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dragon-kazansky · 3 years

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Dangerous | Helmut Zemo

AU! Race car driver Zemo 😎

Gender neutral reader

Collage by @realremyd

I am once again apologising for what you're about to go through.

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Part 10

You wipe down the counter. It was quiet today, not many customers. Everyone was at home waiting for the race to begin. Today was the fourth race of the season. If Zemo won today, he would tie with Stark.

Zemo... you hadn't gone back. You hadn't called him, text him, seen him. You had returned to work, telling your boss things had changed. He welcomed you back, but he looked at you with pity sometimes.

He was currently standing in the doorway behind you, watching you. The race would be starting soon, he had the TV set up in his office, hoping you would come watch it with him. He would happily close up shop for this. For you.

You had worked at The Redwing for several years, a loyal worker to him. You would good with the people, you made wonderful coffee, sometimes bringing s cup to his office, and you knew how to make work fun.

You had this amazing opportunity, then something unexpected came out of the blue and ruined it.

You could do so much better than this little job. He wanted that for you. Plus, he was very much aware, just by the way you had been these past few days, that you were utterly in love with his favourite racer.

He saw the images from the last race. That photo of you and Zemo kissing after his win was all over the place.

Behind him, the commentators are talking about Zemo's win. He flashed up on the screen, a replay of his car gliding over the line. The moment Stark lost to him.

You put away some clean cups, stacking them gently by the machine. You liked having a tidy working area. You knew where everything was, getting what you needed for an order was second nature.

You swung a towel over your shoulder and decided to organise the new tea flavours that came in. Cherry blossom tea had just come in, apparently it was nice. As the shop was empty, you could make one. You grabbed a tea bag from the box and put the box back on the shelf. Your boss watches you go about making your drink.

"Are you going to watch the race with me?"

You pick up your mug and look at him, shaking your head softly. He sighs and comes over to you. He doesn't have to say anything as you begin to cry. He hugs you.

"Why didn't you go?"

"What would I have said?"

"Anything. You don't believe he did it, do you?"

You shake your head.

"Then why are you here with me when you can be there with him? I remember the accident, you know. Saw it on TV back then. There is no way Helmut Zemo would sabotage a race like that."

"What was I suppose to do?" You look up at him and watch as he grabs a napkin to hand to you. You wipe your tears gently.

"You were suppose to go. I'm suppose to be seeing you on screen today, supporting him. You're suppose to be there when he wins today," he speaks softly.

"It's too late."

"You could still go down there. You'll miss the race, but you'll be there."

You shake your head.

"He told me, he said if I still loved him I should be there at the race. If I don't go, he'll leave me alone. I think this is best."

"Now look here, you're a darling and I adore you, but my God, you're a silly liar. You're so in love with him it hurts. You're just torturing yourself by being here."

You wipe at your eyes gently, sipping the tea. It was nice. Zemo would like it.

You sigh and put the cup down.

"You go watch the race. Just... let me knows if he wins."

He looks at you with those pity filled eyes again. When you don't say any more, he leaves, heading back into the office. He keeps the door open a crack.

You stand there. No customers in sight. You feel absolutely awful.

Zemo sits outside by his car. Sam, Bucky, and Sam's sister Sarah, were all there with him. Zemo hadn't said a word to them since he arrived. Bucky had tried to talk to him about what happened, but he didn't get a response.

You weren't here. You didn't come.

He still held onto hope you would make a last minute appearance, that maybe you were right outside, but you weren't. He knew deep down you weren't coming.

You were afraid. He couldn't blame you, but he had hoped that maybe, just maybe, you would believe him. Still, he should have expected this.

Sam and Bucky glance at each other.

"Just leave him be. He'll focus up for the race," Sam said, glancing at Zemo.

Bucky looked across the way.

Stark and his little witch were smooching for the cameras. Behind them, Pepper Potts. Bucky never understood how Pepper could deal with Tony. After everything.

"I'll kill him."

"Bucky, don't."

Sarah pulls Bucky back and tried to get him to calm down. Sam, watches Stark for a lite while longer. He felt sick to the stomach just looking at them.

The racers were called to the line.

You finished up the last if the tea and put the cup to the side. You would take it up to the kitchen shortly. You refilled the water tank and reorganised the spoons for the third time that morning.

The door opened. A young woman enters, a man and two children behind her. You put on your hospitality smile and turn to her.

"Welcome, are you sitting in with us or taking out today?"

The woman smiles, though a lite awkwardly.

"Actually, I am looking for Y/N," she says softly. Her accent, it sounded so much like his.

"That would be me, what I can I do for you?"

She glances at the man she came in with, who nods at her. Licking her lip quickly, she turns back to you and speaks.

"My name is Wanda Maximoff, six years ago my brother died in a horrible accident. I know you have been made aware of this incident. I came here to tell you that I testified about what happened, but no one believed me. They took Stark's word against mine. Helmut Zemo did not kill my brother."

You stare at her.

"You're probably wondering how I know about you and how I come to be here. Stephen Strange is a racer too. Stark had called him a few nights ago. Apparently Zemo had paid him a visit and caused quite a fuss."

"Helmut went to Stark?"

"Yes. Over you. I don't know all the details, only what Strange had told me. I thought it best I come to you and tell you what I know. My brother died in an accident. He was not killed by Zemo."

You hear the low sound of engine revving from the office. The race was about to start.

Wanda watches as you dart into the office quickly. She smiles softly and leaves with her family.

Your boss looks up as you enter. He smiles at you and waves you over. You sit on his desk and watch the TV.

That beautiful purple car appears on screen. You almost want to cry again as you see Zemo sitting there.

You would close your eyes and listen to that sound, even if it is through the television, but you didn't want to look away for a second. That handsome man on the screen, you loved him beyond belief.

Then they were off.

Your breath caught in your throat. You tended up. Your boss placed a hand on your arm, reminding you to breathe. You couldn't. Stark and Zemo were neck on neck. If he won today, he would tie with Stark.

And you would go to him to be there for the final race.

The cars sped around the first corner. You had long since blocked out the commentator. The only sound you could hear was those engines.

Zemo's car glides down the track.

Stark is a hair width away from him. They are so close they could collide any moment, but they don't. Both of them are very skilled and talented drivers. They were born to do this.

They reach the second bend.

You grab your boss's hand, needing something to hold onto. Those two cars are so far ahead from everyone else.

You're filled with anxiety. Everything feels too much.

The third bend.

It all happens so quickly. In the blink of an eye. You're not even sure what had happened.

You weren't even aware you were screaming until your boss had his arms around you. He was so quick to try and tear your gaze away from the screen.

Zemo's car collided into the barrier. It was up in flames. Moments later there was an explosion.

It's just like that day. Six years ago.

You cling to your boss, crying into his shirt. He scrambles with one hand to grab the remote and turn it off.

You had seen enough.

The office fills with your cries. Your agony filled screams are enough to break anyone's heart. What the Hell just happened?

He didn't turn.

He didn't make it around the bend.

And now?

Your boss holds you for a while longer. It's all he can do to help you right now.

At the racetrack, there is chaos. Sam and Bucky were booking it down the sidelines, desperate to reach that corner. Stark zoomed past them going at the speed of light. He would soon cross the finish line and win his third victory, successfully beating Zemo at this point.

Sirens go off in every direction. All ambulances are heading the same way.

An eerie silence falls over the crowd, even after Stark finishes.

Sarah grabs her phone. She has to make a call.

Sam and Bucky manage to reach the wreck. The car is totalled into a burning pit. They can't make heads or tails of what's happening.

And where was Zemo?

This isn't how things were suppose to go.

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#helmut zemo #helmut zemo x reader #zemo x reader #baron zemo #baron helmut zemo #marvel #AU

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cocobeanncteez · 3 years

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ATEEZ San: The Calm After The Storm. (Oneshot)

Genre: angst, fluff, mafia au.

Pairing: Mafia!San x Reader (fem)

Word count: 3.5k

Inspiration: Fifty Shades Freed

Warnings: profanities, alcohol, blood, guns, death, violence.

"What the fuck is this?!" you asked through gritted teeth, throwing the freshly printed photos at San's chest.

Your husband didn't have to look at them to know what you were talking about; his men had already reported to him that you watched the entire recording of him seducing his... target.

"Babe—"

"No, San!" you yelled, cutting him off. "This is the fifth fucking time!"

"But the other one time wasn't about this."

"The other three, now four times were!" he was really getting on your nerves.

"Why are you overreacting?" he questioned with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Y/N, you knew I had no choice."

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, trying to control your anger. "I understand that you had to seduce her. I know that it's your job," you tried to say calmly, but your voice was rising. "What I don't understand is why you let her slip her fucking hand into your pants after you got the damn information that you wanted!"

San visibly gulped; he didn't expect you to be this angry. He thought he was well prepared to face you after mentally forming the situation in his head. He knew you'd be pissed, but not to this extent.

"I pushed her away though," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, after like, five minutes," you retort. "And the worst part was that you were clearly enjoying yourself in those five minutes! Do you know her or something?"

San sighed deeply, ignoring the question. "Babe, look, I'm sorry," he apologized, not sure about what else he could say to calm you down. Your husband took your hand in his. "I won't do it again, I promise."

You immediately ripped your hand away from his, rolling your eyes. "That's what you always say, San." He took a deep breath; you were testing his patience and he didn't like people doing that.

"San," you start, "How would you feel if you saw a guy kissing me and I get carried away and let him touch me?"

That struck him. Hard. He would hate it, obviously. San wouldn't even hesitate to put a bullet through the man's head if he touched you in any way.

San's silence gave you the answer. "That's what I thought," you snorted.

"Y/N, I'm sorry," San apologized again. "But I still had to do it and you know that."

"Whatever," you mumbled and turned around, heading to your room; he still didn't understand just how much it hurt you. It was already worse enough that you had to witness him kiss and touch all those women. But witnessing San let another woman touch him in the place where only you're allowed to, not only pissed you off, but also hurt you deeply. As the seducer of the mafia gang, he was literally trained to not get carried away; his only job was to get whatever information was needed. San was a very, very skilled seducer and you knew that damn well. Although he did get carried away a few times, he never let his targets touch him. So you couldn't understand why he let that happen now. You texted Yunho (your bestfriend and San's close friend) to ask about that woman, knowing that he would never lie to you.

Your anger increased when Yunho replied: "Oh, she hooked up with San a couple of times back in high school." You snorted in annoyance; so he let her touch him just because he knew her?

Your thoughts were interrupted by your phone's notification going off. Your friends were planning to go clubbing tonight as it was a Saturday. You were going to decline, knowing that San wouldn't let you go if he wasn't with you, but you decided against it; you had a plan in mind and you knew it would work.

You ignored San the entire afternoon. He tried to talk to you but you didn't even spare him a glance. He sighed, leaving you alone to cool down.

"Where are you going?" San asked, looking at you from head to toe, while your four year old daughter, Minhee, played with some toy aeroplanes.

"Clubbing," you answered without looking at him.

"You're not going anywhere," San said through gritted teeth. "Especially not wearing that." You were wearing denim shorts and a black lace bralette that showed off your cleavage more than you'd usually prefer. You purposely chose this outfit, of course, and he knew that.

"You don't get to decide where I go and what I wear," you stated. You walked over to your daughter, placing a kiss on her head. "Minnie," you called her by her nickname. "Mommy will be back soon, okay?" you said to your little angel before walking out the door.

"Y/N! You finally came!" one of your friends yelled, already drunk. She takes your hand and drags you through the crowd of people to get to the bar on the other side. "Three tequila shots for my friend here!"

A while later, you noticed Wooyoung and Mingi at the entrance of the club; you knew San would end up here as soon as he asks Seonghwa or Hongjoong to look after your daughter for the night.

And you were right.

San entered the club, dressed in all black, looking fucking hot. You wanted to go up to him and ask him to fuck you till you see stars; however, you were still pissed and had a plan to execute.

You quickly downed your shots and pulled your friend to join your other friends who were dancing. You danced with them until one of your friends introduced you to some random guys. One of the guys, who you found really good looking, started to dance with you. You noticed San sitting on a barstool, watching everything. At that moment, the guy you were dancing with put his hands on your waist, pulling you close to him, making San nearly break the glass he was holding. Perfect. Your plan was working.

When you glanced at where San was seated, he wasn't there anymore. You glanced around, searching for him until you felt a hand wrap around your wrist, dragging you away.

San dragged you downstairs where there were private rooms especially for him and his gang members as they owned this club. He took you to the room belonging to him, locking the door behind him.

"What the fuck were you doing?! How could you let him even lay a finger on you?!" your husband snarled through gritted teeth.

You snorted. "All he did was put his hands on my waist. At least he didn't slip them into my pants and touch me."

San now understood exactly why you did that; you were giving him a taste of his own medicine.

You moved to sit on the sofa, your legs starting to hurt from dancing so much. San kneeled down in front of you, placing his hands on the bare skin of your thigh. "Babe, I'm sorry. I'm an asshole, I know. But please understand that chick meant nothing to me. I didn't even know her."

You pushed his hands away from you. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," he lied.

"You hooked up with her in high school," you deadpanned.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. He just fucked up again. "Y/N, I didn't mean to—"

You stood up from the couch. "No, fuck you, I'm done with you and your fucking bullshit," you snarled angrily, cutting him off, before making your way back to your friends.

"They might take this route instead, we can't predict what they'll do," Jongho said while moving around the meeting room; he was in charge of today's meeting on some mafia gang who had tried to hack into your gang's system to get information on your international drug deals.

During the meeting, your daughter's nanny called you. You declined the call, sending her a text that you were in a meeting. She called again and you ignored it, thinking she wouldn't have seen your message. When she called for the third time, you excused yourself from the meeting.

"I'm in a meeting, Jina, what is—"

"Mrs. Choi," she sobbed. "T-They took Minnie..."

"What?! Who?!" you felt your stomach churn uneasily.

"I-I don't know," Jina cried, "They beat me up at the park till I passed out and t-took her away. They said they would c-contact you."

"Where are you?" you asked.

"At a nearby hospital," she said. "An old couple brought me here."

"I'll be there in five," you said and hung up. You were just about to enter the meeting room, but an unknown number called you. You picked up, assuming it was your daughter's kidnappers since you never got calls from unknown numbers.

"You have a beautiful daughter, Choi Y/N," the man said. "I bet she would look even better with a slit throat, yeah?"

"Who are you? What do you want?" you asked, voice laced with venom.

The man chuckled. "It's simple, your fucking gang has to pay for my loss."

"Just tell me what the fuck you want!"

"Fifteen billion won in cash," he said. "That's the amount I lost because of you motherfuckers. Now listen to me carefully if you don't want your precious child dead. You aren't going to tell anyone about this. Not a word to your boss, Kim Hongjoong. Not a word to your pathetic husband, Choi San. I have eyes watching you, so don't try to act smart. I know you're having a meeting right now about a gang who tried to hack into your system." your eyes widened; how the fuck does this guy know? "I'm giving you three hours," he continued. "If you don't get the money within that time, I'll kill your daughter. Anyway, you'll find a black van waiting for you outside the bank. Your time starts now, Mrs. Choi. Tick tock, tick tock," he chuckled before hanging up.

"Fuck!" you yelled, tears spilling from your eyes. You ran your hand through your hair, trying to calm down; you felt like breaking down but you had to stay strong for your daughter. You wiped your tears before making your way back to the meeting room.

"I'm sorry, I'm feeling quite unwell," you mumbled, quickly collecting your stuff. "Please continue without me."

"Y/N, should I take you home?" San asked; you both still haven't made up from the fight you had a week ago. He tried to talk to you a few days ago, but it resulted in a bigger fight.

"No!" you half-yelled in frustration, startling some of the people in the room. "I'm fine," you said in a softer tone. You quickly left before San could follow you.

"Ah, Mrs. Choi, how can I help you?" the bank manager asked, taking a seat across you.

"I need fifteen billion won in cash," you stated, stunning the manager.

"Ma'am, that is a very large amount so cash isn't the best—"

"I need it in cash. It's really urgent," you said in an annoyed tone.

He gulped and nodded. "Please give me your national ID card."

You handed it to him, fiddling with your fingers while he entered your details into the computer system.

"You have a joint account with your husband, Choi San, correct?"

"Yes."

"Ma'am, we will need Mr. Choi's confirmation as he is the primary account holder."

You mentally cursed. "That won't be necessary," you stated, trying to control your anger.

The manager sighed. "All right, please give me a moment," he said before leaving the room.

You groaned in frustration, putting your head in your heads. You couldn't imagine what your little daughter was going through; you knew she would be scared to death. Your phone rang, interrupting your thoughts.

You declined the call when you saw it was your husband. When he called again, you had no choice but to pick it up, knowing he would keep calling you. "Hello?"

"Y/N, what are you doing? Why are you making such a huge transaction?" San questioned. You mentally cursed the bank manager for contacting San. "Y/N, answer me! What's wrong?" You just kept quiet, knowing you'd break down if you opened your mouth. You heard San take a deep breath. "Are you leaving me or something? Is this about the fights we've been having? I'm sorry about that, I know it was my fault and I don't deserve you, but please, let's talk about this," he begged, making your tears spill from your eyes. "Y/N, say something, please. Tell me what's wrong."

"I can't," you whispered, choking on a sob.

"Baby, please," he begged. "Don't leave me. Please, I'm begging you."

"I'm sorry, San."

There was silence on his end before he sighed. "Okay, take all the money you want," he said and hung up.

A moment later, the manager came into the room. "Ma'am, Mr. Choi has given his permission for the transaction. The procedure for huge cash transactions are of course different, so I need you sign a few papers and write a cheque. It'll take a little over half an hour to get the money in cash."

As soon as you got the cash, you called your daughter's kidnappers. "I assume you've got the money?"

"Yeah," you replied.

"Good. You'll see a black van from across the entrance of the bank," he said and hung up.

You quickly made your way outside, easily spotting the van. You crossed the street and got into the van.

You couldn't recognize the driver and the other man in the passenger seat. Your daughter wasn't even here.

"Good job, Mrs. Choi," the man in the passenger seat said with a smirk; you recognized him as the guy on the call.

"Where's my child?"

"Relax," he grinned. "We're going to her right now." He glanced at the driver who nodded and started driving.

"Ah, give me your phone," the man said. "We don't need your husband tracking us." You hesitantly gave it and he switched it off.

After what felt like hours, you reached an old building. As soon as you got outside the car, you spotted your daughter tied to a wall, unconscious with a bleeding head.

"Minhee!" you yelled, running to her.

Before you could untie her, you felt an arm go around your neck, choking you. Even though you were trained to fight, you weren't the best at it. Nevertheless, you tried to free yourself. You kicked the man in the shin, making his grip around you loosen. You took that opportunity to bite his hand before turning around, punching him in the face. You kept punching him until two other men grabbed you. You managed to get one of them injured by repeatedly kicking his private area, but the other guy one was too strong. He easily picked you and threw you onto the concrete floor, making you bang your head and knee. You groaned in pain, feeling a warm liquid running down your face. You pushed yourself to get up despite the excruciating pain you felt. His gun was pointed at you while he smiled. "Have a great time in hell, Choi Y/N."

Suddenly, a gunshot was heard and the man dropped his gun, clenching his hand in pain. A few more gunshots were fired at him, instantly killing him.

"Y/N!" you heard San scream. He picked you up in his arms bridal style, and you got a glimpse of his teary eyes.

"Min-Minhee," you murmured, struggling to keep your eyes open.

"Seonghwa's got her" was the last thing you heard before everything went black.

You slowly opened your ears, squinting due to the bright light. When your eyes adjusted, you realized you were in Yeosang's mini hospital at your gang's mansion. You turned your head to the side, spotting your husband reading some documents.

"San," you murmured, but it wasn't loud enough. "San," you raised your voice a little, coughing due to your extremely dry throat.

San immediately turned to you, eyes widening. "Y/N!" He quickly poured you a glass of orange juice since that was the first thing he saw. He helped you drink the juice, feeling so relieved to see you finally awake.

"How are you feeling, my love?" he asked, taking your hand in his.

"Where's Minhee?" you asked, panick clear in your eyes.

"Minnie is playing with Jongho and Yunho," San said, making you sigh in relief that your daughter was alive. "She's doing well. She got a few stitches, but it's healing quickly. Our daughter is very brave."

Your eyes teared up. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you about—"

"Shh, don't," he cupped your cheek. "I understand why you did what you did, babe. I would've done that too. Anyway, we wiped out that entire gang and got the money back."

"What happened? How did you find me?"

"We killed all the four men and the other three who were hiding. One of them ran away to Japan, but Wooyoung and Mingi went there and killed him," San explained before getting a little nervous. "And um, don't be mad, but I put a tracker on your necklace."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Hey, see, it proved to be helpful!" he said, putting his hands up defensively.

Before you could reply, San placed his hand over your mouth. He took a deep breath while a wide smile spread on his face. "I also have some good news."

"What's the news?" you asked, voice muffled due to San's hand on your mouth. He opened his mouth to reply, but the door burst open, revealing your daughter.

"Mommy!" she squealed, running to your bed, trying to get onto the bed that was too high for her.

San picked his daughter up, placing her beside you. "Be careful, angel. Mommy is still recovering." The little girl nodded at her father before looking at you.

"How you feel, mommy?" she asked.

"Much better, now that you're here," you replied, tickling her chin. Your daughter giggled, moving away from you. She placed her little hands on your stomach.

"Come out fast so that we can play!"

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before you glanced at San. "About that..." he chuckled, taking your hand in his. "We're having another baby. You're pregnant."

"W-What?" you gasped in shock. You and San had been trying to get another child for quite sometime now.

"Yeah," he giggled, kissing the back of your hand. "You're almost a month long and the baby is perfectly fine."

Happy tears streamed down your face while your hands moved to your stomach. San kissed your head before pulling away a little. "I know I've been getting on your nerves a lot, but thank you for blessing me with Minhee and now another baby," he mumbled. "I love you so much, my beautiful wife." He crashed his lips onto yours. You kissed him back, smiling into the kiss.

"Eww!" your daughter squealed in disgust. "I'm going to tell uncle Jongho that you're kissing!"

San pulled away with a giggle before lifting his daughter into his arms, placing kisses all over her face while she squirmed around, laughing loudly.

You lovingly watched the two of them with a large smile on your face, and you couldn't wait for the future when your new baby would arrive, adding more happiness to your and your family's lives.

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novelconcepts · 3 years

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Excuse you...😭 The first prompt being absolutely Older Jamie having a cat that bonds with her AND Dani... Sad hours in this house, damn

She never let them have pets. There isn't much Dani Clayton regrets--isn't much point, she's found, in the endless, boundless stretch of after--but sometimes, she does regret that much. Jamie always laughed it off, said she didn’t mind--What do I need pets for? Got more than enough to keep alive, thanks very much.--but Dani knew she’d never had animals growing up. Hadn’t stood still long enough for a cat, or a rabbit, or even fish. Maybe it’s true that you can’t miss what you never had, but she can’t help wondering if Jamie’s got some little puncture, deep down, that should have been filled with a big-hearted creature who would have put her first.

And Dani, to her eternal chagrin, hadn’t been able to fill that. Hadn’t been able to allow herself that. The beast, she was sure, would someday rise, and it was bad enough to think of Jamie going without. Bad enough to imagine Jamie staring hollowly at the door, wishing for Dani’s key in the lock. What would a dog have done? What would an animal who had only ever wanted love and to be loved have thought, the day Dani inevitably left and could not return home again?

How she’d thought of it in life, anyway. Now, she’s aware of so much. Aware of time in a slipstream around her, of the immediacy of the past, the present, the future all bound up with gold-edged ribbon. She is Dani Clayton, eight years old and watching her father waste to nothing, and she is Dani Clayton, twenty-nine and watching Eddie laugh at their engagement party, and she is Dani Clayton, thirty-one and watching Jamie nervously place a moonflower on a counter. Forever, she is Dani Clayton--the lost little girl, the stubborn young woman, the beloved wife.

And Jamie? Jamie does not yet understand forever. She isn’t yet a part of the slipstream. Jamie is silver-haired, twisting that ring: a gardener and a widow, a storyteller and a scarred heart. Jamie doesn’t get it yet. Dani wishes she could tell her. Wishes she could impart the wisdoms of after while Jamie can still make use of them.

She can’t. She’s tried. Her hand on Jamie’s shoulder, night after night, she’s tried to will the knowledge into the love of her life. I’m here. I’m always right here. You have to keep living, Jamie, you have to keep going, because I will always be right here.

For years, she’s worried it’ll never sink in. For years, which are moments, which are blinks, she watches Jamie stagger through the world. Jamie, making bargains with gods and ghosts. Jamie, unable to see her, unable to let her go. Jamie, desperate and grieving and miserable. It sets an ache in Dani’s chest she hadn’t thought she could feel anymore. All time is now. How is there still pain?

But watching Jamie--watching her run baths, button into Dani’s old blouses, prop that god-forsaken door open in dozens of hotels over the years--how could it not be painful? Watching Jamie hurt is the worst of the world. Watching Jamie in her recklessness, watching solid, grounded Jamie crack open one empty mirror at a time. How could it not dig at her?

You’ll understand, Dani thinks--and it is as much a wish as a certainty. Someday. Soon. Now. Always. You’ll understand. The gardener always learns. The gardener always listens. The gardener can’t not piece it together, given enough time.

But, for Jamie, it’s slow. It’s linear. It’s one day at a time, one year after another. For Jamie, it’s another Christmas alone. Another of Dani’s birthdays celebrated in silence: a lit candle, a photo, a woman bent over her own knees as her shoulders shudder. For Jamie, time plods. Time bleeds. Time is a wound she can’t stitch shut.

And then: the first one follows her home.

It’s an accident, Dani knows--would know, even if Jamie hadn’t in recent years taken to muttering to herself in the solace of an empty room. Jamie hadn’t even realized it was happening until the scruffy little mongrel followed her off the street, into the building. It sits--curly black fur, enormous brown eyes--at her side as if waiting. As if the invitation is implicit. As if it’s already home.

“No,” Jamie says. Dani can’t help smiling; there’s something to Jamie saying no that way that has always sounded an awful lot like a wall coming down. And, sure enough, the minute the door is open, the dog saunters inside as though it has never belonged anywhere else.

A bit, Dani thinks, like Jamie after Dani had taken her hand that night.

It’s an accident, but Jamie has never been much good at turfing out creatures in need of love once they’re inside. The dog stays. Jamie calls him Iowa--it seems to have been the first thing to slip out of her mouth, and the dog cocks his head and wags his nub of a tail, and that’s that. Jamie, for the first time in her life--fifty-seven years old, paying rent on her first flat in over a decade--has a pet.

Dani thinks it’ll be good for her. A dog begs routine. A dog needs walks, and feeding at reasonable hours, and doors that are shut at night. That Iowa seems older--relaxed and certain and just a bit bull-headed--is even better. He doesn’t run ragged around the flat, knocking into tables, shattering flower pots. He simply trots along at Jamie’s side as though he’s always been there.

It would be enough, Dani senses, if it were just the two of them. Jamie has always thrived in the caring for other living things. Jamie is happiest when given a task, a hands-on approach to the world. The dog, she may not have sought out--but the dog is hers, and she is his, and there is a kind of salvation in unexpected love.

The next one is even more of an accident, if that’s possible. A huge bear of a beast, shaggy and stained and wet-eyed. Jamie finds it limping through the streets of London with mud caked on its belly and head hung low. No tags. No marker of any kind. Iowa nudges her around the knees, looking at the mountainous creature, and Jamie sighs.

“No,” she tells him, but Dani--and Iowa--can tell it’s a lie even before the syllable is completely formed. Jamie is already reaching a cautious hand toward the trembling dog. It whimpers. It presses its nose to her outstretched fingers. Iowa’s tail wags.

London is, when given a proper bath and brushing, quite beautiful. Her limp is temporary; her attachment to Iowa in particular, eternal. The first night, with the dog resting her chin on Jamie’s knee, stretched across a threadbare couch, Jamie says, “Found it on the street. Wanted to save it” in a tone that suggests she’s speaking from a dream. Her jaw clenches. Her eyes close. Dani has never wanted so badly to break her own rules.

Neither dog seems to notice her. She’s relieved, in a way; Jamie’s nightly ritual never wavers, save for reluctantly closing the door--as with so many features of Jamie’s world, the safety of others precludes her own--and if the dogs began barking at shadows, it’s likely Jamie would never sleep again. Anyway, these aren’t her pets. Jamie has saved them--or they’ve saved her--and that bond is one Dani can’t muster envy for.

Two dogs and a home full of plants. It doesn’t bring the light back into Jamie’s eyes, not all the way, but she walks a bit taller these days. Fidgets a little less. Cries often enough, but now there are soft muzzles to press her face against when she does. It’s better, Dani can see. Nothing will ever be what it was, but better is sometimes the most you can ask for in life.

The third dog is less an accident, more a surprise. A two-for-one deal, to a degree; Jamie has wandered into the local shelter, where she’s taken to volunteering on weekends, and come across a sharp-toothed, snappish shepherd no one else seems able to touch. He’s been through the ringer, the other volunteers say, sage and exhausted by similar experiences. Abuse, probably. Neglect, probably. Only three or four, but with enough mistrust baked into his bones for three lifetimes.

“He doesn’t like men,” one weary-looking young man says. “Or people who move too fast. Or multiple people coming at him all at once.”

“Can relate,” Jamie says, her mouth quirking. Dani laughs. “What does he like?”

The volunteer points. There, in the back of the shepherd’s cage, is a lithe black shadow. It blinks lantern-gold eyes up at Jamie, tail twitching, and makes a rasping sound that might, in another animal, have been a proper meow.

“Came in same-day. Can’t separate ‘em. Not sure how we’re going to get them adopted.”

Jamie rubs her jaw, left hand hesitating on the way down. She touches the tip of a finger to her ring and heaves a sigh.

“Fuck.”

She calls the shepherd Paris, and though it takes time--several patient weeks, Jamie turning up at regular hours each day to coax the nervy animal into growing accustomed to her smell, her voice, her easy-slow method of moving--by the time the papers are signed, there’s no changing it. The flat is now overrun, dog hair clinging to every surface, water bowls standing sentry in the kitchen. The cat’s litterbox goes into the bathroom, Jamie frowning a little as she surveys the new landscape of her home.

“You,” she tells the cat. “Best behavior. Anything goes crash in the night, it’s your hide.”

The cat preens, rubbing around her ankles. Jamie sighs.

“Christ, if she could see me now.”

Something tugs deep in Dani’s chest--pride, and sorrow, and love of the most fervent kind. The dogs--proud Iowa, sweet London, Paris keeping a careful distance from both--are draped around the living room. Jamie’s home is theirs. Jamie is their home. Dani knows so well what that feels like. They’re lucky creatures.

The dogs are sleepy, warm, happy. The cat--

The cat is looking at her.

Dani frowns. She’s imagining things. Must be. She’s been drifting around Jamie--traveling the world at her side, resting a hand over her shoulder each night--for years and years. Nothing has ever looked at her. Nothing has ever seen her. Not Jamie. Not the dogs. Nothing.

But this cat. This cat, with its huge golden eyes, black ears twitching, is staring right at her.

“Huh,” says Dani.

“Mrow,” says the cat.

“C’mon,” says Jamie, oblivious to it all. “Supper.”

Days go by before Jamie properly names the cat. She strokes her fingers gently over the creature’s back, tracing the length of spine and tail, and frowns each night. “Who,” she says quietly, “are you?”

The cat butts against her palm, rumbling deep in its chest. Jamie makes a soft pensive sound.

“Vermont?” She shakes her head. “Nah. You’re different, mm? Somethin’ else.”

The cat chirps, turning its head, gazing into the corner where Dani is leaning. Dani raises a hand, wiggling her fingers experimentally. The cat makes the same noise a second time, as if in greeting. Jamie raises an eyebrow.

“Eerie little beast. Never thought I was much for cats, y’know. But here you are.”

Never thought you were much for people, either, Dani thinks with amusement. Didn’t stop you drawing us all close.

In the end, Jamie begins calling the cat Gremlin. A nickname, offered in warning, at first--any time she moved too near a plant, or experimentally sniffed at London’s paws while she slept, Jamie would quietly intone, “Oi. Gremlin. Back it up.” It is, in its own way, reminiscent of the way Poppins had clung to their first year--an accidental gift cherished by its recipient.

Dani can tell the cat--rumbling her pleasure each time the name is used--agrees. Plants are left to their devices. The dogs seem strangely hard-wired to accept the cat as their queen. Jamie shakes her head.

“So be it, suppose.”

It’s good, watching her build a routine around them. Dani hasn’t seen her stand this still since Vermont, but the dogs love the nearby park, and Gremlin sunbathes happily on the balcony, and Jamie seems, for the first time in years, to be fostering a simple sort of peace. The baths still fill, and her eyes are still too often far-away, but the door is shut. The dogs stretch out around the living room--which doubles, as all living spaces have for a decade, as Jamie’s bedroom--as if warding off intruders. The cat sets up shop on the back of the couch, peering down with regal bearing as Jamie slowly dozes off. And, when Dani inevitably presses a hand toward Jamie’s shoulder the first night--

“Hey,” she says, very quietly. “What’s this?”

Gremlin makes a raspy sort of sound, nudging toward her. She does not make contact, exactly; Dani hasn’t quite figured out touch, in all this time. She hasn’t had much cause. Touching Jamie is a dream, an ache she has carried since her death that reminds her forcefully of before, at Bly, when she hadn’t thought herself worthy or capable. Touching Jamie is the one part of all of this that still feels linear--I could touch her in life, and I can touch her when she gets here, but in between...in between...

In between, Dani can reach toward her. Can brush the space around her shoulder. Can be here, with her, in every way except directly, because some things are still unfair. Like Jamie feeling alone, even with Dani right here. Like Dani being able to always-someday-soon-now except for where it matters most.

She is in the kitchen at Bly, and she is in their bedroom in Vermont, and she is 1976, 1988, 1999, and she is--

Almost petting this cat. Almost. Her brows come sharply together, her heart thudding.

“How?” she asks Gremlin, who seems not to mind. The cat presses in a bit harder, as if to say, Keep trying. Dani sees no reason not to obey.

Each night, the animals spread around Jamie in a protective circle: Paris at the door, London beside the couch, Iowa nestled between Jamie’s knees. Each night, Gremlin sets up on the back of the couch, watching Jamie’s breath even out, and turns those enormous eyes on Dani.

And, little by little...

She can’t pick the cat up, or close her hands gently around her face. She can’t make the kind of contact she would as a living woman--matter pressing against matter, mass imposing upon mass. But her fingers are unequivocally brushing thick black fur. She can feel the cat’s breath on her skin. This is true, and real, and solid--and the cat, looking entirely too proud of herself, can plainly feel her in return.

Dani Clayton has been dead for over a decade, and Dani Clayton has been here all the same ever since, but for the first time, Dani Clayton is touching. Dani Clayton is feeling, not simply in the ether of memory, but now.

She holds a breath as Gremlin rubs against her fingers. She’s still holding it when, slowly, carefully, she reaches down to the couch.

Her fingers brush silver. Jamie’s brow knits, her lips parting. She’s always looked like this in sleep--as though some part of her just isn’t willing to shut down all the way. She’s always looked as though some part of her needs to be on guard.

Now, with Dani’s fingers threading through her hair, that tight, armored expression gives a little bit. Just a little.

In the morning, Dani wonders if Jamie’s eyes will flicker open and she will, finally, see her. There’s a breathless kind of terror to the idea--that she’s gone this long keeping Jamie safe from diving permanently into her own grief, only for a cat to undo all of that work. But, when the sun rises and Jamie rises with it, she gives no sign at all. No sign that she can see Dani, standing beside the couch, though Gremlin is staring right at her. No sign that anything has changed.

Except--except her hand, lingering at the crown of her head. Her fingers, sifting almost absently through her hair, tracing the same path Dani had been unable to pull away from. Her brow furrows. Her head shakes.

“Breakfast?” she asks the animals in various stages of waking around her. Gremlin stretches, back leg popped high, and hops down. Dani doesn’t think she’s imagining the cat’s easy swagger as she makes her way to the kitchen.

It isn’t the life she’d imagined for Jamie, laying awake and watching her sleep. Not the life she’d wanted for Jamie, hoping as hard as she could that the beast would remain always at bay. She’d never looked at Jamie and expected dogs to follow her home, hurt and lonely and in need of someone to show them the world can be kind. She hadn’t expected a cat with a swishing tail and a regal demeanor, standing sentinel. Jamie’s life has never quite veered in this direction before.

But: watching her now, as she slips a bit of apple to each dog, strokes the cat, leans her hip against the counter as she waits for the water to boil, Dani has to admit it suits her. Jamie has always been at her best giving love, even against her own better judgement.

In time, Dani’s sense of soon-someday-now-always will broaden to encompass Jamie, as well. The years will press on. There will come a time where the brush of Dani’s hand across her sleeping cheek--the phantom press of Dani soothing Jamie out of a particularly bad nightmare--will evolve into the intertwining of finally standing on the same plane again. It is the natural order of things. Organic. Dani, standing outside of time, is patient.

And Jamie: is slowly building herself a home again. Jamie is waking to take dogs out, and brushing down Gremlin’s ink-black fur, and looking more present in the world than she’s been in a decade. Jamie, staring into the mirror each night with Paris pressed resolutely against her legs, Iowa hovering in the doorway, almost smiles.

“Someday,” she murmurs, “I am going to have some stories for you.”

Dani smiles. She knows, of course--outside of time, it’s hard not to know--but she can’t wait to hear them, all the same. Stories always land a little differently, coming out of Jamie’s mouth.

Soon, she promises silently. Someday. Always. Now.

In the meantime, Jamie reaches for a bundle of leashes, giving Gremlin a brief scratch between the ears. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes drifting over Dani without notice. At her side, heading the pack, Iowa gives a small bark to confirm his readiness.

“Right,” says Jamie softly. “Back soon.”

It is the first time in too long Dani has been sure she will be okay.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #dani x jamie #damie #right. caveat: this was way harder to do than something this short should have been #so whether I'll do another immediately or not for weeks--can't say #but your message came in and I couldn't resist building out the headcanon #because frankly the original post made my wife cry and that gave me some feelings #also wow haven’t been like. painfully anxious posting a fic in a long-ass time #whew hi I’m suddenly 14 again

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ladyanaconda · 3 years

Text

Helluva Dad Vol. 5: Mom

Hey, guys! We'll start getting more info on Striker's wife and Jake's mother from here on out, though they'll mostly be tidbits. It might be a while before we fully learn what happened to her.

*HB*

The next morning, Jake awoke with a throbbing migraine. His body and joints were sore to the point he didn't want to move, but the acidic, bitter taste of vomit sent him on a beeline straight to the bathroom.

"Good, you're awake." His father was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. It's almost like he had been waiting for him.

"D-Dad…?" Jake threw up into the toilet again.

"You feel like shit, right? That's what happens when you drink a little too much."

"D-Drink..? What are you…?" Jake brought a hand to his head. "Ow, my head…"

"You and Moxxie got thrown inside a beer barrel during yesterday's job. Evidently, you two drank too much."

Jake shrank a bit. "Am I in trouble, dad?"

Striker's frown softened. After a moment of silence, he sighed. "Nah, it wasn't really yer fault this time 'round, pup." He watched as Jake threw up for the third time. "'Sides, I think the hangover is punishment enough. Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Carefully, Striker undressed Jake and lifted him unto the warm bath he had previously prepared for this moment. Once Jake was fully clean and refreshed, Striker carried him back to his room to dress him in his pajamas and tuck him back in bed.

"Are you going to work, dad?"

"I'm leavin' ya alone in this condition, my boy. I took an absence for the weekend while you recover." Striker ruffled his son's hair. "Chill out, Blitzo and the others can survive without us for a few days."

Jake shivered. "I'm cold." Striker touched his forehead.

"Yer boiling hot, kiddo. You'll need lots of water to make up for the shit yer body is going through right now."

Striker left the room and returned sometime later with a tray, which he placed on the bedside table. Jake glanced sideways to see its contents: A cup of tea with a strong smell and a bowl of soup. Striker picked the cup and held it close to his son's lips.

"Drink." Jake took a small sip. His face scrunched up at the bitter taste.

"What's this?" He asked, sticking out his tongue.

"Ginger root tea. It ain't tasty, but it's good for hangovers."

It took Jake a considerable amount of willpower to actually drink the whole thing, forcing himself to swallow the bitter beverage despite the urge to spit it back into the cup. It left an awful bitter taste in his mouth, but his stomach had settled down somewhat and he wasn't as thirsty anymore. The soup, a plain and simple chicken broth, was more enjoyable. Jake couldn't help but feel like a baby, though. Dad would even tease him with the 'little plane' as he carefully gave him spoonfuls of soup.

"How're ya feelin', kiddo?" Striker once he was done with the meal.

"Tired and sore, but at least I'm not nauseous anymore."

Striker spent all morning dabbing Jake's forehead with a humid cloth to break the fever. Jake felt a little better by midday, though his head and body still ached. He didn't want to be stuck in bed all day, though.

"Dad, I'm bored," he complained.

"What are you complainin' about, boy? I'm doing all the work here." Striker said simply.

"Do I have to stay in bed all day? What if I want to pee?"

"Don't exaggerate, yer not disabled. But if you want to get better soon, you need to rest."

Jake shifted under the covers. "How long do hangovers last?"

"A day or so, dependin' on how much alcohol you consume and your age. In yer case, you should be as good as new by tomorrow if you rest properly."

With no other choice, Jake closed his eyes and did his best to fall asleep. Surprisingly, he managed to drift off after twenty minutes, in part because he was tired.

With Jake asleep for the time being, Striker took some time to himself and to do the chores around the house. The first thing he did was go to the closet near the doorway and open it; Blitzo, tied up and gagged, dropped out. The piece of cloth used to silence him slipped off his mouth.

"Come on, Striker! You didn't have to put me in there!" he protested.

"What did ya expect when I caught you about to sneak into my kid's room at three A.M. like a pedophile?" Striker murmured as he cut him free.

"I wasn't going to miss Jakey's first hangover! You only get to witness those moments once, you know."

"I'd thank you if you kept yer volume down, Jake is sleepin'."

Blitzo slipped a few envelopes from his pocket. "Oh, by the way, you got mail. Why didn't you tell me you got job offers? I.M.P. could get more clients!"

"Really? Now yer goin' to check my mail too?" Striker snatched all the envelopes from Blitzo's hands before he could pry any further. "Good thing I don't have a diary or you'd read it."

"Can you make one? Moxxie's diary is boring me and Loonie hid hers where I can't find it." Blitzo seemed to remember something. "If you'll excuse me, I have to change the bird's water!"

Striker didn't dignify Blitzo with a reply and instead focused on checking his mail. A few killing job offers, this month's light, and water fees, and… His heart skipped a beat as he recognized the seal on the envelope. Striker set the other envelopes aside for the time being and opened that letter.

"Ah, that's so much better!" Blitzo stepped out of the visitor's bathroom, a small piece of toilet paper stuck to his foot. "Maybe I shouldn't drink that much lemonade next time…" He trailed off when he noticed Striker's expression had darkened. "Strike? Are you okay?"

"I need to go out. Keep an eye on Jake while I'm gone."

Striker didn't give Blitzo an explanation or time to protest as he picked up his jacket and hat and walked out the door, whistling for Bombproof to come for him. Wordlessly, he climbed unto the saddle, clicked his tongue, and rode away in a quick canter.

*HB*

Jake woke up to a purring sound right above him. Shifting a bit under the covers, he opened his eyes and found none other than Blitzo's face inches away from his.

"Hi, Blitz." the impling said simply.

"Any interesting dreams?"

"Not really. Where's dad?"

"He had to go out for some errand and asked me to look after you while he's gone. We're going to have so much fun!" Blitzo rubbed his hands together. "Do you have any horse movies?"

Jake sat up. "Running Free and Black Beauty."

"Which version?"

"1994."

Blitzo's eyes lit up. "I love that one! Let's watch it!" Jake didn't quite understand why Blitzo was so obsessed with horses, but he didn't really mind. He, too, loved horses ever since he could remember. From what dad said, he'd learned how to ride before he could even walk.

Jake felt more alert and less sore, so he could walk downstairs to the living room. Blitzo made some popcorn and they spent the next hour and a half watching Black Beauty. Blitzo cried a couple of times whenever a horse got hurt, but he completely lost it when Beauty saw Ginger's dead body being carried away.

"Why, Ginger?! Whyyy?!"

"Have you read the novel? It's got more content that wasn't put in the film." Jake pointed out.

"Black Beauty is a novel?"

"No way, you didn't know?!"

"Jakey, the only things I read are Moxxie's diary and the Hellquine magazine."

Time went by. Blitzo sniffed around the house until he came across an old photo album. To Jake's chagrin, it contained baby pictures of him.

"Aww, you were so cute! Who would have thought your old man could take decent photos? Oh, look, you're with Striker and Bombproof on this one!" Jake groaned, trying in vain to hide in the cushions. "Oh, shit, what a big dick you had!"

"Okay, that's enough humiliation for a day!"

Jake tried to pull the album away from Blitzo, cheeks red. They fought over the album until something slipped out and fell down to the floor. Blitzo picked it up.

"Hey, this one wasn't in any of the pages." Blitzo couldn't contain a wolf-whistle. "What a lovely lady!"

Curious, Jake leaned in to take a look at the photo: a tall woman with dark red skin and gold-green eyes sat on top of a fence, running a hand through her long black hair as it was blown back by the wind.

"Is this your mommy, Jakey?"

Jake pondered on it, eyes fixed on the photograph. He's never seen that woman before, be it in a photo or in person. He looked through the album but found no more pictures of the woman. If this was his mother, why are there no signs of her anywhere?

The door swung open at that moment. "Blitz, I'm home."

"Hey, Strike, who's this pretty lady?"

Jake felt a shiver down his spine as he saw his father stop in his tracks, face pale. He knew what was coming. The shock became anger. But it wasn't like those other times dad had grown mad at Blitzo; this time, there was a darkness in his eyes as he stomped towards Blitzo, tail rattling, and wordlessly snatched the photo from his grasp.

"Where did you find it?!" he shouted, making Blitzo realize he had unintentionally reopened an old wound.

"It slipped from that album…" he stuttered, pointing at the forgotten tome.

"Why can't you keep yer bloody nose away from my privacy, Blitzo?!"

"D-Dad, calm down, he didn't mean to-!"

"Stay out of this, boy!" Striker hissed, startling Jake into stepping back.

"Whoa, whoa, there's no need to yell at Jakey! It's me you're pissed at, remember?"

Striker clenched his fists. "Get out."

"Wait, what?"

"Get yer shitty ass out of my house!" Striker didn't even wait for Blitzo to reply; he simply pushed him towards and shoved him out of the door, slamming it shut; Striker panted heavily for breath as he leaned against it.

"Dad, that was uncalled for!" Jake quickly regretted having spoken when his father shot him a frown. The rings around his pupils were thick, another sign that he was pissed.

"How many times have I told you not to look through my things without permission?!" he growled.

"I was curious, dad…!"

"That's no excuse, boy! You wouldn't like me to go look into your own stuff, would you?!"

"B-But dad…"

"I don't want to hear it, boy." Striker pointed to the stairs. "Go to your room, I don't want to see you for the rest of the night!"

Jake was close to tears now. "Daddy…"

"NOW!"

Jake didn't dare to talk back to his father this time. He ran up the stairs and into his room, tears in his eyes. The impling climbed into his bed, hid under the blankets and cried himself to sleep.

*HB*

He hadn't meant to yell at Jake. It's not him he's mad at, but… Seeing her photo in Blitzo's grasp and hearing him ask so casually as if he'd done nothing wrong really pissed him off... That, plus the rather unpleasant encounter from earlier… Great, now he'd have to apologize to Blitz when things calm down.

Striker couldn't sleep that night. There were too many things on his head, and he had to think of what he'd do now that Jake had seen the photo. There's no way he can weasel out of it now, the boy was too smart for that. And deep down, Striker wanted to tell his son about the wonderful woman who was his mother, the woman that he'd…

Striker closed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, trying to push the painful memory away.

He waited until the next morning until he was certain he had calm down to go upstairs to his son's room with a jam and peanut butter sandwich, Jake's favorite treat. Striker tentatively knocked on the door.

"Jake?"

There was no reply. Slowly, he opened the door and walked in. Jake was still on his bed, hidden under the covers. He had seen him shifting just before he peeked in, so he knew he wasn't really sleeping, but it was evident that Jake didn't want to talk to him either. Striker sat down on the edge of his son's bed, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"I… I brought you a sandwich in case you were hungry." He was met with silence again. "I know you're not really sleepin', kiddo." His suspicions were confirmed when Jake opened his eyes, but his back was still turned and he still did not speak. Sighing, Striker placed the place on the bedside table and ran a hand through his white locks. "Jake, I… I'm sorry for yellin' at you. I had a… complicated day and seein' that photo in Blitzo's grasp reopened an old wound, so I… I took it out on you."

"Who's that woman?" Jake asked curtly. Striker took a deep breath.

"...Her name was Jane. She's your mother."

Jake sat up on the bed this time. "That's mom?"

"Yes…" Striker slipped the photo out of his pocket, smiling forlornly as he stared at it. "She was a wild-spirited, passionate woman, my killin' partner, and the love of my life. We'd travel and take killin' jobs throughout the seven rings together."

Jake stared at the photo. The question that had been bugging him since Millie brought up the topic on Loo Loo Land left his lips. "What happened to her?"

Striker's smile vanished. That's the one, inevitable question that he didn't want to answer. But he had to tell him something, anything.

"...She got ill and passed away shortly after you were born," he told Jake. It's a half-truth, close enough to what actually caused her death. "You were just a baby, so it's normal for you to not remember her." Jake looked like he'd cry again at any moment now. Striker smiled sadly and wiped a lone tear trickling down his cheek. "But she left me the greatest gift she could give me: you, son."

Jake sniffled and threw himself into his father's embrace. "I wish I could have met her."

"She'd be proud of her little man, no doubt. You remind me of her quite a lot, my boy."

"Really?"

"You have her same spirit, the same fire in yer eyes, her determination." Striker smirked. "And her knack at gettin' in trouble, I may add."

"Hey!"

Striker laughed and pulled his son closer to playfully ruffle his hair. Sadly, the sweet moment was brought to an end as he caught a pair of yellow eyes peering through the window. With an annoyed grunt, Striker went to the window and tapped loudly on it, startling Blitzo into losing his balance and falling back with the stair.

*HB*

Blitzo should have started a stalking company, since he's so good at it XD-

Before I forget, I'd like to let you know that Helluva Dad has a TV tropes page now! Yaaay!

#helluva boss #helluva boss fanfiction #helluva dad au #helluva au #striker helluva boss #helluva boss striker #helluva blitzo #helluva dad

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unohanadaydreams · 4 years

Note

Can you do 💍 and 💦 with Unohana and a fem!partner please!

YETH!! Unohana, ma’am pls let us adoring fans be carried away in your strong embrace. I was thirsting so hard that this is almost 2k words, so to everyone in lesbian with miss Unohana: come get your mf JUICE.

Also forgive me for using a non-manga cap, but google said only blood thirsty unohana and i cried.

RETSU UNOHANA + Arranged Marriage AU

“Will you marry me, despite the thorns?”

Proposal:

When Yamamoto summons her to the 1st division, she assumes the purpose is clerical error. On his part--of course. Her underlings know far better than to hand in faulty reports. She’s relaxed and unassuming in the soft morning light, not yet brought rigid by disrespectful patients and the unskilled hands of Academy interns. Yamamoto takes his time getting to the point and comments on the good old days--the uncertain future--the pretty bird song outside the window. They sip at delicate white tea, steeped perfectly, at ease.

Only once she’s thanked Yamamoto for the relaxing chat does he lean forward with a heavy sigh and spill the bitter truth of the visit. Unohana knew his plan to arrange the marriages of eligible captains—to garner a secure future with stronger children—but she had thought herself getting entangled in such a plot unthinkable. The strength he sought could not be manufactured. Only the most prejudiced adversity churned out the strength of Hell itself. The monster that wore her skin in youth could not be born in comfort and raised by loving parents.

Nonetheless, he persisted. Yamamoto raised his voice in that insufferable tone that spoke of ‘noble causes’ and the ‘good of everything’ and demanded her cooperation. Unohana gave him a wonderful back and forth—made him endure the arguments of every devil’s advocate she could summon. Backing down without an enjoyable fight (or performance) was beyond her. The mix of free flowing tea and frustration in Yamamoto’s voice made for a wonderful morning spar.

But all swords must be drawn, eventually. After all, Unohana had chosen this as her lot in life. She was the captain of the 4th division and would aid the Gotei 13 to the best of her ability, for as long as she was able. Her only terms of surrender were: that she be able to propose and that she marry a woman. Not that Yamamoto could force her to marry a man on his best day.

Explaining the exact process of artificial insemination--to a man so entrenched in tradition there was a monthly fight between he and the other captains over the banning of soul phones—was enough for Unohana to leave smiling despite the bitter news.

Unohana has never considered herself a romantic. Considering her peers—like Jushiro and Shunsui--, she might be considered hostile to the idea of relationships. Avoiding romantic entanglements had been self preservation when she first joined the 4th division. Plants don’t properly grow when forced to share space.

She was thankful for her conviction to wait, too. Unohana has planted long, lush roots over the years. Marriage might be nice at this point. Someone to share her thoughts and frustrations with--someone to kiss in the mornings and hold at night--someone to grow in love with. The thought of growing roots with someone was only…somewhat daunting.

The manila folder sat on her desk the next day contains only sparse details. A glossy photo of you, draped in the beautiful silks of an expensive kimono, is on top. She stares at it for some time, trying in vain to parse how well you’ll fit into her life purely from the superficial, before being rushed to the side of a shinigami lucky they weren’t torn completely in half by a hollow.

It’s after the sun has set that she finds time for the singular page of written information in your ‘file’. There’s more sentences dedicated to the accomplishments and pedigree of your noble family than your self. But she takes earnest note of your listed hobbies and passions, even if they are sanitized into one unfeeling list, and smiles at what you both have in common.

The proposal is awkward, considering it’s also your first meeting. A calm face and gentle voice can only ease someone so much when their entire life is in upheaval and Unohana isn’t sure for who’s benefit she’s being purposefully placid for. She suggests a short walk, away from the shinigami chaperones that accompanied you. The smile she gives them when they start to follow churns your stomach. But she asks easy questions and you give expected answers and she is perfectly wane while addressing you.

When you start to smile back, your shoulders no longer up to your ears, Unohana invites you inside. The room she escorts you to is in full bloom. Rows of vivid flowers are paired in well-made arrangements behind a pile of haphazard lain blooms on towels. Two cushions sit with empty vases prepared, between the piles. You can only stare--all of this for you?

Her smile is serene when she directs it toward you. “I find occupied hands do well to ease tensions.” With an easy grace, she gestures to a cushion and does not move to sit until you’ve taken the wordless invitation.

Your tensions rise at the change of pace, despite her words. You feel confused and your sentences are stilted as you stumble over them. You know how Unohana came to sit here, in the Gotei 13—any good noble knows the pedigree of important figures. This—casually arranging flowers--was not what you had expected. All day, you had been prepared for a thin veil of manners concealing a fierce and unknowable menace.

Unohana stops your hand from falling victim to a thorny rose with a gentle hold of your wrist. You start, wrestled from your thoughts by the touch. Eyes wide, mouth gaping, you watch her don thick gloves and de-thorn the stem with practiced sweeps of a pairing knife.

The pale yellow rose seems like a peace offering when she hands it back to you, “you’re nervous.” Flushed, you apologize. She hums, continuing as if you hadn’t, “It was careless of me to leave the thorns.” You settle the rose into your arrangement and your nerves slowly settle with it.

It’s there, trading bits of conversation and odd silence, that she asks. As though she even needs to. “Will you marry me, despite the thorns?” There’s no expensive ring or desperate declaration of love. Just a vase of flowers, beautiful in its riot of colors, that she turns for you--so you may see its best side. Remembering her diligence in protecting you, you say yes.

Wedding Night:

You’ve heard whispers of what misfortune can take place in a marriage bed. Despite the oddity of your marriage, you still feel the tickle of fear slide down your back upon entering Unohana’s bedroom—well, your bedroom. She wears a beautiful kimono, like you, but her hair is free and her face is bare beyond a kiss of eye shadow and blush. The gruesome scar trailing the top of her kimono had taken much of your attention during the ceremony. Now, your eyes are transfixed on the large bed.

“On the chair there,” Unohana pointed toward a simple wooden chair to your right, “put that on, if you will. The bathroom’s to your left.” Nodding, you unfolded the black clothes on the seat of the chair to find…a shinigami uniform. You turned to ask why, only to find the room empty.

The more you were around Unohana, the more you realized how much of a captain she was. Never really asking questions so much as telling and always assuming it would be done. Nonetheless, you donned the uniform, taking off your wedding kimono with some regret—it really was a gorgeous creation of silks and embroidery. You assumed the bathroom was for your hair and make up to be taken down and off. It felt odd being bereft of all your wedding trappings when finished. Hours of preparation undone so quickly, with so little fanfare.

You didn’t have time to analyze how it all made you feel. Unohana was in the room again, when you shuffled out of the bathroom. “Come this way,” she smiled. “Unless you’re ready to sleep?” Did she mean sleep or…? Actually. You didn’t want to find out yet. “Where are we going?” “My dojo.”

The room was smaller than you expected. And barren, compared to the image you’d conjured in your mind—a few cushions, a thick mat on the far side, and some wooden swords resting against a wall were what greeted you. The walls were decidedly barren of wicked, complicated weaponry. Unohana went for the wooden swords. “I prefer katas over meditation before bed, nowadays.”

You’d never done a kata. You said as much. The sparkle of mischief in Unohana’s eyes ensnared you--enough to agree when she offered a lesson.

First, you observed. Her body moved slow, focused. She was beautiful to behold and your eyes danced from place to place, observing the small ways her graces manifested as she commanded her body from form to form.

“There,” she said. “A simple set to start. Come here.”

Leaving the cushion on shaky knees, you took the wooden sword she offered. The first two stances weren’t hard to find, but to keep. Your arms were wobbling as you searched for the third stance. Unohana chided you, like she’d seen the mistake a thousand times, and slid behind you, her front pressing to your back until you felt molded into the correct position. Even her arms, her hands, seemed a second skin over yours.

You looked back and instantly regretted it. Her face was inches away. Flushed, you couldn’t help but think how scandalous this all felt. The intimacy of her strong form guiding yours into the fourth stance and the feeling of her muscles flexed, keeping you from collapse dizzied your thoughts. “Is this our wedding night?”

“It is,” her voice was steady--frustratingly unaffected. “B-but. Is that allowed,” you whispered. Her face was so, so close. “We make the rules. It’s our marriage.”

The idea of an unconsummated marriage filled you with dread. You had no desire to fulfill your wifely duties tonight, but your family had always emphasized its importance. Spluttering just that—the importance of consummation—you insisted on…well, something!

“You’re sure?” It was her first real question. Too overwhelmed by the press of her body to resist, you said yes. With a clatter, the wooden sword dropped from your flimsy hold as her arms circled your waist. The first kiss was like an attack, sudden and firm. You were certain her grip was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. Especially when her tongue slid between your lips.

The confident way she conquered your mouth, as you were sure she conquered everything, left you buzzing. You opened your eyes, gathering yourself enough to put substantial weight on your legs again.

Unohana’s pupils were blown wide, her face flushed. The physical proof of her affected state made you feel pleased--almost giddy.

“Do you feel consummated?” “Y-yes. But I don’t think I can do anymore katas.”

Laughing, she lifted you into a bridal hold in one smooth motion. “It wasn’t a bad wedding night, then.”

#retsu unohana #retsu unohana x reader #bleach #imagines #bleach imagines #bleach headcanons #mars made it #unohana said: IM A LESBIAN HAROLD #i dont wanna talk about how long i spent on this #laksdjf;laksdjf

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maximumninjavoid · 3 years

Text

The END of Mining for Unobtanium

Yep. that’s it. We’re done. I have NO idea what I’m going to do next. Maybe get a life? Nah.

Angst. A wee bit of smut. No happy ending, well , maybe if you squint.

I followed him in the papers. Kept track in passing. He married a darling woman, beautiful, accomplished, she seemed very charming, and bright. At the birth of each child, I sent a gift. Anonymously. Through the solicitors. Their first was a girl, followed by two boys and then another daughter. I didn't actually think I would ever hear from him again, and I wasn't allowed to speak of it. There was that non-disclosure agreement after all. They seemed genuinely happy. The smiles, even in the pictures where they didn't realize anyone was looking? The smiles went all the way to their eyes. Some of what I said might have sunk in. They did hire a nanny. Sort of a Mrs. Doubtfire type....and when he filmed, the whole family went, until the kids got to be school age. He really went gang busters with his production company, and got into directing and writing.

He was quite phenomenal as 007. I must have gone to Bangkok and seen that movie twelve times. I think I saw the second Bond film ten times and the third one, I couldn't help it. I went to the Asian premiere. But he didn't see me. And I don't think he would have recognized me if he was looking for me. I knew in my heart that he wasn't. No one was. Working in treatment in Thailand had been very rewarding, but I'm about close to done. There's just the work and my travel bucket list is all checked off. I suppose it would have been different with one whom I could have shared it. I'm tired. All my ends are tied up, arrangements made, goodbyes said, except the one....I'm going to Kathmandu, I think I'll spend the last bit looking for Kamar Taj.. Five years later The electric Bentley glided into the curved driveway at the Cavill Estate. It stopped, the door opened and a young attorney exited the back of the vehicle and walked to the front door. They knocked and the Missus answered, her oldest behind her; stunning beauties, both of them. " Is Mister Cavill at home? I'm Octavia Hallowell from his solicitors office." " By all means, please, come in. Would you like something? Angeline, please, go and fetch your father, love? And tell Grey and Tony it’s time for lunch?" The young lady left in search of her daddy and to tell her brothers about lunch. The house was warm and full of photos. It felt cozy, lived in, not pretentious at all. Henry Cavill came bounding down the stairs with two American Akitas at his heels, and his good looks had only gotten more profound. It really looked like he didn't age, and apparently he was still working out. He extended his hand and that 20,000 watt smile lit up the room." You have me at a disadvantage, I'm Henry, and you are?" "Octavia Hallowell, sir. We spoke on the phone. Is there somewhere you'd prefer to do this, or did you want me to just hand this to you and leave?" "So, its a bequest, you said?" "Yes sir. I was, rather the firm was, to see that it came to you personally. There were no other instructions." "I feel terrible, you came all this way. You sure you don't stay and join us?" " No thank you sir. The car is waiting" She handed Henry a black velvet box, and turned and left. He held it in his hands, turning it over, looking for something. His wife came and put her arms around him, kissed him on the cheek. "Why don't you take that to your study, and if you like, I can bring you lunch in a bit?" He kissed her and smiled, thinking himself the luckiest man. "Thank you darling, I shall." He turned and went down the hall. The study very much looked like his space, dark, powerful, but approachable, photos of his wife and children on the large desk, his schedule in the upper right corner, his awards on the shelves behind the desk, with photos of Kal, his nieces and nephews, film memorabilia and the like. He placed the box in the center of the desk and sat in his well broken in chair, smiled at the ottoman where just last night he had taken his wife over his knee, spanked her till she was breathless and fairly dripping and then pleasured her until she cried before seeking his own release. A few deep breaths to ground and center, and he reached for the box and opened it. Inside, staring back at him was a stunning diamond. He was no expert but he had spent enough time buying gifts for his wife to recognize that this was a quality stone, probably close to colorless and flawless. And not a small stone, either. No note. Just the diamond. It all came rushing back, like the hot kiss at the end of a wet fist, all those years ago, during Covid 19 , in the mews house. Entwined on the sofa,in between bouts of play, or fucking, or making love, and she had talked about her plans for the afterlife, joking about her job in Hell.. They had had a great laugh about the seven o'clock show not being the same as the nine and who wouldn't go on after whom; and then she got serious, and said she had planned to be cremated and made into diamonds. He knew she was serious, and said it would be his honor to wear one. She told him "Only if its perfect, like you are my darling boy". He didn't know when the tears began to flow, only that he could feel his face was wet and he reached into his desk drawer for the letter he had read a thousand times. He had meant to call, or to write, after he had stopped being so angry. Well, if he was going to be honest, and he owed it to her, there was about three weeks where he was blind drunk. Then, he was angry. For taking his choice away from him. Furious because they could have made it work, somehow, someway, and then realizing she was right, and not wanting to give her the satisfaction. Now he would never get to give her anything, ever again. The sobs came freely now, as he let himself mourn a woman that he once loved. His wife came in, and rushed to his side." Darling? What's wrong? What's upset you so?" " I've just found out someone that I love has passed, and there's so much I didn't get to say. I didn't think, I just.. I thought I had more time...." He pulled her onto his lap and held her close, breathing in her scent, nuzzling her neck, and he raised his head and captured her eyes with his spectacular azure ones and said " Let me tell you about this person. They changed my life. If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't be blessed enough to have married you or have four of the most.... "Five" "What? Darling? Really?" She nodded. He stood, never letting go of her and spun her around the room."My dear Mrs Cavill, have I told you today how much I love you?" He had the diamond set into his pinky ring. Their next child was named after her.

@tinareher @indigosaurus @littlefreya @dancingwendigo

@michellemybelles-world @angryschnauzer @thetaoofzoe @fishcustardandclintbarton

#henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x reader

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cctinsleybaxter · 3 years

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2020 in books

2020 was a year of changed reading habits; people reading more than ever or not at all, some changing their tastes and others turning to old comforts. While there weren’t any huge overhauls on my end, more free time did mean a total of 32 in a wider range of genres. In the past couple of years I found a lot of the things I read to be kind of middling and ranked them accordingly, but this year had some strong contenders in the mix. With college officially behind me I love nonfiction again, and I really need to stop being drawn in by novels with long titles that ‘sound interesting.’ A piece of advice to my future self: they will only make you angry.

The Good

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky I loved the BBC radio play when I first listened to it back in 2017, but didn’t know if I could stomach the idea of actually reading the 700-page book, especially since I already knew the plot (spoiler alert: this had no effect and I gasped multiple times despite knowing what was going to happen; Fyodor’s just that good at atmosphere.) The story follows Prince Lev Myshkin, a goodhearted but troubled man entering 1860s Petersburg high society and meeting all of the wretched people therein as he navigates life, laughs, love, unanswerable questions of faith, and human suffering. I care about it in the same way I think other people care about reality TV shows and soap operas. I’m so personally invested in the drama and feel so many different emotions directed at these clowns that it’s like being a fan of Invitation to Love (with an ending equally upsetting to that of the show ITL is from, Twin Peaks.)

Salt: A World History by Mark Kurlanksy I adored this book. The first half reads a little like a Wikipedia article, and I was worried that it was leaning too clinical and would be disaffected with colonialism and indigenous peoples, but even that oversight is corrected for as the text goes on. It’s not going to be for everybody because it really is just the world’s longest encyclopedia entry on, well, salt, but it’s written with such excitement for the topic and is so well-researched and styled for commercial nonfiction that I think it deserves any and all praise it’s gotten. We have to talk about that time Cheshire was literally sinking into the ground, and companies who were over-pumping brine water to steal each other’s brine water said ‘no it’s okay it’s supposed to that’ so were legally dismissed as suspects.

Midnight Cowboy by James Leo Herlihy Cried. 10/10. The plot of Midnight Cowboy is very classic and actually has a lot in common with The Idiot, as 20-something Joe Buck moves from the American Southwest to NYC and meets myriad challenges as a sex worker. I’ve been obsessed with the movie for a few years now and the book made me appreciate it anew; I think it’s rare for an adaptation to take the risk of being so different from its source material while still capturing its spirit. The movie doesn’t include quieter moments like the full conversation with Towny or time spent in the X-flat, nor does it attempt to touch Joe’s internal monologue or his and Rico’s extensive backstories, but these things are essential to the book and are some of the best and most affecting writing I’ve ever read. Finally! The Great American Novel!

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones I would firmly like to say that this is probably the best horror novel ever written. The setup is very traditional in that it’s about a group of friends facing supernatural comeuppance for a past mistake, but delivery on that premise is anything but familiar. A story about personal and cultural trauma that raises questions about what we owe to each other and what it means to be Blackfeet, with a cast that’s unbelievably real and sympathetic even at their absolute worst. Creepypasta writers trying to cash in on the cultural mythos of lumped-together tribes wish they were capable of writing something a tenth as gruesome and good as this. It could very well be a movie the visuals and writing style were so arresting, and I can’t wait to read whatever Jones writes next.

Found Footage Horror Films: Fear and the Appearance of Reality by Alexandra Heller-Nicholas This is the least accessible title on the list since it’s a college textbook for people with background in film, but it was so nice to read a woman unpacking film theory with the expertise and confidence it deserves that I have to rank it among the best. I had an absolute blast reading it and am going to have to stop myself from bringing up the horror of 1960s safety films as a cocktail icebreaker.

Blood in the Water: The Attica Prison Uprising of 1971 and Its Legacy by Heather Ann Thompson

The year’s toughest read by far, but also its most rewarding. Thompson uses mountains of documents, government-buried intel, and personal interviews to explain what happened at Attica from beginning to end, and does a fantastic job of balancing hard facts and ‘unbiased journalism’ with much-needed emotion and critical analysis. It’s more important reading in the 2020s than any kind of ‘why/how to not be racist’ book club book is going to be, and the historical context it provides is as interesting as it is invaluable. The second half drags a bit in going through lengthy trial processes with some assumed baseline knowledge of legalese (which I did not have. All that criminal minds in 2015… meaningless), but aside from that editing and prose are some of the best I’ve seen in nonfiction.

The Bad

The Woman in the Window by A.J. Finn A friend and I decided to read this together because I’m obsessed with how insane the author is and wanted to know if he can actually write.

He cannot.

The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All by Laird Barron Barron is an indie darling of the horror fiction scene, so I was excited to finally read one of his collections but can now attest that I hate him. If you’re going to do Lovecraft please deconstruct Lovecraft in an interesting way. I had actually written a lot about the issues I have with how he develops characters and plots, but one of the only shorthand notes I took was “he won’t stop saying ‘bole’ instead of tree trunk” and I feel like that’s the only review we need.

Bats of the Republic by Zach Dodson Look up a photo of this author because if I had bothered to glance at the jacket bio I honest-to-god wouldn’t have even tried reading this.

This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone I went in with high expectations since this is an epistolary novella I’d seen praised on tumblr and youtube but oh my god was there a reason I was seeing it praised on tumblr and youtube. This is bad Steven Universe fanfiction. Both authors included ‘listening to the Steven Universe soundtrack throughout’ in the acknowledgements, and to add insult to injury there’s a plug from my nemesis Madeline Miller.

The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton The premise of this one plays with so many tropes I like that I should have been more suspicious. It’s a dinner party with stock characters one would expect of Clue, and rather than our protagonist being the detective he’s a man with amnesia stuck in a 24-hour time loop. Body-hopping between guests, he must gather evidence using the skillsets of each ‘host’ until he either solves Evelyn Hardcastle’s murder or the limit of eight hosts runs out. I read a lot of not-very-good books, and it’s so, so much worse when they have potential to be fun. This is how you lose the most points, and how I abandon decorum and end up writing a list of grievances: • Our protagonist can only inhabit male hosts, which I think is a stupid writing decision not because I’m ‘woke’ but because wouldn’t it make sense for him to also be working with the maids, cooks, and women close to the murder victim? • Complaining about the limitations of hosts makes some sense (e.g- there’s a section where he thinks that it’s hard to be an old man because it’s difficult to get to the places he needs to be quickly), but one of his hosts is a rapist and one of his hosts is fat. Guess which one gets complained about more. • One of the later hosts is just straight-up a cop with cop knowledge that singlehandedly solves the case. We spend some time being like ‘wow I couldn’t have done it without the info all eight hosts helped gather’ but it was 100% the detective and he solves the murder using information he got off-screen. • The mystery itself is actually well-paced and I didn’t have a lot of issues with it (e.g, there’s a twist that I guessed only shortly before the end), which makes it all the worse that the metanarrative of this book is INSANE. No spoilers but the reveal as to why our unnamed protagonist is even in this situation is stupid. I just know they’re going to make it into a movie and I’m preemptively going to aaaaaaaaa!!!

Trust Exercise by Susan Choi The fact that this was the worst book I read all year, worse even than the bad Steven Universe fanfiction, and it won multiple awards makes my blood boil. I could rant about it for hours but just know that it’s a former theater kid’s take on perception and memory, and deals with sexual abuse in a way that’s handled both very badly and with a level of fake deepness that’s laughable. Select fake-deep quotes I copied down because at one point I said ‘oh barf’ aloud: -I’m filled with melancholy that’s almost compassion. It’s sad the same way. -[On a friendship ending] We almost never know what we know until after we know it. -Because we’re none of us alone in this world. We injure each other.

There are also bad sex scenes that I can’t quite make fun of because I think (HOPE?) they’re supposed to be a melodramatic take on how teenagers view sex, but I very much wanted to die. Flowers were alluded to. Nipples were compared to diamonds.

Honorable/Dishonorable Mentions (categorized as the same thing because, well,)

The Life and Death of Sophie Stark by Anna North This book was frustrating because the first third of it is fantastic. It’s set up to be a takedown of the manic pixie dream girl trope, jumping from person to person discussing their relationship with the titular Sophie, and indirectly revealing that she was just some girl and not the difficult and mysterious genius they all believed her to be. Then in the third act, BAM! She was that difficult and mysterious genius and she’s now indirectly brought all the people from her past together. I wanted to scream the plot beefed it so bad, but the good news is I really liked this octopus description.

It was the size of a three-year-old child, and it seemed awful to me that something could be so far from human and obviously want something as badly as it wanted to get out of the tank.

Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America’s Shining Women by Kate Moore Cool new nightmare speedrun strat is to hear a 2-second anecdote from a documentary that people used to get radium poisoning from painting watch faces, be curious enough that you buy a book to learn more, and be met with medical and legal horror beyond anything you could have imagined. This was almost one of my favorite books of the year! Almost.

Radium Girls is very lovingly crafted and incredibly well-researched; one of those things that’s hard to get through but that you want to read sections of again as soon as you’ve finished. The umbrage I take with it is that it’s very Catholic. The author and many of her subjects are Irish and their religion is important to them, but it casts a martyr-y narrative over the whole thing that I found uncomfortable. Seventeen-year-old girls taking a factory job they didn’t know was dangerous are framed as brave, working-class heroes, but there’s not a set moral lesson to be gained from this story. Sarah Maillefer didn’t make “a sacrifice” when she agreed to the first radium tests, she agreed because she was terrified. She didn’t think she was helping she was begging for help.

The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins by Anna Tsing Tsing is an incredibly skilled researcher and ethnographer; there are so many good ideas in this book that I’d almost consider it essential leftist text… if I could stand the way it was structured. Tsing posits that because nature is built on precariousness she will build her book the same way, allowing it to grow like a mushroom, and thus chapters don’t progress linearly and are written more like freeform poetry than a series of academic arguments. Some people are really going to love that, but I’m me and a mushroom is a mushroom and a book is a book. I don’t think in the way Tsing does, and while I tried to keep an open mind it’s hard to play along when something is this academically dense and makes so many ambitious claims. As if to prove how different our structuring methods are, I’ve made my own thoughts into a pros and cons list

Things I liked: • ‘Contamination’ as something inherent to diversity • ‘Scalability’ as a flawed way of thinking (Tsing has written whole essays about this that I find very compelling, but a main example here is that China and the US have come down on Japanese matsutake research for being too ‘site specific’ and not yielding enough empirical data) • Discussing how Americans were so invested in self-regulating systems in the 1950s we thought they could be applied to literally everything, including ecosystems • “The survivors of war remind us of the bodies they climbed over- or shot- to get to us. We don’t know whether to love or hate the survivors. Simple moral judgements don’t come to hand.” • Any and all fieldwork Tsing shares is amazing; I especially liked reading about the culture of mushroom pickers living in the Cascades and their contained market system

Things I didn’t like: • Statements that sound deep but aren’t, e.g- “help is always in the service of another.” (Yep. That’s what that means. Unless an organism is doing something to help itself which then nullifies your whole opening argument.) • A very debatable definition of utilitarianism • “Capitalism vs pre-capitalism,” which seems like an insanely black-and-white stance for a book all about finding hidden middle ground • A chapter I found really interesting about how intertwined Japanese and American economies are, but it tries to cover the entire history of US-Japan relations. Seriously, starting with Governor Perry and continuing through present day, this could have been a whole different book and it’s a good example of what I mean when I say arguments feel too scattered (the conclusion it reaches is that in the 80s the yen was finally able to hold its own against the dollar. Just explain that part.) • A chapter arguing that ‘true biological mutualism’ is rarely a focus of STEM and is a new sociological development/way of thinking which is just… flat-out not true

For all the comparisons art gets to ‘being on a drug trip’ this anthropology textbook has come the closest for me. Moments of profound human wisdom, intercut with things I had trouble understanding because I wasn’t on the same wavelength, intercut with even more things that felt false or irrelevant. I can’t put it on the nice list but I am glad I read it.

#2020 #books #long post #(in case the read more isn't working)

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eleven-times-lively · 4 years

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The Twins - Part 1

In which Fred and reader welcome their new bundles of joy into the world.💕 Masterpost

Summary: The first children of Fred and reader are born as the couple beings their adventures in parenting and the first real trial of marriage. With a bit of angst IM SORRY. Word Count: 6845 oops Note: So I kinda forgot I had to do this lol. I wrote this at 1am on Friday cause I had two history essays due that I procrastinated hehehe.

You found him in the kitchen and wrapped your arms around him from behind. “What’s this for, love?” He giggled as he turned to face you. You cupped his face in your hands and looked him right in the eyes, “I’m pregnant.”

The tears quickly began to well in his eyes, his emotions processing before his thoughts. “You’re, pr-”

“Yes, Freddie! Pregnant! We’re going to be parents!” He picked you up into the air like you were no more than a feather. Embracing you in the tightest hug he ever had he nuzzled into your neck.

“How do you know!? How long have you known? How far along are you?! Did you tell anyone else before me? This is amazing! Are you okay?” The amount of questions--both spoken and underlying--that he was throwing at you was unreal.

“I’ve been vomiting, I’m two weeks late, and yes it is amazing!!!” You pulled him into a deep kiss as you celebrated together.

“We need to tell everyone!”

“Woahhh… slow your roll, Weasley. I think I should head to the doctor first. And besides, you aren’t supposed to tell anyone for a few months in case something… happens.” His face contorted a bit at the last part. He had just found out about the little bean inside of you and he already couldn’t bear the thought of something bad happening. “Here, sit down. Can I get you anything?”

You let out a light chuckle. “Fred I’m not diseased. I can’t be more than a month pregnant, it’s almost as if I’m not at all.”

“I knowww,” he groaned, “but you have our baby in there, and I need to protect you at all costs.”

You blushed at his words. “A cup of tea wouldn’t hurt I suppose.”

***

Three days later you and Fred were seated in the doctor's office, practically vibrating with nerves and excitement.

“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley! Nice to meet you! I’m Dr. Bloom. Congratulations on the news!” Dr. Bloom was the peppiest woman you’d ever met. She couldn’t have been more than five foot two and her dusty brown curls bobbed about the room along with her. “Now, when did you find out?”

You sat up a bit straighter, matching her warm smile. “About three weeks ago I missed my period, and I’ve been dizzy and nauseous ever since… Although I just put the pieces together a few days ago,” you added with a chuckle.

“Great! So you could be about a month along already! How exciting!” She grinned at you and Fred, seemingly more excited for the baby than you two were. “Now normally we would wait until about seven weeks to do an ultrasound, but because we aren’t entirely sure how far along you are we may as well do one today. Mrs. Weasley if you’d please hop up here and just life your shirt a bit.”

You stood and did as she asked, and Fred gripped your hand once you were settled.

“Now this may be a bit chilly!” she remarked as she began. Her gleeful face quickly contorted into a cross between confusion and concern. You could practically hear Fred’s heart sink as you both feared the worst. “Mrs. Weasley, how far along did you saw you were?”

“Well I missed my period about three weeks ago, but we did skip protection at the beginning of… last… month…” you’re words trailed off as you realised.

“How fun! Mr. and Mrs. Weasley I’d estimate that you are about six weeks along! Good thing I did an ultrasound, it’s the perfect time!” You and Fred grinned at each other with all of the passion in the universe.

“Could we um… is it too soon to see the baby?” He asked sheepishly.

“Of course not, Mr. Weasley!” She grinned up at Fred… very far up. “Here’s the little bean!” She turned the monitor and your heart melted.

“They’re beautiful,” Fred sighed, the tears welling up in his eyes. “Y/n, love, that’s our baby.” Now you were crying.

“Oh… wait.” Dr. Bloom piped up, except she didn’t sound even the least bit concerned. She turned the monitor back to herself as she searched the screen.

“Doctor?” Fred questioned, a hint of fear pricking at his words.

She turned back to you, practically jumping out of her seat. “Mr. and Mrs. Weasley you are having twins!!” She practically shrieked as she turned the monitor back to you and Fred. “See? There’s one and there’s the other! Now, it’s too early to tell the gender but you do have two separate amniotic sacs so they could both be the same or you could get a boy and a girl!!”

You and Fred looked at each other once more before wrapping in a tight embrace. “Twins!” You both exclaimed in unison.

“Twins!” Dr. Bloom chimed back. “Twins are quite rare at your age, Mrs. Weasley. Do they run in either family?”

“I have a twin brother,” Fred replied, sounding quite proud of himself. “I can’t wait to tell Georgie!” he whispered to you.

“How fun! Aren’t genetics so interesting!?” She once again grinned up at both of you, both now standing. “Now I should mention that this immediately makes the pregnancy high risk.” Even while delivering somewhat concerning news, she still sounded chipper. “You’ll have to have more ultrasounds, you’ll get a lot bigger, and there is a chance you’ll have to go on bedrest for the last few weeks or you’ll have to deliver early. However, it is a good thing that you two are so young because that reduces all of these risks by a lot!” There were smiles around the room as she handed you the printed picture of the sonogram. “Oh! I almost forgot! Your due date is around early January, of course expect mid to late December since twins are usually born around 36 weeks rather than 38 to 40.” You and Fred thanked her as you headed out of the office.

*** Two months later...early July...14 weeks pregnant.

“Ugh! I look like a whale!” You cried out as you tried to tug your dress on. “Whyyy twins!? I’m barely four months but I look huge already!”

“Nonsense!” Fred piped up from behind you, peering in from the doorway.

“Honestly I can’t believe I didn’t know until six bloody weeks! I was already showing then I just thought I got fat!”

“Nonsense!” He repeated. “You are bloody stunning, love.” He walked over to you and placed a kiss to your shoulder before crouching down and placing both hands on your belly. “No matter what you look like, you’ll always be gorgeous in my eyes.” He placed a kiss to your belly before standing up again and placing a kiss on your lips.

“Yeah you say that now, but wait until after I have these beans and I’m all saggy,” you chuckled, a tear pricking at your eyes at your true thoughts behind the joke.

“Still beautiful,” Fred kissed you again, laughing. Then he noticed the tear rolling down your face. “Love, what is it! For real, tell me.”

“I’m massive! And these stretch marks! I mean seriously, why do these have to be a thing?! You’re gonna see me after I have our babies and question why we even got pregnant in the first place.

“Y/n! Stoppit, please. These stretch marks are a sign of power and strength. What you’re doing is a bloody amazing thing, especially since you’re doing twice the work. You are the strongest, most fearless woman I know, and no matter what you look like, that won’t change. I can’t stand to see you talk about yourself like that,” he spoke softly, running his hands through your hair as he went. “I’m not walking away until you say that you love yourself no matter how you look. And you have to mean it.” He smiled down at you as he moved behind you to look at you in the mirror.

“I know you love me, Freddie. Thank you. These changes are just...hard,” you sighed a bit as you spoke. “But I love myself, and my body, and all of the amazing things I’m doing right now.” You smiled at him in the mirror. “Happy now?” There was humour in your tone but he could tell you meant what you had said.

“Very.” He kissed the top of your head before he spoke. “Now, we have a busy day. I told mum to gather everyone at the Burrow to share the news, although of course I didn’t tell her that bit. So we are heading there, then we have to take the photos to send out the announcements to everyone else, and then we have our visit with Dr. Bloom later.”

“I’m exhausted thinking about doing all of that,” you added with a laugh. “Can you believe it’s already our third visit? And we get to find out the genders today!” You added with a smile before trailing off, “Of course, only if you want to.”

“I’d love to find out what you’ve got in there, love,” he laughed at his remark, “But only if you do. And I suppose it doesn’t matter all that much in the end, does it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well it’s all up to them anyway. Boy, girl, somewhere in between, maybe it’ll change. I don’t know, I just want them to be happy and be who they are.” You almost burst into tears at his words.

“I love you, Fred. And our babies.”

“Love you, too.” He gave you a kiss as you both headed out of the bedroom door to apparate to the Burrow.

***

You and Fred tried your best to hide the bump as you came up the path to the front door, but of course everyone noticed as soon as you stepped inside and you were met with a barrage of excited comments.

“Fred Weasley I haven’t seen you in mo-, Y/n you’re pregnant!!” Molly shouted.

“Oi! Look at you, y/n!” Ron and Harry said in unison, “Congratulations!” Ginny and Hermione followed.

“Well would you look at that,” Bill uttered in surprise, “my baby brother’s going to have a baby of his own!” You and Fred exchanged knowing glances, wondering if you should tell them the extra surprise just yet.

“And you didn’t even tell me, your own twin brother!” George scoffed, sounding fake annoyed. “Congratulations, mate!” he said as he patted Fred on the shoulder, “and y/n you’re looking radiant as ever.” You just rolled your eyes and laughed.

“Actually…” Fred began, “we have an extra surprise.” This was met with puzzled looks all around. “Georgie, I guess twins run in the family cause we’re having our own!” This only welcomed another wave of excited shouts from the group.

“Twins!” Fred and Geroge exclaimed in unison, sharing the most excited faces you’d seen in a while.

“How wonderful!” Molly exclaimed, lightly touching your belly, “how far along, y/n? Do you know the genders yet?”

“Fourteen weeks, and we find out today!”

“Fourteen weeks!” George gawked, “Happy birthday to you Freddie…” Fred just rolled his eyes at his brother.

“Fourteen weeks and you’re already huge!” Ron piped up, earning a slap from Molly and Fred. “Heavens no I didn’t mean it like that! I just would’ve thought you were a bit farther along. My apologies, y/n. You look amazing.”

“It’s fine, Ron, I know,” you said, genuinely meaning it, “you get a bit bigger with two babies.” you laughed.

You all sat and talked for a few hours. Discussing everything from how you found out, when you told Fred, and how you felt about it. You noticed it was nearly time for your appointment, so you and Fred rose before saying goodbye to the group and apparating away.

***

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, good to see you again!” Dr. Bloom said, chipper as ever. You and Fred looked down at her, smiling. “Y/n, you know what to do, dear. Will you two be finding out the genders today?”

You and Fred looked at each other expectantly before pronouncing a resounding “Yes!” in unison.

“Fantastic,” Dr. Bloom laughed as she got started. “Alright Mrs. Weasley, the babies look amazing, perfectly healthy and the size we’d expect for fourteen weeks.” She smiled at you and Fred as she spoke. “Are we ready to have a look?” You and Fred nodded and grinned. “Alrighty, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, you are having girls!”

“They’re both girls?!” Fred exclaimed, both stunned and overjoyed.

“Yes! Congratulations!”

You and Fred embraced, both crying.

*** Three months later… end of September… 26 weeks pregnant

“Twelve weeks to go, love,” Fred said as he rubbed your belly, “can you believe it?”

“I certainly cannot. But I can believe that I wanna have these babies and be done with pregnancy,” you groaned. “I’m so excited to meet our beautiful baby girls, Freddie.”

“Me too, y/n. I’d never imagine you’d be so eager to give birth. I mean you look radiant and don’t all women just love being pregnant?” Fred muttered as the two of you were cuddled on the couch.

“Are you serious?” You asked, looking down at him.

“What?”

“I mean look at me!,” you exclaimed as you stood, looking at his seated figure on the couch. “I’m absolutely massive and I still have three months to go! I waddle when I walk, I can barely go upstairs without having to take a break at the top, my ankles and back hurt constantly because I’ve already gained thirty pounds and I can barely keep anything but toast down!” you continued, practically yelling, “I mean, how in the world could I be happy right now!”

“Cause you’re carrying our children…” Fred said softly, standing up and resting his hands on your belly. “Our daughters are in there, y/n.”

“I know that, Fred,” you sighed, “and I can’t wait to meet them. I’d just rather be done with this pregnancy. It’s been horrible! Does everyone feel like this?”

“I mean I know you’re extra hormonal but I think you’re overreacting just a bit, love.” wrong answer, Weasley.

“Excuse me?!” You shouted, taking a step back from Fred. “You try gaining this much weight, carrying TWO children,and being in constant pain!” You were yelling now.

“Y/n, I’m so sorry, I- I don’t know where that came from…”

“Yeah? Well you said it so there has to be some truth behind it, Fred. This is my pregnancy, not yours. I’m allowed to feel however I want right now and you can’t say a damn thing about it! At least make an effort to understand what I’m feeling.” You walked away and out into the gardens before he could respond.

Fred came outside to find you about thirty minutes later, wanting to give you some time to cool down. He found you lounged on the chair in the garden, a tear rolling down your cheek. “Y/n? Love, I-”

“I’m sorry, Fred.”

“What? Why? You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for,” he nearly whispered as he crouched down next to you and wiped the tear from your cheek.

“I exploded on you for no reason. I hate yelling, especially when it’s at you, especially when I have our daughters in me. I feel bad.”

“Love you absolutely had a reason to be upset, I made a horrible comment cause I wasn’t thinking. I’m so, so sorry, y/n. What you are going through is a massive change, and you’re right, I can’t even begin to comprehend what it’s like. It’s your body, your emotions, your experience and I stepped on that. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I love you so much, Freddie. And you’ve been absolutely amazing throughout these past six months. I couldn’t have asked for a better husband.”

“I love you, y/n, very much and I hope you know that.”

You slowly and painstakingly rose to your feet before taking his hand and heading inside.

*** Three months later… Christmas Eve… 39 weeks pregnant

“Fred!” you shouted from your bedroom at your husband. He was busy getting the gifts together so the two of you could head to the Burrow for the Christmas festivities. You were huge, tired, and pretty miserable given that you were now a week past your due date of December 17.

“What?!” Fred called out when he reached the bedroom having sprinted upstairs. He’d been on edge ever since your due date and every time you yell his name he thinks this is it, I’m going to meet my daughters. “Is everything okay? Is it time!?”

“No, Freddie,” you said slightly chuckling with an apologetic look on your face. “I just wanted to show you my Christmas Eve outfit.” You looked extremely festive in your red sweater, leggings (you had chosen jeans just ditched them for comfort), and little booties, which all came together with the little Santa hat atop your head.

“You look amazing, love. Ready to go?”

“Absolutely!” Fred went downstairs and came back up with the gifts and from the bedroom floor he grabbed your bags to stay a few nights at the Burrow. You didn’t even have the energy to apparate yourself, let alone go downstairs to do it.

Moments later you and Fred stood in the chilly air outside the Burrow. He quickly ushered you inside while struggling to balance the three bags he was holding.

“Freddie! Y/n!” Molly called out. “Here y/n, please sit,” she offered out the stop on the couch she was just in. You sat down rather fast for your condition, grateful to be off your feet. Molly took the bag of gifts from Fred as he went upstairs to put your bags in his old bedroom, which you’d reluctantly have to share with George and Angelina. “So how are you, darling? The kids are all outside gathering more wood for a fire, and probably getting into trouble,” she chuckled, “Can I get you anything?”

“Oh no, I’m perfectly fine thank you Molly.” She seemed satisfied as she hurried away to call everyone else in from the snowy backyard. The once quiet living room where just you and Arthur, who was asleep, sat quickly filled with Weasleys and their companions.

“Y/n! So great to see you, love,” Ginny smiled warmly at you.

“No babies yet?” Harry asked.

“Unfortunately not,” you chuckled. You answered other questions from the many Weasleys as you greeted them all. Fred then came running down the stairs when he heard everyone.

“Georgie!” he shouted, leaping into his brother’s arms.

“Well hello, Freddie!” he laughed as he hugged his brother. Everyone found various seats around the living room as they asked you more and Fred more questions.

“When is your due date, y/n?” Hermione asked.

“Well it was December 17, but as you can see we’ve since exceeded that.”

“Do you know the genders? If so, why haven’t you told me, er- us?” George questioned.

“We do know, and all in due time, brother.” Fred laughed.

“Are you nervous? Scared?” Charlie asked as Bill shot him a look.

“Extremely,” you and Fred said in unison, exchanging glances. “I’m just so scared I’ll do something wrong, you know?” Fred continued, “Like what if I’m not a good father and I mess them up somehow?” he asked, voice shaky.

“Freddie,” you said softly as Molly spoke up.

“Fred, honey, you’ll do great! Your father and I have surely raised you right and you’re a bloody amazing person, dear. You’ll be one of the best fathers out there!” This was met with affirming nods and ‘mhmm’ from around the room. Seemingly calmed down, Fred took a deep breath as Fleur spoke up.

“Do you have any names in mind?”

“A couple,” you responded, “we definitely want them to have some sentimental or family value to them.”

“Little George Weasley Junior!” George exclaimed. “Or Georgina,” he quickly added.

“They aren’t your kids, you git,” Fred laughed. “Perhaps their middle names could be Molly and Ginevra.” Fred quickly realised his slip, earning a death glare from you as he turned pale as a ghost. He quickly corrected himself, “Or maybe even William, or Percy, or Charles, or… uh… um George, or Ronald, or even Arthur.” He was rambling and it was obvious he was only trying to cover up.

“Y/n Weasley do you have two baby girls in there?” Molly asked, grinning.

“Yes I do! But they aren’t identical,” you said proudly. “We were hoping to announce it tomorrow but someone can’t keep his mouth shut,” you laughed. You and Fred were met with more congratulations and excited sentiments, and Ginny looked like she was about to explode.

“Two baby girls!” she exclaimed, “Harry, we may have to have our own soon!” Harry just froze in his spot and paled.

After many hours of conversation between everyone, it was getting late.

“Alright, kids,” Molly spoke up, “bedtime.”

“But Mummm,” George whined, “ we aren’t children anymore.”

“Then why are you whining like one George Weasley?” Everyone snickered as George turned red. Everyone retreated upstairs to their childhood bedrooms.

“You know, Georgie, sharing a room was great when we were kids but now we’re adults with wives and it’s rather unfortunate.” Fred said to his brother.

“I think it’s quite fun,” George responded, “like one last sleepover before you and y/n are boring adults with kids.”

“Hey now Georgie,” you chimed in, “you seemed awfully excited about these babies a moment ago.”

“Well of course I am, y/n! I can’t wait to meet my little nieces, but I will miss my brother.”

“Oh you wish I’d leave you alone, Georgie,” Fred laughed.

After getting organized and settled you all climbed into your respective beds. At least they weren’t too close to each other. It was quite difficult to squeeze into the twin sized bed with yourself, Fred, and the baby bump. You eventually made it work and found yourselves cuddled closer than ever, though neither of you seemed to mind.

***

You and Fred woke up Christmas morning to an empty room and the smell of breakfast creeping up the stairs.

“Morning, love,” Fred whispered sleepily. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, love,” you said as you kissed him. He helped you out of bed before the two of you got ready for the day. You and Fred went downstairs and were met with warm smiles from the Weasleys.

“Morning you two!” Molly smiled at you from the kitchen, “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Molly, and everyone else of course!”

After breakfast everyone found a place in the livingroom and around the tree, elated to receive their Weasley jumpers. As she was passing them around Molly whispered only to you, “I made you one a bit bigger. It’s not for pregnancy cause I figured you’d have the babies by now, but I figured it’ll be nice right after you have them.”

You felt a tear prick at your eye, “thank you, Molly.”

“Of course, dear,” she said, then continued at a normal volume, “I was going to knit some for the babies but we don’t know their names yet! As soon as they’re born I’ll get to work!”

Gifts were passed out between couples, in-laws, and siblings as laughs and smiles were traded around the room. You were about to give Fred his gift when you felt that dreaded pain in your lower back and abdomen. You stopped mid-movement to clutch your stomach, clearly in pain.

“Y/n?” he asked. Between your noises in pain and his questioning, you had the attention of everyone in the room and quickly felt yourself turn red. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Yeah, I think it was,” you responded once the contraction subsided.

“Merlin!” Hermione gasped, and Fred only turned stark white and didn’t know what to do.

“Is it time?” Ginny asked, sounding more than a bit concerned. Her voice matched the face of everyone else in the room.

“No, I don’t think so. That’s the first contraction I’ve ever had. It’s either my body giving me a little ‘preparation’ one or this is early labour.” Fred winced at ‘labour’.

“Could it be false contractions?” Molly asked, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“I don’t think so. Dr. Bloom said that at this far along any contractions are probably real. She also said that I wouldn’t be able to talk through them, which I couldn’t, and that they’d last at least forty-five seconds. Was anyone timing that, by chance?” you chuckled, expecting the answer to be no.

“Actually, yes,” Hermione spoke up, “fifty-two seconds precisely.”

“Do… do we need to go to the hospital?” Fred asked, finally out of his daze and finally able to speak.

“No, dear,” you and Molly both said. You took a deep breath before continuing, “Dr. Bloom said early labour is confirmed when you have at least two an hour that are forty-five to sixty-five seconds long. And to notify her and get to the hospital when they are five minutes apart and at least two minutes long, or whenever my water breaks.” Fred winced again at that. “There’s still a chance that could’ve just been a… warning contraction,” you said looking around the room, “Even if this is labour, can we please go about the day normally? I’d like to enjoy Christmas.”

“Of course, love,” Molly said, “but you’re going to the hospital as soon as it’s time, Christmas or not.”

About forty minutes later, you had another contraction. You were in the kitchen talking to Bill as he was washing up dishes from breakfast.

“So have you and Fred gotten the nursery set up? I’d sure hope so considering you’re in labour,” he chuckled.

“Well I may not be in la-” you groaned in pain as the second contraction hit.

“Y/n? Is it-” You could only nod your head in response.

“Well I guess I’m in labour,” you chuckled.

“Forty-nine seconds,” he told you, and you were grateful he had counted. You thanked him and walked off to find Fred after assuring him you were completely fine.

Bill finished up and everyone was in the living room. You came back downstairs to share the news. “Looks like I’m officially in labour, everyone!” You were met with cheers, everyone knew it would be soon considering you were overdue.

As the day went on you kept having contractions, and it was like the world would stop spinning whenever one would hit you. Whoever you were in the room with would stop whatever they were doing, count the time for you, and not resume their actions until triple-checking that you were okay. You had also been keeping track of the minutes between contractions, holding steady at about thirty-five. You and Fred went to bed early that night as you were so exhausted from the contractions. You could barely sleep as the contractions kept coming. You’d hoped that they would just hurry up and get you into active labour, but they stayed at no less than thirty-three minutes apart.

Another contraction woke you up the next morning after what couldn’t have been more than an hour of sleep. You just stared at the ceiling, uncomfortable until the contraction passed. Fifty-six seconds. You assumed it was rather early as Fred, George, and Angelina were still asleep. You wandered downstairs, expecting mostly everyone to be awake, thinking it was a normal hour knowing the twins always sleep in. Instead you were welcomed by early morning darkness, save for Percy and his small table lamp.

“It’s barely even six, what’re you doing up?”

“Barely slept, didn’t realize how early it was.” He shrugged and put his book down for you. The third-born Weasley was quite a unique being. Priding himself on his neatness, intelligence, and punctuality, he was already dressed in his daily suit. Come to think of it, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen him in anything other than a suit.

“Still only a half hour apart?” he asked as he headed to the kitchen.

“Unfortunately,” you sighed, “twenty hours now, Percy.” He sighed in content as he handed you a mug of tea, which you then thanked him for.

“What do they feel like? Is it terribly painful?”

“Eh, I wouldn’t say painful. It’s more like pressure and squeezing. I’m sure they’ll hurt more in active labour.” And as you finished your sentence a contraction hit you.

“Merlin,” Percy said when it was over, “that was sixty-one seconds, y/n.”

“That’s the longest one yet,” you said, looking slightly concerned, “and I had one when I woke up, which couldn’t have been more than twenty-five minutes ago.”

“Well I guess things are finally speeding up, eh?” You smiled at him as you sipped your tea. You had always taken a liking to Percy. Sure he was nearly two years older than you, but you had always had the most in common. You can recall all of the late night conversations you’d shared in the Hogwarts library when you and Fred had just started dating.

***

It was around four that afternoon and your labour was finally starting to move along. You were just so happy to be almost done with pregnancy that it was like a little celebration everytime you had a contraction, although they were getting more painful. You were out in the garden with Fleur when another one hit.

“Exactly! So these rose-” you froze in pain, the worst it had been yet. You could see Fleur counting silently, her lips moving and eyes darting around in concentration. When it was over you let out a tired yet excited sigh. “How long?” you asked eagerly.

“Seventy seconds, mademoiselle!” you had confided in Fleur about your struggles and she was now just as relieved as you were. “How long since the last?”

“Fifteen minutes!” You practically cheered. You had been in labour for thirty hours now, and not even active labour yet, and you were over it.

The day went on and the contractions got closer and closer together, but of course more and more painful. By eight that night they were nine minutes apart and Molly made you sit on the couch, not allowing you to get up. “I know it’s not time to go yet, but you need your rest, y/n,” she said, “you have a lot of work ahead of you. Let me get you some tea, love.” She gave you a sympathetic smile before walking away.

Not ten seconds later you groaned loudly in pain as another contraction hit you. Luckily Ron had been in the living room and was crouching at your side in an instant. You whimpered as the pain took over, just wanting it to end. The contraction finally subsided as Ron was running his hand up and down your leg. “Eighty-two seconds now, y/n. Almost there!” He gave his lopsided smile before standing up. “That one seemed bad, are you okay?”

“That one was pretty bad, but I’m fine. Thank you , Ron.” He smiled again before returning to his seat. Molly had been in the doorway and was smiling proudly at her son. She handed you your mug of tea.

“Let me go fetch Fred, love. He’s been outside with Georgie shoveling snow but I’m sure you’d rather have him with you.” She walked off before you could thank her or respond.

Moments later Fred joined you on the couch. Laying back and settling you between his legs so he could place his hands on your belly. His warmth enveloped you and would surely be comforting with the next contraction. “Hi, love,” he whispered, “how are you?”

“Miserable, Freddie,” you answered honestly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he kissed your head. A few minutes later another contraction hit and you tensed against Fred. He gently rubbed your belly and whispered in your ear, helping you through it.

“Eighty-five seconds,” Ron piped up. “Getting closer!”

You smiled at him, silently thanking him. “I think I just want to go to bed now.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, dear,” Molly said, “you’re getting very close and if your water breaks while you're asleep you may not notice.”

“I probably won’t be doing much sleep, but I know I shouldn’t go up.”

“Just relax, darling,” Fred whispered, “I’m right here, you’ll be okay.”

It was now ten thirty, and your contractions were now just under seven minutes apart and very very painful. A particularly bad one hit you as you let out a small scream, you were breathing heavy when it was over. The entire group was in the living room, practically watching your every move.

“Just shy of two minutes, y/n.” Ginny said.

“Thank you,” you said. “You can all go to bed,” you addressed the group, “it’s late.”

“Nonsense!” George said, “We aren’t sleeping until you have those babies.” Everyone nodded and agreed with him.

“I think it’s time to head to the hospital, love,” Fred said.”

“No, Fred,” you replied, a little more sternly than you had intended. “They aren’t five minutes apart yet and they aren’t two minutes long.”

“Love, you’re in a lot of pain and the contractions are barely seven minutes apart any more. That last one was three seconds shy of two minutes.”

“I said no, Fred. I will when they get to six minutes, okay?” He just sighed and placed another kiss on your head.

An hour went by and you were seemingly stuck at seven minutes apart. The pain wasn’t any worse or any better, it was as if you were stuck in labour limbo. You’d been in labour for thirty eight hours now. Various Weasleys had drifted in and out of sleep, but everyone remained relatively alert and they all were at attention when a contraction hit. And after a few more minutes, one did. You let out a louder cry as this one was particularly bad.

“Merlin, that was only six minutes since the last one!” Charlie said, realising what this meant. “Two minutes and two seconds.”

“Love, can we please go now?” Fred asked. “You promised we would when they were six minutes apart.”

“Just a few more contractions, Freddie. They may not stay that close, it could go back up.” Fred only groaned.

“Y/n,” Molly began, “you know I love you but that’s not usually how that works. Speaking from experience, you know I have done this a few times, I think you should go.”

“I don’t want to…” you muttered quietly, but mostly everyone still heard due to the night time silence.

“What’s that, love?” Fred asked.

“I don’t want to go.”

“Well I know you don’t just yet, we can wait a little bit if you’d really like.”

“No, Fred, I don’t want to go at all.”

“Pardon? I don’t think mum would like it very much if you had our babies on her couch.”

“I scared Fred,” you whimpered, holding back tears which inevitably came down. Everyone in the room was looking at you with either concern, sympathy, or both. “I can’t do this… I can’t do this…” you were fully crying now.

“Love, what do you mean? Of course you can do this. You’ve been carrying our babies for nearly ten months now. You’re the strongest woman I know, you can do anything.”

“I know, I’m just scared that something bad is going to happen.” Molly crouched down next to you when she heard that.

“Y/n, I was bloody terrified the first time. We were so young just like you and Fred were. I had all of the same feelings, and believe it or not they all came back again with the twins even though I’d done it three times before. I’ll be honest, having a baby isn’t easy, especially when you do it twice in one day, but I know how strong you are and I know you can do this.” She took your hand in hers and smiled at you. “So would you like to go to the hospital now, love?”

Everyone in the room looked at you expectantly awaiting your answer. You could hear the collective sigh of relief when you nodded your head. The house was quickly alive in an instant. Molly helped you to your feet, everyone put on their winter jackets, Fred called Dr. Blom, and George grabbed the hospital bags. In an instant you had all apparated away to the hospital where you were quickly ushered into a room. The nurse had gotten you situated and into the bed as the Weasley family removed their coats and hats as they found places to sit or stand around the room. Your contractions were four minutes apart now and your water had broken. Fred and George stood on either side of you, squeezing your hands and helping you through each contraction however you needed. Dr. Bloom burst into the room a few minutes later, looking rather peppy for it being midnight, as she began to ask you all the standard questions. You had started to answer, but Fred took over when another contraction hit. Dr. Bloom estimated you had about twenty more minutes to go. Your contractions were now two minutes apart and lasted nearly three minutes. You were showered with words of encouragement from all around the room and George and Fred kept your hair out of your face and rubbed your shoulders. Just as Dr. Bloom has estimated, twenty minutes later she declared that you were ready. “Alrighty! Everyone except the father out!”, a nurse declared as the room burst into a flurry of activity.

“You heard her, love,” Fred began, “out you go.”

You wanted to laugh at his joke but another contraction came over you. “Alright Mrs. Weasley,” Dr. Bloom said, “you can start pushing now!”

About ten minutes of horrible pain later, Dr. Bloom announced, “here’s the first baby, born 12:34 am on December 27, 2002!”

You and Fred both began to cry as the screaming baby was placed on your chest. Sure she

was red and wrinkly, but she was yours. “Ready for round two, Mrs. Weasley?” After a longer amount of time Dr. Bloom spoke up again, “And here’s baby number two! Born 12:50 am on December 27, 2002!” The second baby was placed on your chest and you and Fred were still crying. After a short time, two nurses came to clean the babies up as Dr. Bloom finished what she was doing. Not ten minutes later the babies were handed back to you in their little caps and hospital blankets.

“They’re beautiful, love. Fantastic job.”

“Thank you, Freddie. But I suppose you had a part in this as well.” You both chuckled as

Fred gently ran his finger over the cheek of the baby closest to him. The girls weren’t identical, but they may as well have been. Every single feature was the same, all except the hair. Both girls were born with a full head of hair, and the only difference between the two was that one had the trademark Weasley red hair and the other had your hair color. The rest of their features were practically a direct copy of Fred. “Would you like to hold your daughters?”

Fred nearly fainted at those words, his daughters, he gently cradled each baby in his arms, whispering to each of them. “Hi, loves. I’m your dad. And that’s your mum over there, she’s the bravest woman you’ll ever meet. I can’t wait to bring you two home.” You practically melted at his words. After a while longer the rest of the Weasleys were brought in and welcomed by you and Fred, who each had one baby. They all remarked over how both girls looked just like Fred, and how the hair was the only difference.

After a moment you spoke up once everyone surrounded the bed and you had their attention. “Everyone,” you began, slightly holding up the red-haired baby in your arms, “this is Cassiopeia Ginevra Weasley.”

“And this,” Fred began with the other little girl in his arms, “is Calliope Molly Weasley.” There wasn’t a dry eye in the room as everyone admired the newest Weasleys.

“You did have the names picked out!” Bill exclaimed. Molly and Ginny were crying the most, looking overjoyed at the babies named after them.

“I love the names, y/n,” Percy said, “you could call them Callie and Cassie for short.” There was a collective ‘awww’ around the room as everyone had realised what you and Fred had done.

After another hour or so of everyone admiring the babies, you started to drift off to sleep. Everyone agreed it was time to be heading home to give you so much-needed rest. You quickly fell asleep, happy to not have to worry about contractions anymore, as Fred set the girls in their little carts before sitting in the chair beside your bed.

“I love you, y/n,” he whispered, “and our new family.”

#HP #fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley series #series #marriage story #bill weasley #george weasley #george weasley x y/n #george weasley fluff

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voiceless-terror · 4 years

Text

Unforgettable (The Magnus Archives)

Whumptober 2020 Day Eleven: Crying

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims, Sasha James (mentioned), Not!Sasha (mentioned)

CW: Discussion of Character Death

Summary:

A photo is shoved into his hands. It is him and Jon and some woman. They all look quite cozy, but for the life of him he can’t remember what this was from. An outing when he first started? But he always remembered a beautiful woman’s face, and he would definitely remember hers-

Jon finds a photo before he goes to destroy the table. He and Tim try to remember.

Jon is going to destroy that table.

He’s seen the statement with Adelard Dekker, he’s found and heard the tapes of the real Sasha. The Sasha that Melanie described. The Sasha that is not the Sasha who wandered off to the research department earlier that day. He knows there’s no chance of the real one coming back, the statement said as much. She’s dead. But maybe if he can destroy that thing and whatever houses it, he can give her some sort of peace. Give him and Tim and Martin peace.

And maybe, where ever she is, Sasha will forgive him for being so, so stupid. For forgetting her.

His chair screeches back as he stands up, bumping into the cabinet behind him. He’s going to the nearest hardware store and he’s finding a goddamn weapon- a bat or an axe or anything that looks like it will get the job done.

I thought it was pronounced “Ka-lee-o-pee?” Her voice was so friendly. So approachable, with its teasing lilt. But no, he and Sasha weren’t friends. They were colleagues, that’s all. He chose her because of her work ethic and no-nonsense attitude. Not because they were friends.

Something skitters at his feet. Jon jumps, his heart hammering as he sees a spider out of the corner of his eye crawl out from under the cabinet. It disturbs a few papers that were hiding underneath, their corners now visible. There’s something to the spiders, he realizes. He feels compelled to pick up those papers and see what they reveal. He follows this impulse.

In his hands are a few wrinkled notes from a previous case, one that he dismissed as fake right off the bat. Not important. Jon sighs and moves to plop them on his desk when a smaller, thicker peace of paper falls onto his chair.

It is a photo.

There he is, several years younger. It must be from around 2013, when Tim first started at the institute as he’s by his side, smiling widely with a companionable arm slung around Jon’s shoulder. Back when he liked me. Even Jon is smiling in the picture, albeit awkwardly. But there is another in the photo- a tall, dark-skinned woman with long braids and round glasses. She’s got her arm around his other shoulder like they know each other. Jon cannot place her, but he was obviously comfortable enough with her to take this photo. He flips it over to the back to find a date, but instead sees an inscription in an unfamiliar handwriting.

Jon- congrats on the promotion! Don’t forget your roots! - x Sasha

Sasha. This is- was his Sasha. And it is all at once too much.

His eyes began to water uncontrollably, a sob building in his throat. It was somehow easier to only have her voice, but to see her face and her note and the smile in her eyes and not remember any of it sends an unbearable pain through his chest. She was important to him and he couldn’t give her the dignity of remembering her face, even now.

There are sounds coming from his throat, horrible and wretched but he cannot stop them. He needs to find Tim. He needs him to see her face. He needs to know he’s not the only one who’s forgotten.

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

Tim is waiting on Martin to come back from the library- it’s been a hell of a day and he needs a drink, stat. He’s not good company these days, and Martin continually irritates him with his fussing and mothering both of him and Jon. But at least he’s someone, and Tim can’t be alone right now. It’s not like he could ask Jon or Sasha to come.

He starts to hear noises from his boss’s office, strange and sorrowful. Something long buried in him wants to go in there, make sure Jon’s alright. But the other half of him is too consumed in his rage at this stupid, paranoid little man he once called a friend. So he sits and waits. If Jon needs something he’s going to have to come to him.

And he does.

The door to Jon’s office swings open and he tumbles out, looking more pathetic than usual. And he's...crying? No, that wasn’t the right word for it. The sounds coming out of his mouth are more akin to a stifled scream. In spite of himself, he feels his heart clench and he gets to his feet.

“Jon,” he starts warily. “What’s going-”

“Sasha!” Jon’s eyes are wild as he stumbles forward, grabbing onto Tim’s shirt. He’s shaking so hard that Tim’s hands automatically go to his sides to keep him steady. “She’s- she’s wrong, Tim. We forgot Sasha.”

What? He had to be hallucinating or on some sort of drug. Christ, he really is that far gone.

“Jon,” he tries to pry the man’s hands off his shirt in vain. “Jon, go home or go to the doctor, I can’t-”

“Look!” A photo is shoved into his hands. Huh?

It is him and Jon and some woman. They all look quite cozy, but for the life of him he can’t remember what this was from. An outing when he first started? But he always remembered a beautiful woman’s face, and he would definitely remember hers-

“It’s Sasha,” Jon cries, giving Tim’s arms a feeble shake. Tim would roll his eyes but a sudden sense of dread is a leaden weight in his stomach. Who is this?

“No, Jon, no it’s not,” he insists, one hand shoving the man away and the other tightly gripping the photo. “I don’t know who the hell this is,” he says, even as his mind screams you know you know-

Jon stumbles against the wall, heaving breaths still not under control. He looks at Tim with wild eyes. “Flip it over, Tim.” He does.

There is a note. The writing is unfamiliar but the hand that wrote it is not. He sees a flash of a smile and a memory, a late night in the bar and a stolen kiss and that hand on his face-

“What the fuck is going on, Jon,” his voice is tremulous and the tears build behind his eyes, both in rage and unexplainable grief. “Who- who is this?”

“Sasha,” the one word is spoken like a mumbled prayer and Tim knows Jon’s right. “Come- come listen to the tapes, I have the tapes.” He robotically follows Jon to his office, watching blankly as the man collapses into his chair, still sniffling, and presses play on a tape recorder.

And it's a voice. It's her voice. Not the Sasha now, no, it’s the one he knew and loved and spilled his secrets to. It’s putting the voice to that smiling face in the photo that breaks him. Is he crying? He can’t tell. All he knows is that both Sashas are strangers to him but one is warm and comforting and telling him “I’m unforgettable,” in that sweet, teasing voice. “I’m unforgettable”- and yet her face keeps slipping from his mind even as he stares at it immortalized in print.

Jon is talking- something about a Not!Them, a statement, a table. He can’t comprehend the words.

He interrupts Jon’s rambling. “What are we going to do?” He asks, voice hardening as tears trail down his cheeks. There is a woman who sits next to him day after day who is not what she says she is. There is a woman, cold and distant and professional with a blank smile calling itself Sasha.

“I was going to...destroy the table. I don’t know what it will do, but it has to do something, right?”

“Maybe,” Tim agrees, though the sentiment is hollow. What can they do now, anyway? Sasha’s gone and there’s no place for him to lay flowers, no memorial with her name. All he has is a crumpled photo in his hands and the vague memory of Sasha’s voice as she wrote the words inscribed- I’m still pissed, but it’s not his fault. I think it would really help him if he knew we were in his corner-

He stares at the man in front of him. The man who most assuredly hasn’t been in his corner when Tim needed him most. The man he followed down from research in the hopes of finding something about the thing that took his brother. The man who damned them all to their fate, however unknowingly.

“Tim,” Jon says, his eyes desperate and bright. “Tim, we were friends.” He has a feeling Jon isn’t just referring to Sasha, not with the way those eyes bore into his own.

“Yeah,” he replied, returning the stare. His memories are scattered- nights out with Jon that had a third figure in the shadows, a woman he can’t remember but aches for. Not just a colleague but someone he loved, once. “We were.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950456

#whumptober2020 #tma #the magnus archives #fic #no.11 #crying #my writing #jonathan sims #tim stoker #sasha james #cw:mentions of character death #timsasha

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fascinationuniformed · 4 years

Text

Festival Tipi

by Mr. Scade https://www.patreon.com/fascinationuniformed http://iancooketapia.com/ Story originally inspired by the photo above.

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Marco unzipped his tent and the light was agony. Immediately, the leftover alcohol beat at his skull like smiths to iron, as if the very understanding of daylight had injected them with energy.

He scrambled inside his tent and found his sunglasses. With a contended sigh, he sat his ass on the plastic of the tent and rested his bare feet on the wet grass outside.

“How’s that headache?” Jen appeared. Before he knew what was going on, a water bottle was in his hands. He drank greedily.

He made a non-committal sound, and then flopped back onto his sleeping bag. He groaned, forgetting that he was lying on a patch of semi-dry farm field and not his feather down bed.

Jen chuckled. “Drink that whole bottle. Go for a piss. Come back, and we’ll start getting you feeling better. Trust me, it feels worse if you stay there.”

And with that, Marco heard her feet mulch on the wet ground towards the sound of sizzling bacon.

Marco’s first festival had so far been a loud, wet, rambunctious and drunk affair. Everything he had heard and more. Constant drizzling rain and mud splatters up to your chest? Check. Popular crap music as well as fascinatingly good unknown bands? He had already bought some CDs he doubted would be available on Amazon. Drunk and a little rude? Well… not just a little rude but in a near-constant state of passive-aggressive confrontational entitlement. It is alcohol, after all! That was expected. Required, even. The drugs had surprised Marco, though, but the more he walked around the festival grounds the more sense their presence – if not outright requirement – made.

Without those drugs, then some of the attractions in the festival would either be empty or burnt to the ground. Especially the tents. Oh, there were tents dedicated to forest spirits, tents designed to put you in a sensorial overload or a deprived state that really made you see things. There was an entire little tipi hut made of furry, soft things that people went in just to, kid you not, roll on the floor laughing. It was called the ROFL Tipi. Going into one of the tents sober was a trip on its own – they were just that good – but seeing the reaction from those whose perception of reality was, should we say, enhanced was a riot. Being on acid must make some of them a truly mind-bending experience.

No. Of all the things that stood out about his first festival experience, it was the bare skin that surprised Marco the most. The grand majority of those showing extra skin were women, with the occasional dude or older gentleman bare chested or wearing naught but a banana hammock. It was on the second day when it suddenly became a pattern, when Marco finally realised it. Perhaps his own heterosexuality affected his perception, but he hadn’t really seen that many guys dressed up like peacocks during mating season. A relatively fit man in naught but a speedo and wellington boots? Yeah, okay. Some heavy set obese man, glowing pale white, in a vest and assless cowboy chaps? Well, someone might be into that. Perhaps the sample size was too small. But the girls? Yes. Not all the women were dressed like rave culture had an illegitimate child with hair metal and then had it raised by Eddie Izzard. But those that were? Neon bikinis with fishnets, plastic-tassels wigs and gaudy, giant sunglasses. Leotards with cut-off breast holes, tear drop-shaped pasties covering the nipples, and that getup wasn’t half as eye-catching as their holographic wellington boots. One girl had high-waisted shorts, a black PVC harness on top, a sheer bra, and pink hair in messy pigtails. Marco noticed the earphones leading to a secret pocket inside her shorts, as she danced by herself next to a bin overflowing with beer cans.

Two days, and Marco had trouble not staring. After all, those outfits were meant not so much to be looked at but gawked at; eye-catching, proudly proclaiming “here’s my woman’s body” and making a statement. If it was political, sexual or just going with the flow of the festival, Marco didn’t know. And the longer he was there, the less he cared to even think about that. Booze, dance and the few hot girls amongst the sea of impractical outfits made it hard to have such lofty conversations with his friends and even with himself.

It was a festival, after all. Rules and normalcy were outside this muddy field. In here, anything went. Possibilities could be bent. People could even look attractive wearing high-waisted jeans!

By the third evening, Marco’s initial anxiety had been drowned and everything felt pretty mellow and right. His gut didn’t feel like exiting in an emergency, and the meal they had made from what was left of their store of tins had been edible. And he managed to keep it in, unlike the bacon-heavy breakfast. That very morning, however, he had learned the dangers of mixing alcohol and weed. But after drinking a little cocktail from one of the health stations – little kiosks manned by some NGO dedicated to safe consumption – he felt more human than usual. He even went for a second one. Whatever that thing was, it felt like all the lies healthy supplements try to sell but, you know, real.

The day had been pretty chill after that. Some shows, some games, a lot of standing around in what had at some point been a green field but could now double as a “junta de embarre”. Come the evening, though, he and his friends were feeling a little bored.

Down the hill, a show of lights and loud synth guitars shook the ground. A mass of people holding glow sticks moved like one wave. With one mind, one body. It was beautiful to witness from far away. And sitting down. Not for the last time that night, Marco rubbed his feet. He should’ve brought hiking socks to this place. Or hiking boots. Something comfortable, at least.

Jen passed a joint to Brando, who tilted his head back as he inhaled. An old habit of his. After a moment, he passed it on. Marco took a drag, and then drew hoops with the smoke and then passed it on to… whoever had made their way into their little campsite. In any other situation, Marco would’ve worried. But the tangy, mellow flavours in his mouth made it easy to not care. It was a festival, after all. Make friends and make love. Rules were abandoned outside these muddy fields.

“D’ya see that?” Jen said suddenly, pointing up to the sky.

They had agreed to no lights at night. Some stars could be seen overhead, but mostly it was the lights reflecting on the clouds. An ethereal, otherworldly show, half-imagined, half-there.

After a while, Jen pulled the hood of her frayed hoodie down and pointedly pointed at something in the dark, past their tents. “We should do the Experience Tipis.”

“Which one, though,” Marco said, a little unsure.

“Take your pick. I would so,” Elongation. The syllable hanging in the air for too long. “Love to go into the expansion tent.”

“The what?”

“Expansion tent,” Jen repeated.

Brando coughed some smoke, rubbing his nose on his shirt sleeve. “She means the spandex tent – tipi, I mean,” He coughed some more. “It is covered in soft spandex and the floor is a big shaggy carpet. Soft. And dry.”

There was general assents at the word dry. The floor mulched under the plastic tarp they all sat on.

“And with the show down there,” Marco pointed down the hill. “It should be emptier.”

“Sounds like a plan,” The person next to Marco turned out to be a woman with a thick accent. It was a pretty accent, though.

They zipped down their tents, and then trudged through trenches of brown-grey mud and slush. Past piles of plastic cups, tin cans and the occasional guy passed out on a wet puddle that could’ve been anything.

A no-nonsense woman guarded the entrance to the Tipi Village. She eyed them, shone a light on their eyes, and sniffed around.

“Strong stuff?” She asked, as she made a note of their festival bracelets.

“Mellow. Could run a mile, but might get distracted by a tree,” Jen said. Whatever that meant satisfied the guardswoman and she let the four of them through.

The Tipi Village was arranged in a horseshoe shape, with the heavily decorated gate at one end. In the middle of the space, there was a big bonfire that turned the people there into eerie shadows. Most were unmoving, some were eating. They were all quiet.

“This one!” Jen cried, opening the flap to the tent with the sign that read Relaxation and Rebirth Tipi.

One girl sitting near the fire glared at them, shushing loudly.

Marco looked at her, in her star-shaped bikini, a row of tiny, strawberry-sized hair buns giving her hair something like a ridged spine. Discreetly, he adjusted his erection. The whole gathering was made up of these festival girls in their gaudy and trashy and, frankly, pretty hot outfits.

“Hey, you coming?” Brando said, waiting just inside the tipi. Some of the light landed on Brando’s face, illuminating the scar on his lip.

Marco was glad for the darkness. It hid just how close that phrase had come to reality.

“Yeah,” Marco said before stepping into a world made of soft pastels inside. Warm lights gave the whole place a colourful glow, not too intense, and very homey.

His friends had found a little step of soft plush green carpet, pink beanbags, and other soft items. Jen was already stepping into what looked like a cocoon hammock made from whatever soft spandex-y fabric Marco felt under his socks. Brando flopped onto a bean bag. While their new friend simply lied down on the plush carpet. She was tall and plump.

With a shrug, Marco went towards them.

The tipi had other people. Some on their own, others in small groups. They must’ve been here for a long while, because they looked asleep or, rather, a little out of it. Every single one of them was just lying down, on the floor, or on the steps, cradling themselves on the soft fabric. One or two seemed to be sinking into their chairs, blissful expressions on their faces. What he did notice was that every single person in the tipi was looking up at some sort of projection of a psychedelic dream. Just looking at it made Marco feel a little dizzy.

“Hey,” The stranger girl said. “Come. Sit down. It is so nice.”

As Marco sat down on a soft plushy chair and—

“Holy shite, this is so soft!” He cried.

“Told you,” Jen said, mumbling like a happy cat.

“It is life, bro,” Brando sighed, already halfway swallowed by the too-soft beanbag.

And Marco couldn’t help but sigh as he let his weight be taken by the plush… object. It wasn’t like any beanbag he had ever sat on – it was like stroking a soft cat and being wrapped in silk all at once.

It was then that Marco looked up and saw the shapes. Not just the psychedelic colours straight out of a Pink Floyd-induced nightmare, but the shapes hiding between the colours, inside the patterns.

“Guys, do you… d-do you see that?”

The patterns were shifting, circling, psychedelic dreams, perfect truths, new realities unheard of. Like every trippy piece of media, ever song composed while high as a kite, like every epiphany about the size of the universe all neatly put together in an impossible pattern of impossible colours.

Marco heard someone shush him. He turned, and from the corner of his eyes saw Brandon’s happy, blank face slowly sinking into the plush chair as if he were on quicksand. With a pop, his friends’ visage disappeared and all that remained was a round, plump fuzzy chair.

“G-guys?” He tried again, his attention snapping to the patterns.

The world felt so soft. So snug and warm and comfortable and, damn, those lights even felt warm on his skin.

Marco moved his neck just in time to see the floor swallow their new friend. It was like she was a leave floating on water, dipping the surface tension but not breaking when, suddenly, the woman disappeared with a pop.

“What the fuck!” Marco tried to get up, but something snapped him back into the plush cahir.

“Shhh… Marco,” Jen moaned hard and long. “It feels so much better when you let it take over.” She moaned again like someone getting their brains fucked empty.

Marco blinked, glancing to the side. Jen’s shape was visible, writhing and twisting, inside the tight green spandex cocoon. Her hands were groping at her boobs, between her legs, as the hammock closed down as if someone was reverse-peeling a banana. With a sigh, Jen’s face disappeared under the fabric before it tightened around her features as if she were being vacuum packaged.

“W-what the—” Marco’s voice was swallowed by the soft, green furry plushness of his chair. He could move his arms and legs, but just barely. The heavy plushness weighted on him, making it hard to kick or punch. Besides, just moving felt so nice that Marco would forget to even fight and just idly start stroking the fabric, letting it swallow him.

As the plushness came over his face, darkness didn’t appear. Instead Marco saw a world of technicolour spark through his eyelids and into his mind.

Eventually, the four of them left the tipi and sat around the fire, staring at it for a long while. Silent, enjoying the orange glow on their bare skin.

Jen sat with legs spread wide, letting the warmth of the fire lick her skin. The sheen of perspiration shinning on her bare midriff, her exposed breasts and naked legs reflected some of the light. If the sweat was from external or internal heat, that was hard to tell. The girl simply sat, eyes staring into a place far away inside the fire. Her star-shaped facepaint impervious to perspiration. Her hair, shiny green, cast a shadow over one half of her face.

Next to Jen, the plump girl coughed a little before she was shushed quiet by all the other festival girls basking before the flames. She looked abashed for a moment, before she leaned closer to the fire. Her neon-green bikini top disappeared under a rain of pink tassels from her plastic poncho enveloped her. Her enormous pink sombrero made her look like a giant, plastic Mexican statue.

A small girl kept playing with her boobs muttering something. Every squeeze sent her body shivering, letting a moan escape lips coloured a deep red. The colour, however, was carefully applied to avoid the scar that decorated her pretty face. The rest of her was wrapped in tight, shiny red spandex, a unitard of some sort, with a plunging neckline. Her arms and legs, however, were wrapped in fuzzy, furry, shaggy, pink hair.

A fourth girl, sat by her friends, looking around nervously. Something was odd about her friends, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. A sound broke her rumination. She turned, seeing a group of guys going into the same tipi she had walked into just a couple of – hours? days? – ago. As she moved, she felt something graze her legs. She looked down, seeing grass tickling her fishnet-covered legs. She giggled, and it made her bouncy tits bounce. They looked nice in their neon-green bikini top. Comfortable, like they had always been there.

“Oh, of course I’ve always had them,” Marco said. “I’ve always been a festival slut.”

Another sound. Someone shushing the boys.

She turned, seeing one of the tipi caretakers approach her. The woman was dressed in stars and tassels, in bright neon spandex and with colourful face paint. She looked hot as.

“Oh, Marcella, darling, you have to look into the fire,” She placed a hand on Marcella’s face and she felt her pussy tingle.

Softly, the caretaker tilted Marcella’s face towards the controlled, multi-coloured bonfire. “Look into the Fire. Let it warm up your heart. Your pussy. Let it fill you with feminine power. Let it burn away what was. Learn to burn bright and blinding. Learn to look like no one could ever look away.”

Marcella shuddered, feeling the warmth of the fire lick her skin. The caretaker’s skin caressing the inside of her thigh.

“Learn to be a festival slut, dear.”

FIN ‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘

If you’d like to help me make more of this type of content, and explore new ideas or styles, consider pitching to my PATREON where not only can you see my newest work early, but can even affect the nature of this work!For more of my writing and illustrations, do visit My website. My Twitter| My DeviantArtAll work on this blog should be understood in context. Any portrayals of non-consent are, themselves, consensual between author and reader.

#short story #fiction #transformation story #my story #mcstories #male to female transformation #festival girls

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dopescotlandwarrior · 4 years

Text

The Dancer-Epilogue

Special thanks to @statell for your help and wisdom

Previous chapters on AO3

Epilogue

Jamie spent every evening with Claire and Brian, enjoying family dinners, outings as the weather warmed up, and he held Claire in his arms before he went home. Try as he might, his upbringing prevented him from sleeping with Claire, at least to Brian’s knowledge, before they were married. Most nights they would make passionate love while Brian slept and came close to being caught only once in the first three months.

Several deals were struck after the fateful day at the bookstore. Those included a timeout for discussing what had come to pass during their separation. A date was set like a business meeting eight weeks in the future. On that day they met at the bookstore and shut themselves away from the world until all the facts had been heard and all questions answered.

Jamie started with the events after Claire left his home, heartbroken, and drove back to Edinburgh. He described his despair at seeing the photos of Jenny’s beating, arriving at the hospital in such a state he was tased, handcuffed, and arrested, twice. He was kept in jail for three days each time. The third time he went to the hospital he remained calm and learned she had been moved to an undisclosed place. He spoke about disinheriting his sister and having no contact before or after her trial. She was still in prison but would have a parole hearing in the coming year that he would not participate in. Lallybroch was boarded up and Jenny’s animals sold. She would live there upon her release unless she violated the rules of the court.

Jamie was promoted to Germany, as he expected and functioned at a low level for two years trying to find his joy again. On a trip to Edinburgh, he met Geneva Dunsany. After a long-distance relationship, she demanded marriage or else. He just felt dead inside. A letter was given to John at the Edinburgh store to be forwarded to Jamie. John could only say the pretty woman had red hair. The letter stated that Geneva was one of the drunk friends who participated in death threats against Claire the night of the beating, showing her support for Jenny. Geneva was put on the next flight to Edinburgh and never seen again.

Just before he lost his mind completely, he resigned his position that he had worked so hard for, endured so many lonely years for.

“I hired a private detective to find ye but ye just vanished. I knew ye were alive, somewhere, because I would feel the difference in the world if ye were not. I bought a used bookstore, renamed it and put the classics room in first thing so I could see yer name on the outside and the inside every day. I thought ye might come back to London someday and wanted to put the stores everywhere so ye would see one and go inside. It felt like ye were workin with me, seein yer name every day. It made me feel better. I brought John back to London and put him in charge of the new stores once they were up and running. So, now I am CEO of a growin chain of upscale used bookstores because of you. On yer birthday, every year, I spent the day in the classics room, my Sassenach’s heart, and I read until the store closed, always with..." Jamie's head dropped and he took a deep breath, "a fresh bouquet in yer honor love.”

Claire sat on his lap and hugged him, hearing his tears for his heartbroken existence.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

They kissed for a bit and Jamie held her arms panting. “It’s yer turn lass.”

Claire explained she was in Egypt before she knew what was happening. Her friends Madu and Kamilah were from wealthy families in Cairo and Jadda, Madu’s father, arranged everything. Madu later told her the surgeon that removed her spleen told him about the pregnancy, but they expected she would lose the baby. In Cairo, she didn’t eat or awaken for many months so she was fed by a stomach tube. Madu forced her to listen and wake up, telling her about the baby that had continued to grow while she slept month after month. She explained the painful journey back to the living and how Madu’s family was always there to encourage her. Jaddati, Madu’s mother, started calling her abnataya, the Egyptian word for daughter. When Brian was born the whole family was eager to care for him and his Jadda and Jaddati fell in love with him, as did Madu.

“It was a special time for me, being held into a family because I never had one. Madu, Brian, and I were inseparable. I tried so hard to love him romantically and my failure to do so was as painful for me as it was for him. Without warning, Madu dropped to the floor one night when an aneurysm ruptured. He was dead before anyone could reach for a phone to call emergency. He was my best friend, my savior, and my family. I miss him every day."

Jamie lifted Claire to her feet and pulled her into his lap where he held her while she cried for her amazing friend. He realized Brian was too young to remember, but he knew all about Madu and felt sadness at his passing.

“Yer an incredible person Sassenach. Madu will live on in Brian’s heart because ye shared yer memory of this special man.”

Claire sat down in her chair again, ready to continue. She told Jamie about Geillis and how devoted to each other they had been. How they cried when Claire called after two years and were now besties again with regular visits to London.

”The house we live in was arranged by Jadda, I think he bought it so we would have a decent place to live. Right after we moved in I couldn’t find Brian and I panicked until I opened the front door and there he was, standing near the curb of our street. He told me Habbi, told him to stand there and wait for me. Habbi is Madu. I had Brian baptized when we returned to London, Geillis is his Godmother and Madu his spirit Godfather. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I canna think of two better people in the entire world love.”

“It’s your turn,” she whispered.

Jamie realized that Claire was spent emotionally. He led her to his office and turned out the lights before pulling her into his arms to lay next to him on the couch. She could hear his Gaelic speech through his chest and found great comfort there.

They hugged in silence for a while until Jamie gave her every reason to change course and draw that line between them again.

“Sassenach, love, will ye marry me?”

Claire’s head lifted abruptly to look at him and her mouth slowly smiled as he watched the answer play across her face.

“C’mon lass, dinna say no to yer soulmate," he teased. "I figure you will be my partner in the bookstores and bring yer magic to the enterprise. We can open a new store each year and Brian will see the world living short term in each location. When he starts school, we take off for cities near and far in the summer, like a three-month vacation every year. Do ye know anythin about a website?”

“Whoa Sassenach, tears? Dinna break my heart love.”

“I have a new job at the cultural center, one Sunday each month, we dance exhibition and I am the lead belly dancer. It’s in Madu’s memory I want to dance Jamie. How do you feel about that?”

She watched his eyes and saw him go into his head, still smiling, she waited and worried. When he looked at her several minutes later his skin had a rosy glow and his eyes sparkled.

“This means I get to keep both of ye Sassenach.”

“I suppose it does” she giggled.

************************** “Ma'am?”

Claire pushed her sunglasses up her nose and handed Geillis her drink. She thanked the waiter and handed him a tip before laying back on her lounge. The girls were treated to a spa day compliments of Jamie and it was a slice of heaven for both of them.

“Mmm, what a fantastic buzz and a beautiful spa. Remind me to thank Jamie. What is up with your weird drinks Claire? That looks like bubbles in water for Christ's sake.”

“It is club soda, on the rocks. Why you ask? Because I can’t have alcohol for the next year. I’ll have to give up belly dancing before long also.”

Geillis rolled her head toward Claire and pulled her sunglasses down. “What?”

Geillis’s eyes grew wide and she sat up looking at her best friend. “Are ye sayin ye got a bairn in there again?”

“Almost positive. That’s what happens when the love of your life shows up and you’re not on birth control. Please, not a word at home. I am telling Jamie tonight right after Brian goes to bed and before he goes home of course.”

“Thank heavens he can stay at yer house after tomorrow.”

Claire was on pins and needles through dinner while Geillis chatted on and on with Jamie and Brian. She needed to calm down and excused herself from dinner. Sitting alone on her bed, she remembered a sadness so deep and a country so foreign, it stole her reason to live. Now her life was so full of blessings it was hard to feel connected to that person anymore.

When Jamie came in, he pulled her into his arms and just hugged her.

“What is it, love? Are ye havin second thoughts?”

She shook her head and pulled him down to the bed to lay next to her. They could hear Brian and Geillis laughing in the kitchen and felt no need to rush.

Jamie watched her face, waiting. He felt his heart rate shoot up as her eyes locked on his.

“The three of us won’t be going to Florida next month. We are actually a family of four now.”

She pulled his hand to her abdomen as the tears were squeezing out the side of her eyes. She watched Jamie’s face go from confused to enlightened and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he tried to swallow.

“Is there …a bairn… comin …lass?” His voice was a croaked whisper like he was afraid to say it out loud.

Claire nodded her head and Jamie exhaled the breath he was holding as his smile grew. He kissed her long and hard followed by dozens of kisses on her face with I love you’s in between until Claire was panting for breath and laughing.

Jamie kissed his bride after a civil ceremony with Geillis standing for Claire and Brian standing as Jamie’s best man. He pressed his forehead against hers and felt she had gifted him with a second chance at life. He was so grateful for her strength to survive, her heart to forgive, and the joy they made together.

Five hundred and thirty-five miles north a prisoner held court while her underlings brought her food and cigarettes. Jenny smiled at her hard-won position in the unit and daydreamed about returning home after so many years.

But that is another story.

It is my privilege to write for this fandom. I love you guys for the encouraging comments and for reading.

#outlander fanfiction #jamie and claire fanfic #dopescotlandwarrior

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weebsinstash · 5 years

Note

Aight but hear me out. What if Erasermic’s darling actually DID manage to escape. Years goes by and they eventually get word of someone who looks like her and when they do arrive to the scene, they see her, picking two children up from school who look very much alike them.. I can only imagine their excitement and rage oof

I hate you because I was actually consumed with plot ideas for this for like two days straight so here's a bunch of bullshit I guess

--so two babies can be conceived by two different fathers for the same pregnancy if the nastiness happened during the same ovulation period. This is a Real Science Thing that I actually learned from a Lifetime movie lmao

--Darling has been off the grid for about 6 years. Shouta and Hizashi are shadows of their former selves. They're still close to each other, if not brought even closer than before, but still basically grieving the loss of their beloved third. After so many months of searching with little to no results they get desperate and give their darling's photo out to all of their "seedier" friends and connections with a message: if you see this woman, tell us immediately.

--eventually one of them gets a tip from a friend who is taking a trip overseas (let's just say America for example). It's a photo taken from afar, a covert shot of you, their beloved, a little older than before, but it's definitely you, and what's more, in this photo, you're holding hands with two little girls, one blonde and the other raven and both with the prettiest little smiles and the biggest brightest eyes

--they drop everything they're doing immediately. They make excuses to take off from work for a while or use their vacation days and book a flight to the area you were seen as soon as physically possible. This is a new country where they aren't widely known, which is both to their benefit and their disadvantage, as they have so little to go on to find you and less connections to use.

--but they're still able to find you. just as miraculously as the day you all first met, they spot you from afar, getting into your car. They follow behind you discreetly to an elementary school in a quaint little neighborhood, feeling like their hearts could explode. They want to come up to you so bad it's breaking them, they're ready to go insane, but they can't. They have to see the children. They have to know.

--and when you park, you get out of your car only for the little things with their adorable tiny backpacks running up to you with excited cries of "Mama!" and you give them both a big hug as Hizashi and Shouta are ready to cry. You're still so beautiful, and so are your babies. Their babies.

--as much as it is literally killing them, they keep waiting, driving after you to see where you've been living. It's a little house in the suburbs, a little old and run down but cute, afforable. Your stalkers watch from the distance with binoculars through the windows as it grows dark, trying to find the right moment. The blonde that takes after Hizashi is a total mama's girl that will hardly leave your side, and the other dark-haired girl is nearly just as clingy, preferring to sit beside you on the couch as she reads a book while her twin sits in your lap, everyone watching tv before you put them down for bed. You even give them little kisses as you tuck them in.

--it's completely silent as they break into your house in the middle of the night, and you return from a bathroom trip to both of them standing there with the biggest, craziest smiles, tripping on their own euphoria at finally finding you after all this time

--and you start to cry quietly, the first words out of your mouth barely a whisper since sound travels so well in this house

"please don't hurt my babies...!"

--You're essentially forced to keep silent in complete terror as they wrap their arms around you, and this is when they finally break down to cry with sheer relief

--hurt the kids? Never! Those are your children! Their children! Our children! No wonder you ran away; you must have been so nervous about starting a family! You were just confused, and protecting your young is a sign of an excellent mother, after all!

--it becomes obvious that they've gone totally off the deep end. They'll make any excuse they have to, they don't care. The only thing that matters is they have you back, and you gave them a gift greater than anything they could ever hope for: a family. Now, for the matter of getting you all back home for your new life together....

#sinprompts #yandere x reader

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narcoleptic-drag-queen · 4 years

Note

rotox for 15 would be cuteeeee

SO CUTE!! Also, this got long, I’m so sorry - tell me if I should put a ‘read more’ on here

Roxxxy does not do online dating.

It’s a mixture of principle and safety - she doesn’t need to stoop to scouring the internet for someone who’s interested in her, and she prefers to meet people face to face, not through a screen. A profile picture doesn’t mean shit, and it’s really not possible to know who you’re talking to until they’re standing in front of you. It’s just easier to find people at bars or clubs, faster to figure out if they’re cute or not, witty or not, better when she can have solid proof of identity.

None of this can explain why she’s sitting in bed at 1 am staring at Tinder, but Alaska is scarily persuasive and Roxxxy couldn’t deny that getting likes and matches weren’t boosting her self esteem significantly.

“Fuck her,” Alaska had said, after Roxxxy had finished her third rant in just as many weeks about her ex. “You know what you need? Statistics.”

She’d been very helpful in setting up the profile and telling Roxxxy who to swipe left on, but once the clock hit eleven she’d headed off towards home, claiming that if she stayed any longer, Sharon would get worried. Roxxxy had felt a little twinge of jealousy, Alaska’s engagement ring glittering as she grabbed her purse, but she had let her friend go with a smile. She’ll find someone. Eventually.

She can feel her insecurities curling around her the longer she thinks about it, and she quickly shuts them down, turning her attention back to the glow of her phone.

Left. Left. Le-

Wait.

Her finger stutters over the face of the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen, with high cheekbones and a coy smile, her blue eyes glittering. She looks insane, with crimped, neon green hair and bright blue lipstick, and Roxxxy feels drawn to her immediately.

Roxxxy had told Alaska that this was just to see who liked her, not the other way around. She wasn’t looking for anything, especially on Tinder.

She swipes right.

The woman messages around five minutes later, and Roxxxy feels her heart skip a beat as she opens it, the little black words striking something like the fear of god into her.

Detox Icunt: night owl too? you’re already perfect ;)

Roxxxy takes too long thinking of a witty reply, deciding whether she should copy Detox’s texting style or stick to proper grammar, her heart in her throat as she presses send.

Roxxxy Andrews: I know I’m perfect, but are you really as beautiful as you are in your profile pic?

Detox replies with a photo. It’s the same woman, sans makeup, lying on what looks like a bright orange couch. She’s gorgeous, her blue eyes bright and her smirk doing something to Roxxxy’s belly.

Detox Icunt: no

Detox Icunt: i wear so much makeup you could accuse me of catfishing!

Roxxxy laughs a little, wondering if Detox knows just how close she’s gotten to Roxxxy’s wariness. She types a quick response, keeping up the flirting, becoming more comfortable in the face of this other woman’s humor. She feels comfortable already, and while she’s always been confident, the ease in which she can flirt with Detox surprises her.

Roxxxy Andrews: No. You might just be perfect. Too perfect.

Detox Icunt: are you accusing me of catfishing??? after i just sent a pic of me looking like the grim reaper??

Roxxxy Andrews: It’s not uncommon...

Detox Icunt: here. tell me to do something and i’ll send a pic of me doing it. since my beauty is so incredible

Several ideas spring to Roxxxy’s mind, and they all make her blush. She shoves them to the back of her mind. Calm down, Roxxxy.

Roxxxy Andrews: Put a glass on the top of your head.

Detox Icunt: yes maam

A photo comes in moments later of Detox holding a glass full of wine on top of her head, her hair an adorable floof around her face. Roxxxy wants more of her.

Roxxxy Andrews: Interesting... I think I need more proof. Make a stupid face.

Detox sends in a photo, one eye squinted shut and her mouth wide open in an agonized yell. Roxxxy laughs out loud.

Roxxxy Andrews: Very convincing. But I need more.

Detox Icunt: if you say so

And suddenly, the chat is flooded with pictures of Detox, all clearly from just now, and all clearly a result of her spamming her camera button as she makes face after face. Roxxxy laughs so hard she cries, the selfies never ceasing even as she cries for Detox to stop.

Roxxxy Andrews: Stop!! STOP

Roxxxy Andrews: No more!

Detox Icunt: okay, fine

Detox Icunt: i won’t send any more selfies

Detox Icunt: your loss ;)

Roxxxy grins at her phone, her heart lighter than it’s been in weeks.

Roxxxy Andrews: I think I need one final proof that you’re real. The only way I’ll know for sure is if I can see you with my own eyes.

Detox Icunt: Tomorrow? 8pm? That Italian place by Mateo’s?

Roxxxy feels her chest warm, excitement and nerves and hope making her want to dance around her room with joy.

Roxxxy Andrews: It’s a date.

send me a pairing and a number!

#prompts #ask game #writing #rotox

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fakeyellow · 4 years

Text

Kamilah faces the consequences of her actions. The Ending(s) of Forget Me Not.

I wrote three different endings. If you don’t want to read all of them, just read the third one.

Kamilah watches from afar as Isla puts her life back together, piece by piece. There’s a bit of confusion, adjustment needed as Isla comes to terms with the missing gaps of her memory but she’s always been strong and she picks herself up.

Kamilah follows Isla’s career as she becomes Grant Emerson’s campaign manager and successfully gets him elected as Mayor of New York. And although she knows it’s old fashioned to cut out newspaper clippings, she does exactly so, collecting all the snippets in articles and photos that include even the slightest mention of her.

When Isla seems to decide that she doesn’t want a future in politics, she looks into jobs with financial corporations, and at one point, her resume crosses Kamilah’s desk via the mistake of an intern.

Her hand pauses over the small, professional headshot included in the resume and Kamilah can’t help but stroke it tenderly, as if she were stroking the woman’s actual face.

She’s changed her hair since the campaign and it suits her. Although the picture is still Isla, there is a remarked maturity in her face that reminds Kamilah bitterly of just how much time has passed.

She can only imagine how much Isla must have grown, how much she must have changed, how much she must have gone through. The new connections she must have made, the new interests she must have discovered, the new relationships she must have formed...

There is only so much her guards can tell Kamilah, from their positions in Isla’s neighbouring apartments, and besides, she had placed them there to guard Isla, not to spy on her.

She forces herself to be content with what she does know of Isla and she continues to scour the newspapers for new mentions of her.

—

A few years later, when Isla’s become established in her own career, Isla falls in love.

Kamilah discovers this all by chance one day when she’s meeting with the lawyer representing a business Ahmanet Financial is in the middle of acquiring.

The lawyer’s phone lights up with a call and although the woman quickly apologises and puts it into her pocket, Kamilah catches a glimpse of the lock screen.

It is a photo of Isla and the woman, dressed in a beautiful white dress and a white suit respectively. They’re kissing and Kamilah suddenly notices the shiny, new wedding band on the lawyer’s finger.

The meeting finishes without any other complications and Kamilah is left alone in her office.

There is an unspeakable pain in her heart, a sudden pang of loss even though she had always known this was likely to happen, and she closes her eyes, the photo branded onto her mind.

It’s in the middle of her grief that Kamilah then hears the voice.

It’s small, even with Kamilah’s heightened senses, and she realises it must be coming from the lawyer’s cellphone as she makes her way to the elevator.

Words of affection are exchanged between the two women and Kamilah listens to Isla, hearing the happiness, the warmth, the love that flows in her voice.

Although it still hurts, Kamilah smiles.

“I’m happy for you Isla,” she whispers into her empty office.

And that is the last time Kamilah hears Isla’s voice.

—

For all intents and purposes, Isla lives a long, fulfilling life.

She thrives in her career, leading numerous initiatives that help the lives of thousands of people. She flourishes in her marriage to the lawyer, and they spend a happy 50 years together.

Isla passes peacefully in her sleep at the old age of 84 and her funeral is filled with all the people who’s lives she touched.

Speeches are made of her great deeds, her loving nature, her unrelenting determination to do what is right.

And when the last funeral-goers finally trickle out and Isla’s body is laid to rest in the ground, a single figure dressed in black appears.

The figure walks slowly towards the newly engraved tombstone and bows her head, tears trickling down her cheeks.

Kamilah kneels and places a single stem of forget me not flowers on the grave of the woman who will always hold her heart

2. Short ending if Serafine’s memory erasure hadn’t held.

Some background information: When Isla awakes without any memories or clues of the past year, she becomes determined to never again be left with nothing. She gets into photography, a way to forever capture moments of time. Even if her memories disappear once again, she will at least have her photographs.

One day when she’s developing her photographs, she notices a woman appearing over and over in her photos. She’s always in the background, with her face partially obscured, but Isla finally finds a picture where the woman’s full face can be seen.

After doing some research, Isla figures out that it is Kamilah Sayeed, the elusive CEO of Ahmanet Financial, and she goes over to the corporation building.

In the place where so many things had happened, Isla’s memories suddenly return and she goes to confront Kamilah in her office.

—

“How could you?” Isla burst out.

The shock on Kamilah’s face disappeared, giving way to a deep weariness and shame.

Kamilah sighed heavily, “I know. I did terrible things and I have been paying the price every day since.”

“No,” Isla shook her head as her eyes began to water, “How could you do that to me?”

“You were tearing yourself apart, Isla,” Kamilah said desperately, needing Isla to understand why she’d done what she had, “I wasn’t going to just stand still and watch as a small part of you died each day.”

“Still,” Isla’s voice broke on the word.

“It should have been my choice,” she continued fiercely, “And I would have told you that no matter what happened, I would always love you. I would always choose you.”

“We could have gotten through it together,” Isla cried out before turning silent.

It was after a long silence that Isla eventually asked, in a small voice that conveyed the weight of all of the hurt she carried, “Didn’t you trust me?”

She gazed probingly into Kamilah’s eyes, as if searching for something in its depths. But finding them lacking, Isla finally sighed and whispered.

“Goodbye Kamilah.”

3. If Serafine’s memory erasure hadn’t held: Version 2

“How could you do that to me?” Isla asked, her face crumpling as she grappled with the full realisation of what had happened.

And although Kamilah wanted nothing more than to sweep her up in her arms and never let go, there was also a part of her that wasn’t sorry for what she’d done.

“You were tearing yourself apart Isla!” Kamilah burst out almost in frustration, desperately needing Isla to understand why she’d done what she had done, “I wasn’t going to just stand still and watch as more and more of you died with each day.”

“So what,” Isla scoffed, her watery eyes burning furiously at Kamilah, “You thought you’d erase my memories? You thought that if I didn’t remember you or anything else from the past year, I’d just return to my normal life, as if nothing had ever happened?

Kamilah remained silent, unable to say anything as Isla’s voice grew in intensity.

“Well you were wrong,” Isla bitterly said, “When I woke up, I was alone. Do you know how it feels to have woken up only to realize that you’ve lost an entire year of your life?”

“You even took Lily away from me,” Isla cried out, tears streaming down her cheeks, “You took Adrian and Jax and…”

“You all were my family and you took it all away” She continued, “I couldn’t even remember you. I just knew that there was something essential missing.”

Isla paused now, her voice growing quiet as she stared directly at Kamilah, “I cried myself to sleep every night. Did your guards tell you that?”

Kamilah flinched but Isla continued.

“Did they tell you that every day I woke up wishing I hadn’t? Did they tell you that I felt like a shell of a person, that sometimes, it felt as if I would drown in my loneliness?”

“Isla, I-” Kamilah began hoarsely.

“Did you even miss me?” Isla cut her off, searching probingly into the depths of Kamilah’s eyes.

A thousand words swelled up in her chest, begging to be released, but in the end, Kamilah could only breathe out, “Every day. Each and every second, I never stopped missing you.”

A fresh wave of tears spilled over and flowed down her face even as Isla forced herself to harden.

“I don’t forgive you,” Isla softly stated and Kamilah closed her eyes in response. There was pain written in the lines of her face but she nodded, as if she had expected this.

And then, suddenly, warm arms wrapped around Kamilah, Isla’s head nestling into her chest.

“But you’ve punished yourself for long enough,” Isla finished tearfully, “You have to forgive yourself. You deserve happiness too Kamilah.”

And Isla’s words finally caused Kamilah to break down in long, overdue tears. She’d repressed her emotions for so long in an attempt to atone for the weight of her countless sins, a weight that she’d constantly carried with her.

The redemption in Isla’s words were more than she’d ever hoped for.

Isla leaned back in their embrace, tenderly wiping away Kamilah’s tears. Kamilah grabbed onto Isla’s hand, leaning into her touch.

“Everyone is allowed to make mistakes. To mourn over something they wish they could undo. The important thing is that you come out of it a better person. You face up to what you did and you make amends. That is how you make up for your actions. Not by punishing yourself out of misplaced guilt,” Isla said.

Kamilah nodded and stared wondrously at Isla, almost unable to believe that this remarkable woman had come back to her, that Isla still believed so strongly in her.

“I still don’t forgive you for what you did to me,” Isla interjected sternly before softening, “But I will. And I will never stop loving you.”

Kamilah’s heart swelled with affection and it seemed impossible that one person could love someone so much.

“I love you too.”

—

A/N: The first ending was what I originally had in mind for the story and is why I titled it “Forget Me Not.” I thought it’d be sad to imagine Kamilah watching over Isla from a distance, seeing her have a happy life even if it broke her heart to not be with her.

Then I wrote the second ending where Isla isn’t able to forgive Kamilah for what she’s done to her. I really just wanted to end it on “Goodbye Kamilah.”

Then I thought about the second ending again and I thought the MC should be angrier at Kamilah at first, so that transformed into the third ending, which I think I like the best. I had a hard time coming up with what Isla’d say at the end so I used the long, italicised quotes from BB Book 2 Chapter 12 and 15.

Which ending was your favourite?

#bloodbound #kamilah x mc #kamilah sayeed #playchoices #playchoices fanfic #my writing

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