sounded even to his own ears. 

He only had room in his head for one secret,  it was hard to sound convincingly ignorant when every cell screamed at him to run away. 

"You've tried so valiantly to hide it, but I know you too well." Roommate's murmured against his ear.  "You're afraid."

Civilian dragged a shaky breath into his lungs. "You have a knife to my throat."

"And you are nowhere near as shocked about that as you should be." Roommate twisted the knife until the flat of the blade lay against Civilian's skin -- and then he dragged it, achingly slow, over Civilian's jawline to rest against raw bitten lips. 

A wave of dizziness gripped him, driven by fear mixed with the heady, dangerous edge of want, the desire Civilian struggled with for so many months wrapping its claws around his chest. 

"Be a good boy and drop the knife."

Breath came fast and heavy as he willed himself to relax his fingers, to release the knife. Not that he would have even thought of it as a weapon and not a kitchen tool until his roommate demonstrated it. But with one having danced so close to his pulse, letting go of his own felt like a death sentence. 

The second he dropped the knife, his roommate twisted a hand into the fabric of his shirt and hauled him across the kitchen to pin him against the fridge. The smiling tomato magnet they grabbed as a joke at a yard sale clattered to the floor and broke into pieces. The roommate  doesn't so much as flinch, their gaze like stone, the knife never wavering from Civilian's neck.

He swallows thickly against the panic, never more afraid in his life than in this moment. He never thought death would look like his favorite person in the world ready to slit his throat with a paring knife. 

And yet the desire still thrummed beneath it all, a twisted hunger being fed from such close contact, like his body forgot to stop yearning in light of what his mind knew. But the stone-cold glint in his roommate’s eyes twisted his face from comfortingly familiar into dangerously unrecognizable. 

Seeing it shattered something in Civilian just like that stupid magnet. His eyes prickled and stung; the roommate's face turned blurry. Humiliated, he darted his gaze to the window, focusing on the speck of green of the neighbor’s tree swaying in the breeze. 

And waited for death. 

Time stretched long and excruciating between each heartbeat. Then the coolness of the knife disappeared, replaced by warm fingers that nudged his gaze back to his roommate’s.

“Hey,” the roommate said softly. 

That granite hardness of his gaze had melted into soft concern. The exact kind of look he gave Civilian each time a migraine flared up. The reminder of that felt as dangerous as the knife. It couldn’t be real. 

“Hey, it’s okay.”

The words hit him like a slap to the face. 

“Don’t say that!” Civilian hissed. “I didn’t do anything and you’re going to kill me.”

He flinched from the hand that raised up, knocking his head painfully against the fridge. But Roommate only brushed a stray tear away with his calloused thumb. 

“You’re right,” he said pensively. “You didn’t do anything. And I’m not going to kill you.”

He turned and tossed the knife into the sink. Civilian did not feel any safer, however. He felt like a bug under the shadow of a boot,  even as Roommate smoothed his hands over Civilian’s chest in a display of casual affection he would have died for a week earlier. 

“Here is what I am going to do,” he continued. “I’m going to finish dinner. You’re going to compose yourself in a long hot shower and when you get out we are going to eat and have a discussion about the way things are going to be from now on. Is that alright?”

Civilian nodded, not trusting his voice. What other answer could he possibly give?

Part two here

#hero x villain #villain x civilian #m x m #enemies to lovers #writeblr #original fiction #my writing #not a prompt #a good roommate is hard to find

[edenfenixblogs]

I have told the one (1) real friend I have out here that I plan to move home because the antisemitic isolation has gotten so bad.

If I were a pettier person, I wouldn’t tell anyone else until I’m already closed on a house back home. And when they’re like “why are you moving?” I’d say “antisemitic isolation from most social groups.” And when they ask “Why didn’t you say anything?” I’d say, “Because you’re the ones who did the isolation.”

I won’t. Cuz that won’t actually solve anything. It’ll just make people who don’t think they’re antisemitic go “oh? Eden? Yeah that was super weird how she called us all antisemites and then left. She must’ve been a Zionist or something cuz I didn’t even say anything about Palestine to her.”

Like…I know. You didn’t say anything to me. You didn’t ask how I was doing. You certainly didn’t acknowledge Jewish pain in any way, beyond liking one (1) post a few months ago. Most of you muted me on here. Most of you don’t respond to unrelated information or posts in group chats about genuinely nonpolitical topics. None of you are ever “free” to hang out. You don’t support me when I’m sad. Fine, maybe that’s not what you do. That’s ok. My emotions aren’t your responsibility. You don’t offer distraction. You don’t offer an ear. You leave me on read when I see you online.

I see the statistics that seem to say “most people think their friends hate them but they actually really like you!”

But I don’t think this applies to Jews. Especially leftist Jews tbh. But I do wonder if the antisemites who hate their Jewish friends even KNOW that they hate their Jewish friends.

Like, I wonder what they’d say if they were asked “Do you dislike Eden?” Because I think they’d say no. I think they’d say that, maybe, I’m a little much right now. I’m a little too intense. Maybe they’d say they like me a lot but just want this all to die down before we hang out. Or maybe they’d say that they did used to like me but I’ve recently made them uncomfortable.

But that’s not friendship. When someone you care about enough to call a friend is literally an emotional wreck for months, regardless of the reason, and you have not at any point attempted to be there for them in any meaningful way (and I mean, at all. Hanging out once. Calling once. Asking how I’m doing once. Saying “antisemitism is bad” even once. Taking me up on my offer to discuss anything about current events if they have questions. Politely declining my offer to discuss current events because you find it all too stressful. Letting me know that you care about me as a person but the current crisis is too much for you to think about right now, so you’d rather not bring it up. Literally ANY of these actions and a million others that would take you hardly any effort at all.) then you clearly don’t think of me as a friend, actually. You do hate me, actually.

Because what kind of person does that to a friend. What kind of person abandons us like this? It’s like they might as well just say “we like you so much, but like…not when you talk about or experience life as a Jewish person.”

They might as well just say “she’s fine enough to be around. Too bad she’s a Jew.”

Or, maybe, being isolated from people for 5 months is really distorting my perspective and none of this is true or valid.

But I can’t help but feel…being isolated for 5 months is very much reinforcing my points.

I’m officially done trying to make plans with any “friends,” except the one person who ever replies to me.

I basically said “if anyone ever wants to hang out, let me know” and that’s the last I’ll say to basically any of them about making plans.

What’s the point? I don’t want to beg people to spend time with me.

That said, when I called one of my best friends back home to tell her I was moving back, I told her the isolation was really getting to me. I told her that I was feeling like maybe nobody ever really liked me all that much and that I’m hard to be around and that being Jewish at this time and experiencing pain publicly was just the final straw to them excluding me. Maybe I’m just fundamentally unlikable.

But she told me that was dumb and I’m dumb for saying it. And she’s seen me at my best and my worst.

Idk. This post is long and personal and weird but I’m trying to be vulnerable and document how I’m feeling during this time. I think maybe I’m prone to look back on this when this current I/P flare is over and think to myself, “maybe I was just making a big deal out of nothing.” I want to have a record of how I’m feeling. Because at this moment when I’m living through it, it feels cataclysmic.

Like..I’m not even concerned about any of my “friends” finding this cuz I’m pretty sure they’ve all muted me anyway.

#antisemitism #leftist antisemitism #digital ghettoization #social isolation #life under stochastic threat #personal

[lokiiied]

it’s time for my long awaited autistic coded jamie post. okay so…

sensory issues? check. also his lil tongue thing.

not understanding social cues & having to be told/explicitly asking how to interact with people and then learning & adapting; asking for and actually taking every piece of advice he gets from people who are important to him. that’s like. literally the base struggle with autism.

mislabelling his own behaviour as thinking he’s “being a prick” at times when he’s genuinely just expressing his thoughts/gently explaining something to people because other people have always told him that’s what he was instead of differentiating for him that he’s actually really smart and has good ideas.

sometimes he is just a prick tho.

plus there’s his trauma to factor in where he’s also afraid to share his ideas & feelings cuz of his dad.

the way he just assumed he misinterpreted everything and was sent off to man city as punishment for not doing enough about his behaviour and then never asked ted about it after he came back (even though ted really should have had a conversation with him and cleared everything up.)

how he’s remembered all these little factoids about amsterdam that he learned ten years ago and he might’ve had a little amsterdam and/or movie hyperfixation after the holiday with his mum to cope and distract himself from the traumatic memories of the previous time w his dad.

fully accepting his title of being a lil dumb/himbo. even though he also has a lot of knowledge about random things, is one of the best footballers in the league, and works really hard/wants to learn to be better. feel like this can generally be applied to all autistics (replacing football w that one thing that you’re really good at). and idk i feel like autistics invented himbos. so yeah!

also before someone tries to apply all of this to = ptsd…you can have ptsd and be autistic. not everything is a trauma response, and statistically autistic people are more likely to have trauma, anxiety, depression, & comorbidity with other disorders. it’s all very interconnected! xx

while i’m at it, roy’s autistic too!

difficulty expressing emotions and verbalising his thoughts/feelings. growling when he’s angry/non-verbal literally the most autistic shit ever.

his voice. as an autistic who has a very monotone/hard to hear/control voice i. recognise ways of speaking and i register his voice as part of his autism.

not great at communication/assuming people just know what he’s thinking.

also incredibly blunt/direct doesn’t sugarcoat things or lie when it may be socially expected to do so.

literally. his resting face. “you frowned your whole career” “no, i never smiled, that’s different.”

two autistic people trying to hug each other:

+ “well, you came at me too fast!”

anyways mostly they’re autistic cuz i’m autistic and my spidey sense says so.

#actually autistic #a lot of these are also things i do/experience so i may be projecting but #they’re literally fictional characters and it’s harmless and makes me feel validated so who fucking cares #jamie tartt #roy kent #ted lasso #royjamie #lokireactiongifs

[rsitb-second-account]

Okay, I don’t make original posts often, but this has annoyed me. People miss the point of A Christmas Carol so often.

A nice person who happens to dislike Christmas is not a Scrooge. 

A person with more money than they would ever need, who underpays their workers and thinks of people as a statistic and blames people for their own poverty and has the idea that people are choosing to revel in poverty so they can get money from others without working, however... THAT is a Scrooge.

Scrooge in the beginning of the novella was rich, and hated the idea of Christmas because he found it to be an excuse for people to be payed a full day’s wage (out of his own pocket no less) for a day of no work

He refused to donate to charity, because he didn’t want to pay to make ‘idle people merry’. He had the idea in his head, like so many modern people do, that those too poor to celebrate simply weren’t working hard enough. He also said that if they refused to go to the workhouses that ‘if they had rather die, then they should better do it, and decrease the surplus population’

He thought of people as statistics, and it’s implied that he thinks that they are wilfully denying help and shelter for themselves because they want to live off of other people’s money.

While this attitude is eventually changed, it’s not until he sees Tiny Tim. He was fine knowing that people would perish as an indirect result of his actions because it would decrease the population (and get rid of poor people, but...)

When he sees Tiny Tim, he realises that if the boy was to die, that would be his fault. He hadn’t payed Bob Cratchit (Tim’s father and Scrooges clerk) a liveable wage. Not only Tim though, he seems to realise that he would be responsible for the deaths of many, since he refused to help just about everyone. 

That’s when he starts seeing more than statistics. That’s when he becomes a sympathetic character who is trying to be better. He realises that it is pointless to hoard wealth he’d never spend, and started giving to charities and paying Bob Cratchit more.

He became a charitable man and thoroughly changed his ways for the benefit of the many. 

Charles Dickens was a social critic, and I’m sorry to tell you that he wasn’t criticising the hatred of Christmas

#original post #A Christmas Carol

[ghosthunterbuck]

nothing's the same except everything

(buddie) (1.1k words) (6x15 coda) this started as a 6x15 coda and ended as spec for the rest of the season so ?? pls enjoy whatever it is i just did

On average, adults spend two hours per night dreaming. 

Ever since his coma, Buck’s wondered if that statistic is skewed. Were coma dreams counted? If they weren’t, should they have been? And even if the statistic is right, does it take into account the way he is now?

Because he’s different. Buck knows he’s different. Eddie knows too, apparently, but it’s not just the him that interacts with the world every day that’s changed, it’s the him that lives in his dreams, too. 

His dreams, jagged and sharp where they used to be soft and hazy. Buck’s different, and god, he needs to understand why. 

Natalia helps, in a strange, roundabout sort of way. Not because she understands him, no, though he’s embarrassed to admit it took him four entire dates to figure that one out. 

(And honestly, in what world was someone he just met going to get him like that?)

Anyway, it’s not what she sees in him that helps, not really, it’s what she asks when, at the end of their fourth ‘date’, Buck tells her he doesn’t want to see her again. 

“What is it you’re still trying to figure out?” She tilts her head to the side in that enigmatic way of hers, and though she doesn’t explain herself further, Buck knows what she means. 

You’ve seen what happens at the end, what else is there to know?

“What happens now,” he replies. 

No weight falls from his shoulders when he ends things with Natalia, not like it did with Taylor. He thinks maybe it’s because, for once in his life, he let things run their course. Chose not to cling to a sinking ship. 

It doesn’t really solve anything, anyway. 

He says as much to Eddie one night, clutching the neck of a bottle tight between his fingers. 

“So what now?” Eddie asks, leaving him all the room in the world to deflect. He finds he doesn’t really want to. 

“I think,” Buck says, frowning, picking at the condensation-covered yellow label of his beer, “I think I’m going to start therapy again.”

A line of tension seems to release from Eddie’s shoulders and he nods. “That’s good, Buck,” he says, “I’m glad.”

There’s something else he wants to say, needs to maybe, but the words don’t come. It’s a feeling, and for the moment it’s vague. He’s got time, though. Enough time to find the words. 

Buck wakes with a start. It’s hard to say, these days, whether he’s had a dream or a nightmare. The scenes are always disjointed, riddled with faces he doesn’t recognize wearing expressions he wishes he could forget. 

Have you figured it out yet? They ask him. 

How much longer do you think it can wait?

“You know,” Eddie says as they survey the remains of a burnt out house, waiting for the okay to begin overhaul, “it’s okay if you don’t have all the answers.”

Buck turns to him, cocks his head to the side in a silent question. 

Eddie shakes his head. “I just mean– you can ask. Whatever questions you’ve been sitting on. Maybe Bobby’ll know, or Hen. Or– maybe I will.”

Buck swallows harshly. “I’m not sure I even know where to start,” he says. 

“That’s okay too,” Eddie replies. 

That night, he dreams of water. He claws at it, desperate to pull his way to the surface. The scene fractures, and he’s dangling from the top of the ladder truck. It groans loudly and begins to tip, slow at first, then fast, until the ground is hurtling towards him and–

Buck!

He wakes with a gasp and reaches for his phone with trembling fingers. 

He dials and waits. Waits until–

“Buck?” Eddie’s voice is sleep-rough and worried, but Buck can’t bring himself to be sorry for calling. 

“What happened?” he asks, so quiet he can’t be sure Eddie hears him. 

For a moment, only the sound of breathing reaches his ear. 

Then, Eddie tells him. 

It’s strange, in hindsight, that Buck never thought to ask whose hands he came back to life beneath. Stranger still, the way his heart seems to react to the news. 

Every time he sees Eddie, it gives a little jump, a small acknowledgement of the man that saved it. 

Nothing’s the same but everything is, and the only constant in the universe is change but statistically, things always regress to the mean. 

On average, adults dream two hours per night, and now, Buck only ever seems to dream of Eddie. 

“What do you think dreams mean?” Buck asks Hen one morning, apropos of nothing. 

“Why?” she asks, “Have a weird one last night?”

Buck shrugs. “Something like that.”

Hen pauses for a moment, takes a moment to look at him, really look. “I’m not sure they mean anything,” she says finally. “But how you feel in the morning… that’s got to be worth something.”

“Do you think I’m looking for the right things?” Buck asks Maddie.

 

“How do you know when you’ve found what you’re looking for?” He asks Chim. 

“Are we clear to head out?” he asks Bobby. 

The roads are always bad after an earthquake, but Buck navigates them carefully, driving slowly around old potholes and new cracks in the asphalt. None of the traffic lights are working, so Buck takes a circuitous route to the loft, making only right turns where he’d usually go left. What’s usually a twenty minute drive takes over an hour tonight, but they make it without incident, and that’s all Buck really cares about. 

“I’ve got him,” he whispers to Eddie, nodding towards Christopher, who’s half-asleep in the back of the Jeep. 

Eddie smiles tiredly at him and shoulders his bag. 

As they wait for the elevator, another question occurs to Buck. “How did you know?”

Know what? Eddie should probably ask. Because Buck hasn’t really asked a question. He could be asking about anything. Could be asking–

How did you know I needed the jaws earlier?

How did you know what I wanted for dinner last night?

How did you know you could trust me with Chris?

How did you know I wasn’t the same?

How did you know I needed permission to ask?

Could be asking any of it. But he’s actually asking all of it. 

Eddie smiles at him, tired but warm, wearing that soft expression he only ever seems to direct at him or Christopher. “Because I know you,” he says simply. 

Buck’s eyes snap to Eddie’s, because suddenly, he gets it. I know you, Eddie says, and he’s right. Eddie knows him, and he knows Eddie. 

All those weeks ago, he’d wondered aloud: what happens now? And this– this is the answer. Him. Eddie. 

“Oh,” he says softly, a little awestruck. 

Impossibly, Eddie’s expression softens further. 

For once in his life, Buck knows exactly what happens next. 

The ground shakes beneath their feet. Eddie’s eyes widen and he reaches for Buck, even as the shifting concrete has him stumbling back. The building around them groans and screeches, and Buck pulls Christopher tight against his chest. 

Fear twists its way into Eddie’s expression. It’s the last thing Buck sees before the world crumbles around them.

#911 spoilers #911 #911fic #911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #uhhhhhhh idk what happened here but sorry!! #abbie writes #fic #userceecee

[grad-premed-suffering]

2024.03.28 | Day 68/100 days of productivity

I’m trying. I’m trying to get myself out of a depressive funk lately so it’s been hard to get all my end-of-term stuff done but I’m trying.

Today’s goals:

Drink water (2/3)

Pick up new work laptop

Attend qualitative methods lecture

Finish this week’s readings (statistics pre-lecture videos)

Next week’s readings (decision analysis, statistics pre-lecture videos, qualitative methods)

Start drafting decision analysis presentation

Wash water bottle

Get enough sleep

#grad student #grad school #grad studies #grad studyblr #gradblr #graduate school #public health #premed #public health research #100 days of productivity #100 days of studying #100 days challenge #studyblr #study blog #studyspo #graduate student

[winter-sol]

still with you

word count: 1,5k pairing: GN! reader / Leviathan contents: GN reader, SFW. angst and loneliness.

After MC time travels in Nightbringer, they find themselves longing for their loved one's presence and affection. But in the past, things are different, and their relationship with Leviathan is not the same.

Short angsty one-shot. uwu. also at ao3 here ♥

For some reason, the walls of the corridor seem endless today. Your pace is slow, you’re not in a hurry since his invitation pointed at you to come exactly at 10:20 pm. You were ready to end your day and rest at Cocytus Hall, but apparently this new DLC for a game of his promised to be really good and he wanted to try it with a second player because “It’s not like I’m asking you to play with me, ok? I only need a partner. Though, not that kind of partner!”.

That was slightly nostalgic, but also oddly… disheartening. For him to be so ambiguous and nervous again.

That’s the way things are right now. May as well do something about it and not just keep him at arm length. You could never, not when you miss him so much, even if you see him every day.

…

“Hey! Another victory for me, LOL, you suck at this game, MC.”

“I- Ah! It’s not fair, you’ve played this one much more than I have!”

“Nope. No excuses, hehehe.”

Yes, you lost again, but not that you really care. You barely know this game, and to be honest, it’s not becoming one of your favorites. Leviathan is a pro at basically every game he lays a finger on, statistically speaking, yes, you were going to lose.

But to think you’d be able to play this game one day… In the present, as he told you once, it had been discontinued for a couple hundred years.

It’s hard to believe, but that’s the reality you had to accept.

The screen is passing some cutscenes recapitulating the fight both of your characters went through, the loud music turning into background noise as your attention has gone to the aquarium. It lacks a certain member. But so do many things in this room, in this house.

Most of them look the same, though. Turns out that the House of Lamentation and every room have looked the way you remember them since the beginning, with small adaptations of course. But you can’t decide if it’s better or worse, to see it all look the same but for everything to be that different.

“…in there… that kick… was not…”

…

Even that voice. It’s the same tone, the same color. It’s as soothing and pretty as ever. But it’s not his voice. It’s not… your Levi.

“… even there?... MC…”

Of course he is, and you know you’ll fall in love with him again (if you aren’t already), and with enough luck he may fall in love with you too. But it’s not the same…

Right?

“MC?”

Shit.

What.

“What? Ahh… Sorry, I got distracted. You were saying?”

“Oh. Don’t worry” A short pause, and he adds in a fast speech. “I’m not boring you, right?”

Ah…

Ah.

You haven’t heard that one in a while, since before you two were a thing. In the present, that is.

“No, of course not. Sorry, I’ve been kinda spaced out today.”

“Oh, s-sure! Uhmmm…” Another moment of silence, a bit more tense. “I’ll go grab some drinks! I think we finished the last can of soda. Uhm, I’ll be right back, stay here!”

“Ok.”

Clearly uncomfortable, Leviathan stands and hurriedly leaves his room, leaving you there to wait for him.

Even this awkwardness… It’s been so long since Levi felt that way with you. You two had come a long way, from the demon who tried to kill you for losing a stupid quiz, to your friend, to your best friend, and to your lover.

And now, it’s like everything simply was taken away from you. And you can’t do anything about it, not for now. You can’t even confide in him; share the pain you’re going through like you used to with all your concerns and burdens in the present.

You can’t snuggle with him in his bathtub, closed space making you stay too close to each other while one of you rants about their day, about the council, the exams, the other brothers, about anything and everything.

You can’t hide beneath the covers of your bed when it’s too cold and text him to come with you, to spend the night with you so he can warm you up. To fall asleep in his arms, with the dim lights of the tree and the heat emanating from his body lulling you into your dreams.  Such a simple act, to cherish his company just because you can, just because you want to.

But now, you can only look at the bathtub you forced him to accommodate for you in the present, unable to even think about stepping a foot in it.

You can only look at the similar lights you’ve placed in your new room every night, looking for a sense of familiarity, before you cry yourself to sleep.

…

Suddenly overwhelmed, you close your eyes.

A strange wave of sadness makes its way into your brain and your heart.

Can you even take this? Deal with this for who knows how long?

How is he even doing in the present? Does he somehow know you’re in here? Or is he worried, anxious and depressed at your disappearance?

He always worries a bit too much, let his thoughts go to the darkest places, expecting the worst. If only there was a way to send him a message, to let him know you’re ok, that you’re right here by his side, even if it’s not the same, even if his past self has no idea who you actually are.

It’s such a lonely concept, to be in the same place as your loved ones, but for them to be unable to see you. You love all of them, in different ways, but you do. You long for those days where everything was lively and chaotic, and they were your family, and you were theirs.

You open your eyes before you let your thoughts consume you.

Right now, there’s nothing you can do but stay right there for them, right there where they need you, and hope you can be a positive presence for them again. For now, you can only confide in Solomon, and that gives some peace to your heart.

But still, if only…

As if on cue, Leviathan enters the room carrying a bunch of cans in his arms.

“Hey! I’m back. Oh? That’s still on the screen?” He points out at the same sequence repeating, clearly indicating you hadn’t touched the game since he left.

“Ah, yeah, well, since I don’t know the game at all, I didn’t want to press anything and mess it up.” You tell him that instead of saying something like ‘I’m so sad I forgot it was even there in the first place.’ He doesn’t need to know.

“Right. Don’t worry, I’ll press it. Here. Also, I brought these ones, do you like that flavor? I heard it’s popular in here.”

You honestly have no idea what flavor of soda that is, as it doesn’t exist anymore in the present. But you can’t tell the truth since you’re supposed to be a native demon.

“It’s ok, but I prefer that other one”.

“Sure! Take it!”

He seems fine now, not uncomfortable anymore so you hide your true feelings at the back of your heart and end up playing again with him.

You guess you can’t really complain, you’re right here by your beloved demon’s side, enjoying your time together. Hopefully, Leviathan will remember a that certain someone used to spend time with him in the past, and that he was never truly alone during such hard times.

You look at his face and you can notice how bright he looks. He’s enjoying his game, laughing, making jokes, trying to sound cocky but ending up teaching you a few tricks. This scene where both of you are sitting right here, in this place, it’s so familiar. It’s nice. He’s happy with you.

He’s still the same, so you shouldn’t be sad, right?

…

“That was so cool, you got really good at this, you know?”

“Meh, I guess it’s thanks to you. You gave me all those tips. Also, who wouldn’t get better with such a handsome and cool Player 1, right?”

“MC, shut up! Hahaha.”

He laughs and tries to hide his blushed expression at the flirty comment you just threw at him. After he notices you smiling as well, he circles his arms even tighter around you, pressing his head on your shoulder, and gives you a tender kiss on your cheek.

“MC… Don’t ever leave me, ok?”

That was slightly unexpected, but you notice a sweet warmth enveloping you at his honest words.

“Idiot. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, you’ll end up looking for ways to get rid of me.”

“-! No, don’t say that! I would never!”

You only smiled and kissed his lips, reassuring him you won’t leave, not if you can help it.

That was a conversation you two had one lazy afternoon, in the same place you are right now.

But he was behind you, holding you tight against his chest while you played some stupid game together. You were loved by him, not trying to get his trust and friendship all over again.

Turns out you didn’t keep your word. You weren't powerful enough.

What a joke of a sorcerer.

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated! ♥ also, if you want to talk and share your ideas feel free to hit the ask button ;)

thanks for reading ♥

#obey me leviathan #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me sfw #obey me angst #obey me x reader #obey me fanfic #obey me fic #leviathan x reader #leviathan x gender neutral reader #leviathan x mc #obey me nightbringer #Winter writes

[reasonsforhope]

Your blog is a literal god send for me, I’ve been feeling so depressed, pessimistic, nihilistic and cynical at the state of the world right now and my fear of if I even have a future, but your blog is absolutely what I needed right now, so I can’t thank you enough. I’m just so happy to see someone who is hopeful and positive and not pessimistic, and it makes me legit want to cry tears of joy. How are you able to stay so positive and optimistic despite everything going on?

<3 <3 <3

As for how I stay optimistic and relatively positive? Lots of effort and hard work.

I'm not naturally an optimist. I spent most of my life (and certainly my adolescence lol) being pretty angry and cynical.

It's not that I never feel depressed or despairing about the state of the world. There's fucked up shit happening, indisputably, and hey, I'm trans, it's been a rough fucking year for that. But I guess I try to focus on the difference between passing moods and baseline worldview.

Some of the main ways I moved my baseline worldview to be optimistic and hopeful:

A lot of reading and looking at data and in-depth stories. The headlines never give you enough of the story - hell, most news articles don't these days, because they're so skewed toward negative news

Especially reading/looking at good news sites (I have a masterpost of good news sites here). There are good things happening everywhere that you never hear about. Mostly, you only ever hear about the good things when there's been a huge setback, which sucks!

I'm basically not on social media. Nothing except Tumblr, Facebook, and LinkedIn, and I only ever go on FB and linkedin briefly for business. It's fantastic, can't recommend ditching social media enough

I made sure I was doing something to help (aka I started this blog. I would also volunteer but my disabilities and a lot of logistics make that complicated)

My job involves reading a couple dozen self-help books a year lol, not gonna lie that def helps

Taking a long perspective of time. It often doesn't feel like it, but statistically, this really is the best time to be alive. (Here's a fantastic essay about many of the reasons why.) People really gloss over how much most of the past kinda fucking sucked to live in. 50% of all people used to die before their 15th birthday, for basically all of history until the past 200 years!! Imagine having to live with that. Imagine all of that pain and grief literally everywhere. I'm really happy about living in modern times, actually!

That last point is esp helpful to remember for me because I'm 100% for sure on the list of "people who would've died in childbirth" pre modern medicine (and my mom would've died having me, too). It was modern times or nothing lol

The vast majority of the world has spent the past 300 to 500 years being absolutely brutalized by white people and/or the West. There's still a lot of fallout to fix and colonialism to uproot, but I genuinely can't wait to see what people and nations will achieve with sustained self-rule and significantly fewer massive atrocities

Solarpunk and hopepunk stuff

I'm gonna make a whole post about this at some point but the fact that we eliminated scarcity in the past few decades actually changes the entire fucking game for the world (literally it's not a zero sum game anymore) and for the future. We're allowed a bit of a learning curve I think

I listen to the Rent soundtrack a lot and go "well you know what being trans right now sucks but being trans at the height of the aids crisis would've been way fucking worse" lol rip

Meds! Meds. Antidepressants and antianxiety meds unfortunately don't work for everyone (yet!), but also thank fuck for meds

Progress almost always happens in slow, tiny increments, with a lot of stops and starts and setbacks. You have to always remember that there are always people fighting somewhere, and if they're stopped, there will always be more people to pick up the fight in the future

#thesingingtennisball #ask #me #advice #hope #hope posting #hopeposting #not news #also tbh I highly recommend a basic understanding of statistics #and the ability to parse the basics of many academic papers #whenever I see a scary headline about some new study I check out the actual study and 90% of the time I end up going #“oh that's not that bad actually” #progress happens in tiny tiny i

[thomasschabot]

saw you in a dream

quinn hughes x non-binary!oc (she/they pronouns)

they were simply a figment of quinn’s imagination, until she wasn’t

word count: 3.3k

warnings: vivid dreams, cursing, not soulmates!au but kinda soulmates!au without being weird

a/n: hi @puckmaidens!!! it’s me, your fic exchange partner. really hope you enjoy this little ditty 🤍 original idea didn’t go as planned but i’m crossing my fingers this will suffice. a very large thanks goes out to @wyattjohnston​ for creating and managing yet another super successful fic exchange AND for letting me borrow daisy for a fun little moment!!! hats off to you dem. @matthewtkachuk​ gets a big shout out for proofing this love u babe (also as a reminder non-binary people don’t owe anyone androgyny! or anything for that matter. all my little enby babies you’re perfect as is 🥰)

⭑⭒⭑

They were laughing the first time Quinn saw them. 

It was the head tilted back, mouth agape kind of laugh, and it was the most beautiful thing the man had ever seen. Quinn couldn’t tell if any sound was coming from the prettily parted lips, but he also didn’t care. Just watching them was good enough, and if given the opportunity he’d do it for the rest of his life. Fate isn’t that kind, however, so Quinn resigns himself to the idea that this perfect person will have to reside in his memory. There was a split moment where kind eyes met his own guarded ones, and Quinn felt the world stop spinning for a millisecond. Every single feeling, look, thought, was heightened when they smiled and raised their glass in a silent toast, prompting him to follow the lead with a tentative look on his face. A split second later they were gone, pulled onto the dancefloor with friends to enjoy the long night ahead. Once sure they weren’t coming back, and didn't want to actually say hello in the way he so desperately wanted, Quinn closed out his tab with a sigh of defeat and exited the club, kicking himself the entire way home for not having any courage.

⭑⭒⭑

An alarm startles Quinn awake. It’s Sunday, supposedly a rare day of rest for the team, but he needs to put some time into the gym and bulk up ten pounds as fast as possible. The Canucks have been playing well enough, but the team is still below five hundred and has a tough second half of the season ahead. Quinn could stand to be more of a physical force to be reckoned with. He’s so focussed on the goals to complete during the day that it takes several moments to realize there had been no mysterious yet beautiful person at a nightclub last night. In fact, there hadn’t been a club at all — just his cold sheets and the same sadness that’s permeated Quinn’s house for years. 

The realization knocks all the air from his lungs. Quinn could swear up and down that he had seen them with his own two eyes, and tasted the whisky they’d sipped while maintaining eye contact. It was all such a vivid image that he has a hard time reconciling the knowledge it was all fake with how he woke up feeling. It was real to him. Brock would undoubtedly shake his head and rattle off a few statistics about the probability of meeting those found in one’s dreams, ever the pessimist about love and fate, but luckily he isn’t there as Quinn moves sluggishly about, trying desperately to remember everything about the person with kind eyes and the brightest smile he’s ever encountered. 

Quinn doesn’t even get both feet onto the turfed outer surface of the gym before a trainer finds him. “Hughes,” he says, syllables tense and over-punctuated in a way they appear only when ownership gets antsy about poor results. “I need you working today until it feels like you’re about to drop dead.”

“You got it,” Quinn sighs, feeling guilty for contributing to the man’s stress simply because he can’t maintain his weight. Being a franchise player at such a young age, Quinn feels pressure to make things as easy on the staff as possible.

Teammates are scattered about the levels of the facility, each working on their own weaknesses — it’s becoming more apparent to Quinn that no one in the Canucks organization understands the term rest day. Nils is hunched over on the floor doing an intricate warm up stretch routine, clearly in the same boat as him, and it makes Quinn feel a bit better. He doesn’t look up, just raises a hand in silent greeting, and the other man chuckles before pushing back the slight waves he hadn’t bothered to tame in the bathroom mirror and getting to work. 

Time flies by at a record pace, and an hour and half later Quinn has put in one of the most intense workouts of his professional career. It seems stupid to leave when so many of his teammates are still working, so he finishes a cool down and wordlessly stands behind Nils to spot. Neither of them acknowledge the favour Quinn is doing him, but it doesn’t matter. Just knowing he’s done something to make someone’s life easier is enough. Despite the intentions of making the work easier, Quinn lags behind, taking a few too many breaks to think about the person from his dream and how much he’d like to kiss them, to cherish them.

Always a fast dresser, he waits until his friend is heading down the stairs from the change room to tug the long discarded backpack over his shoulders and lowers the baseball cap onto his head. Quinn holds the door and emits quiet laughter as Nils recounts a recent failed attempt at romance. 

“You were a little spacey today, everything okay?”

It’s not so much a question as it is a prompt to spill his thoughts, and Quinn knows it. Nils Höglander may be a lot of things, including a dear friend, but subtle is not one of them. A breath filters through his nose and fills Quinn’s lungs with air that both calms and accelerates his heart rate. “It’s nothing. Just a dream I’m having a hard time shaking.”

“Was she cute?” This time it’s a leading question, one Nils has a sinking suspicion his friend will answer despite not really wanting to.

“Focus on your own love life first,” Quinn grumbles, picking at a thread on the hem of his sweater. A pause, then, “They were extremely cute.”

Nils quirks his eyebrow. Blushing slightly, Quinn continues. “I don’t know their pronouns, so I don’t want to assume anything. Plus, it’s not like they’re even real.”

“Always the gentleman, Quinner.”

The pair of men separate in the parking lot, walking to their respective vehicles with chants of genuine happiness at seeing each other in less than twenty-four hours. Nils swears up and down he won’t tell anyone else about the fascination with the dream person, but Quinn knows it’s bullshit. His friend has never been good at keeping his mouth shut, and the Canucks are like a tight knit family. Everyone will always know each other’s business.

⭒⭑⭒

They shouldn’t be there. 

The last time Quinn saw them, they had been in a dive in Vancouver, but now they’re  standing in line at a farmer’s market thirty-five miles outside Pittsburgh. Logically, Quinn understands that it was a dream, that the two of them could be transported anywhere occupying space in his brain, but this place specifically is sacred. It’s his safe space, discovered once on a solo road trip home from Michigan, has never appeared in dreams before, and Quinn wasn’t sure what to do about the intrusion. Their presence wasn’t necessarily unwelcome, just foreign. In fact Quinn was quite sure he’d like the person to be in every dreamscape if it meant he got to experience them over and over again.

A dainty red ribbon held their hair into its makeshift ponytail, but the locks threatened to spill out at any moment. They looked absolutely ethereal, denim overshirt blowing in the wind and legs encased by a pair of practical hiking sandals. Everything about them was easy and carefree — Quinn knew he had to experience the sunshine they cast at least once. A tote bag dangled from their forearm, encasing a plethora of apples that was undoubtedly too many for one person to eat alone. There was no one in line behind them, so without thinking Quinn grabbed the nearest item of produce and made sure to stand at a respectable but still close distance. Their hair smelled faintly of lemon and basil, and it took a godly amount of strength for Quinn to pull away once he caught a whiff. At the very last second the magical human with the red ribbon turned their head and caught the hockey player in the act. 

If they had been put off by Quinn’s interest in learning intimately what shampoo combination made the smell, they never mentioned it. “Aren't those the best this time of year?” they asked with a whimsical lilt. Damnit, even their voice felt like it wasn’t made for this world, but a mythical plane above it.

“Uh —” Quinn sputtered, unsure of what he was holding. A glance down proves he’d chosen to buy strawberries, the only fruit he was allergic to. “I wouldn’t know. Just stopping by on the way back home. I was out this way on business.”

“Well then, you picked the right time to visit. Late summer brings the best yield of strawberries, in my unprofessional opinion.” Their smile could have rivaled the sun at high noon, it was that bright and blinding, and Quinn was absolutely enamored. Before he could respond, however, the line lurched forward and the market attendant called the other person forward. “Enjoy them,” they said sincerely, and Quinn offered a thumbs up in response. 

With their back to the brunette and preoccupied with a conversation about the weather, Quinn knew he wouldn’t have gotten caught for leaving without the strawberries. Carefully he put them back on the table and walked in the opposite direction. At least this time he had been able to start a conversation. 

⭑⭒⭑

The hissing of air brakes jostles Quinn awake, and he opens his eyes to see the back entrance of the arena. Bus rides from hotels to rinks are incredibly short, but somehow the man managed to get a few moments of unconsciousness. Just enough to dream about the mystery person and wake with more questions that will forever go unanswered. Who are they? Why do they keep appearing in his dreams? Does repetition in dreams really mean anything? Quinn will have to remember to send a text to Jack’s girlfriend Daisy, since she knows about those sorts of things. 

Teammates shuffle off the bus in front of him, and Quinn quickly follows them, hoping not to seem too out of sorts even though his mind is swimming. Andi, one of the team’s photographers, is standing between the bus and the entrance to the rink, snapping away and making silly faces to make some other guys laugh, knowing that those sorts of candids bring more engagement for the team. 

“A-dog,” Quinn chirps, trying to seem chipper. “No pics of me today, please? After work beers on me if you say yes.”

Andi tilts her head in confusion but doesn’t probe. “You got it, boss. I want the best Guiness your expensive contract can buy.”

“Anything for you. I owe you big time. Thanks!”

Quinn quickly embraces the photographer and darts inside the building, knowing that not everyone will be as understanding as Andi. Normally he’s game to play the role of the Canucks’s social media darling, but tonight Quinn has enough to worry about without being followed around and scrutinized. 

Each professional hockey player has a different pre-game warmup routine, despite the game being a team sport. He’s always been one to do his own thing, only rarely joining in the games of two-touch, so no one blinks an eye at Quinn heading in the opposite direction of most of the guys. Nils gives him a quizzical look, mischievous glint in his eye, but before he can ask any questions Quinn turns the corner and takes the first flight of stairs he sees. 

Before he can think too much about the teasing that will inevitably come from the New Jersey contingent of the Hughes family, Quinn pulls out his phone and sends the text to Daisy. 

Not even going to bother to tell you to keep this a secret because you suck! I’ve had an unknown person appear in some dreams lately, and since you’re into all that manifestation shit I thought I’d ask if it means anything. Also, tell Jack and Luke I hope they lose tonight. 

The device slips into the pocket of his shorts and settles into a position that hopefully won’t allow it to fall out during his jog around the depths of the arena. Quinn doesn’t like to run with headphones, instead choosing to focus on his breathing. It’s an odd quirk, he knows, but relentless teasing from teammates has never stopped him before. He likes the ritual and knows it will probably continue long after he retires from playing professionally. 

Quinn rounds the corner, braces himself for a high sprint, and runs directly into someone instead of meeting a clear hallway. He isn’t the speediest on the team by far, but Quinn is fit enough that even his entry into a sprint could knock over an unsuspecting person, whom this clearly was. They fall to the ground, the momentum of an adult’s body weight and shock making it a hard one. In order to prevent more injury by landing on top of them, Quinn propels himself forward and turns mid-air in a quasi-front flip that he’s sure looked just as stupid as it felt.

“What the fuck, man?”

The voice, even in anger and resentment, is warm and welcoming. Quinn thinks the person has never been cold-hearted, not like him, and it befuddles him until he looks to see who his unsuspecting victim was. 

It’s them.

From the dreams. 

Standing right in front of him, looking for an explanation as to why they were knocked onto the ground with the ferocity of a barely-legal bodycheck. “Uh, sorry, didn’t see you there,” Quinn sputters, utterly failing to suppress his astonishment. 

A dry laugh, verging between a chuckle and a cackle, spills from their lips. “No shit. Help me up?”

Quinn wastes no time extending an arm and hauling them off the floor. He notices a lanyard sporting an official arena badge. ‘Logan Haynes (she/they), Public Relations’ is written in neat serif script, along with a picture of her wearing a bright smile. Trying to not be obvious, he gives her a once over, telling himself it’s just to make sure he isn’t hallucinating but really it’s because Quinn wants to get a better look. He isn’t as sly as he hoped because her voice once again comes into focus. 

“Do you have a habit of injuring arena staff and then checking them out, Hughes?” Logan asks, cocking their head just enough to let Quinn know the comment is mostly in jest. 

He isn’t surprised they know his name, especially if they work in sports. Still, he stammers an answer nervously. “Actually, no. This is my first time.”

“So you were checking me out?”

“I plead the fifth.”

This time a real laugh tumbles out, a hearty one with warmth of a sun-kissed afternoon and Quinn decides in that moment he will do whatever he can to hear that sound for the rest of his life. Neither of them make a move to go their separate ways, nor do they speak. Time stands still, but not in the awkward way that Quinn is accustomed to. It’s all-consuming, how sanguine the moment feels, how things almost audibly clicked into place when he saw Logan. Never one to believe in fairy-tales or the mushy feelings Jack and Daisy describe, Quinn finally gets it. 

“Uh, this is really weird, and I swear I don’t normally do this,” he begins, “But can I get your number?”

Logan smiles, almost devilishly, and Quinn is scared for a moment. “So I can send you the bill for my physical therapy? I think I might have seriously pulled a muscle.”

“Whatever you want.” The grin on Quinn’s cheeks makes them ache but he doesn’t care. He extends his open phone and they enter a sequence of digits Quinn decides to commit to memory. With nothing else to do the pair return to their original paths, and Quinn can only hope they want to see him again.

⭒⭑⭒

The game and subsequent activities pass by in a blur. Quinn was attentive, always on the puck and converting turnovers into scoring opportunities, but Logan was the only thing on his mind. The chances of her being real, of being in the same vicinity as him and getting the chance to meet is too serendipitous even for him. He gets knocked around more than usual due to his wandering mind, leading to some questioning looks from teammates and staff members. As soon as he can, Quinn is looking through the arena to find Logan, let them know he wants more than to pay for potential recovery from the injury that he caused, but he can’t find her. 

Dejected, he goes back to the bus. Quinn is a quick undresser and prefers to unwind at home or the hotel, so despite his detour he isn’t the last one on the bus. The win doesn’t matter much to him, too in his own head about Logan to care, so Quinn chooses to decline any and all invitations to celebrate with his teammates. He just wants to have a second shower and debate whether or not to text her. 

A gentle buzz comes from the inside of Quinn’s suit jacket, and he pulls out his phone with suspicious speed. The guys around him pay no attention, engrossed in their own phones or suspecting Quinn of hitting up someone on his roster like so many others were doing. He hopes it’s Logan, but then realizes that would be impossible seeing as the exchange was strictly one sided. It’s Daisy, finally answering his message from hours earlier. 

Nice to hear from you, Quinny! So glad you only reach out when you want my extra-special opinion on ur love life. Could mean nothing, or could mean you’re bound to meet the mystery person soon. Devs won 6-2, suck it. See you next week!!

Quinn thinks that if Daisy knew the events that transpired tonight she’d call it fate, especially given her text, so in order to keep his brothers from finding out and using the situation as teasing material he doesn’t respond. Instead, he opens the contacts app and scrolls until he finds the number he’s looking for. 

Still at the back of the bus, his fingers shake as Quinn types out a message.

Hi. It’s Quinn. Hughes. Ready to pay for all of your up front and continuing medical costs.

He hits send, then continues typing. 

I’m extremely sorry for earlier tonight, and just realized I never actually apologized. That wasn’t cool of me. I hope you’re okay. 

Before he can overthink it even more, Quinn keeps going. 

This is going to sound absolutely ridiculous and insane, but I swear I’ve seen you in a bunch of my dreams lately. Crazy, isn’t it?

Not wanting to sit and wait around for his potential embarrassment at his own hands, Quinn closes his eyes. However, he’s hyper aware of the rectangle in his pocket that feels more like a brick than anything. Sleep does not overcome him, just anxious thoughts, and he thinks he might explode if Logan doesn’t respond. No one will ever know except him, but the crushing weight of rejection and dismissal will sting for a long time. Quinn has never been one to put himself out in public this way, and if it blows up in his face on the first try he isn’t sure he’ll have the confidence to try again. 

One single vibration hits right below his breastbone. It takes Quinn a moment to realize it isn’t his rapidly beating heart, but instead his dreaded cell phone. A message appears on the lockscreen under the heading he’s been yearning for. When he opens it, Quinn sees four words that might just change his life forever. 

I’ve seen you too. 

⭑⭒⭑

enjoy this fic? give it a reblog :) <3

#quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes fic #vancouver canucks imagine #vancouver canucks fic #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey imagine #hockey fic #the summer fic exchange 2k23 #cwrites

[cowgurrrl]

United in Grief

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (except this is all backstory)

Author’s note: I’m sorry

Summary: “My mom honks her car horn every time she drives past the cemetery her friend is buried in. This is what I think love is: everlasting. Deathless.” [1.8k]

Warnings: if you’ve been reading this far, you know what to expect

April 7th, 1998

You're trying to figure out how you got here. You think the nurses are trying to figure out the same thing. You answer their questions in between contractions, your body shaking and overheating all at the same time. Your water broke at home while you were getting ready for school. You probably shouldn't have even thought about going when your Braxton-Hicks contractions were so bad. Still, you needed to finish school somehow. You were sitting down in the bathroom when it happened.

"Is there anyone we can call for you?" A nurse asks, snapping you out of your head as she checks your and the baby's heart rate. "Boyfriend? Parents? Friend?"

"There's no boyfriend, and I don't think any of my friends care enough to come," you sigh, rubbing your belly. "Besides, everyone's still at school."

"What about your mom? I'm sure she'd want to be here with you." She says gently, but the words feel like sandpaper rubbing over your skin. The baby kicks, and you press your hand back, letting her know you feel her.

"If you can get her to answer the phone, it'd be a low-level miracle."

"She's not supportive?"

"Having a pregnant sixteen-year-old was never on the bucket list. She hasn't spoken to me since I told her about the baby. Neither has the father, and I… I understand what it looks like." you say. You've read the statistics about teen moms and how they are less likely to finish high school. You're determined not to be a part of that statistic. You will make life perfect for this baby. No matter the cost. "But I got emancipated when I was three months pregnant, and I'm living in an apartment owned by one of my classmate's dads, and he's giving me reduced rent. And I work part-time at a restaurant. People love to tip the pregnant girl, right? So, we'll be okay. I'll be okay."

"It's okay if you're not." The nurse says, but you shake your head.

"I need to be okay for her."

"You're having a girl?" She asks, and you hum. She smiles and glances at the different machines you're hooked up to, making sure everything is in order. "Well, it sounds like she's very lucky to have you as her mama."

"Thank you." You mumble. It's the nicest thing anyone's said to you in months.

The nurse stays with you as your contractions get closer together and more painful. She rubs your back when you throw up and keeps you upright when they administer your epidural. Eventually, in your drugged-up, sleep-deprived state, you ask her to, at least, try to call some people for you. You give her Matt, your mom's, and a few friends' phone numbers. If anyone answers, she doesn't tell you. She doesn't have to. She just returns and perches on the edge of your bed, her hand resting on your knee.

"Y'know, I have a daughter about your age," she says. "She's super smart. Motivated. Beautiful, too, and don't get me wrong. She's made some mistakes. Some really big ones. But I'd hope that if she were ever in this position, I'd be able to find the courage to be as brave as you are right now," she squeezes your knee, and you wipe at your eyes, unexpected tears leaking from your eyes. "We're gonna help you have this little girl, okay?"

She doesn't leave your side, even when you're yelling loud obscenities, and the room devolves into controlled chaos. She coaches you through every contraction and even braids your hair so it's out of your sweaty face. Your doctor and two other nurses come in once you're fully dilated to help support you and the doctor. The rain outside pounds harder on the windows as you try to push and breathe when you're supposed to, but it's so hard, and you're so tired. You've been working too hard. You haven't been sleeping enough. You definitely haven't been drinking enough water. What if you've already fucked up as a mom? What if there's no coming back from this?

Your doctor says something about needing to push harder; otherwise, you'll have to have an emergency c-section, and you start sobbing— full-bodied, earth-shattering sobs. The nurse who braided your hair shushes you gently and dabs a damp rag against your forehead. You look at her and cry harder.

"I'm scared." You admit.

"I know you are, baby, but you're so close. Can I tell you something I tell my daughter?" She asks, and you nod through your tears. "Whenever you're feeling scared, just squeeze my hand as hard as you can, and I'll take all your fear from you, alright? Show me what you got." She takes your hand in yours, and you squeeze as the next contraction takes your attention. A few minutes later, in a room full of women, you deliver your daughter with a scream loud enough to shake the entire floor, but she's silent. You look at the nurse holding your hand worriedly.

"She's not crying. Why isn't she crying?"

"Sometimes, babies have a hard time adjusting to being outside the womb. We'll get her crying, don't worry." Time seems to freeze as you watch the doctor rub your daughter's back until she rears her head back and wails. You let out a big breath, and a moment later, she's placed on your chest. You don't realize you're still holding the nurse's hand, but she doesn't let go. She lets you squeeze her until you stop shaking long enough to put your other hand on the back of your daughter's head.

She's so small and has so much hair. You stare down at her like she's the most precious jewel anyone could've ever discovered as she cries and cries. You kiss her forehead and vaguely tune into something the doctor is trying to tell you about recovery. You nod, but you're not listening. You're focusing on how your daughter's lungs expand and contract and how her heart beats against yours like it was always meant to be. Like it was forever and always supposed to be you and her.

You let the nurse holding your hand take the baby to get cleaned up as the rest of the nurses and the doctor run around to ensure you have everything you need. Once things settle and your daughter is back in your arms, people gradually leave the room for you to bask in her beauty. Now that she's here, everything seems so real, so important. The weight on your shoulders doesn't feel as heavy with her next to you, but it's still there. You're sure you'll cry later about not knowing what the fuck you're doing, but it's okay. It has to be. You're a mom now.

"I'm gonna go get some paperwork done, okay? If you need anything, even if it's just a friend, you press this button." The nurse says, putting the call button next to you in bed, and you nod.

"Thank you…" you trail off, realizing the nurse never told you her name, and she smiles, looking between you and the baby.

"Jane."

June 2nd, 2008

You're trying to figure out how you got here, outside the walls but in the opposite direction of the Shell station. You told Lee you didn't want to do any more drops so close to when Jane gets out of school. Still, the promised payout was enough of an incentive. You and Mrs. Carmichael have gotten closer since Adam died. She told you about her husband, who died long before the outbreak, and how she never changed her name back. You told her about Adam and what he meant to you. It felt like soldiers passing war stories back and forth to figure out why they were thrust onto battlefields, trying to find out what they did wrong to get drafted into a war they never imagined. She's kind. You trust her. It made sense to ask her to pick Jane up today.

Jane's been having a hard time in the past few months. A few weeks after Adam died, she asked you if he was her father. She admitted she doesn't remember much from before the outbreak and told you she vaguely remembers Outbreak Day. She's never really known a world without Adam until now. You wanted to lie and say yes. You wanted to tell her that, of course, she was a product of this beautiful, kind, amazing man. You wanted her never to know or claim Matt. You still don't know why you said no.

She barely wanted to celebrate her birthday two months ago but plastered on a smile when you surprised her with new notebooks and pencils for her to write with. These days, she's locking herself in her room with Adam's radio and her words. You remind her you love her and are there to talk, but she just nods and disappears. She's getting older. You can't shield her from the world forever, but goddammit, if you can't try for as long as you can.

You've connected with two guys on the radio who have a safe house in a safe, abandoned neighborhood in Boston. They've been giving you tips on how to find and keep a safe place outside of the QZ. With all the smugglers, weapons dealers, and survival skills you know, for the first time, it's feasible. It's possible. You could take her out of the QZ and build her that home in the forest where she could actually be a kid. You just need a few months. You can do it. You will do it for her.

Catherine's group shows up right on time, a desperate attempt to show how sorry they are for what happened the last time they were late. You don't make eye contact with her as you trade for the shit you need to. She's about to open her mouth to say something, and your fists ball up at whatever she could have to say when an ear-splitting sound emerges from the QZ. The ground shakes with the force, and you reach for your gun like you're waiting for it to happen again.

"Probably some Fireflies and FEDRA playing hot potato again," one of Catherine's guys says. "They've been throwing bombs at each other for the past month in our QZ." And just like that night you first saw fighter jets circling your city, you get an unmistakable sinking feeling in your stomach.

You start running back, praying to whatever god will still take pity on you after every sin you've committed to keep your little girl safe.

You wish you knew your prayers were landing on deaf ears. You would've run faster.

#when you’re lost in the darkness #look for the light prequel #tlou fic