#I tested both a few years ago for a very short time

[chimchiri]

I will forever hate Instagram and Twitter. Nothing will drag me over there to post any art or follow artists (no matter how much I admire your art).

Oh, sorry, you're almost exclusively posting over there? No, thanks, I'm good just seeing the 1% you post here ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[courtforshort15]

All I Feel is You

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem Reader

Word Count: 10,700

Summary: The story of how Matt Murdock falls in love with you, as told through the five senses

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of sex and oral sex

Written for this post by @dorothleah

Seriously guys, this was supposed to be short🤣🤣

Masterlist

1. Touch

The fabrics you tend to wear are warm and inviting and almost begging to be touched. Every single thread is soft and calming, more so than what Matt is accustomed to finding on friends and the general public, and it's become a much welcomed change. He's noticed that you very rarely wear cotton, instead sticking to silk and satin and cashmere, and though you’ve only been at the firm a scant few weeks, he is addicted and can’t help but want to run his fingers up and down the fabric, dying to know how it would feel underneath his fingertips. 

He’s felt silk and satin and cashmere before, often preferring those materials on his own skin, but he’s never felt them on you, and it somehow still changes the way he gravitates towards them. The thought is arousing and enticing in a way he would have never thought possible. 

The fabric slides over your skin as you move, and Matt finds the sound almost distracting, wishing it was his fingers that were sliding over you instead. When you wear dresses, the material sways around your legs as you walk by him, and it takes everything in Matt to not pull you close and slide your dress up, just so that he can test if the clothing you wear is as soft as the inside of your thighs.

His fingers twitch at his sides whenever you move past him, ruthlessly pushing all indecent thoughts away and out of his head. He knows that if he were ever to touch you like the way he's hungered for weeks, he'd never be able to stop. 

Matt very nearly loses all semblance of control the first time you grab his hand and place it around the crook of your elbow, silk blouse pressed between his flesh and yours. 

Typically Foggy is the one to lead him, perhaps even Karen, because leading a visually impaired individual is a skill, and it requires a certain level of finesse and anticipation of the other’s needs. You’ve been hesitant, he’s aware, to guide him, though not because you don’t want to help him; it’s because you’re afraid you’ll mess up, you admit, and he outwardly laughs in your face. 

You flush, smacking his chest, and tell him you’re nervous you’ll forget to remind him of a step up or down, nervous you’ll walk him right into something or someone. He finds it adorable, especially given the fact that he has better coordination and direction than you ever will.

He’s not ready to tell you that yet, though the secret is constantly brimming at his lips, ready to spill at any given moment, regardless of the consequences.

But one day Foggy has a late meeting with a client across town, and Karen has left early for a date, and it’s just you left in the office with him. The long work day ends with a quiet sigh, the office pleasantly peaceful as the last few hours of work tamper off, and Matt startles when you kindly offer to help walk him home. It’s later than you’re usually at the office, and Matt briefly wonders if you’ve stayed because he had needed to finish things and wasn’t able to leave at a decent time.

Matt strives for a healthier life-work-vigilante balance, has worked for it since things ended with Fisk a little over a year ago, but he’s still a work in progress. He’s addicted to his work, both the work that sees the light of day and the work that doesn’t, and he still sometimes forgets that it impacts others, too, despite the constant drilling of these details into his mind by Foggy and Karen.

“It’s really not necessary,” he tells you with a laugh after the offer spills from your lips, packing his things up and putting his suit jacket back on, sliding his arms through the sleeves. The weather is still decently temperate, the warmth of summer still desperately clinging to New York City, but he can already feel the way the air outside has started cooling down now that the sun has almost finished its descent below the skyscrapers that surround the neighborhood. “I know my way around Hell’s Kitchen well enough. I’ll be okay.” 

And the words are true enough, with or without his senses. He’s a New York City boy, through and through, and he knows these streets and city blocks like the back of his hand.

You pick up your purse, pushing the strap over one shoulder, before turning back to him. The sound of your hair and the smell of the shampoo still clinging to each strand stirs a sense of want and yearning, one he so desperately wants to satisfy. 

“What if it makes me feel better?”

Matt shakes his head, smirking, the look on his face something Foggy would probably label as the typical Matt Murdock charm. The ticking of the clock echoes through the office, and though he can't read the time, the dull sounds of the New York City streets outside the window tells him it's later than he thought it was.

“And what if the idea of you going out of your way at night just to walk me home makes me feel worse?” He’s teasing, of course, though there’s some level of truth to it. He hates the idea of you walking alone at night, knowing far too well the danger that seems to always lurk in the alleyways, knowing far too well that even he can’t be everywhere at once, should something happen to you.

The words that leave his mouth seem to temporarily quiet you, but Matt’s not shocked when the silence ends after only a moment or two. You're usually quick with a rebuttal, your mind always sifting through sentences and body language, and Matt waits in amusement as you work to find the right reply for the situation. 

“It’s hardly night,” you finally respond, decidedly shoving the concern aside easily. “It’s only 7. There’s still a little light out.”

Matt may not be able to see the way his face lights up or darkens with certain expressions, but he knows he’s giving you the driest look possible. “You’d still be going far out of your way. Don’t you live in the opposite direction?”

He hears you scoff, though the sound is more amused than anything. “I can walk you home and take a cab back to my place.”

“You should take a cab back to your place regardless of where you are at this time at night,” he counters, stepping completely out of his office and into the lobby of their space, briefcase in one hand, cane in the other. “But I promise I’m fine on my own. It’s only a few blocks.”

“Humor me.” 

It’s a last ditch effort, he’s well aware, if the helpless sigh you let out is anything to go by. You’re waiting for him by the front door, and Matt, despite his protests, wants nothing more than to walk through it with you and bring you home with him.

“Fine,” he says with another sly grin, and he hears the way you exhale in relief. “But only because I’m not going to pass up a few extra minutes with you when you’ve so graciously offered them.”

The words settle between the two of you, and Matt can feel the heat radiating off of your cheeks as vividly as if he was pressed up against you. Your heart skips briefly, and the sound reverberates in his head. He laughs internally in pure satisfaction when you gulp.

“Fine,” you repeat the word back to him, voice slightly higher than it had been a few moments ago, and Matt can’t help but still be secretly pleased with the reaction you’ve given him. “Are you ready then?”

He gestures towards the exit. “Whenever you are.”

“Good,” you say, turning to open the door, but before you can step through it, you pause. Matt tilts his head at you curiously, wordlessly questioning the silence and the way you've hesitated. 

“So…this is an awkward question, and I don’t know how to do it delicately, so I’ll just dive in. At what point–”

Matt cuts you off, suddenly knowing where this was going. This time he's unable to hold back a laugh. “You want to know when you should offer your arm.”

There’s not a moment of hesitation on your end when you answer. “Yeah, pretty much.”

The grin on his face widens, and Matt wonders if it’s possible to ever frown when you’re around. “I can make my way to the elevator just fine,” he says with a brief shrug of his shoulders, unsnapping his cane as he takes a few steps forward. “But having help after that is always appreciated.”

“Got it,” you reply with a quick nod. You turn back to the door, finally opening it up, and step back so that he has room to walk through. “After you, Matt.”

He resists the urge to brush past you as closely as he possibly can, and instead places a careful distance between your body and his. It's almost excruciating, this self-imposed separation, but he pushes the feeling down.

He doesn't need your assistance with this particular task, but he'll be damned if he doesn't take full advantage.

It’s not long before the elevator is dropping you down at the lowest level, and the doors slide open with a quiet ding. He follows your lead, taking a step outside and into the fresh air of the building lobby, and waits patiently for you to reach for him.

Your hand is trembling as it stretches out to grab his, Matt notes curiously, but it’s steady by the time it pulls him slightly forward. Soft fingers settle on the skin of his wrist, and he adjusts his body so that he’s grasping the crook of your elbow as you step further in.

Matt’s stood intoxicatingly close to you before. He's felt the heat of your body close to his as you pass him files, or when you sit next to him at lunch. He’s felt the length of your hair brush his arm lightly as you reach for something that is on the other side of him, felt the way your breath fans over his face when you lean in to whisper something in his ear while at court. It drives him crazy, these little moments of feeling you, always burning and aching for more. 

But through all of that, nothing has prepared him for the feeling of silk that encases your upper arm and the way it feels against your skin resting underneath it. He’s sure he’s gone to heaven, or whatever sort of heaven is possible for a man like him, and he knows then and there that he needs to feel the way your skin will slide against the silk of his own sheets.

You feel far too wonderful him in that moment, wrapped in the soft material the way that you are, and Matt relishes the way your sensitive skin is an equal match to his, knowing he’ll never have to wonder or worry about rough, scratchy fabric rubbing against him if you can help it. It’s exhilarating, this idea that you’ll always be soft and ready for him.

He’s going to have you, one day. You may not know it yet, but there will be a day when he has you spread out and waiting underneath him, and he’ll tell you that it was this moment that was the tipping point for him.

It's hard to focus as you walk him home, saying your goodbyes at his doorstep when a cab pulls up, and he knows his hand will feel empty and bereft until it has the chance to settle on you once more. It’s like he was always meant to hold you, always meant to touch you, and he’ll wait patiently for you to come to the same realization.

*

2. Hearing

Matt has long since learned to drown out noises that aren’t necessary to the tasks at hand. His ears always pick up everything going on around him, relying on them more often than not for obvious reasons, but he’s mastered the art of tuning things out if they are not currently relevant to what he is working on. It’s a skill Stick had taught him, and it is perhaps the best thing that man had ever done for him, encouraging him to focus in the moment while forever remaining vigilant.

The same cannot be said for you.

He's not exactly sure when the others pick up on the way you need things to be softer, but he notices the first time you flinch as the front door slams shut by mistake. 

A potential client, rejected by their team due to several, incessant lies that pour from his mouth in the thirty minutes they meet with him, storms out of the office in annoyance. He mutters angrily to himself as he leaves, and yanks the door behind him, the sound of it echoing throughout the office. 

The sound was expected by Matt, having already anticipated the way it would reverberate throughout their space due to the heaviness and speed of the door headed towards the frame, but with his senses trained towards you, as they so often are, he doesn't miss the way you flinch and cover your ears.

Harsh and loud noises are triggering for you, it seems, and it’s something he can fully sympathize with, unfortunately. He finds it concerning, if not a little intriguing, this flash of vulnerability you display.

Your voice is gentle as it floats out around the office, rarely rising above a certain decibel, almost encouraging those around you to keep things quiet as well. It's impacted the way he, Foggy and Karen listen and speak to each other, making an effort not to shout things through offices, but rather get up and find the person they’re talking to. The transition happens almost over night, and he can sense the way your body relaxes the longer you are employed with them, trusting the team to use voices that aren’t louder than they really need to be.

Over the course of the months you spend settling into their team, you're frequently invited to happy hour at Josie's. It’s easy for him to pick up on the way you love joining the team, having told them you hadn’t felt like New York was home until you accepted their offer of employment, and it warms him. Your cheeks flush with the buzz of alcohol, your posture relaxes, and your speech becomes less poised, less polished. And every time you join them, without fail, you have soft, silicone plugs nestled in your ears while you're seated at the table.

Tonight you’re seated next to him, something that Matt had carefully orchestrated while you were placing a drink order at the bar, adjusting himself so that the only open seat would be next to him. He tries not to give himself away, but he can’t help but lean into you as far as he can without making it extremely obvious how much he wants to be pressed against you at all times.

He inhales sharply when you abruptly twist your body so that you’re angled towards him in a way that suggests he might not be alone in this need that runs viciously through him.

Matt does his best to focus in on the story you’re telling, your arms gesturing wildly as you regale the group with a funny anecdote about your younger brother. Your voice, despite the loudness of the bar, is still gentle in its cadence, and Matt has long since determined that no other voice will ever captivate him the way yours does.

When you’re done, you take a long sip of your drink, the liquid sliding down your throat, and Matt longs to wrap his hand around the column of your neck just to feel it, while maybe tilting your head back to kiss you in the process. 

Before Matt has the chance to ask you a follow-up question about your brother, curious to know more about the life you’ve led before moving to New York, Foggy jumps in with a question of his own, shouting over the noise of the bar.

"I've never asked before, but why do you wear ear plugs when we come here?"

You freeze next to him, and for a brief second Matt wants to shove his friend off of his bar stool. It’s a question he’s always had, though he thinks he already knows the answer, but he hates the way you’ve been put on the spot. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t need to answer, but you reply anyway, cutting him off.

"I, uh…I can get overwhelmed with loud noises," you explain quietly, fidgeting with the napkin still resting in your lap, placed there to wipe salt and grease off of your fingers as you munch on the french fries the group had ordered. "Sometimes it just gets to be too much. I can't focus on what's going on in front of me because everything else is just too loud. The ear plugs drown some things out."

Foggy tilts his head in curiosity, and Matt throws him a look of warning, wordlessly asking him to tread carefully, unwilling to let anything upset you. It had surprised him, initially, his reaction to the thought of you being uncomfortable, but now he knows and no longer questions the fact that he’d gladly rake his body over flaming coals if it meant you were always safe and happy and settled in whatever environment you found yourself in.

Foggy hasn’t caught on to his feelings just yet, but Karen has, and he can practically feel the amused side-eye she’s shooting him.

He rests a hand on your knee gently, intending to only leave it there for a second, but your hand suddenly reaches down and grabs it, easily interlacing your fingers with his. Matt tracks the way your cheeks flush, the way your heartbeat stutters for a split second, and is unable to stop the way his face splits open in a smile.

"Can you hear us okay, then? When you have them in?" Foggy questions, continuing on with the topic, completely oblivious to the body language of the people around him. 

You let out a quiet laugh. "You're sitting close enough that it's not really an issue. But I am decent at reading lips, so that usually helps, too."

“Gotcha,” Foggy says with an easy smile. “Let me know if there’s ever anything we can do to help make you more comfortable."

The conversation about your ear plugs ends there, Matt steering them gently towards another topic to help lead the focus off of something he can tell you're slightly self-conscious about, and he's rewarded by another squeeze of his hand. 

After that evening, the group still goes to Josie's fairly often, but they begin taking turns hosting happy hour at their own individual apartments. It becomes a frequent habit, ordering take out and staying in rather than going out, and Matt easily admits to himself that the quieter get-togethers are easier on his own ears, too. 

The lack of the sharp noises and drunken chatter of a bar also gives him the ability to focus on your heartbeat just that much easier, jumping whenever he gently brushes his fingers over yours when handing you another drink or carton of fried rice, and that alone makes the slight change worth it. 

Matt is committed at this point, intimately aware of what his presence does to you, and while he’d wait forever, he’s desperate to hear every single moan, gasp, or sigh he can draw out of you with his body pressed against yours.

"I never did thank you," you say quietly one evening, helping toss the beer bottles in his recycling bin. Foggy and Karen left ten minutes ago, claiming the need to prep a few more things before trial tomorrow, though Matt knows they had strategically left him alone with you on purpose.

Sometimes he thinks his friends are trying to get back at him for the years of chaos and tears he’s caused them.

"Thank me for what?" He asks, throwing some of the leftover Chinese into his fridge. He packs up a small bag of leftover white rice and vegetables for you to take, knowing without verbal confirmation that the slight blandness is something you'll enjoy and appreciate. He enjoys it, too, strong flavors sometimes too much for him, but he would rather you have it.

"You're the one who started encouraging us to spend time as a smaller group at someone's place, rather than going out," you say, voice floating through his apartment. He may not yet have told you about his own senses, but for some reason you've picked up on the way he can always hear you, no matter how soft or loud you are. "And I just really appreciate it. Going out isn't a big deal, but this is still a nice change sometimes."

Matt steps out of his kitchen to where you've picked up your purse from his table and stands directly in front of you, close enough to reach out and touch. He notices the way your breathing catches, as it always does when he stands near, and for whatever reason, tonight he feels emboldened to fully lean into it.

He reaches out to run a gentle finger down your cheekbone, and you sigh and seem to lean into it instinctively. It's all the encouragement he needs to continue. "I've found that I'd do just about anything to make sure you're comfortable," he says, enjoying the way your skin heats, and he takes another step forward, hand now fully cupping the side of your face. "Whatever you need from me to help that, I'll do it."

You pause for a moment, apparently weighing something in your mind, and he feels the moment you've made some sort of decision. He stands still when you take a tiny step towards him, the heat of you downright scalding, and he waits with bated breath for you to say something. 

"You don't need to do anything, Matt," you whisper quietly, taking his other hand in yours. "But thank you all the same. Truly."

Months of him needing you near more than he needs to breathe, months of him needing to put you first before all other things in his life, causes him to close the distance, unable and unwilling to spend one more second of not knowing what your mouth feels like underneath his.

Your lips are warm and soft as he presses against them, and he keeps the kiss gentle. Your hands reach up to wrap themselves in his shirt, and Matt knows he'll spend the rest of his life wanting to hear nothing else but that quiet sigh that leaves your mouth as it parts for his.

*

3. Taste

Matt grew up in perhaps one of the most unique melting pots in the world. 

New York City is an explosive mixture of cultures and ethnicities and races, and he’s been exposed to all the wonderful things that come with the mixture of so many people living in his city - the different music, the different languages, the different dreams and ideals. 

But the one thing that never fails to disappoint and sadden him about it is the fact that all the different foods of the world, so easily within his grasp, can be extremely overwhelming to his sense of taste. It’s a sense of irony that he doesn’t appreciate.

Over the years, he’s learned to cook with minimal spices and flavors, almost desperate to avoid making his taste buds go haywire, but though everything he makes is nourishing and edible, it doesn’t necessarily make them…good. Matt has a relatively bland diet, sticking to foods and flavors that are subtle, and the repetition is boring. 

But then…you come along.

It’s like an explosion, the flavors you bring with you in your lunches and snacks every day. Matt’s mouth salivates over the meals you bring in, knowing without tasting them that nothing you make will overwhelm his taste buds. It’s never anything fancy, he admits. But you’ve tossed ingredients and spices together in a way that he would have never thought to mix, and it suddenly sets him on a renewed journey of finding new things he can’t wait to try.

Rich and savory spices and herbs spill out of your small backpack as you load them in the fridge every day, and the way the scents sometimes stick to your skin makes him want to take you home and never take his tongue off of you.

…which, he feels that way one hundred percent of the time anyway, the taste of your skin divine by itself, but these moments bring out his hunger for you even more. He's had his tongue on you now, had it in you, and he'd gladly spend the rest of his time here on Earth tasting nothing but the salt on every single inch of your body that you'll let him touch.

He's only made love to you once, but Matt can no longer imagine his life without your taste in his mouth.

It's a rainy Friday night in Hell's Kitchen when you manage to drag him to one of your favorite restaurants, though the word drag is used lightly. He's eager and selfish enough to take every spare second you'll give him, but even he can admit that some cases at work require late evenings. There's an everlasting desire to press his lips to yours, if only to draw out every sound he now knows you can make, so he follows you anyway, despite the heavy workload resting on the secondhand desk that's situated in his office. 

The streets of New York City are wet and miserable, but you pull him happily with you, and he has no control over the heart that has decided your hand is a better home and keeper than his own chest.

Before you even round the corner with him half a step behind, he knows instinctively what restaurant you’re taking him to without a word being spoken. It's a few blocks outside of Hell's Kitchen, so he's never really walked by this restaurant before, but now, just a few hundred feet from him, it calls to him, a delicious mixture of spices and herbs and sugars rolling across his tongue that are satisfying without being overwhelming.

He takes his time on your arm, enjoying the way you sway and swerve in between other pedestrians, simply because it gives him an excuse to hold onto you that much tighter. And by the time he holds the door open for you to step inside, Matt's mouth is almost drooling in want and hunger.

It's not long before food is being placed in front of you both, and he wastes not a single second before diving in. He knew before he even entered the restaurant that he was about to eat one of the most fantastic meals of his life, outside of the classic bacon and eggs and pancakes his father used to make him every Saturday morning while he watched cartoons. 

The same explosion of flavors that he had smelled from outside is there, foods that are bold but still somehow subtle, and he swears he's never tasted a combination of ingredients and sauces and spices that fit so well with his palette. 

Add in the fact that the restaurant uses natural products to clean their dishes and wash their vegetables, rather than burning chemicals that scald both his nose and tongue, and it makes him feel like he never wants to eat anywhere else again.

He also never wants to eat or discover new things with anyone else but you again, but that's a conversation for another time. 

"This is one of my favorite places to come to," you say lightly with a soft smile on your lips, and Matt hmms in agreement, because it has suddenly managed to become one of his favorites, too. "I found it a few months back. It’s relatively new, I think. It just has so many options to choose from that fit with the sorts of things I like."

Matt lifts his fork to his mouth, eyes briefly shutting in contentment, a swirl of rich, savory flavors that settle enticingly on his tongue. He savors it before he swallows.

He can track down every ingredient used for this specific dish. The vegetables are the same ones Monica Smith sells in her small market on 42nd, the chicken from the butcher on 57th. Most of these ingredients are sold fresh and locally, sources that Matt often trusts with his own meals that he cooks himself, and there's nothing more comforting than tasting Hell’s Kitchen, than tasting home on his tongue.

"Do you come here often, then?" He asks once he places his fork down and takes a sip of his drink. 

Your mouth twists into a smirk. "You've already got me, Matthew. No need to use a pick up line.”

A startled laugh escapes his throat, and the sound echoes throughout the quiet restaurant. "That's not how I meant it."

"Felt like you were putting the moves on me like we were some sort of dive bar," you tease. You blow on the spoonful of soup you're about to wrap your mouth around to eat, and Matt can't help but think of the way your mouth had been wrapped around him not too long ago.

"No need to put the moves on you when I've apparently already got you, sweetheart," he fires back with a grin. "Though I'd be very interested in discussing that particular fact later. In detail."

A quiet laugh trickles over to him. "That can probably be arranged."

"Good," is all he says. He takes another bite, and you mirror him, finally placing the spoon in your mouth. Matt lets out a quiet moan, both at the taste of the food in his mouth and the taste that's now resting on your tongue, eager to pull you to him and share it with you by way of placing his mouth greedily on yours.

"But to answer your question, I do," you tell him once you swallow, and Matt simultaneously attempts to push the arousal away temporarily (he fails), and smiles at the way your voice sounds wistful and happy. He hopes the sound can be contributed to his company just as much as the food in front of you. "It's hard for me to find places that I like."

He tilts his head to the side. "Any specific reason why?"

You shrug, and Matt's attention lazily drifts to the sound the silk makes as it slides over your shoulders. He's had you in his bed now, and the sound of silk and your skin gliding against each other will forever be etched into his memory. 

"Too many places just use ingredients that don't…taste right to me," you answer easily. "Too much salt. Too much grease. Too much everything, really. This place is more gentle, more thoughtful with how they prepare things, I think. Things just feel more natural here."

Matt has to bite back a smile because you just…get it.

He hasn't said a word to you about his senses, not yet at least, but somehow everything about you just fits with him, like you're two pieces of a puzzle, meant to connect and stay connected, revealing an image that only the two of you can see and feel.

"I understand what you mean by that," he says softly, reaching out to grasp your hand in his before he pulls away to grab his beer. "Have you always been that way? Sensitive to different foods? I've noticed the types of things you bring in for lunch; seems to be a common thread."

He feels the way your hand halts on its way to your mouth, and the pause sets him briefly on edge, the sound of your heartbeat stuttering for just a quick second. Opening his mouth, Matt means to ask what's wrong, but you answer before he can do so.

"Yeah, I've always been like this. I, uh…I'm on the spectrum," you tell him before shoving the bite of your salad in your mouth. Matt's mouth drops a fraction of an inch, honestly having not suspected the response. But it makes him pause, because all of a sudden it clicks that he has observed traits that seem to be consistent with what he knows about the diagnosis. 

Sensitivity to sound. Sensitivity to certain fabrics. Sensitivity to taste. He hadn't caught on before, but now it just…makes sense.

You continue. "I'm a fairly mild case, honestly, but certain tastes and textures of food are just overwhelming sometimes, or they don't feel right in my mouth. It's hard to explain."

His focus quickly shifts to the way you adjust in your seat, as if nervous about his reaction, and he finds himself intensely disliking the thought of you regretting your admission in any way.

"You could try to explain, if you're comfortable with it," he suggests softly, reaching out to gently grasp and squeeze your hand again before he pulls back, needing you to know that anything you divulge is safe with him. He hopes that when he's ready to divulge a secret of his own, you'll sit and really hear him, the way he's always needed someone to hear him, the way he's always needed someone to hear him and still love him.

"Whatever you have to say, I want to listen."

Taking a deep breath, you place your fork on your plate, though Matt doesn't necessarily take it as a sign that you're uncomfortable with the topic, to which he is grateful, but rather something that indicates you're planning in your head what you want to say.

When you finally answer, Matt is utterly powerless to do nothing but give you every single cell of attention that resides in his body.

"I'm not necessarily shy about it, I'm actually pretty open about it, but I guess there's not much to say," you begin, sounding less hesitant than you had sounded just seconds before. "It's pretty common for people on the spectrum to be picky eaters, and that's always been the case for me. But even if it's common, it doesn't mean it's necessarily well understood why, and no two people and their reactions are the same. For some reason, it tends to be more prevalent in women, which makes it even more difficult to track or explain because there isn't a ton of research on women who are autistic. Most studies focus on men."

He hmms in the back of his throat, tilting his head to the side in consideration. "I guess I hadn't really thought about that."

"Most people don't," you say after another bite, and he frowns lightly at the tone of nonchalance in your voice, because even though you sound unaffected, he can hear the quiet waver that suggests that there's a part that ever so slightly bothers you at people's general lack of acknowledgment of the matter. He vows to learn every single thing you're able to teach him, vows to read every single book, published article, or internet post he can find. "Long story short, my sense of taste tends to be limited in terms of what I can tolerate, you know?"

Matts quiet for a moment before he responds. "Oddly enough, I can understand that," he says with a small smile, raising his glass to take another sip of his drink. 

"I figured you would," you reply with a light shrug, the movement stirring the air around you, making the scent of you carry over to him enticingly. He opens his mouth ever so slightly to catch the taste on his tongue. "You tend to order pretty simple things when we all go out. You stick to the same foods and drinks for the most part."

A smirk replaces the grin on his face. "You've been paying attention to me? What am I supposed to do with that information, I wonder?"

He can feel the way your face flushes, and he imagines the color that is blooming rapidly across your cheeks. He vaguely remembers the color red, and he wonders if your skin is vibrant and bold right now, or if the hue is soft and sweet.

"Am I wrong, though?" You ask, neatly avoiding his own questions. "You prefer things that are subtle, things that taste smooth, as opposed to things that taste sharp or in your face, I guess? Do you know what I mean by that?"

"I do. Things that are easy rather than bold," he says with a quick nod. "I can't do bitter or spicy or sour."

Your face splits into a grin. "Exactly. Certain flavors are nice, but they can't be overwhelming or I just kinda…start to shut down. I don't tend to like new things. I'm perfectly happy sticking to the things I know I like."

Matt leans back in his seat as he places his napkin on the table in front of him. He waits until you swallow before speaking again, diving in for the kill, knowing exactly what sort of reaction he's hoping to get from you.

"I'm typically the same way," he says with a smirk. "Though, based on the other night, I'd have to say that my new favorite taste is you."

Your skin flares to life again as you take in a sharp breath, and the smile on his mouth is wide with borderline glee and satisfaction when you give him just the response he had been looking for.

He practically pats himself on the back for a job well done, but is unprepared for your response.

"Well," you say slowly, voice quiet and wavering for just a split second before it strengthens, "if that's the way you feel, then maybe we could go back to your place and you can have me for dessert."

It's Matt's turn to be momentarily speechless, and while blood had rushed to your cheeks at his comment, his own blood heads straight to his cock at yours, and at the thought of having his mouth on you again makes him go absolutely feral.

When he regains his ability to speak, he flags down the waiter he can hear at the table next to him, and asks for the check with a speed he's never managed to achieve, despite his years of snapping at the heels of every violent and manipulative criminal in Hell's Kitchen.

Your soft laugh continues to echo in his ear as he practically drags you to his apartment. 

*

4. Scent 

You miss two or three days of work a month due to what you’ve described as chronic migraines, and the whole office cringes in sympathy whenever you call out. Matt is no stranger to headaches, having had his head bashed in too many times to count, and he knows he’s caused several headaches of his own for Foggy and Karen, the direct result of them being friends with a man who is always finding himself in some sort of trouble.

But migraines, he’s heard, are a whole different ball game, and it saddens him to think of you in so much pain.

When you first started working for their firm, the team used to come to your home and bring you case files and notes at your request, as you were always eager to prove that you were a valuable member of their team, despite the illness that randomly knocked you on your ass for sometimes 24 to 48 hours. They all trust you to complete your work, usually staying late and working weekends to make up for lost time, and for months he humored you, if for no other reason than to have an excuse to show up on your doorstep and check up on you.

Now, though…it’s different.

He ignores your request to bring the files over, and is instead armed with decaffeinated coffee, green tea, peppermint tea, anything and everything he’s researched that is recommended to help ease you out of a migraine and prevent future ones. He’s not sure how much of it all works, but he’s willing and desperate to lessen your pain, even if only for a few minutes.

You’d gifted him with a key just a few weeks ago, shortly after he had told you he loved you for the first time. Unlike most things in his life, being with you is effortless and calm. The transition from friendship to this was seamless, the pair of you somehow knowing this was something meant to last, so he lets himself quietly into your apartment without a second thought. 

The air conditioning is cranked up and blasting as it always is when a migraine sets in, something about heat being a trigger for you, and he doesn’t need to see to know that all the blinds are shut, cutting out all of the natural light and the warmth that would have hit his skin through the windows.

You’re in your bedroom, your heartbeat too rapid for his liking, so he sets the items he’s brought over onto your counter, removes his shoes and suit jacket, and makes his way towards you. You don’t say anything when he settles in behind you, just grabs his arm and pulls it around you, and within a few moments, you’re dead asleep. It’s as if you had been waiting on him before you could fully relax, trusting him to watch over you in your moments of vulnerability.

It’s hours later, well into the evening, when you finally stir again, your body stretching before sinking further into his. Matt had drifted off to sleep beside you for a bit, but had already been awake for an hour before your eyes fluttered open, grateful that your heart rate had decreased and your breathing settled into something more peaceful. The way your body physically reacts to any sort of stress, whether it be sickness or an impending deadline, never fails to put him on edge, ready to leap into the fray of whatever has the potential to cause you harm.

“You’re still here?” Your voice is groggy with sleep, though it’s not as tight with pain as it normally is when you’re in the throes of a migraine, so Matt finds himself relieved that the worst of it may have passed.

“I didn’t want to leave,” he whispers in your ear, tightening the arm resting around your waist. “I don’t have to go out for another few hours or so.”

“What time is it?”

“Just after 7,” he said, placing a kiss to the top of your head from where it’s almost tucked under his chin. “I got here around 3, after the meeting with that new client.”

“And you stayed the whole time?” The words are quiet, but they still sound slightly incredulous. “Matt…you had so much to do today.”

“Nothing more important than making sure you’re okay,” Matt responds easily, slotting his legs up behind yours, pressing the entire length of his body against you. You’d called early this morning while he had been on his way to work, claiming that an awful migraine had started up last night, and he had rushed through his day as quickly as possible. “Are you feeling better?”

You make a non-committal noise. “Maybe a little. I think my meds kicked in this afternoon.”

Matt hums quietly in your ear. “Have you considered a new brand? They don’t seem to be helping much. You still get them pretty frequently.”

Shifting in his hold, you suddenly turn to face him, and Matt adjusts by rolling slightly on to his back, allowing you to curl up against his side and lay your head on his chest. Matt uses the opportunity to brush a kiss against your forehead, the heat of your skin against his always welcome. He had long since removed his pants and shirt, having taken them off before he decided to nap with you, and the way you snuggle closer reminds him that you like being skin to skin just as much as he does.

“They help as much as they can,” you say with a subtle shrug. “It’s hard when something triggers it.”

Matt stills the hand that had naturally risen up to brush lightly against your back. “What triggered it?”

“The lady that came in yesterday afternoon.”

He furrows his brow, searching back through his memory. “Mrs. Henderson?” He feels you nod against his chest, still shuddering and inching impossibly closer. “What about her?”

“It was her perfume.”

“Her perfume triggered the migraine?” You nod again, and Matt frowns mildly as he starts piecing some things together. 

It clicks. “Are you migraines…scent triggered?”

You sigh against him, throwing a leg over his, further settling yourself against him, and Matt tightens his arm. Your eyes flutter shut as you speak. “Yeah, usually. Being around strong scented things can be awful.” 

Matt’s not sure why he hadn’t recognized it before, now that he thinks back on it. The way your apartment always smells clean, but not in a way that smells like a solution of pure chemicals. It always smells more natural, made up of subtle scents that are warm rather than piercing. Your detergent is in similar fashion, and the shampoo you use on your hair is soft and almost indistinct to anyone who doesn't have a nose like his. No candles. No air fresheners. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t noticed it, given the fact that he has always used similar products at his own place that are equally kind to his nose.

“How come I didn’t know this?” Matt questions curiously. He should have known, uniquely prepared and understanding of yet another sensory factor that he has in common with you. But unlike your own unique sensitivity, Matt has found a way to block out most scents, especially the more unpleasant ones that come with living in New York City. 

“Didn’t seem important.”

“Didn’t seem–? It’s super important, if it means there’s something that causes you this much pain,” he argues quietly, resuming the movement of his hand running up and down your back. You arch into the touch. “I might not be able to help all of the time, but I might be able to help with this.”

Matt knows you know exactly what he’s talking about, having told you his biggest secret not long into the relationship. You take a sudden deep breath.

“I guess I didn’t think of it that way,” you admit quietly. “It didn’t really occur to me, that this might be something you could maybe…help with.”

“We’ll figure it out, sweetheart,” he whispers into your ear, shifting his head to kiss your cheek. “Whatever I can do to help, just like I said before.”

You nod sleepily into his chest, the conversation having apparently worn you out already, and Matt huffs a laugh when your eyes close again and don't reopen.

It doesn’t take long to develop a routine from there on out. Matt’s able to pick up on a scent headed up the elevator that he knows will bother you, long before the client even enters the office of Nelson, Murdock & Page, and he takes great care in either encouraging you to work from home the rest of the day, or hoarding you in his own office, the quiet and unassuming scent of your shampoo and detergent an everlasting sense of peace to his own sensitive nose.

It’s only been a few months, but he has every intention of permanently blending your scent with his.

*

5.  Sight

You prefer muted lights over fluorescent ones.

It doesn’t take long for Matt to notice that the lights in your apartment are warm and relaxing, a strong contrast to the lights he can hear in other various settings. It’s no surprise to him, not really, when he pairs this detail with all the other sensitivities you have. And while the low lights are a benefit to your eyes, Matt considers them a benefit to his hearing.

He’s never mentioned it, but even though he can’t see the harsh lights of a courtroom or police station, he can hear them, and the buzzing noise isn’t always pleasant. He can block most things out, but the constant thrumming does wear on his nerves sometimes, a sharp sound that blazes across his skin before settling in his ears.

He appreciates coming home to you, for more reasons than he could ever possibly count, knowing that the only lights you’ve brought with you when you moved in are soft and warm and blessedly quiet.

Matt knows your eyes are sensitive, that you wear sunglasses whenever you’re outside, regardless of sun or rain or snow, and the lenses that perch on your nose have a special blue-light filter to help take away the strain of staring at a computer screen for too long. He split the cost of having custom sized curtains throughout the apartment to drown out some of the light, and he’s heard you explain to Foggy and Karen the reason the backlight on your phone is so muted.

This isn't something he can necessarily relate to, the one sense of five he is lacking and will never regain. He remembers what it was like to see, colors and faces and neighborhoods rich and vibrant, but light had never caused him actual pain.

He will forever live his life in the dark, even while you remain the bright and pulsing star he will never stop orbiting around.

Over the course of the past year and a half, Matt has spent time tracking the similarities he has with you. All the sensitivities that match up, and it's brought so much comfort to his life that he doesn't know how to articulate it. You've begun building a life together that is soft and soothing for you both. 

He's not surprised that the topic of his own sight has taken so long to be brought up. Calm and simple conversations have sprouted up here and there, and he's always known that you'd haven't avoided the topic, but rather simply made it clear that while losing his sight has continued to be a large part of his story, it is not necessarily the one that is most important to you.

You have always understood that he is more than his blindness, even before his big reveal. And when the topic finally surfaces, it carries both more and less weight than it has anytime before. 

"Matt," you begin quietly, settled in his arms after he absolutely wrecked your world with his fingers, his tongue, and his cock. He's wrapped himself around you from behind, one of his favorite ways to ensure that you're here with him, that you're safe, that you're his. "Can I ask a question?"

He makes a sound in the back of his throat quietly, indicating that yes, you can ask him anything. He has stripped down every barrier that keeps you from him, both his walls and yours, and there is nothing he'll deny you. 

You must pick up the unspoken words he's given you in a language only the two of you understand, so you proceed. "If this sounds insensitive, please tell me. I don't want to upset you, I'm just curious."

Beyond interested now, Matt rolls you in his arms until you're facing him. Your breath gently rolls over him as he pushes a lock of hair behind your ear. "What is it, sweetheart?"

Taking a deep breath, your mouth parts in response. "Do you…ever wish you could still see?"

The question makes him pause in a way he hasn't quite stilled before. He's been asked the same question hundreds of times over the decades of his life since the accident, and the answer has always been the same. In an effort to tell people he's happy with where his life is at, in an effort to make people not pity him by him thinking a part of his life is missing, he has always responded with a quick, no, I'm fine. I've gotten used to it.

And while he is fine, the reasoning goes far beneath what he hands out for others to know. Matt may struggle with believing he is worthy of being loved and adored, but one thing he is sure of is that he doesn't owe anyone his story, and that very few deserve to hear it. 

He told Karen once that he wished he could see the sky one more time in a rare moment of opening up, though he admits that he had mostly done so to earn her trust in a display of offering a vulnerability. He had hoped it would inspire an admission of her own, something to help guide him towards the next clue to the puzzle in her case, but he had been unsuccessful.

But that was neither here nor there.

The question falling from the lips he'd gladly spend every second pressed against is quiet, less probing than others who have asked, and he knows this is yet one more thing he's unable to keep from you. 

Actually, the word is no longer unable, but rather unwilling, because there's not a single piece of himself that he wants to keep hidden from you. You own him, body, heart, and soul, and months ago that acceptance of ownership came with the realization that he has no desire to be anything but open and free beneath your fingertips.

A soft hand runs up his torso and settles over his heart, a quiet yet intentional moment of comfort, and you speak before he gets a chance to reply. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

He shakes his head. "No, it's not that. I'm just thinking."

"Take your time, love," is all you say, and the term of endearment never fails to knock him off his feet. You are his love, but he is also yours.

With a subtle clearing of his throat, he opens his mouth to answer, not an ounce of hesitation, though the words at first seem disjointed because he's not quite sure how to say what he wants to say. 

"I…yes and no," he starts softly in your ear. "There...are certain things I wish I could see at least once, or at least one more time, but for the most part, no. I don't necessarily wish that."

Sheets rustle as you push a thigh between his to press even closer. "Is it because you just have accepted it? That there's nothing you can do about it, so no use thinking about it?"

"In some ways, sure," he tells you, pointer finger drawing lazy circles on your hip. "But I was angry about it for a long time. Angry that my vision was taken from me because I tried to help someone. I felt like I had been punished by a god who only ever saw the devil in me, rather than the good I had tried to do, even as a kid. But that anger shifted the older I got, and rather than blame God, I blamed the rest of the world for all the injustices, feeling like I was doomed to do nothing but hear them. And it made me furious that everyone else had the ability to actually see these horrible things happening, and yet they did nothing."

"So…you let the devil out," you murmur against his chest, already familiar with this part of the story, having heard the explanation of what had made him snap, the final straw that broke the camel's back. 

"Yes," he whispers back, knowing you held no blame or disgust associated with the sentence you had just let out. "I let the devil out."

Once upon a time he had begged Foggy to understand why he had chosen this particular path, asking him to forgive him for doing what he had thought necessary to save that little girl. He had repeated the process with Karen some time after that, but the results had been even worse the second time, the lie in their friendship and failed relationship a chasm between the two of them.

But with you…there had been no begging involved. No praying at your feet that you would understand it, understand him. The shock had been there, true, when he finally revealed himself all those months ago, laying all his cards on the table, yours to do with what you wished.

A silence had echoed between you, one that had felt like years but had only actually lasted a split second, before you picked up all the cards he had given you, tucked them in your chest for safe keeping, and responded with endless amounts of love and affection. You'd taken his hand just as easily as you'd taken his heart, told him you trusted him to do what he thought was right, and that there was not a single piece of him that you did not want and adore.

"And now? How do you feel about it now? About not being able to see?"

"I talked about this once with Maggie," he replies, recalling the conversation he'd had with her years ago underneath the church. "This idea of looking back on the past and trying to figure out if the life we led was on the right path or not. I told her about all the anger I had felt, all the hurt and betrayal. It took me a long time to realize that maybe God thought sight was unnecessary to do what needed to be done, and that I needed to go through the things I did in order to become Daredevil."

"And has that helped you? Thinking about it that way?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation, without pause. "If getting back my sight meant losing everything else, losing all the things that have helped me to help others, then it wouldn't be worth it."

"That makes sense," you whisper quietly against his chest. Your hair rubs against his skin, and Matt sighs at the contact. "You're Daredevil. Daredevil is Matt Murdock. There's no separating the two, because you're both. You wouldn't be your full self if you couldn't do what you can do."

He pulls you tighter against him. "Yes, I....that's exactly it," he says with a rush of breath that slides over your hair and skin. "I couldn't…be me without it. So, no. I don't wish I could see, not if it meant giving this up."

"And you don't feel the need to see." 

Matt can't help but love the way it's a statement, and not a question. 

"I don't," he says simply. "I've lived the vast majority of my life without sight, and I can live the rest without it, too. I have Foggy. I have Karen. I have our practice. And I have you. My life is complete the way it is."

Fingers trail up his chest, up his neck, and settle on his cheek. Matt instinctively leans his head into the touch, relishing the way you always manage to provide love and affection without saying a word. 

He's not necessarily sensitive to the topic anymore, and certainly never could be with you, this wonderful person in his life who has filled him with warmth, a steady flame licking at his heart and spreading outwards, always finding every crack and crevice to stitch together and make whole. 

He'll never be able to fully articulate the way he's never felt like home with anyone else but you, never be able to fully articulate the way you've righted the axis of his life that has not felt safe or secure since his father died.

All he can do is try. 

Try to explain just how you've pulled him in like a moth to the flame, but never once tried to burn him.

"My eyes haven't worked since I was 9, but you manage to help me see, sweetheart. In a way no one else has been able to before, " he says, and the words cause your breathing to hitch. He continues without much pause. "You describe things to me without me asking. I can hear and feel everything so much, but there's always going to be things I can't pick up on, and you've filled that void for me."

Your hand twitches, curling into itself on his chest, and he doesn't waste a single second reaching up to flatten it against his heart again. "Matt." Your voice is thick with an emotion mimicking both surprise and reverence, and your heartbeat has sped up considerably. 

Bending his neck lightly, he brushes his lips across your forehead. "You just naturally tell me about things going on around me, as if you had been doing it your whole life. I thought it was cute before you knew what I was capable of picking up on, but you haven't stopped. You still describe colors and facial expressions and funny signs you see when we're outside. You still tell me all about these things you notice, as if you want to make sure I don't miss a single thing, and I love you for it."

Seemingly stunned into silence, you lay cradled up against him, heart racing and skin flushed and warm. Winding his hand in your hair, Matt pulls your head back, and waits until he knows for sure your eyes have rested on his face. His smile is soft, as is the skin of your cheek when he moves his hand to stroke a thumb down your cheek, picking up a stray tear that rolled down. 

He tilts his head down to kiss you, but before he can move an inch, you're pulling his mouth down towards yours with a hand of your own wrapped around the back of his neck.

He pulls away after a brief moment before he gently rolls you onto your back, parting your thighs so that he can lay between them, anxious to be pressed against you, pressed in you, in every way he can. You moan as his weight settles on top of you, though it changes to a quiet gasp when his cock slides inside, your cunt still wet from where he had finished inside you not an hour before. 

He's pretty sure you're nothing but wet when you're around him, something that never fails to arouse a sharp sense of satisfaction that he makes your body react that way. It makes it easy to take you whenever he wants, your body ready for his with his name and a murmured yes on your lips. 

Matt captures your mouth again with a soft kiss, and when he pulls away, even as his hips rock languidly against yours, he can't help but whisper the words that have unconsciously circled in his head for months now.

"Out of everything out there, out of everything you've told me or described to me, if I could see only one thing in the world, it would be your face when you say I do."

And with that, he laces his fingers with yours as he presses your hand into the mattress next to your head, lightly tracing over the engagement ring he had slid on to your ring finger not too long ago.

It seems that every one of your sensory sensitivities matches his in some way or another, and he can’t help but be thrilled, be calmed by it. The idea of spending the rest of his life side by side with someone he not only loves and adores and cherishes more than his own life, but someone who appreciates and understands the way that the world is just too much sometimes, someone who has helped him find peace in a way he had never thought possible, has forever changed this path that his life has always been on.

Your mouth parts in a sigh underneath his, and he spends the rest of the night using all four senses to drive you both to the edge over and over again, aware that he'll never need his sight to see how perfectly, how flawlessly you were made for him.

[beatrixstonehill2]

"This was me at nineteen versus now at twenty-one..... This sucks so bad! My transition was going so well, I was so pretty, my cock was tiny, my tits were big and full. Men absolutely adored me, I could hardly keep them off me. I miss having so many cocks rammed in my ass every day against my will, it was so hot! Ughhh..... I went to the doctor like normal, they tested my bloodwork and stuff. The doctor remarked that my cock was extremely small. I said I was fine with that and wanted SRS, but he smiled and said he thought I'd prefer it if I got to experience real orgasms with my cock before resorting to something extreme like SRS. He also told me I was very skinny for a trans girl my age and asked why I didn't want to be curvier. I told him I wouldn't mind a big butt and bigger boobs, and he put me on some crazy high dose of estrogen.

I rolled my eyes and agreed, because I'm a true submissive. Well..... after about a month I packed on twenty pounds and my cock was already five inches fully erect and I couldn't keep my hands off it. My balls finally got big and plump. It was so fun to jerk off. I used to need a cock ramming my prostate to cum, and even still, my cock would be flaccid, one inch, and barely ooze out one shot of clear cum. Now I was jerking off eight to twelve times a day, shooting rope after rope of milky white cum like a boy. I loved it SO much! Men loved it, too. They had a nice toy to play with as they fucked my ass. My cock became so red and swollen all the time, I posted pics of it on social media constantly! My parents were also thrilled by all the fun I was having with my cock, encouraging me to masturbate all day and go out to get fucked way less.....

I kept packing on more weight, at least twenty pounds a month. I tried to rationalize that it would taper off, that I wouldn't keep getting heavier. Plus in the short term I was so thick and sexy, and men found me even hotter, despite the fact that I had this huge cock now. Or because of it..... Six months on the new meds and I was about 210lbs, almost doubling my weight, and my cock was about a foot long, thick as my wrist, with two extremely generous testicles, both the size of a lemon. They were so hard to sit with and even walk with at times, but I could cum so fucking hard. Fifteen to twenty huge ropes of cum every orgasm. I'd moan like such a slutty princess every time, whether I was getting fucked at a party or at home, covering myself and my computer area with so much glorious cum, I never bothered washing it off. I loved stinking of it, sitting there, my fat belly jiggling, my boobs bouncing, my thick thighs pushing against my oversized balls.

But it kept getting worse. I got fatter and fatter every month. Now I'm so disgusting. You'd never know I was so sexy a couple years ago, barely any cock at all. Now I weigh almost 600lbs, and I can't stand it. I feel so gross and unsexy. Men want nothing to do with me, I'm just another smelly, fat trans girl who turned into a slob. I'm so fat I can barely walk, I just sit home, never bathing, never doing makeup or trying to look good. My cock is about sixteen inches, buried under loads of fat, my balls feel ready to burst all day. But my doctor recommends I don't jerk off, since my health is so bad and my blood pressure is through the roof.

The medication blew me up like a balloon, I wasn't even overeating, but now I stuff my face since it's one of the few pleasures I can still indulge in, even if it makes me feel even grosser knowing I'm just getting fatter. My cock is so hard all day but my doctor tells me all that excessive masturbation I like has put me at a very high risk of heart attack. Sometimes I'm naughty and push my belly down on my cock as I watch pretty girls on Instagram dance at parties like I used to. Their big tits bouncing, their bellies full of kids as they take shots and get fucked all night. I'm so jealous. My favorite is when I follow a trans girl who's nice and petite, getting fucked every night like a good girl, rubbing her tiny cock, only for a few months to pass, and I see her little cock grow to six inches, shooting thick ropes of cum suddenly. Her boobs get bigger, her thighs and butt get super thick, and she gets a cute belly to form, her pretty face getting round, with a double chin, looking so perfect and sexy. I push my giant gut on my cock knowing in a couple years she'll be just as fat and disgusting as me. I crush my huge cock, as my heart pounds through my chest, I moan and pant, and I finally cum, my chest gets so tight, my pulse feels impossibly fast and I make the biggest mess between my legs. Rope after rope after rope. I'm covered in sweat, feeling like my heart might finally give out, and slowly I settle down, my parents scolding me for cumming, despite how they used to encourage me to jerk off all day.... I know I'm so unhealthy and my heart can't take these heavy orgasms of mine, but it's soooo worth it, even if I am a disgusting pig now. I'm so glad my doctor put me on these meds...."

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA For telling my partner I'd like to bring my ex into our relationship?

I'm copying this over from r/relationship_advice, because the responses are giving me the impression they don't really get what polyamory is & I'm hoping tumblr does. For reference: there's me (29M), my ex (28, Trans Man), and my partner (30M).

My ex and I were best friends in high school, went to the same college, & dated through the tail end of undergrad, for about a year and change. We ended things on very good terms, the only reason we broke up was a difference in life paths: I stayed in the city to get my Master's, he traveled constantly for his work (he's a sculptor who makes these huge custom multimedia pieces, they're genuinely some of the most beautiful things I've seen). We fell out of touch for the most part, but I'd see him popping up on social media occasionally, or he'd text me when he was in town and we'd hang out, along with some other school friends.

The last time I saw him before our present situation was about 3 1/2 years ago today. We went out for drinks, he came back to my place after, and we ended up hooking up. He stayed in town for about a week, and we hooked up a few more times, and then he left again. He sort of dropped off the face of the earth after that, but he'd always been pretty sporadic, especially when he had a big project, so I didn't think much about it.

Not long after that, I met my current partner. He's truly one of my favorite people in the whole world; he's incredibly thoughtful, and earnest, and passionate about his morals & principles (he's an environmental lawyer), and more than anything, he's someone I never feel like I have to pretend with. He asked for my number, we had our first date a few days later, and ended up staying awake the entire night just talking about anything and everything, so we went ahead and got 5am pancakes and called it our second date. We've been together for a little over 3 years now, we've been moved in together for about 2, and while we've had the occasional fight or rough patch I can definitely say I love this man, and I plan to spend the rest of my life with him.

So, the big change.

About a year ago (~2 years since seeing my ex, my partner and I have lived together for about a year at this point), my partner and I are having a night in, and there's a knock at the door. It's my ex, looking absolutely ragged, holding a 15 month old baby. As in, a baby who was conceived 24 months before then. Yep, it's pretty much what you're guessing. I let them both in, we had a sit down in the kitchen, and he told me everything he'd been doing in the past 2 years in between me cussing him out for keeping it all from me in the first place. I really do want to keep this as short as possible, so to give you the super condensed version:

She's my daughter, he's completely sure about that, there's no one else he's been with the math is even close to correct for

The second he found out he was pregnant, he more or less panicked. He's got a whole Thing about feeling like he's irresponsible/not a "real" adult, and this really set him off, so telling me felt like "admitting to fucking both our lives up" at the time. His OB/GYN said some pretty awful shit to him about not being more careful as a trans man too, which just made it all even worse

Because of all that, he'd genuinely planned to just never tell me I have a daughter & raise her completely on his own, but a few things compounded to force his hand:

The birth was really rough on him, and his recovery was slow enough he was having trouble going back to work, to the point where money was getting tight

On top of that, our daughter has celiac disease, and between paying out of pocket for blood tests & spending more on baby food she's safe to eat, things got desperate enough he went and took out a really dodgy loan from a scummy payday company

He was at our door because all of this had finally spiraled to a point where he'd lost his apartment, they'd been sleeping in his car for about a week, and he couldn't think of anything else to do

I think I was probably feeling every human emotion in existence at the same time through all of this, but the thing I remember most from the whole conversation was the way my partner kept drifting right back to the baby, and the soft way he looked at her. We put my ex & daughter up in a hotel room for the night and told him we needed to talk, and we'd discuss our options in the morning, but I think even then I kind of knew what our answer was going to be.

Sure enough, for the last year and a half we've been co-parenting our little girl, all three of us. We didn't want to juggle who's got her, or force my ex to find a place to stay, so we've turned my partner's home office into our daughter's room, and redid most of the downstairs layout so my ex could move into an actual bedroom, rather than just sleep on our pullout couch in perpetuity. We finally succeeded in convincing him that rest and recovery was more important than trying to contribute to the house finances right away, and it's been magical watching all that stress and terror slowly fall off him. It's like he's a little more alive again every time I look.

Which is where my question comes in.

I'd like to restate, I love my partner 100%. None of this changes that whatsoever. If I ask, and he says no, that will be the end of the discussion for me completely. But I have eyes. My ex is, objectively, a very attractive man. I know we work well together, and I have to admit I'm very curious to see where that same chemistry could lead now that he's not on the other side of the country half the time. I've also been noticing these little moments between him and my partner. Nothing I'd consider crossing a line, but I've caught my partner checking my ex out several times, as well as vice versa, and they get along remarkably well. Sometimes I'll go to enter a room, and see them both sitting there laughing and chatting and playing with our baby, and I'll just hang back to watch because it makes me so happy.

Add to all that, we're pretty deeply ingrained in each other's lives now. My partner and I don't often go out on dates alone anymore, but the last few times we did it felt as if my ex was missing from the table. We watched a movie together last night, and my ex sat in the middle of us with his feet in my partner's lap and his head on my chest, and it felt just as natural as my arm on my partner's shoulder. It's not about just having sex with him, and it's not that I'd want to invite any old person into our relationship. I know we already all love each other, and I think there's potential for that to become romantic between the two of us and my ex.

It just feels as though we're all holding our breath, waiting for someone else to say it first. My ex certainly isn't going to bring it up when he's living rent free in "our" home (it's his home too, but he doesn't seem to see it like that yet). My partner grew up sheltered enough that I'm not sure he's ever heard of polyamory at all, so he's not going to bring it up. That just leaves me.

My problem is, if I'm wrong about what I think I'm seeing, or if I bring it up the wrong way, I can't take it back. I don't want my partner to feel insecure or betrayed, I don't want my ex to feel pressured or put on the spot, and I definitely don't want my daughter to lose any of us, which I know could happen if we aren't all on the same page. Or worse, if we do all date and it goes badly.

Should I just keep this whole thing secret? Is that even worse? Would I be the asshole for opening this can of worms on everyone else?

Help!

[finnick002]

How to kill Mizora in act 3 without damning Wyll

A few months ago I made a reddit post on this matter. Thought I should share this tutorial with Tumblr folks too and add a few more notes plus an alternative method to it.

Players have discovered Flesh to Stone can turn Mizora into a statue, but this tutorial helps you erase Mizora's presence on the material plane. Both methods involves the use of illithid powers, meaning you have to absorb a few tadpoles. But, to quote Wyll, that's "a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things".

Method 1. Drain Intelligence -> Absorb Intellect

You need: A character who has gone through partial ceremorphosis and unlocked illithid power Absorb Intellect,

A wizard/fighter/rogue (classes that use Intelligence for spell casting) who has unlocked illithid power Ability Drain, and a cleric/druid who is at least level 9. One character may satisfy more than one roles. If you're short on tadpoles, please refer to this page for the locations to find them.

Step 1. Let the wizard/fighter/rogue attack Mizora with any attack roll spells (e.g. Firebolt) to drain her Intelligence. Alternatively, equip Infernal Rapier and melee attack Mizora. Repeat until her Intelligence is drained to 1.

Step 2. (IMPORTANT!) Let the cleric/druid prepare the spell Contagion. Cast the Contagion: Mindfire variant of it on Mizora. Wait for her to fail the saving throws 3 times. (She needs to succeed the saves 3 times to nullify this spell.)

After 3 failed saves, Mizora will turn hostile due to the spell effect and a battle commences. This step is to make sure that you can safely kill her. Otherwise, your entire camp would turn hostile, and Wyll and Ulder would no longer be your allies.

Step 3. Let the character who has gone through partial ceremorphosis use Absorb Intellect on Mizora. It is recommended that this character has a high initiative to act first. Once you successfully hit Mizora, the combat ends, your party gain 1 XP, Mizora teleports away but leaves a pool of blood on the ground.

And then she teleports back - as a disintegrating corpse that turns into a pile of ash after 1 round. No loot from her. What a shame!

Playing flute on her ash XD

Method 2. Drain Strength -> Summon Shadow -> Strength Drain

This method is very similar to the first one. You still need a cleric/druid and a character who has unlocked Ability Drain (preferably someone with high Strength), but no one needs to go through partial ceremorphosis. Instead, back in act 2 you need Gale to craft a Shadow Lantern in Moonrise Towers.

Step 1. Equip Shadow Lantern and cast Conjure Shadow Lantern Wraith to summon a Shadow.

Step 2. Let the character who has unlocked Ability Drain to drain Mizora's Strength. You have many options like melee attacking her, or throwing rotten food, boots, underwear, or anything in your inventory at her. Repeat until her Strength is drained to no higher than 3.

Step 3 is same as step 2 in method 1 - Cast Contagion: Mindfire on Mizora and wait for her to turn hostile.

Step 4. Let the summoned Shadow use Strength Drain on Mizora. She shall die in the same way.

Babygirl you do need a good rest after 7 years of abuse and torment!

So far, in my testings, dead Mizora doesn't affect Wyll's quest, nor does he have a reaction to it. However, it makes saving Ulder a bit easier: when Ulder steps outside of his cell room, the cutscene where Mizora shows up will be skipped. The spiders will still be summoned, but Ulder won't waste a turn forced to kneel.

PS. You may notice My origin Wyll here doesn't have horns but Karlach is also in my party. Some players have also discovered this way to trick Mizora in act 1, by knocking out Wyll every night until the party have entered Mountain Pass. I will post details about this after I get a reliable way to achieve it.

[arkhammaid]

— ˚₊‧⁺˖THE LIGHTNING ON TRACK | BEFORE THE FAMILY

fandom. formula one & mcu

about. y/n meets the stark clan

content warnings. written in 3rd person + headcanonish, not edited & proofread!

word count. 0.8k

notes. first 'lore' chapter!! i'm excited and hope you all like it <3 i would love some feedback hehe and any reblogs are ofc greatly appreciated!

before...

TONY STARK

y/n l/n grows up surrounded by motorsports, especially motogp. with her mother being a worldchampion, it's only natural that fast cars and bikes are her every day entertainement.

she's raised as an only child and by a single mother, she doesn't even know who her father is. and if she's honest, she doesn't care about it at all. why would she need a father, when she has already such a cool mother?

while her mother loves her independet daugher, she still thinks she should know about her father and tells her the truth. tony stark, also known as iron man, is her father. they had a short relationship, akin to an affair but it ended with both of them being extremely busy with their lives.

but just because y/n is aware who her father is, doesn't mean he's aware that he has a daughter. and he hasn't been for a long time, not until y/n's career in single seaters properly started. he regrets meeting her so late (in her teenage years) but never holds it against her or her mother.

how do the two meet? well, it's quite tragic... with her mother losing her year long fight against cancer, y/n is left alone, since her mother didn't have any close family. not wanting to end up in forster care and stop her career, she seeks out tony and shows up on his doorstep one random wednesday afternoon.

he's shocked, but pretty much believes her, when she tells him who she is. tony is of course no fool and still does a dna test, but even if it came out wrong, he would've taken care of y/n- he immediately felt a connection.

within the same week, tony gains custody of y/n and she moves to new york, but still goes to a boarding school until she's a candidate for formula 4.

PEPPER POTTS-STARK

y/n meets pepper in the same week she meets tony. not as her step-mother, but as CEO of stark industries and close friend of her father.

they immediately take a liking to each other (they both like to bully tony) and pepper can't help but feel for the lonely teen. y/n doesn't have many friends, especially close ones and with her genius mind, she always felt like an outsider. she only truly fits in with other racers, but then it's more about her talent and they're also all boys and older than her. not somehting everyone likes...

when tony finally ask pepper to marry him, y/n is their biggest supporters. pepper is incredibly touched and makes her maid of honor. she goes even so far, to ask y/n, if she would be alright with pepper adopting her. that evening, many tears were shed.

y/n loves pepper just as much she loved her own mother and sees her as another mother figure in her life. she still doesn't call her like that, but sometime she slips up and calls her 'mama', which leaves pepper flustered and deeply touched.

HARLEY KEENER

it takes a bit for tony to introduce y/n to harley, who she meets first as brother. with harley studing in MIT, he only knew that tony had something very important to talk about and wanted him to come home as soon as he could.

but it still took two months, until harley and y/n met, but luckily they hit off. harley knows what it's like to have a smaller sister, so he stepped up as big brother again, while y/n was a bit unused to no longer being an only child. but with harley being a full-time student, it felt as if she was one.

despite harley acting like an older brother to y/n, it still took a long time for them to actually grow closer. harley lost his family few years ago, but the thought of actually having a younger sister again... well, let's say he had a few things to say to his therapist.

but a few years have passed now and they're close, despite rarely seeing each other, with harley working at SI and y/n having to travel the world for her racing.

PETER PARKER

y/n meets peter as tony's intern very early, so she experiences the process of him getting adopted first hand. with both of them beings so close in age, they're close by default.

but it also helps that they have a similar humor (proud genz) and interests. peter starts focusing on engineering, just because y/n is heavily involved with it and y/n does physics and biochem work with peter, to help him as spider-man.

when peter gets adopted and becomes a proper stark, y/n set the goal to become his favorite sibling (he always talks himself out of the pick with "my favorite sister is you", fully knowing he only has one).

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ARKHAM MAID 2024

[thewulf]

Oh Baby || Aaron Hotchner

Summary: Request - hi! could you write a Hotch x reader where the reader is like a doctor so pretty much just like Derek and Savannah lol but with any plot line I just love that trope:) your writing is so good btw!

A/N: Tiny Angst / All Fluff - Thank you for the request. Short and sweet but super cute :) Super off the prompt... but enjoy!

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Y/N

Word Count: 2.1k +

Oh shit. You sucked in a breath as you sat there and stared at it. The little test that was about to change your whole world. How was it even possible? You were so damn careful. So, so careful. Oh shit. It’s not that you didn’t want any children. No, you did. You wanted Jack to have a sibling. He had practically begged you and Aaron after the first year you were together. It was never the right time though. Work always seemed to be an excuse. Life had a funny way of doing everything opposite of your plans though.

You pulled the test closer to your eyes making sure that second line was really there, “Oh, shit.” You sighed setting the pregnancy test down on the bathroom counter. Running your hands across your face it was hard to fathom what the hell this meant. Your eyebrows pulled up as you dug your palms into your face trying to think what the hell this meant. This was going to throw every kink in every plan the two of you had made. Was he going to be mad? No, of course not. Aaron never got mad at you. Never, ever.

Aaron worked long hours but so did you, if not longer. Being the only orthopedic surgeon in the surrounding area that was worth a damn had you busy. Busier than ever. You’d successfully opened up your own private practice a few years back at the encouragement of your then boyfriend Aaron, now fiancée. He’d proposed a year ago now. The two of you were busy planning the wedding, now this? A baby?

The two of you had gotten together shortly after Haley’s death. That was three years ago now. You’d been living with the Hotchner boys for the past year after Aaron had proposed and things were better than ever. Jack even helped his dad propose to you by bringing in the ring during a fancy five course meal Aaron had prepared. When he wasn’t working he was doting on your or Jack. His two favorite things in the world, he made sure both of you knew it too. He’d learned a lot after his relationship with Haley. He’d made so many mistakes he was not going to make with you. He was going to make sure of it.

You and Jack got along thick as thieves. He knew he liked you when you helped him finish a Hot Wheels track and played with him for hours. Little did he know you were having the time of your life playing with the boy. Healing your inner child as he grew with his own right next to you. He’d taught you so much in the short time you’d known him. It was hard to fathom that he was about to turn eight on you. Well, at least he was getting that sibling he kept asking for. That was if Aaron wanted to keep it. He’d want to keep it right? You looked down at your stomach and sighed, “You’re going to make my life very difficult little one.” You poked yourself lightly. What a mess this was about to be.

You hid the test in your sock drawer. Not wanting him to find it accidentally. You ran a load of laundry frowning slightly when you got to Jack’s clothing. You’d missed him dearly. He was staying with Haley’s mom for a few weeks out in Arizona for summer break. It was his first long trip away from either of you. It was breaking your heart, probably even more than his. The house was far too quiet without him running around telling you all about the latest Call of Duty game.

You weren’t expecting the elder Hotchner home either. He’d normally give you a call or shoot you a text letting you know he was on his way home. It’d only been a few days since he had to jet anyway. These trips could last a week or two depending.

Would you be all alone having to care for the little one? Would he take a step back to help out some more? Would you be expected to step back from your career? All the questions swam heavily in your mind as you flipped the laundry over. A baby. You should be so excited… but this wasn’t the plan. This was the furthest thing from the plan.

Once you finished up you put some soup on the stove to warm. Not really having the appetite for an entire meal anymore. One of the perks of having your own practice was setting the hours for yourself. The more you worked the more you made. The less you did the more you could relax but make less. A dog-eat-dog world.

You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts you hadn’t heard his SUV park, the car door slam, and the front door open and close. Aaron had to call you out by name to bring you back to this reality. The one where you were freaking the hell out.

“Y/N, honey?” He called a little louder this time.

You snapped your head around not expecting him. But low and behold there was a text on your phone from hours ago. You just failed to see it. Oh, shit. Now you had some explaining to do. Were you even ready to tell him? He had every right to know. This was just as much his baby as yours, “Aaron. Hi.” Shooting him a forceful smile you

“What’s wrong?” He asked immediately looking around the kitchen as if there was an intruder

You shook your head, “Nothing. Sorry honey. I was just wrapped up in my own head. Big case came in today.” Lie. Dirty filthy fucking liar. You hated lying to him. But you needed a second to think. You’d had all afternoon to think… but not about this. Not about telling him.

He walked over to you peeling you away from the counter you were leaning over. His eyes danced from spot to spot on your body. Checking you over. Making sure, “Is that all? You seem upset.” He frowned while brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

You opened your mouth but closed it quickly. Who did you think you were? You couldn’t hide this from him. His job was to read people. He could already read you like a damn book. He’d see right through any lame ass excuse you think you could give him.

“Sweetheart? Are you alright?” He looked concerned now. Why couldn’t you tell him?

Again, you opened your mouth, but the words failed to come out.

He took you by the shoulders, “Y/N. Honey. Come on. You can tell me.” He looked tired. So damn tired. You felt bad for doing this to him now. Ideally you’d tell him after a long sleep. After he was relaxed. Hopefully h

It just had to come out. That’s what you had to do. So, with wide eyes you spit it out at him, “I’m pregnant.”

His head cocked to the side as a smile turned up, “You’re pregnant?” The grip he had on your shoulders loosened a touch as he ran a finger along a shoulder blade gingerly. Almost as if you were the most delicate glass that could break at any moment.

You nodded almost afraid to meet his eyes, “Yeah.”

You closed your eyes breathing him in. Tears rolled down your cheeks before you buried yourself into his chest, “I’m so sorry Aaron. We’ve been careful…” You felt guilty? Guilt. That was it. Like you

He pulled you out immediately, “You’re sorry? Y/N. This is good. You’re pregnant baby! My baby is giving me a baby.” His usually stoic face broke out into a grin as he pulled you back into a hug. He squeezed you tight in his arms.

Some excitement broke through your nervous exterior seeing his joy at your bomb dropping, “You’re happy?”

“Honey.” He took your hand and pulled you to the couch right on top of him, “I’m so happy. We both want him or her.” He pointed to your belly with a look of deep admiration, “Why wouldn’t I be more than excited baby?” He pulled you in for a long kiss. A deep long kiss. He loved you so dearly. This was everything for him.

You shook your head after he broke away, “The timing is off…”

His smile calmed your nerves immediately, “The timing will never be right baby. We’ll find an excuse around every corner. Why not now?”

You felt every bit of anxiety escape down through you, “We’re going to have a baby, Aaron.”

He nodded excitedly, “We’re going to give Jack a sibling. He’d going to be beside himself.” Aaron chuckled running his fingers along your abdomen.

“Boy or girl? Which one do you want?” You asked curiously.

He shrugged, “Doesn’t matter. So long as they’re healthy. A little one of you would be really stinking cute though.” He leaned in giving your nose a quick kiss.

“I don’t know if we want to deal with all that drama.” You giggled remembering how much of menace you were from 13-19 years old. A complete menace with no regard for your parents. You grew out of it of course but it was rough there for a while.

He looked at you with the utmost love in his eyes, “She’ll be perfect. He’ll be wonderful. Life is going to get so much better baby.”

“We’re both so busy.” You didn’t want to bring down the mood, but you needed to know. To know if he had a plan. To know the both of you could figure it out.

“We’ll figure it out. If I need to step back I will. Don’t worry sweetheart.” He squeezed your side giving you a small reassurance.

“You’d do that? You love your job.” You frowned hoping

His laugh brought your eyes back level with his, “I love my job yeah. But I love you more. Love Jack more. Love this baby so much more than you can even imagine. So yes, I’ll step back if we need to. You are my priority. This baby is my priority.”

You didn’t think your love could grow more for the man but here you were. Your heart was swelling for him. It swelled for all the love you were feeling from the man of your dreams. It was by chance that you met him.

You were the on-call surgeon that night. Only on call once a month. And you’d been called in. A member of Aaron’s team had been shot and needed surgery to repair and stitch the wound back up. It was touch and go. You’d almost lost the man on the table, but he pulled through.

Aaron thinks he fell in love with you right then and there. You were the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid his eyes on. And you just saved Spencer’s life? Yeah he wasn’t going to let you slip out of his grasp. Lucky for you he didn’t. He stayed at the Hospital until the end of your shift. In panic he asked for your number in case he didn’t see you again.

It started as quick coffee dates when he was in town. It progressed quickly to you babysitting Jack and facetiming Aaron more often than you wanted to admit. You were smitten, quick. The rest was history. Sure, he was a bit older than you, but it was everything you could’ve asked for and then more. He was the kindest, sweetest, most thoughtful guy you’d been with. You were happier than you’d ever been. You’d worked through the struggles of both your jobs and the lack of being around. Thank goodness you did because you’d ended up with him. You’d had the pleasure of falling in love with him.

“You’re my priority too Aaron. I can always find another surgeon for the practice. Stay home for a while.” You grinned thinking about it. How lucky would you be if you could pull that off?

“We’ll do whatever you what baby.” He pulled you back in so you were laying on his chest, “We’re having a baby.”

You smiled up at his giving his cheek a quick kiss before nuzzling into his neck, “We’re having another little Hotchner.”

He held you in his arms laughing just thinking of the chaos, “Good luck to us.” He was so excited. So beyond excited to do it with you.

Permanent Taglist (Message me or comment below if you want to be added!): @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556

[prismaticfaery]

Little Bunny

John Price x Fem!Reader

Summary: Never in a million years would Captain Price think that he'd have a chance at a family, but with how dangerous his profession was and his chances of becoming a father becoming a reality, you and him have to learn the hard way that moving on is the best you both can do.

**TW: Pregnancy, vomiting, swearing, mentions of sex, alcohol, labor, childbirth, anxiety, panic, angst, unrequited love. (Forgive me if I miss any!)

Rating: Mature

This is not short, it's 10K words! Also, don't expect too much of a happy ending!

Part Two

A/N: I was debating posting this for so long out of fear it was trash, please be gentle with me! To add, termination is always going to be your choice and it’s okay to consider that option!

Fluorescent lights hung overhead, your eyes poorly adjusting to the harsh lights as you fumbled with a pen nervously between your fingers. You had filled out a small packet of papers on a clipboard, the receptionist telling you that your doctor would see you soon and to make sure every bit of information was filled in. When you had initially told the receptionist that it would only be you when she asked if you were accompanied by a partner for a confirmation of pregnancy ultrasound, she gave you a look, and you knew she was silently judging you for your situation. 

“Y/N?” You hear a nurse call out while propping a door open, breaking you out of your trance.

It was two weeks ago when you had realized your period was late, your work schedule and general hecticness in your life made you suspect that it was stress at first but when your period never showed even a week later, and with having a pretty normal cycle, you darted to the commissary on base and bought two boxes of pregnancy tests– two different brands to make sure. Yeah, you had been more tired lately, and you had lost your appetite more than a few times, but you knew that those could also be normal premenstrual symptoms. 

With your uniform pants and panties down to your ankles, you held two different pregnancy test in your hands, the trembling in your arms and hands from fear only became worse when the test slowly turned positive. With a harsh breath in, you hold it for a moment, fresh tears stinging your eyes when you finally release your breath. Your body felt frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. Do you tell him now? Do you wait? You were on birth control and never missed a dose, but of course, it’s not always foolproof. You weren’t even with the baby’s father on an exclusivity level, only really depending on each other for comfort and pleasure when you both needed it– not to mention he was your Captain, your superior. 

A hiccup leaves your throat, the metaphorical golf ball stuck in your throat nearly choking you as you place your head in your hands, those fresh tears gathering in the corners falling into your hands. You were active duty in the SAS and newly recruited into Task Force 141, though just a Sergeant, and you were living in the barracks, which was not the place to bring a baby up in, nor was it even allowed. You weren’t prepared for a baby to come along, and you knew that your Captain had no intention of having children while he always had a target on himself. You knew he wouldn’t take this news well. 

“It looks like you’re reaching nine weeks, strong heartbeat at 168 bpm– see it here?” the doctor pointed to the tiny fluttering heart on the ultrasound monitor. 

“I do,” you smile lightly, your eyes never leaving the small floating jelly bean that jerked and wiggled inside of your body. 

“Do you have support at home?” The doctor asked, her eyes meeting yours with a certain softness, knowing that you checked your marital status as “single”.

“Well I have my mother, but as for the other half of the child, he won’t be very happy,” you say, sitting up and adjusting the paper blanket draped across your nude bottom half. 

“Reach out to your mother, okay? Best of luck with everything,” the doctor takes her leave, giving you the privacy to clean up and put your uniform back on. 

You sat for a moment, the silence deafening save for the nurses speaking at their station outside the exam room door. You peek over at the ultrasound monitor, which had been paused on a picture of your tiny baby. Your heart ached, and you found yourself struggling to turn your head away, until a knock at the door sounded. 

“Here are your papers, there’s also a script for prenatal vitamins and some brochures,” the nurse smiles, handing you the small stack, “take care of yourself.”

The door closes behind the nurse and you decide that it’s time to finally get dressed. You wipe the ultrasound gel from your abdomen and lower region, and silently slip your clothing back on, your eyes never leaving the monitor until you notice a small black and white photo had been printed and attached to your after appointment papers. Your heart skipped, quickly tearing the photo from off of the stack to hold in your hands, your little baby’s side profile had been captured and you could see the tiny arms and legs scrunched up to its body. 

Checking the time on your watch, you pick up speed, remembering that you had a debriefing on a Task Force affair with your Captain soon and you were definitely going to be late arriving at it. You knew he wouldn’t be happy with your lack of punctuality, but you had proof that you were tied up in a last minute affair. 

Once arriving back at base, you could see the familiar form of Soap who was also a late arrival to the debriefing, but you knew it was because of his poor time management skills, or he was just waking up from one of his naps. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he spins around in a wild fashion. 

“Good grief, ya scared the shite out of me,” Soap held a hand to his chest. 

“Sorry, I was just curious if we could walk together to the debrief,” you question, your eyes pleading for him to agree as to save yourself from being individually called out by your Captain. 

Soap nods, his longer legs falling into step with yours, “you’re not usually late to these things, something must have had you tied up,” Soap scratches his head, yawning into his unoccupied hand.

“Oh you know, women’s issues,” you shrugged, Soap wincing at your words. 

“Ah, I don’t think you need to explain,” he chuckles, knowing damn well that he was treading into territory he was very familiar with, having to be around female soldiers– especially with being around you so much– taught him more than enough. 

Opening the door to the small debriefing room, you could see Ghost leaning back in his chair, one leg over the other while his arms crossed against his chest, his usual black balaclava covering his face. Gaz was in the seat adjacent to Ghost, his face blank– an almost bored expression showing. 

Price’s body language was showing very clear annoyance as he watched you and Soap enter, the awkwardness in the room causing you to fumble into your seat, the loud scraping of the chair leg against the tile floor made Price audibly sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“You two are late, don’t let this happen again or I’ll have you assigned cleaning duty for a week,” Price points his finger first at Soap, then at you, your eyes casting downwards in embarrassment. 

As the debriefing went on, you could feel the familiar crystalline blue eyes of your Captain steal glances of you. You make yourself small and scarce in the meeting, your arms folding across your upper body and your body slinking into your chair. You felt strange about having such a huge secret being hidden away from your Captain who was more than deserving to know about it, but you needed time to formulate a plan on how you were going to carry out telling him. It would be better to tell him sooner than later though because you could be deployed at any time and that would be a dangerous situation for you and the life that was growing inside of you. 

“Ghost, you and Gaz will be going to Russia for some recon, I need intel– any intel on where they’re moving next,” Price nods his head in Ghost’s direction, handing Gaz a debriefing packet on his and Ghost’s deployment that they’ll go over together at a later time. 

You feel your body tense as a very heavy wave of nausea washes over you, Soap noticing your eyes fluttering and your skin becoming ashen and shiny from sweat. Pushing his seat out with the back of his legs, Soap rushes over to the trash bin, knowing all too well you wouldn’t make it yourself. He shoves the bin into your lap where you attempt to shield yourself with your arms as you empty the contents of your stomach. Gaz winces, and Ghost is pretty much unbothered but keeping a watchful eye on you. 

“You alright?” Price askes as he makes his way over to your hunched over form. 

“No, I really need to go,” you heave a sigh, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Leave that, I’ll have someone clean it,” Price nods, motioning for you to leave. 

Long having discarded your uniform, you sat on your bed, staring at the white wall across the room. So many thoughts flooded your brain, and you felt like you were losing control of everything in your life all in the span of a few hours. You were young, and still inexperienced in life, halfway to reaching your thirties. The dried yet still sticky feeling of tears coated your cheeks and you felt like your heart would leap out of your chest every time you even thought of mentioning this pregnancy to Price. How the hell was he going to take it?

You knew that it would go two ways most likely– one: he’d walk away and break all contact, or two: he would tell you that he would support you and the baby, but would not be present.

A knock on your door broke you out of your thoughts, your voice cracking as you told the visitor to come inside. Price’s tall body stands in the doorway for a second before stepping inside and closing the door behind him softly. He knew it was risky coming into your room so early in the evening but he was willing to take that chance. 

“Everything alright? Soap said you were dealing with something– didn’t know the pain got so bad for you during that time of the month,” Price sits beside you on your bed, his taller form making yours tiny in comparison. 

“I’m alright, I just need to rest,” your voice is small with a tinge of exhaustion, playing into Soap’s assumptions of you being on your period. 

“You been crying, love?” Price’s large hand caresses your neck, his thumb dancing across your cheek soothingly.

“A little, yeah,” you smile softly, leaning into his touch. 

“You want to tell me about it?”

“Not really, if that’s okay?” Your breath catches in your throat, you knew damn well you should tell him, but fear froze you in place. 

“I understand, hormones and all that lot can be difficult,” Price sighs, the hand that rested on your neck falling back into his lap. 

You suck in a breath as his words repeat in your head. Did he already know? Or did he have an inkling of an idea? No, that wasn’t possible. 

You feel the familiar burn of bile rising into your throat, your legs making a mad dash for the bathroom across your small barracks room. Heaving what little was left in your stomach, you could feel your Captain’s cool hands gather your loose hair from your sweat covered neck and forehead. As you breath in and out heavily, a soft cry escaping your lips from the horrifying nausea pounding through your body, you feel Price’s free hand rub soothing circles along your back. 

“You’re alright, sweet girl, let it out,” the deep gravel in his voice was soothing. 

You gag and heave one last time before you begin to feel like the nausea is subsiding, Price’s arm reaching over to flush the toilet and then bring your body back to lay against him as he leaned back against the tub. Your shorter legs are pulled up to your chest as his thick arms engulf you. 

“I’m pregnant,” a sob escapes your throat, a trembling hand brought up to your now teary eyes, wiping away any stray tears that escape. 

Everything goes silent around the two of you, and you could tell John was formulating his response and keeping himself from reacting in a way he would regret. His arms go slack around you and you begin sobbing even harder at his action. 

“Did you not take your pills?” Was all he could muster asking. 

“I did, I did-!” you cry, turning your body to face him now. 

“Y/N, you know what this could do to us– to me, right?” Price’s voice was dangerously low now, a look of pure anger painted on his face. 

You knew all too well what this situation could do to you both. Demotion, dishonorable discharge, enemies who had a target on both of you– but more specifically him, would know that there is something precious and innocent that could be easily taken away. 

Price goes quiet, his eyes downcast as he thinks to himself for a moment, “I think you should consider your options.”

“So that’s it? You’re putting all of this on me?” your heart begins to sink into your stomach, knowing damn well that this was his way of telling you that he wanted to cut all contact and act like this situation never happened. 

“What will you have me do, Y/N, hm?” He points a finger at himself, the tip poking into his hardened chest. 

“At least consider options with me– it takes two-!”

“No, Y/N. No,” Price rises to his feet, leaving you in a puddle of anxiousness on the bathroom floor, your eyes frantically watching his hand swing the bathroom door open. 

“Please don’t–,” you reach an arm out to him, but he’s gone so quickly from your sight. 

You find out the next day that you were pardoned from work, formation, and PT for a full month, knowing that Price did this to allow you time to think about what to do with the pregnancy. You hardly left your room, and when you did, it was usually just to eat and do laundry. Soap tried to stop you a few times to catch up and ask how you were doing, but you instead offered a smile and a quick, “I’ve gotta go,”. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried out of his mind for you, sad eyes watching you disappear down the hallways. He was often your partner in missions and would offer a helping hand if and when you needed it. Maybe he just needed to wait for you to come to him? He would always wait for you. 

You stared at your discharge papers for days, the blanks filled out neatly, and the pen you used sat atop the thin packet. You were sure that this is what you wanted, and this would save John from the possibility of having everything he worked so hard for to be snatched away. No one would know he was the father of the baby, and you weren’t going to make him be something he didn’t want to be. You wouldn’t inform him of the gender, due date, name– anything, if he didn’t want to know, in which you knew he wouldn’t. 

You wanted to make this as easy as possible– slowly cutting off your military life, and going back home to make a new life for yourself and for your baby. Your mother was in agreement, telling you to come home and to get yourself back on your feet, that she’d be happy to watch over the baby while you worked. You would have your childhood room back and your mother’s cooking, and that was enough to put a smile on your face even for just a moment through the rough patch. She knew that having support was the most important thing for you. 

You gather the papers in your hands, tapping them on the counter to even them out. Taking a moment to think one last time if this was truly what you wanted, you let out a shaky breath, leaving your room and making your way to John’s office, your fingers grasping the papers tight enough to wrinkle them. 

You knock three times on Price’s door, waiting for him to call out an answer for you to enter, “come in,” you finally hear him say. 

He straightens in his desk chair, the air in the room becoming thick and tense. He looks to be stressed out, his hand soon covering his forehead as he attempts to relax. You sit in one of the two chairs across from his desk, sliding your filled out discharge paperwork over to him. Price’s vascular arm reaches over to grab the papers, keeping his eyes on you the whole time. At first, he thinks that these are adoption papers for the baby, in which he would sign the parts that said “father’s information”, but he soon realizes that’s not what he was given. 

“You’re leaving the military?” his eyes darted up to look at you. 

“I won’t make this difficult. You don’t need to know a thing if you don’t want to, you won’t need to be present, just sign those papers and we’re gone.” 

“The Task Force needs you,” Price’s voice falters, his usual soft tone you were so used to is back. 

“I want to raise this baby, John– our baby,” you feel yourself spiraling, your hormones making it difficult to keep your composure. 

You could see his eyes flutter closed, his body shaking as he releases a large huff from his lungs, “you’ll be discharged immediately. I don’t want to see a trace of you left in that room.”

“Yes, sir.”

You had very little to pack up in your room, your mother having come from London to help you carry anything heavy. Soap had stopped by your room after hearing the news that you were being discharged. His thoughts soared wildly as he watched your mother pack away your things as you carried out items to her car, thinking of how sick you must have been to have to leave the military immediately. You must have been in need of serious medical treatment to just drop everything and leave. His form standing outside your door caught your mother’s attention, making his entire body tense. Turning on his heel, he prayed to whatever or whomever that your mother hadn’t seen the stray tear fall down his cheek. 

Your civilian clothing felt a little tight around your lower abdominal area, your belly poking out slightly, bloating from the pregnancy hormones and constipation since the baby was still very tiny to make an appearance quite yet. You were half tempted to keep your jeans unbuttoned but with it being so hot out, your shirt was cropped right above your belly button. You had to keep cool somehow and you weren’t sacrificing your style for your growing belly. You and your belly bump can be stylish together. 

“Is this the last of it, darling?” Your mother questions, placing the last box in the trunk of her sedan. 

“Yes,” you answer, looking around one last time before opening the passenger door of the car and slipping inside. 

Your eyes caught a glance of Price, who was outside on the training field with a group of soldiers. He was looking right at you, and it sent a flood of different emotions to wash over you. Tears stung your eyes, your throat swelling as you tried your best to keep yourself from falling apart. You were prepared to do this whole parenthood thing alone, but you were hoping that you would at least have him present for the sake of the child– not even for the sake of you because you weren’t what mattered in this situation. 

You had fallen madly for him but your job had made it very apparent that feelings for your superior could be a whirlwind of repercussions to pay. You had to play it safe in the shadows. John would have been a liar if he said he hadn’t also felt the same feelings as you, but kept it no more than a hook-up every once in a while. This was the most difficult decision you could ever make– deciding to walk away. 

It had taken you weeks to acclimate to civilian life after being in the military for so long. You were freshly 18 and had just graduated secondary school when you joined the Royal Army, just entering your mid 20’s when you passed selection for the SAS, Price was the first to congratulate you, shaking your hand and offering you a warm smile, the creases in the corners of his eyes sending you into a tizzy– goodness he was so handsome. His face was shaved then however. You loved his chops when he started growing them out, your eyes catching his own as he carefully combed through the thick auburn beard hairs with a sandalwood comb in the middle of his debriefings. 

You sat at the dining room table of your childhood home, scanning over the words on your laptop screen. You had gotten a new job and you were going to start working remotely from the house, which was perfect because of the baby coming around February. You had since gotten into a new doctor’s office, your mother accompanying you for support. Her face lit up when she saw the baby floating around on the screen, their little arms covering the front of their face. You had cried more than you liked and your nausea had increased dramatically once leaving the base. You thought it may have been from the stress of leaving your old life behind intermingling with the pregnancy hormones. 

Your mother was a huge support, telling you that you could take time to yourself before you found a civilian job. You waved her off however, saying that she had no business having to pick up the slack for her adult child. She had already taken to knitting small items for the baby, and your favorite was the small floppy bunny beanie that was a light cream color, the inside of the ears a dusty pink. 

“Have any of your military friends contacted you since leaving?” Your mother asks, peeking up from the cream colored blanket she had started days previous. 

“Soap has, but he ended up being deployed before I could answer. He probably thinks I’m dying with having left so suddenly when I was experiencing morning sickness during debrief,” the sigh that left your lips was a sad one, as Soap was someone you had grown quite close to over the years of being in the same barracks and then being on the Task Force together for a short period of time. 

“Well hopefully you can remain friends,” the nimble fingers of your mother placed a stitch marker into the blanket. 

“One can hope,” you lie. 

You were entering your 20th week of pregnancy– halfway to the finish line is what your mother said to you that morning. Her excitement was easy to spot as today was the day you would find the gender of the baby out. Your belly had grown some, but not enough for it to be immediately recognized as a baby bump. Maybe you just ate an entire pizza? 

Drinking the last bit of orange juice, to which your mother swore would make the baby more lively in your belly during the ultrasound, you look over the texts in your phone, Soap’s name popping up suddenly. It catches you off guard when you open the text, seeing a picture of Ghost and Price out on the firing range, Price’s hat sitting on top of Ghost’s head as he lay prone on the ground with a sniper rifle. Price had his arms crossed and was seeming to refuse being in the photo, his hand covering his face. Soap hadn’t sent so much as a “hi” in weeks, and you had hoped that he just moved on from the thought of you staying in touch with your old roots. Closing out of the text app, you place your phone face down on the kitchen counter, your heart dropping. You just won’t reply, just like you had been doing before. 

Patiently waiting in the exam room at the midwife’s office, you placed a hand on your belly, hoping that soon you would finally be able to feel movement. Your midwife said it’s normal to not have movements until now or even a little later but you were so impatient. Once entering the room, the midwife went over her routine questions, and took your blood pressure. 

“Your blood pressure is a bit elevated, are you getting enough water and rest?” The midwife asks, placing herself on the stool next to the ultrasound machine. 

“Mum wouldn’t let me live it down if I weren’t,” you answer. 

“I believe it,” the midwife chuckles, looking over at your mother who had taken a seat next to you on the exam table, “I would like for you to continue what you’re doing, and if you’re feeling any strange symptoms like dizziness, faintness, seeing stars in your vision, or pains in your chest or ribs, go to the hospital immediately.”

You nod your head, and the midwife starts setting your ultrasound up, helping you lie back on the bed as soon as she’s done. Unbuttoning your jeans, she places a flannel over the top of your jeans to keep the gel from staining them. The lights are then turned off and you begin to relax and clear your mind, ready to see your baby after weeks of waiting. Squeezing a large amount of gel onto your abdomen, the midwife places the transducer of the ultrasound machine onto the mound of gel, rubbing it around to find where the baby is positioned. 

“Look at those little puckered lips,” the midwife smiles down at you.

“Oh darling, look at that sweet baby,” your mom was in tears, her emotions always outmatched yours. 

As the midwife continues looking at the baby through the monitor, she takes her time going through all of the anatomy of the baby, noting it on the keys of the machine. Your hand was being squeezed so hard by your mother, you thought that your circulation might be cut off after so long. The tiny fingers of the baby were by their mouth, their legs stretching out and scrunching back up. 

“What were your bets on the gender, mum?” the midwife asks your mother, the two smiling at each other. 

“That’s a little girl in there.”

“Mum is correct,” the midwife points her finger to the wiggling baby, a clear picture of the baby’s gender boldly displayed. 

You’re going to have a little girl, Captain. 

Squealing with delight with fresh tears coating her cheeks, your mother squeezed your arm and kissed your cheek, “I’m so proud of you. I’m a grandma to a baby girl.”

While there was downtime, Price often grabbed drinks with the Task Force, his usual military uniform shed and his dog tags resting on his bedside table. The black jumper he wore had gotten a little loose, his appetite scarcely there since you told him about your pregnancy. His anxiety made his mind wander more than he liked. How were you doing? Was your belly finally popping out? Did you start purchasing baby items? He would always ground himself after some time, his internal voice telling him that this was for the safety of himself, and the safety of you and the baby. His baby. But not his baby at the same time, he made that clear with you all those weeks ago. 

Clutching a rocks glass in his hands at the bar, Price took a quick swig of the amber liquid as Soap sat to his right, scrolling through his social media timeline. Ghost was at the pool table across the bar, talking with Gaz, who had just taken a shot at a cue ball. It had been raining for days straight, the cool air flowing into the bar with each time the door opened. Were you also experiencing this weather? Or had you gone countries away to escape staying in the same country as your former friend with benefits with whom you now had forever ties with? 

“You know, Y/N’s social media was deactivated and she never answers my texts. I wonder if she’s okay?” Soap mumbled, unable to put his mind at ease as to where you went or what happened to you. 

“She was honorably discharged from the special forces, she’s probably cutting ties with her old life as much as possible,” Price’s voice was grim, however Soap didn’t quite catch on. 

“That’s not like her though– she used to post everyday–!” Soap gestured his hand to his phone, his social media app still open. 

“I think it’s best to allow her to move on,” Price slammed the rest of his whiskey, placing the glass back down on the bar with a loud clunk, “she’s been shot, wounded, seen death, caused death, stayed in hospital for weeks altogether in her career– she deserves peace.”

“She was ill, Captain,” those baby blue eyes of Soap’s were now filled with worry. 

“You said it yourself: she was experiencing her time of the month.”

“You’ve turned cold recently Captain–.”

“Move on, Soap. That’s the best you can do, for her sake and yours.”

Soap’s emotions were crushed, his heart sinking to the very bottom of his belly. Price knew Soap always cared too much, and that’s what set him apart from many people who had grown a bit cold and cynical while in the SAS– like Ghost for example. It was time for everyone to move on, it had been many weeks since your departure, and the only one who seemed to hold on the most was Soap… at times. Price struggled too but he was a Captain, he needed to be a leader and offer guidance to his soldiers, even if it wasn’t what they wanted to hear, but needed to hear. 

Holding his glass up to signal the barkeep for another pour, Price sighs, watching Soap scroll some more on his social media timeline, hitting the search bar and typing in anything and everything he could think of just to find you. He then sees him type in your mother’s name, his body language picking up in relief when a profile popped up, he just hoped your mother’s timeline wasn’t completely private. 

“Shite,” Soap mutters, disbelief flooding his tone, “she’s fuckin’ pregnant?” 

The Captain’s heart might as well have stopped beating right then and there when he heard Soap. Looking over at Soap’s phone, Soap adjusted the phone to show Price the screen, a post from two weeks ago exclaiming that you had just found out about the gender, a picture of you attached with a pink cupcake in your hand. 

“It’s a girl,” Price stared at the photo of you for way too long, his eyes softening when he saw that pregnancy glow, your cheeks becoming more filled out, and the swell in your lower belly being caressed by your hand. 

“Lucky lad, the father is,” Soap locked his phone, placing it face down on the bar, soon cradling his head in his hands. Soap is now trembling, a relieved yet saddened sigh leaving his mouth. 

Yeah, a lucky lad he would have been in a different world. 

Lying in the bath, the bubbles that had been added to the water thick and covering most of your body, your hands rested on your belly, rubbing the soft and stretched skin gently. Twenty two weeks along and you still hadn’t felt movements, and it was starting to worry you. Most people felt movement already. Sinking lower into the warm bath water, you feel the tension in your shoulders release after having worked all day. Come to think of it, your desk was still in a disarray with papers and pens and you had no energy to clean it up at the moment. 

Stilling yourself in the water and staring ahead at the faucet, you notice your stomach twitch, thinking that at first it was just a reflex, until it happened a few more times. You place the tips of your fingers where the twitches were happening, flinching when you could feel little taps. 

“Is that you in there, trying for your mummy’s attention?” You whisper, and another tap could be felt. 

Tears escape your eyes, quickly rolling down your cheeks when you think about how John is missing out on these moments. He would never be able to feel his little girl’s first movements. You wanted to imagine him being right there after you called out his name, his large hand reaching down into the tub, brushing softly against your swollen belly. He would wait patiently, at first discouraged that he missed those little kicks. Until finally, those little taps started up again, his baby blue eyes lighting up as he felt the tiniest movements against his palm. 

Wiping your tears away with the butts of your palms, you let out a shaky breath, attempting to ground yourself as much as you can in this moment, knowing that tears and sadness were not going to help get yourself through this. But it did feel good to cleanse your soul with a few tears after they built up for so long. 

When John had gotten to his room back at the barracks after downing three glasses of whiskey, he could feel his body give out from under him as soon as he shut the door behind him. His back slides down the door, his bottom meeting the cold tile, hands cradling his face as he chewed his bottom lip raw, the dull sting of the open wound radiating on his mouth. Hot torrents of anxiety begin to course through his body, tears stinging his eyes as he feels like he might crawl out of his skin. Clawing at his jumper collar, he feels like he’s suffocating, his breaths uneven and raspy. 

He missed you– missed those nights where he crawled into bed with you, your limbs entwining in a warm and comforting embrace after a hard day of work. His hands would search for the feeling of your soft skin in the darkness, only to feel an empty coldness on the sheets where your body should have been. You weren’t even his and vice versa but his attachment to you was obviously present from the beginning. His eyes always sought you out in the room, always scanning the battlefields to make sure you were safe. He should have pulled out all those times, knowing damn well that no birth control was 100% effective, other than abstinence or sterilization. He had gotten too comfortable with you, too lost in the warmth, the comfort you brought him. The smiles and the joking, the playful smacks you would give him, the wrestling and tickling matches that very often turned into that hot and heavy sex that left you both breathless and in a heavy daze. 

John knew he needed to move on, and to allow you the opportunity to live a happy and safe life with the baby, away from the military, the SAS, and the Task Force, but he was stuck on the idea that things could have been so different. If his duties weren’t so important– ridding the world of everything ugly and scary, meaning that his daughter wouldn’t have to one day live in fear, he would do it a million times over. No matter how much it hurt– no, how much it killed him, or how difficult it was to go day after day not knowing who or what she might be when she finally came into the world. How he’d never be able to see you become the mother you talked about being one day, holding a brand new baby while coming down off of the adrenaline, sweat still clinging to your forehead and cheeks. How he wanted so badly to witness that ecstatic yet exhausted “I did it,” come from your mouth, your tired eyes peering up at him. Being your support system while you struggled to nurse, changing the baby’s first nappy, letting you rest while he gently rocked and soothed the fragile bundle, whispering how much he loved her already. 

“Fuck–!” Price shouted, throwing his car keys across the room. 

At 32 weeks, your baby shower took place, friends that had kept in contact with you over the years came, as well as family members that you hadn’t seen in some time. You were in a comfortable maxi dress as your belly had gotten too big and it felt like the skin on your belly was always itchy so the soft fabric of the dress played a part in keeping that feeling away. There was a mountain of gifts that sat around the recliner in the den and you were overwhelmed with how much people cared to spoil the baby this much. 

As you sit in the recliner unwrapping the gifts, you smile for the pictures your mom begged to take so she could show you off, holding up each and every item you received. Blankets, nappies, outfits, baby gear, necessities, and even postpartum kits sat in a corner neatly. You were crying, feeling so undeserving of the kindness, but as your family and friends saw you, they all offered their comfort in the form of words of affirmation and bone crushing hugs. That you were loved and supported in this particularly difficult and confusing time. Your friends and family would have loved John. 

Your mother brings in another gift out of nowhere, her arms barely able to wrap around it, let alone carrying it over to you. Confused, you make her drop it, your body lifting from the recliner to help her set it down, her hand waving you off to not help her with something so heavy in your condition. She gives you a look and shrugs, saying there was no name on the gift. Tearing the wrapping paper off, you see a beautiful bassinet pictured on the large box. No one had fessed up to getting the gift for you, so you sat confused for longer than you would have liked as everyone else mingled. 

It had taken days for Price to figure out what he wanted to do for your upcoming baby shower. Your mother had posted an event, not realizing it was a public post, and fortunately for John, he knew your address from your paperwork and files. He found the sweetest bassinet, a cream color with a lacey pink border. It had a little storage area at the bottom so that you could keep any baby items at arm’s reach. Once he had put his payment and your address in, he hit the confirm button. He just hoped it would arrive on time. 

Sitting back in his desk chair, he listened to the busy hallways in which soldiers congregated and conversed while on their down time. His mind wandered to the most recent pictures your mother had posted, and your belly had grown bigger and you smiled so large. He imagined lying in bed, shirt removed, sweatpants on, your warm body next to his in a night dress that had become too short on you with your bump, his hand caressing the bottom of your abdomen, whispering sweet words. You were pressing your lips to his own, lingering for a moment and breathing in each other’s breath. 

“God, I hope you’re doing alright,” Price’s voice came out in a near whisper. 

Work has become a distraction of sorts, the meeting on your screen with several of your coworkers becoming something like a white noise as your mind wanders, your pen hanging loosely between your fingers as you stare into the void. A plate of biscuits and a cup of tea had been placed on your desk almost an hour ago by your mother, but they hadn’t been so much as even touched. You had a pretty significant headache that had gnawed away at the back of your head for the past few days that not even a paracetamol here and there helped. Thinking that the hormones had everything to do with it, you brushed it off without a second thought. 

“Y/N, what do you think about this?” Your coworker asks, pulling you from your thoughts. 

“I think it’s a great idea,” you answer, nodding and smiling into your webcam. 

Catching the fully set up bassinet that had been put in the other corner of the room in your video feed, you smile, placing your hands on your now nearly full term belly– 36 weeks to be exact. Your coworkers dismissed the meeting after agreeing to start the new project that had been outlined for a few weeks now, the small details and start date finally figured out. 

You stand from your desk chair, a hand placed on the underside of your belly to keep your center of gravity balanced and to keep your pelvis from hurting from the weight of your belly. The dress you wore swayed as you waddled over to the corner of the room where all of the baby’s things had been set up. Grunting as your knees bend to the floor, you drag the hospital bag you had been slowly putting together over the past few days. There were folded onesies, and knitted cardigans that you still had yet to pack away, as well as a small bag of toiletries. John would have chewed you out for being so carefree on such important things such as the hospital bags. He would have had his bag packed for weeks and sitting at the front door. 

Wincing from a twinge of pain in your chest, you stop what you’re doing for a moment to wait for it to subside. It could have been a trapped gas bubble– pregnancy and all of its little quirks. When the pain doesn't subside, you attempt to get onto your feet, but cry out when the pain worsens. 

“Mum–!” You cry out, bracing your hand on the bassinet and clutching your chest. 

Hearing your mother stomp up the stairs quickly, she barges into the room, rushing to your side and helping you up, “what happened, sweetheart?” she questions, eyes wide. 

“I’m having really bad pains in my chest,” you begin to cry, hot tears pooling in your eyes, scared out of your mind for the baby. 

After little to no convincing, your mother packed you and the bags into the car. It felt like the longest drive to the hospital ever, the diaper bag sitting in your lap and your own hospital bag at your feet, the baby kicking the wind out of your lungs, so you thought that she was hopefully doing just fine with all of her movements. There was a fresh sheet of snow on the ground and icicles formed on the trees, the freezing January air nipping at your skin. 

A nurse brought your mother and yourself over to triage, hooking you up to a non-stress test, the nodes placed cozily around your stomach, and wrapping a blood pressure cuff around your upper arm that was inflating and squeezing the life out of you. You knew that 140/90 was not where a pregnant person’s blood pressure should be, and you were certain the nurse was going to have you pee in a cup to check for proteins. 

Sure enough, you had to pee in a cup, handing it over to the nurse when you were finished and it was a hard enough feat to reach under your belly. Thankfully though, the non-stress test wasn’t alarming, the baby’s heart rate staying in a normal range even with the issues you were facing. 

“I think it’s safe to induce you right now, I’m not liking the looks of your blood pressure and labs,” the midwife sits in a stool across from your bed. 

Everything started off manageable– the pains, you were able to breathe through. Your mother stood by your side the whole time, clutching your hand when you needed it. You sat cross-legged in a hospital gown, the bed placed at the highest position, and an IV placed in the crease of your elbow. It was five hours later when the pitocin had started causing the most excruciating pains you had ever felt, and you had been shot many times in the SAS. 

Crying out and grasping the handles of the bed, your breathing became ragged and your mouth dried out and you were so happy when your mother applied lip balm to your mouth to keep them from cracking. Each time your progress was checked, the pain worsened, the labor pains feeling like a searing hot knife was dragging across your lower abdomen. You wanted so badly for John to be here, sitting across from you on the bed, letting your arms wrap around his shoulders while you groaned through your pains, but it was your mother who stood in his place, her tender touches breaking you out of your swimming mind. 

Hours later, your water had broken on its own, and now you were in the home stretch and the anxiousness began to flow throughout your body, knowing that your little girl was to make an appearance by the beginning of the next day. 

John’s body was wired, sleep not taking him this evening, his hand resting on his bare stomach as he splayed out on his bed, the blanket barely covering his waist. He scrolled mindlessly for hours on his phone when he finally decided to browse your mother’s social media, hoping that she had updated with anything that had to do with you. He shot up from his pillow when he saw a photo of you sitting up in a hospital bed, and IV and wires hooked up all over your body. 

“Posted three hours ago,” he mutters to himself, tapping your photo and zooming in on your face– you looked so angelic. 

His baby would be here so soon and it made his heart skip beats, anxiety flowing through his veins. He could be there right now in place of your mother, whispering sweet words of encouragement in your ear, rocking with you and helping you breathe through the pain. Even when on the battlefield while injured, he knew you were terrible at controlling your breathing, often passing out and waking back up with him chewing your head off. 

“Make sure to breathe, sweet girl, you’ve got this,” he spoke almost silently– a whisper off his lips. 

Lying back down, he knew immediately that he was not going to sleep until he knew you had delivered safely and that the baby was okay. Knowing how much your mother posted updates about you, it was surefire that she’d post a picture of that sweet baby as soon as she arrived. What were you going to name her? Would you give her your surname? Of course you would, he doesn’t have that badge of honor– of his kid taking his name, when he wasn’t present. What would his daughter look like? Hopefully like you because you were the most beautiful creature on God’s green Earth. 

The smallest hand was wrapped around your finger, swaddled in the cream colored blanket your mother knitted just for her. The baby came out kicking and screaming after almost two hours of pushing. You cried out for John, wanting him by your side more than anything. To hold your hand, to kiss you so deeply when the baby came and was placed on your chest. Your mother knew how much you missed John, your forlorn looks never fooling her, and so she felt great sympathy hearing you scream out for your past lover. 

“Look at you, Bunny,” you whisper, stroking the soft cheek of your little girl ever-so-softly. 

“Oh, you did such a good job, my love,” a kiss was placed on your cheek by your mother, her hand resting on the back of the baby’s bunny hat covered head. 

You would go through the pain of carrying her and bringing her forth a million times over, your heart swelling so much it might have exploded when your eyes caught the looks of her face. She was so perfect, so tiny. The moment she was placed on your chest, her eyes peered right into yours– those same crystal blue eyes she shared with her father. 

It was late morning the next day. John hadn’t slept a wink, his eyes heavy and Soap was late to debriefing– like that was a new thing though. He decided to sit at the table instead of the podium at the front of the room where the projector screen hung behind it, too exhausted to stand for more than needed. Gaz was away on deployment, leaving Ghost and Soap to sit in the seats to the right and left of him. Ghost’s eyes peered at his newest deployment papers, flipping through the pages pretty quickly as he was a fast reader. Soap had his head down, phone hidden under the table while there was a moment of silence– a break of sorts, in John’s meeting. 

“She had the baby, bonnie lass she is,” Soap says out loud, Ghost looking up from his papers with a quiet hum.

John frantically dug his phone out of his pocket, searching your mother’s name on social media. There you were, holding the tiniest bundle in your arms, swaddled inside a knitted blanket with her hands tucked under her chin. He had to leave, he needed a moment. The chair screeches when he stands, Soap’s attention snapping to his Captain, who started rushing out the door. 

Sharing a confused look with Ghost, Soap stood from his seat and left the room. Why did he leave in such a hurry? Why did he react like that in general? Soap was searching his brain for the possible answer. Come to think of it, Soap never noticed a gentleman by your side during your pregnancy and your mother had mentioned in posts how you were so strong and she was lucky to be by your side during this new adventure. Was John that baby’s father? Why was he not there with you? But then it all began to make sense the longer Soap thought– the SAS and Task Force were always keeping themselves hot on the tails of dangerous people, and those dangerous people would stop at nothing to take everything away from them. Maybe this was a mutual decision– and exactly why you left the military. 

John’s breathing was heavy as he shut the door to his room behind him. He felt unstable on his feet, nearly tripping on his way to sit on his bed. Your photo was zoomed in on his phone, your hair was disheveled, your hospital gown hanging from your shoulders– he was guessing you’d already attempted to feed the baby with how lazily it had been tied back up. John’s eyes focus on the baby, his heart skipping a beat when he looks at her sweet button nose and wispy little hairs poking out from her knitted bunny hat. Oh how beautiful his girls looked after all of their hard work. Pride swells in his chest, he knew this must have been so difficult, but you did it and looked even more beautiful than before as a new mother. 

The nights were long, the days melted together, and you found yourself lost. Though your mother lent a hand when she was available, you had taken on so much so quickly and had no adjustment time, as having a baby would do. Between nursing the baby and running on less sleep than you had gotten on some of your deployments, you were ingesting more caffeine than you liked, and you often found yourself nodding off at random times. But that little girl had been the easiest to please so far. As long as she got milk, had a clean nappy, warm clothes, and cuddles, she was content. 

John would have been the one to wake up at the first signs of movement in the bassinet– he was an incredibly light sleeper and would often rise earlier than most of his team. He’d say how much of a waste it was to sleep the morning away when you could be productive and get more important things done before the day actually needed to start. You weren’t much of a morning person and would often tell John to let you sleep in until the last possible minute if you stayed in his room for the night, but you always managed to slip out of his room before anyone came into the halls. 

Your mind wandered more during your maternity leave, often you questioned what John was doing, if he knew his daughter had arrived safely and if he knew how beautiful she was. Did he have any deployments in the time you were discharged to now? You were sure he was busy, as he always had been. 

A few weeks passed and John was on leave for three weeks, visiting home and executing plans he made with Soap for the day, who was taking a leave around the same time as John for a wedding. While walking the streets of London, hands stuffed in his pockets, and Soap to his side, the two talked about quick bite options nearby. John had a cafe in mind, mentioning that they had great coffee and sandwiches.

The late winter air nipped John’s nose, the tip dusted a light pink. He had a black beanie placed atop his head and a black peacoat over his jumper. Soap’s outfit resembled the outfit John wore, save the beanie, but add a scarf. Soap had attempted to reach out to you on multiple occasions since having the baby, but of course, you didn’t answer. Soap knew that he shouldn’t keep trying to pry and answer out of you, but he also knew that you needed the support of a friend, even though he wanted to be more than a friend. 

Price felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, telling Soap to go on ahead and order for them both– Price wasn’t picky. Opening the door to the cafe, Soap felt an immediate warmth wash over him and the heavy smell of coffee filling his nose. Taking a spot in the short line, he stared at the menu above, until he became distracted by the woman in front of him, kissing a very small baby on the head, cooing and rocking her body as her hands caressed the sling that held the baby to her chest. He knew your voice anywhere. 

“Y/N?” He places his large hand on your shoulder, spinning you to face him. 

Your eyes were wide, a scared look on your face until you noticed Soap’s familiar face. Barely able to string words together, Soap took you by the arm and dragged you to the side, his arms engulfing you in an embrace, careful as to not smoosh the baby’s head between your two chests. 

“Why didn’t you answer my messages?” Soap’s low voice vibrates the side of your face as your arms wrap around him. 

“I didn’t want my old life to follow me because of her,” your voice trembles.

“But you didn’t have to face this alone.”

“I do though,” you pull away, looking at Soap with watery eyes. 

Feeling his heart sink, knowing that what you said was true, he didn’t want it to be. He wanted to be the one to hold you– support you, and keep you safe. Even though what Price was doing was carrying out the same purpose. 

“She’s a beauty,” Soap nods to the sleeping baby covered almost entirely inside your sling, her little face settled against your chest, lips puckering as she stirs to get more comfortable. 

“Thank you Johnny,” you smile, stroking her cheek softly, then adjusting the knitted bunny hat to sit closer to her eyebrows. 

Johnny– he hadn’t heard you say his real name in so long, it was like a treat hearing it leave your soft lips. 

“Reach out to me from time to time, just so I know you’re doing okay?” Soap pleads, his hands resting on your shoulders, squeezing them lightly to get his words through to you. 

Nodding with a soft smile, you could hear your name being called by the barista. Grabbing your coffee, you turn to exit the cafe, offering Soap a soft “bye,” as you pass him. You wrap your thick shawl around the baby tight, holding onto her with one hand while you balance your coffee in the other. You were only minutes from your mother’s house, and the fresh air was something you needed after being cooped up in the house for so long. 

Then you see him– John. He was ending a call on his phone, placing it back in his coat pocket before setting off on his walk to the cafe to meet back up with Soap. Your heart was pounding, and almost as if the baby senses your unease, she begins to stir and whimper. You walk closer and closer to where John’s position is by a lamp post. His eyes spot you and his body freezes in place. You keep walking, shushing the baby softly, your hand placed on her back to let her know her mother was right here. 

“You’re alright, Little Bunny,” you say into her hat, softly kissing the crown of her head as you pass John. 

His daughter was right there, cozily pressed against your body in the chilly climate. The baby wore a cream knitted bunny ear hat, one ear flopping over the side of the sling. She looked so much like the both of you, it almost scared him. He wanted to hold her— hold you. It ate away at his insides, turning his guts to liquid as he watched your eyelashes flutter down to the ground, watching your feet. 

Tears were falling like mad down your face as you passed him without a word, John watching you in disbelief– he didn’t think he would be able to rest his eyes upon you again, not after going this long without contact. But it was for the best, you both knew this. 

His eyes followed you until you were no longer in sight, making sure you were absolutely safe with the baby. Life could be different, he could run after you and grovel on his knees for forgiveness. To beg you to forget he was ever cold to you and to start fresh. But he couldn’t, especially not after how things ended and with knowing he’d jeopardize yours and the baby’s safety.

It was days later that you had run into Soap and John while out in London. You hadn’t slept right in days and it was a mixture of having a newborn who needed your attention and the anxiousness of seeing your old lover and not being able to think about a thing other than him. 

Your mother’s footsteps can be heard ascending the stairs and she soon appears in the doorway with a small parcel. Handing it to you and planting herself on your bed next to you, she waits for you to open it. As you tear into the parcel, peeling the tape and opening the box, you look inside and see a knitted bunny, the yarn pink and soft. Pulling the bunny out, you notice a note attached to it, neatly folded and taped shut. As you carefully open the note, your eyes scan over the words written on it. You knew that handwriting— John’s handwriting. 

“For Little Bunny.”

[harryforvogue]

hello. here she finally is, the harry and mia blurb (which i also offer as the 200k reads celebration story). i hope you like her. she's like 7k words so she DID take some years off my life but it's okay. as long as YOU guys are happy hehe. there is basically no smut in this, but i like to think it's quirky and funny. happy reading! and thank you, as always, for you patience <3

i literally cannot come up with a synopsis for this so. yeah. just read it THANKS LOVE YOU BYE!

***

Just two weeks ago, Harry and Mia had been invited to a birthday party.

To be specific, which is very necessary in this situation, they were invited to a kid’s birthday party. Harry had promoted one of his employees to a high position, and as a thank you, the woman had invited Harry and a plus one to her child’s 6th birthday party. Harry had looked down at the invitation wondering if there was a typo. He couldn’t fathom the idea of going to a regular birthday party, much less a kid’s one.

But his employee had insisted. And Harry had hinted that taking him out for lunch or something would be even better in his books, but the women refused to budge. So a few days later, Harry and Mia stood in a venue with drinks in their hands, dodging children left and right.

His arm was slung around her waist. Mia was quiet for some time, a pensive look on her face as she watched the child who was “it” bellow, “CHAAAARGE” before sprinting to tag the other kids. Usually, something like this would make her twitchy, but something about her still figure and soft brown eyes made him ask, “What do you think? Should we get one?”

Mia had blinked at him. “A kid?”

“No, a bouncy house.”

“Oh. Um. Well, I wouldn’t be opposed, but…”

“Mia. Never mind. Yes, a kid.” He sighed deeply and slanted his head towards her, his brows raised. “Thoughts?”

“I mean…” They’d talked about it before. And both of them wanted children. But it seemed like something that would happen after the wedding. But even that was really close – in three short months. “You know I want your kids.”

Harry laughed softly and shook his head. “You always emphasize that they’d be mine as if I’d expect them to be somebody else.”

“Well, you know,” she smiled back, nudging his shoulder with hers. “I have to remind you that they’ll all have your big head.”

“You love my big head.”

“I do.” She took a sip of her drink. “And you? Think we should get on it?”

If it were up to Harry, he would have liked to wait just a year more. He wasn’t in a rush. Though recently he had been enjoying the idea of having a baby to erase, and the feeling was always tainted by terror. “Maybe when my job is a little…”

Mia nodded. “Yeah.”

Harry had been so busy recently. His father’s company had just bought another, right before the end of the fiscal year. They had so much to work on for reports. It was driving him insane and causing him to work overtime. He just needed to get over his hurdle. And then he’d relax. He’d come home on time. He’d have more time to take Mia out rather than force her to attend a birthday with him. This felt like work anyways.

“But I do look forward to it,” he’d insisted, kissing the top of her head. He watched as two kids ran into each other and began sobbing on the floor. “Well. Mostly.”

A week later, Mia had come out of the bathroom at night with a pregnancy test in her hand. Her eyes were wide, hesitant. “I thought it would be funny,” she said, “if it was negative because I missed a period and–” 

She handed him the test. “You said you wanted kids a little later… what if we had one in nine months?” She looked at the wall, dazed. “Well. Seven months really, if I’m doing the math correctly. Which I’m probably not. You know what? It doesn’t matter. I think you get the point.”

Harry peered down at the test. It was a very solid positive. He’s silent for a moment. Then – “Holy shit.”

“I know,” Mia whispered, joining him on the bed. “It’s a lot. But we’ve talked about it, right? And we’re getting married and you know it was gonna happen eventually. I mean–”

“Mia.”

“-- I’m just saying that with the amount of sex you and I have, protected or not, it’s totally a miracle that we haven’t gotten pregnant already. And yeah I know we ditched the protection, and birth control doesn’t always work but–”

“Mia.”

“--what I’m trying to explain is that I’m totally okay with this. I might be freaking out a little bit and I might have had a mini panic attack in the bathroom but I really just–”

“Mia.”

She buried her face in her hands. “What?”

“I fucking love you.”

He’d taken her wrists and tugged. When she gave up and let him, he grabbed her face and kissed her so hard, she squeaked in surprise, steadying herself with a hand on his chest. “That,” he murmured through the kisses, “was such a Mia way of telling me. You are unbelievable. I’m never going to get used to you.”

Her eyes had immediately welled with tears. “Yeah? This is all right? We can work with this right? I mean, I’ll likely have to get the dress tailored again but I don’t think I’ll be showing that much in two months.” She leaned in and kissed him again and again until he felt her tears on his own face.

“This is perfect,” he’d whispered, holding her tight until she was gasping for breath. “I fucking– Mia. Mia. You make it so hard when you give me all these gifts.” And then he was grabbing her again, making her straddle him. He kissed her again and again, unwilling to take breaks in between even when his lungs were aching for air.

“You,” he said softly, “are everything. Listen to me. Everything. And we’re going to celebrate tomorrow, okay? Anything you want. All day. Nobody can bother us. How’s that sound, hm?” He kissed her. “I love you. I love you so much I can’t think straight.”

When Mia fell asleep on his chest that night, his mind was racing with ideas on what they could do tomorrow. What could he do that could compare with the things she’s done for him? He held her tight. He was going to be the best damned father anyone had ever met. He couldn’t be anything less than that.

***

The next morning, Harry’s phone begins to ring. And it continues to ring until Mia groans and reaches over him to grab it. She looks down at the caller ID with squinted eyes. It’s as if a bucket filled with ice water has been thrown over her.

“Hey,” she whispers to Harry, pushing his shoulder to wake him. “It’s your father.”

He tucks his head against her neck. “Ignore it.” His voice is raspy.

She lets it ring until it stops. “You already have two missed calls from him. What if something happened? Like the company suddenly went bankrupt overnight? Like something with the stocks. Like the Great Depression? Do you know how bad the Great Depression was?”

“Then I guess I’m unemployed. I’m so sad.” He doesn’t sound sad at all. His arm that’s thrown over her waist tightens and he pulls her back down until she’s against the pillows again. “Go back to sleep.”

“Fine, but don’t blame me when you wake up destitute.” She closes her eyes when Harry’s warm body begins soothing her back into a peaceful state. Her eyes are heavy again. Nothing is more comfortable than Harry’s hold lulling her to sleep.

And then Harry’s phone rings again. It rings and rings until Harry finally raises his head and swears under his breath. He grabs his phone and puts it to his ear. “Hello,” he answers in a very not so kind voice.

“Harry,” Mia hears his father’s voice through the phone. She opens her eyes and glances up at Harry. “Why haven’t you been taking my calls?”

“It’s 5 in the morning on a Sunday,” Harry replies tensely.

“You will be having dinner with your step mother and I tonight.”

He doesn’t even bother asking. He just demands it. Mia watches Harry rub his eyes and sit up, turning away from her onto his side. “I’ve got plans tonight. Maybe another night.”

“No, tonight. I’ll be out of the country next week.”

“I can’t tonight.”

“You may bring Amelia as well.”

Harry pauses. He doesn’t correct him about her name as he always does. “I’d have to ask her.”

“I need to speak to you urgently about a matter regarding the company.”

“We can do this over a video call.”

“Harry, I’m not asking you. I will send you an address and you will show up. With your girlfriend or not, it matters little to me. This is an important conversation we must have.”

“Fiancée, actually. Which I’ve told you,” he says. He takes a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. Mia knows Harry’s getting angry at his father from the long pauses he keeps taking. She knows he’s trying to calm himself down before he says something completely out of turn. She sits up and rests her head on his back, holding onto his arm.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, rubbing her hair against him. “We can go.”

He turns his head to look at her, his eyes wide. He pulls the phone away. “I wanted to celebrate with you.”

“We can do it another time.”

“No. This needs to be celebrated immediately.”

She smiles sleepily, raising her head to look at him. “We have, like, seven months to celebrate.”

His jaw tenses as he brings his phone back to his ear. She nods encouragingly and then lays back on her side, tucking herself under the warm sheets. She feels him staring at her a few seconds before she hears his soft voice say to his father, “We will be there.”

“Good,” his father says. “I will send over the details.”

“All right. Bye.”

She hears him turn his ringer off and then set his phone to the side. He gathers her into his arms and holds her close. His lips press to the top of her head. “I’m really sorry, Mia.”

“Don’t be,” she laughs softly. “Nothing we haven’t done before.”

“I know. But still.” His voice is quiet and sad. “I wanted to celebrate.” His hand slides over her stomach. “Take you somewhere nice.”

“I’m sure the restaurant your father picks will be nice.”

“I wanted to take you somewhere nice and alone.”

“We can do that any other day.”

He’s quiet again. “Yeah.” Before she falls asleep, she hears Harry apologizing again, barely audible.

***

Mia walks in on Harry pulling his freshly tied tie off his neck. He mutters a swear and tosses it on the bed and unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, pulling his collar open. With a deep breath, he makes eye contact with Mia through the mirror. She’s in a long summer dress and white sneakers, pulling her jacket on. She’s done her hair in loose curls and pinned the front pieces out of her face. She smiles at him, but he doesn’t smile back, clearly lost in his thoughts. 

“Hey,” she says, frowning. She takes his hand and walks around to stand in front of him. “It’s okay.”

His eyes are distant. “I want a day off with just you and me. I’ve been working so much, I feel like I’ve barely seen you. And we live together.”

Mia presses his hand to her cheek. She feels his knuckles gently caress her skin upon contact. “I know. But things come up. We can have a day to ourselves next week.” She frowns deeper. “Oh wait. We promised Amara and Zack we’d do a double date.”

At the reminder of the plan, Harry looks pained. “We can just not show up.”

“That would piss him off.”

“Who cares? I’m pissed off right now.”

Mia stands on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck. A smile takes her face again, and she’s suddenly leaning in to gently kiss the corner of his mouth. “Well, I hope you know that you’re so cute when you’re pissed off.”

“I’m serious.” His voice loses a bit of its agitated tone. He holds her waist.

“As am I. Now come on. Stop brooding and look a little more happy. I’m having your child, after all. You owe me smiles for the next seven months.”

At that reminder, his eyes light up and one dimple appears. Then another. He holds her face and tugs her closer. “You’re absolutely right.”

She grins and then melts into the embrace when Harry kisses her. “I am always right.”

Mia doesn’t know how some people are able to keep the news as a secret until their partner is ready to take it. When she looked down at the positive pregnancy test last night, her first thought was to tell Harry. There was no way she’d be able to keep it to herself.

She lost count of how many times he whispered “thank you” and “I love you”.

Harry was in such a mess, they weren’t actually able to make love like she thought they would. Every time Harry would hold her face to kiss her, he’d tear up again and drop his head, whispering the words again, mixed with a healthy and colorful amount of soft, incredulous swears.

“I was thinking, actually,” he murmurs once he pulls away. He twists a strand of her hair around his finger. “We should go for a vacation. To celebrate, I mean.”

Mia says, “You know I am always ready for a getaway.”

“Mhm.” He kisses her again. “And when we come back, we can start telling people? Is that a thing that you do so early?”

“Well, I don’t have any other children so it’s hard for me to know.”

“Then maybe we wait until the second trimester.”

“Should we do a gender reveal party?”

Harry thinks about it as he kisses her once more. “Dunno. I mean, I would totally be okay with finding out the day off.”

Mia’s eyes light up. “I was thinking that too.” She slides her hands down his shoulders, fixing his collar along the way. “I would be happy with a boy or a girl.”

“Me too.”

“And should we do something like a big reveal for our friends and parents? No wait. I’d actually rather tell my parents in person.”

“Is that where our vacation will be? Staten Island?”

She fakes a shudder. “Don’t even joke about that.”

He kisses her for a final time, a very long kiss that has her pressing herself against him, his hands on her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin. And when he pulls away, Mia laughs softly and wipes his mouth. “Lipstick,” she whispers. Harry cleans up the corner of her mouth with his own thumb. “We should head out soon.”

Harry sighs deeply and nods. “Let’s get this over with, hm?”

“Let’s.”

***

Despite having been with Harry for four years, it still shocks her whenever they go out to a place as fancy as this. Because although Harry and her do go to expensive places, they’re never as high end as the ones his father picks. Harry complains that the super expensive places don’t have edible food, which she has to agree with. Looking at the menu in her hands, she scans it for anything that she even recognizes.

Most of the time, she has to elbow Harry gently and ask him what these dishes are. Unfortunately, Harry is having a discussion with his father about the company, something she usually just tunes out.

At least she’s decided what drink to have. And the post dinner dessert.

Harry jokes with her that she should listen to how the company is run or at least know its primary functions. He says that if he ever got sick, she’d have to step in to run the company for him. Mia’s not all that sure how much of that is the truth. They wouldn’t just give the company to anybody, right? Harry reminds her that his father handed a large part of the company over to him despite Harry not having the experience. Mia argues that that is a classic story of nepotism. Harry argues back that him giving her his job is also nepotism.

You really can’t win with rich people, Mia says, ending the conversation there.

After they’ve ordered (Mia playing it safe by ordering exactly what Harry does), they sit in relative silence until Harry’s father clears his throat and says, “Well, I have news to give you, Harry. In fact, tomorrow morning, we can start on the paperwork.”

Harry says, “Paperwork?”

“Yes. I’m sure you know of all the board meetings we’ve been having over the course of the past two months, and there have been rumors here and there, but I’d like to actually come straight to you to say it. I am stepping down as chief executive officer.”

Harry takes a sip of his water. “Great. Who’s the unlucky fellow that gets to take your place? Is this about voting? I told you having an even number of board executives was a bad idea for this very reason.”

Something flashes over Harry’s father’s face. Surprise, perhaps. “Well, I wouldn’t just hand the position over to just anybody.”

“Right. Do you want me to look over performance reviews and applications?”

“Harry,” Mia says softly.

He glances down at her and then his father. Then his step mother. Realization dawns. “Oh.”

“Yes. I will be passing duties over to you.”

Mia watches the expressions pass over his face. Confusion, surprise, then… something else.

“It was always set in stone that I would pass the company to you, son. I did think I would continue to be CEO for at least another 2 years, but I think it’s an excellent time for me to retire. The company is stable. The revenues have increased every year, our profit margins are better than ever. There are few fires to put out in distinct subsidiaries, but this previous quarter has been exceptional.”

“Right.”

“It is not only because you’re my son. It’s also because of your commitment to the company. You have been strict in hiring and following the companies values. Your negotiating skills have never been more excellent. We gained a new subsidiary that brings in massive amount of profits because of you. The contracts you’ve renewed this year alone are commenable. You’ve put in the work and you deserve this position.”

“Right.”

“We will start the paperwork tomorrow.”

Mia realizes what’s on Harry’s face. Dread.

Because Harry’s never wanted that position. She knows it. Sometimes, he’d reveal to her that it was the only position left for him if he were to excel past his current one, and that he wasn’t sure how he’d react to the news. They all thought it would be a couple more years until this discussion was brought up.

But now it’s here. Harry is reaching for his water again, taking slow slips in thought.

The silence is unnerving. Mia puts on a bright smile and exclaims, “This is wonderful news! Congratulations, Harry!”

His step mother raises her glass in a toast and everyone except Harry clink theirs together. “Congratulations!”

“I understand it’s a shock,” his father says after drinking his wine. “But it is for the best of the company. I leave it in good hands.” He glances up at the waiter. “Thank you.”

As the plates are getting set in front of them, Mia puts her hand on top of Harry’s under the table. She notices that his fingers are cold, so she rubs them softly.

“You know what?” Harry suddenly says when the waiter leaves. He pulls his hand out from under hers abruptly. “I’ve got to get some air. I’ll be right back.” He pushes his chair out. “Excuse me.”

Mia watches him quickly walk out of the restaurant while undoing one more button of his shirt. Normally, she’d be annoyed that she’s been left with the shark of a father he has, but now, concern runs through her. She’s already on the edge of her seat when Harry mutters an apology to the host and exists.

She glances back at his father and step mother. They don’t actually look perturbed.

“I would have thought he’d gotten used to all this,” his step mother says, cutting into her steak carefully. “Does it always take him time to get used to something?”

“Yes,” his father says, chewing already. “He’ll be fine.” He looks at Mia. “How have you been, Amelia? The wedding planning is complete, yes? How’s the job going? You know, my offer at the company still stands. Well, now it’ll have to go through Harry, but I’m sure that the position he can get you would pay far better than the one you currently h–”

“Actually,” Mia says, standing up. She winces at the way her chair screeches against the floor. “I am so sorry. I’m, um, I’m going to check on Harry.”

His father waves his fork in the air. “Go on ahead. Talk some sense into him.”

She offers a nod of some kind and then walks out, trailing after Harry. She also apologies to the host and promises her return.

He hasn’t gone too far. In fact, he’s right out the restaurant, pacing with his hands tucked into his pockets. 

“Harry.” She jogs over to him, grabbing his blazer sleeve, stopping him in his step. “Hey. Hi.”

He looks at her with frantic eyes. “I’m not taking that job. I can’t take it. I can’t.”

“Okay. That’s okay.”

He stares at her for a moment before wrapping his arms around her, hugging her tight against his front. His heart is beating fast. “Mia. I don’t– Mia.”

“It’s okay.” She feels him drop his head to her shoulder. He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“I don’t want to be the CEO.”

She rubs his back. “I know.”

“I always thought it would be fine, yeah? Take on a few more responsibilities. But…”

“It’s just not what you want.”

“Is it wrong? I’ve always known, so is it cheating by refusing now? I mean. I know people who would kill for this job. My father probably thinks I’m being ungrateful.”

Mia shakes her head. “Well, you’re not. You’re trying your best, and this just doesn’t interest you. You don’t want it.”

“Maybe 5 years ago it’s what I would have wanted. I wanted to prove that I could be something big. Prove it to my dad. But things are different now. I don’t want to prove anything to anyone. I feel as if I’m different. You and I are different.” He squeezes her. 

“I understand,” she whispers. “I know.”

“What difference will it make anyways? We’re more than comfortable right now. I’m miserable at my job and I will be miserable as CEO.”

This is news to her. “I thought you were enjoying it a bit more.”

“No.” His voice is muffled against her dress. “You think I like a job that doesn’t allow me to see you?” He suddenly lifts his head and holds her waist tight. “Mia, this past week alone, I’ve come home so late that you’re already asleep. I don’t want that.” She sees something like fear in his eyes. “I didn’t pay attention to you the first time. And look what that did to our relationship. It was entirely my fault. I can’t do that again. I can’t handle that. I won’t ever show up. But that’s what we agreed on all those years ago, right? That I’d be there?”

“Harry…”

“I’ve been so good at showing up and that’ll all change if I take the job. There’s a reason why my parents never worked out. Why I never had a good relationship with my dad.” His eyes are wide, frantic. “I can’t be my father. I don’t want to be. I would never want to be. I can’t do that to you. I can’t do that to…” He puts a hesitant hand on her stomach. “God, I’d hate myself if I did that.”

“Harry…” Mia surges forward and throws herself at him, hugging him so tight, she feels her own ribs hurting. He holds her just as tight, head against her shoulder once more. “Oh, I love you, you beautiful person. I love you so much.”

“Yeah?” he whispers, turning his head to kiss her cheek. “Is that all right, then? If I say no?”

“I think you should say no, then quit your current job and let me be the income earner for the rest of the year. Won’t be able to pay for the wedding though. You’ll have to chip in. A lot.”

Harry chokes out a laugh. “We’ll honeymoon for the rest of the year.”

“As long as it’s not in Staten Island,” she giggles, planting kisses after kisses on his jaw. “I love you. Got that? I love you always.”

He pulls away slightly to look at her, apprehension in his eyes. “Always? Are you sure? It’s…it’s not easy loving me.”

Harry’s never been the type to ask Mia to remind him she loves him. She knows he knows that she adores him more than anything. But now, he’s asking, and he’s looking so hopeful with his pretty green eyes under the golden lights outside the restaurant. He’s looking all over her face, his gaze often lingering on her mouth.

“Are you kidding me?,” she suddenly laughs. “Harry. You know loving you has never been difficult for me. And not to mention, you’re kinda stuck with me. We’re reproducing after all.”

Harry groans. “Is that how you’re going to break the news to everyone? Hey guys, just wanted to say that my fiancé and I did have unprotected sex—“

“Wait! That’s basically what people say when they’re like oh yeah we’re trying. Like hmm okay, but we know exactly what’s going on no matter how cute you make it sound!”

“And yet it’s still better than we banged and here we are.”

Mia smiles. “But we did bang and here we are indeed.”

“Listen.” He takes her clip out of her hair and fixes her short strands back again. “Tell your friends however you’d like. But my family will be told a very specific, expensive way.”

“Like a party? You don’t like them.”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t seem to oppose the idea of celebrating such a big thing, though. As long as I get to kick people out on time.”

“But with Amara and Zack—“

“I give you full control.”

“Good. I want to make them cry.” She looks very determined. “I want them to be fighting for their life. Choking, even.”

Harry says, “Er, yeah. Whatever you want.”

“Maybe we can tell your father and step mother right now.”

Harry drags the back of his hand against her cheek. “Yeah?”

“I mean, you’re going to have to give a reason why you’re declining. And you can’t just say it’s because you love me so so so so so much.”

“Oh yeah? And why not?” He squishes her face, pulling her close, his voice tender. “Why can’t I refuse on the basis of loving my fiancée so so so so much?”

Her eyes light up. “Because that’s super out of character for you. He might think you’re sick. Although I’d love to see the look on his face.”

“Me too. He might have a heart attack at the idea of his son being happy.”

Mia suddenly frowns. “Don’t say that. That makes me really angry.”

“I know. Hey. We should go and make him angry instead, hm?”

“I like the way you think, Styles.”

He smiles and kisses her quickly. “Come on.” He takes her hand. “Let’s ruin their day.”

They share one more look before they head back inside. When they reach the table, they’re not surprised to see their plates untouched and the others nearly finished. They sit back down. 

“Have you finished with your dramatics?” Harry’s father says calmly.

“I will be refusing the promotion.”

Well, shit, Mia thinks. Just getting straight to it then.

His father’s eyes narrow as he slowly puts his fork down. He then takes a sip of his wine. Finally, he clasps his hands on the table. “And why, might I ask?”

“I have other priorities I need to focus on.”

“Something that is more important than your career?”

“Yes.”

“There is nothing more important to a man than his career.” His father shakes his head. “I’m disappointed. I wish you’d have learned this by now. You should take time to think this over. It won’t even be such a big difference.”

Harry says, “I have a different future in mind for myself. Something I think is more worthwhile.”

His father’s eyes narrow some more before they turn on Mia. “And I assume this decision is due to your influence as well.”

“I don’t think I influence Harry to do anything. I like to think I just encourage him.” Mia hates how she doesn’t sound confident in herself. “This is something we both happen to believe in.”

“He would not make this decision if it weren’t for you.”

Mia catches the bitter, criticizing tone, and so does Harry. She can tell by the way he tenses.

“Do not,” he says tightly, “speak to her like that. I am refusing the position and that is my final answer.”

Mia’s surprised when Harry’s getting up to leave. She scrambles to do the same, taking his outstretched hand. “Um. Goodnight,” she says even though Harry’s already dragging her away. The look on his father and step mother’s face is priceless. Mia wishes she could photograph it, blow it up, and put it on a blanket. It would make for an excellent anniversary gift.

Harry’s walking so fast, she needs to jog a little to keep up with him. When they get to the car, he stops and looks up at the sky. He laughs a little, but Mia’s sure he’s not finding anything particularly amusing. “Well, shit.”

“Uh, is he going to come after us?”

“Of course not.”

“Right.” She needs to say something to make him feel better. Anything. Anything ridiculous. “I wished we packed up the food. It looked really good.”

It works. He snorts and unlocks the car, releasing her hand. “Relax. I’ll feed you. Let that be the least of your worries.”

They sit in the car, but Harry doesn’t start it right away. Instead, he holds the steering wheel and takes several more deep breaths. After a moment of silence, Harry puts his head on the wheel.

Mia rubs his back. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Harry doesn’t reply for some time. His eyes are shut, his eyebrows furrowed. She continues to rub his back and lean over to kiss his curls.

Finally, his eyes open and he sits back up. He secures his seatbelt and then starts the car. “Okay. Let’s go home. No wait. We have to feed you first. Then we go home.”

“We can place an order for pickup.”

“An excellent idea. Let’s do that.” He gives her a pointed look. “Pick a place and order from it. Without any fuss.”

Mia smiles. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes narrow and he leans in for a kiss. “Good.”

He puts the car in drive.

***

“Should we buy a baby name book? I saw one the other day that had a thousand in them.” Mia bites down aggressively on her crouton.

“I’m pretty sure we can agree on a name collectively,” Harry answers.

“We don’t ever agree on anything collectively.”

“Touch.”

“This is really good. Are you sure you don’t want to try it?”

He looks at the monstrosity in front of her. A caesar salad but she’s coated it with pickle relish instead, and her pasta is covered with so much cheese and oregano, he can barely see the pasta underneath. She twirls her pasta on her fork and then stabs her relish covered romaine lettuce, shoveling it all into her mouth.

“No, thank you,” he says. “I’m sure it’s…very delicious.”

“Not even my drink?”

She’s having orange Fanta to top it all off. “I’m okay, baby. You know, if we weren’t sure that you were pregnant before, we’re definitely sure now.”

“You’ve gotta remind me that I need to get a doctor’s appointment. I can get it for Friday afternoon if that works for you.”

She says it so casually, it makes him pause, his drink half way to his lips. He puts his glass down. “No. I’ll get leave for it.”

She glances at him. “You don't have to. I mean I’m sure you've got a lot to talk about with your dad and taking off in the middle of the week won’t be so good.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He frowns. “It’s time your schedule stopped depending on mine. You know what? I should start taking three days off a week.”

“You already come home early on Fridays.”

“They can survive another day without me.”

Mia shoves another crouton in her mouth. “You know I love having you in the house. Maybe if you can't get another day off, you can work from home.”

“Yes.” His mind is spinning with possibilities. “That’s a good idea too.”

“I am full of them.”

Harry takes his napkin and leans over the table, gently wiping the corner of her mouth. “You sure are.”

Mia quickly finishes up her food. Harry passes her water to have insead of the Fanta and she drinks it down quickly before getting up and walking over to his side. He spreads his legs when he sees her coming, patting his thigh. She falls into his lap easily.

“Hey,” she whispers, tucking her head against his shoulder. “I’m a little scared.”

His arms are tight around her immediately. “Of my father? Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle it.”

She holds his shirt tightly. “No it’s not that. I know you can deals with him.”

“Then what is it, baby?” He kisses her forehead and runs his fingers through her hair. “Tell me.”

She’s quiet for a moment until she says, “What if I’m not a good parent?”

“Oh, Mia.”

“I mean, I wasn’t even around kids at any point in my life. And I don’t have young siblings. I’m going to have to buy a ton of parenting books. I don’t even know anything. Did you know that you’re not supposed to warm milk up in the microwave for babies?”

Harry gently tugs her chin up so she can look at him. “Mia, between us, I think I should be the most worried about being a bad parent.”

“Harry, I know you’re going to be the best dad, and I’ve never been more confident of anything in my life. But me? I don’t know. I just learned how to start caring for myself, and sometimes it feels like I’m still learning. You’re going to be perfect though.”

He shakes his head. “There’s no such thing as a perfect parent. There’s a big difference between a good parent and a bad one though.” He takes a breath. “We are going to try our best. Right? Isn’t that all we can do?”

“Right,” she whispers, turning her face against his neck, her nose against the column of his throat. “Together.”

“Always. You said it yourself.”

She sniffles. “Are you scared too?”

“Absolutely fucking terrified. But I’m also excited. And also very relieved that it’s you I get to share this with.”

She raises her head. “Me too.” She sits up, blinking her grey, teary eyes at him. “ But I’m also sad. You’re going to be such a hot dad.” Her lip begins to wobble. “And I’m going to have to pry all the women off of you when you drop our baby off at daycare.”

Harry tries very hard not to laugh. It doesn’t seem like the appropriate time. “I will not even give them the time of day.”

“I should get a shirt that says That DILF is Mine!”

“As long as I get a matching one.”

He wipes her tears away, ruining her mascara in the process.

She sniffles some more. “I really wanted to have sex tonight but now I can’t stop crying.” She buries her face in her hands and cries harder. “This is r-really,really bad.”

Harry can’t help laughing then. He clutches her close to his chest and rests his head on hers. “Exactly how I felt yesterday.” He rubs her back as she’d done to him in the car. “It’s been a long day. It’s going to be okay. I know it’s very overwhelming.”

For some time, he lets her cry, thinking of ways to make her feel better. “Hey, I was thinking,” he finally decides, “if it’s a boy, maybe we can name him Axel.”

That gets her to stop crying. She immediately says in an icy voice, “I will divorce you.”

“Well, how about something classic like Bobby.”

She pulls away from him quickly. Her eyes are dark and annoyed, eyelashes still wet. Her nose is red, her cheeks pink. She looks like a vision. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“No?” he says innocently, wracking his brain for another terrible idea. “How about Clover for a girl?”

“You’re messing with me.”

“Delilah?”

She growls, “What is this – the early 2000s? I’m buying that baby name book tomorrow. You’re terrible at this!”

“I will admit I’m not the best at naming things. I named my cousin’s dog Pikachu.”

“You’re lying.”

He wipes her face gently. “Nope.”

“I will be naming this child.”

“I absolutely refuse to give you that right. Are you angry? Now you won’t have sex with me because you’re mad, right?”

Her eyes narrow. “On the contrary. I want to have sex with you even more now.”

Harry laughs and gathers her close, standing up. Her legs immediately wrap around his waist. “So romantic. Well, since you insist.”

She’s still going on about how terrible his name picking skills are when they arrive in their bedroom and Harry gently puts her in the middle of the bed.

He sighs dramatically, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand as he looms over her. “Well, it seems like I’m really, truly wrong. I guess the only thing I must do now is apologize.”

Mia bites down on her lower lip as Harry drops his shirt on the floor and slides his hands up her legs under her dress. She parts her thighs instinctively and tilts her head back against the ceiling. “Yes. You must.”

He hums, pushing her dress up until she grabs it from him, letting it bunch at her waist. He kisses her hip bone, then her thighs. Slowly, taking his time. He gently bites down on the flesh, growing harder at the sound of her gasp. He presses a feather light kiss to the waistband of her underwear before slowly tugging it down.

“Mia,” he says softly, slotting himself between her legs. “My sweet girl. When did you get so wet?”

She glances down at him. “Um, when you were being super hot and angry at your father in the restaurant.”

“Which was well over an hour ago?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to jump you in the car!”

“I wouldn’t have minded pulling over. Or doing this first.” He emphasizes the word when a careful lick against her. Her hands immediately fly out to grab his curls. “You know I never mind. Now.” He holds her thighs open. “Let me apologize properly.”

His fingers dig into her skin as he slids his tongue over her again. He relaxes into the mattress, encouraged by her strained groans and tight hold on his hair. He knows Mia well. He could do this in his sleep. He knows exactly what types of touches she likes, when she likes it rough, or when she prefers to be teased. He could stay here between her legs for hours, days even, submitting to her in whichever way she pleases. His heart thunders in his chest at the promise of forever. He’ll have her like this, exposed, and he’ll be at her mercy. All that she’s done for him, all that she’s tolerated. How much she’s fixed him. If only he could repay her.

“So good,” she whimpers under him, raising his hips against his mouth to create more friction. He focuses his attention on her clit and then slowly presses two fingers into her, listening to her gasp at the penetration. “I love you. Oh I love you. I love you. I love you-”

All the discomfort he’s felt today is suddenly gone. All he’s aware of is Mia. He’s wrapped up in her. He’s all hers. Hasn’t he always been? He closes his eyes and loses himself in the sounds she’s making, her heavy breathing, and the taste of her on his tongue. He’s never had any issue in losing himself in Mia.

It’s just him and her. 

He couldn’t be more happy.

[legendarylearner18]

Hi, I doubt many people will see this, but I need to share this with someone, anyone. To preface this, please be aware that I'm Autistic and please, please be kind. And I'm sorry for the length.

About 2 months ago, I had to sadly put my beautiful and healthy 9 year old Tabby cat, Tank, to sleep. He was a 24-lb short hair tabby and was the size of a Maine Coone. He was my baby, and while social, Tank was MINE. We had a very special bond. About 2 months ago he was absolutely healthy, then over the course a few weeks (the month of June) he rapidly and severely declined in weight, physical mobility and capability, appetite, and mental state. Every test possible was administered, but they didn't catch the lymphoma in his spinal column until it was too late. So at 8 am on July 2, I received a call from the vets, and they delivered the news. I brought him in and had to say goodbye to him before 10 am that same morning. Everything still hurts, but I now have his ashes back. The world feels both so large and so small at the same time. I really don't know what to do, nor do I have many people to talk to about this. So... yeah... Either way, I can't stop crying, and I feel too much right now. Everything is... it's painful and overwhelming, it's so much but I don't really know what to do.

This is... was Tank

I wrote this the morning I came back home... after what happened.

Twist and twine

Your days with mine,

Your years with mine.

Cling close and never part.

Twist and twine,

Your life with mine.

[izpira-se-zlato]

Bootleg Hojan Merch

I know Nace shared part of the story in an interview a couple days ago, but I was planning on doing a write-up before I knew that, so here you go 😂 Also contains the continuation of the saga in Finland :D

Putting this under a cut because it's gonna be a bit of a read (plus a few more pictures). Yeah, I hope no one here is surprised that I suck at keeping things short 😂

So I have done a fair bit of clownery this year, and the most recent bit (before the shirt project) was attending two of the Polish gigs, Wrocław and Poznań.

I was wearing my Cha Cha Cha shirt to the Poznań gig, and when taking pictures with Bojan and Nace after the show, I opened my jacket so the shirt was visible. When stepping back after the pic, Nace spied the shirt and was kinda excited about seeing Käärijä merch – though he prefers the Häärijä merch, as he told us, because he's a "big fan" (his words, not mine).

So back at the hotel, I told @braveheart1418, "God, I'm so tempted to try to procure an actual Häärijä shirt. Tell me that's a stupid idea." Of course she did no such thing and so we looked into how much it would cost (too much) and how long it would take (too long), and so I was like, "bummer. And I'm not comfortable making bootleg official merch. Although, omg – it would be hilarious of we did Hojan merch!"

And the longer I thought about it, the more I fell in love with the idea. Again, I told friends, "tell me that would be a stupid idea," and again, they were filthy enablers, and so I started looking into the matter semi-seriously once I was back home (that was Wednesday the 22nd, so almost exactly a week before I left on a business trip leading into a stay at my parents' place leading into the gig).

The first thought was to get a big HOJAN in the Häärijä lettering on foil to iron onto a black shirt, though @braveheart1418 had commented that the design with a picture Häärijä on is much more memorable. That was a very valid point, except that there were no Hojan pics in suitable resolution that were in the right pose.

Thus, things I needed to solve:

get a plotter to cut out "Hojan" for the chest -> my mom said my cousin had a friend with a plotter. Contact was established

get a picture similar to the official merch of Hojan -> I reached out to Dean, who was absolutely lovely and set me up with a picture I could use

clip Hojan from the picture -> I had @submariini as well as another dear friend help me there because they are both much better at photoshop than me and were kind enough to offer their help, and decided to add the yellow border because the best picture Dean had sent me was black & white

get transfer paper -> easy: amazon (loathe as I am to use it)

find a copy shop to print Hojan for me -> tricky bc I got Inkjet-Printer transfer paper and most copy shops have laserjets, if they allow using your own paper at all -> I got laserjet transfer paper and once again had my cousin come to the rescue and helped me print it :D

find t-shirts in the right sizes -> I solved this by eyeballing and taking pics of my dad in the various sizes to check with @submariini. While nerve-wrecking, I am astonished just how well the sizing worked out in the end!

Despite the limited time (limited further by me getting sick Monday/Tuesday before my business trip), it all came together beautifully: I did a test-print Friday evening and picked up the foil cuts, went shirt shopping with my parents on Saturday (shout out to them for letting their adult kid drag them through three different clothes stores and especially to my dad for gamely trying on half a dozen shirts and waiting while I yelled at ed about which to take 😂), finished the test shirt (mine) that evening and adjusted the colours on the outline to be closer to the foil, printed three more copies of Hojan Sunday morning, and got them ready just in time for leaving for the gig!

Which was yet again nerve-wrecking because of the unprecedented amounts of snow happening in Bavaria, but it stood no chance against our determination!

Unfortunately, the snow situation meant that JO couldn't come out after the show, so I passed the shirt to Nace during it and received a pick in return, which made me bluescreen as I hadn't expected an exchange 😂 He put the shirt down without having looked at it, which was a bit unfortunate because I would have loved to have seen his reaction, but it was still a pretty cool moment.

They did get a lot of gifts this close to St. Nikolaus (which is also celebrated in Germany, or at least was in my youth), most of which they left on the stage for the crew to gather up, so I bluescreened even worse when Nace bee-lined over to me as they came back on stage for the SSOL-encore to thank me again for the shirt – others told me later he'd taken it backstage after Carpe Diem with him, which I'd missed 😅

After the show, I met @mogoce-nocoj and ended up talking to her for quite a while outside the venue because neither of us wanted to split off into different directions, and so it wasn't until we were on our way back to @braveheart1418's hotel room (finally accepting that we wouldn't manage to say goodbye quite so soon and might as well talk somewhere warm 😅) that I saw that Bojan had posted the story to his Instagram 😂. Let me just say that it was very fortunate we were still out-doors and not near normal flats, because I don't think I was quiet when I saw 😂

I actually ended up making four shirts including my trial one – one for Nace, one for Häärijä himself because it felt fitting, and one for @submariini because he's such a Häärijä fan :D

The latter two, I took with me to Rovaniemi (which was ed's fault, because (and I quote), "come to Rollo! It'll be fun!"), where a bunch of friends and I met up for a birthday party slash Käärijä gig (over 20 clowns in one place, it was amazing, 10/10 would do again (genuinely)). The weather and means of transport tried to keep us apart (train strikes and ice rains on my end, though I still had better luck than Joker Out), but we actually all made it and by now all made it back again, too :D

As I mentioned in a different post, I actually managed to hand over the shirt to Häärijä before the gig, and he told me he would wear it on stage, which he did! I also got a picture with him, ed, and me all in our shirts, which was also pretty great :D

So, yeah! The Process™ of project 1.

Thank you so so much to everyone who helped and encouraged me along the way -- my parents and my cousin, the gift to our fandom that is Dean Grainger (none of whom will hopefully ever read this specific post), @braveheart1418, @submariini, @alephai, my dearest friend K who's been an enabler for so so many shenanigans, and xia!bf for bearing with my insanity (both where the shirts are concerned and the general Käärijä/JO brainrot) and helping me make this project a reality 💛

[yellosnacc]

bigger Central religion post

Journey of the lost souls by an unknown pilgrim

A scene from the story of the "crystal Head".

With the help of a "harpy", the great sinner crosses the bridge to the new land as their sea-born crystal body cracks under the weight of a thousand souls.

If they were to fail, the sky may become richer, but the Uniima will end.

This is a bigger central Foru uniima religion post. All the information here is about the central religion's beliefs, not the world's biology or physics.

Now let's get the context for the painting.

To leave the Physical, one must die at a ripe age so that their wisdom can be put to the test. The glowing triangles are the souls of uniima. They resemble a larva/white and are parasite-like in behavior. After a soul is released out of a body by premature death (or created) it holds onto someone (soul-binds) until it's passed into a new body. Soul bonded can be anything with a soul but uniima souls are picky in what they cling onto and usually pick a parental figure, a friend, or pupil. When the soul senses an empty unii-body, it moves in. Twins/triplets are considered 'one-soul' with special powers.

The one depicted to carry this soul mass is the uniiman spiritual leader/s (their historical body and events), sometimes called the Heads, but there's definitely a better name in the native language (slomen and O.s use this name). The Head/s existed for most of the religion's history and is the one to name the 'uniima' (translates "own-one-mind". It's the name of the central people. Because of historical events, it caught on between aliens as the species name). Head/s is immortal because of a "curse" set on them for breaching into the spiritual world thousands of years ago. Since this event, they have been changing bodies and fixing their sins until today. Nowadays, they are considered the wisest, mentally strongest, and morally cleanest soul - an inspiration for everyone (which keeps them in power over Central Foru among other things).

More about the current Heads.

This art comes from an early chapter, only a few hundred years after the creation of people. After the Head dooms the uniima by peaking into the Spiritual, society starts falling faster than it did ever before, finally resulting in the 'death of creature people'. This society was one of constant sin and destruction since no holy parts were remaining (too complicated, let's leave that for another time), so this scene is something of a strange bitter-sweet moment. With both the land and the people gone (yes, land too), the Head is once more reincarnated - being put into a body of melted sand and rock. They collect all the wandering souls unable to ascend and travel to a new land with the help of a half-uniima-half-animal who feels sorry for the people it shares a soul with. This journey is the first major lesson and soul-cleaning of the Head. Now, what is the thing in their jaws?

This motive is common in images with the Head, but it's not very realistic for the time period. These "flesh lists" worn on the lower tongue-hand are a modern-ish invention. People wear these on special occasions. They show all the past lives on a uniima and can get very long in high mortality areas (soul moves until a body reaches the desired age to be final-judged). The significance and uses of these in status get very complicated, but I will keep it simple. A short scarf/list makes one seem strong, with potential, being naturally gifted, and wealthy. A long scarf shows weakness, and a tendency to sin, but also patience, and a wise mind (which in many cases is the most important feature of a person).

In religious art, "scarfs" help mark chapters, but in "Journey of the lost souls" it's to depict the scale of the tragedy.

Lastly, the Heads' stomach. It shows them moving a large "hole" out of their body. This is symbolism for shedding a sin. It's said a mind and body should be able to naturally "regurgitate" any "object" out of their stomach, clean of the evil within it.

Bad nature - sins, bad thoughts (even physical stuff such as poison and drugs), is stored in the stomach. The "hungrier" you are the more evil you have to shed and the more you are controlled by this "evil hunger". Being flagged as a "stomach-thinker" is not calling you a food enjoyer but rather an insane/deranged person. However, some regions consider the stomach the default thinking center (what's a brain?), so it's more like a scale of good to bad stomach.

If anything needs more explaining or isn't explained properly, please inform me in the replies or send me an ask for a dedicated post. Thank you for reading this far <3

[eurothug4000]

INTERVIEW WITH SHIGENOBU MATSUYAMA - PRODUCER ON SILENT HILL THE ARCADE

I had the pleasure of interviewing Matsuyama-san, one of the producers on Silent Hill the Arcade! Here's what he had to say :)

Q - How did the idea for Silent Hill The Arcade come to be?

A - During the arcade boom of the 1990s and the 2000s, a desire was born to combine the unique worldview of the Silent Hill series - which was already a very strong IP console game-wise – with the haunted houses one might find in an amusement part. We wanted something that could provide an easy and pleasurable experience to an extremely varied range of customers… as in, the casual users. This is the idea that brought Silent Hill Arcade (SHA in short) to life. However, since our goal was to create a new kind of experience that could not be replicated anywhere else, we designed a game that could make the most effective use of the 5.1ch surround sound system, which was something that arcade games hadn’t adopted until that point, with a type of cabinet that could be somewhat isolated from the rest of the arcade via the use of curtains.

Q - Roughly how long did development for the game take?

A - At the time, the development cycle of an arcade game was so short it would be unimaginable today. The shortest one was around six months, the longest about one year and a half. I think SHA took us around one year and two months.

Q - What parts of development were most enjoyable for you?

A – Usually, arcade games are tested a certain number of times, both during development and just before launch in each and every country where their release has been scheduled (which, for SHA, meant Japan, the US, the UK, Italy, Spain, France, Hong Kong and Singapore). In order to keep the development budget for SHA as low as possible, however, I personally traveled alone to the US for the market testing, assembled the cabinet all by myself, repaired it when it was out of order, and stood next to it for days on end, pen and paper in my hand, ready to collect the players’ data. Game development, nearly 20 years ago, was very much an analog experience. It was also hard work, but when I look back, I have so many good memories of that time.

Q - Do you remember any kinds of ideas that you and the team wanted to include in the game, but didn’t in the end?

A – I’m sure this will sound obvious, since SHA was based on a pre-existing IP, but since the framework was pretty much already set when it came to characters and plot, we had to be extremely careful not to deviate from it so that we wouldn’t create inconsistencies. Personally, I would have loved to take the story in slightly wilder directions and include new and fresh ideas.

Q - I loved seeing so many locations from Silent Hill 3 and 4 make an appearance in the game! Was the team who worked on those two games involved in making any decisions for Silent Hill The Arcade?

A - We of course personally consulted select staff members of Konami, like for example Producer Yamaoka, with whom I had been acquainted with since before SHA. However, most development teams had a mix of internal and external members that changed pretty fluidly with each and every year, so there was no real collaboration between the various teams.

Q - What level of freedom were you given for creating this original story within the Silent Hill universe? Were you given any specific directives on what you could or could not integrate/use in the story?

A - If I have to express my personal point of view on the matter, however, should you compare the storyline for SHA with the timeline of the other games, you would indeed notice a few minor inconsistencies that we were not able to completely solve. That’s something I still have regrets about.

Q - Tell me about translating a traditional survival horror experience into the rail shooter genre and control style. What kind of considerations did you have to make for this?

A - The biggest challenge was by far to design a game system that could be as simple as possible, and to regulate the level of challenge in a way that felt balanced, because we didn't want to force complicated controls or an exceedingly high difficulty level on the casual arcade players. Moreover, there was another balance we had to strike perfectly: more specifically, the one between the aforementioned "haunted house" element - the one that was unique to SHA, with its sequences of terrifying events - and the thrilling playstyle that a rail shooter should provide to the player.

Q - As a final product, what are your personal thoughts on the game?

A - I think it had a state-of-the-art sound system, that the design of the cabinet, with its creepy-looking curtains, made people want to take a peek inside, and that the rail shooting system was simple and could be enjoyed by virtually everyone. I think we managed to combine these various elements with a one-of-a-kind worldview of Silent Hill in a way that was in my opinion pretty good! Of course, each and every member of the staff did their part, and I thank all of them wholeheartedly.

Q - Are you working on anything currently that you’d like me to mention?

A - Feel free to write whatever you prefer! If anything, I should thank you, since you allowed me to walk down the nostalgia lane and recall memories from almost 20 years ago that had been dimmed down by the passage of time. Thank you very much!

Shigenobu Matsuyama's site: shig.jp

[setsugekka]

『paradise lost』 ; 07

❝ nobody has to know ❞  

↳ an old acquaintance comes back around at a time when you’re even more in relationship limbo than usual, you know your actions will have consequences should they ever be found out, but maybe the risk is worth the reward.

⎯ ୨previous୧ ⎯  ○  ⎯ ୨series mlist୧ ⎯ ○ ⎯ ୨next୧ ⎯

『 pairing 』 : park seonghwa x fem!reader

『 genre 』 : romance, angst, explicit sexual content.

『 rating 』 : mature

『 word count 』 : 9.2k

『 warnings 』 : really poor decision making probably, rough sex, consensually recorded sexual acts, oral sex (m), penetrative sex, dirty talking etc they are pretty emotionally careless with one another, horror scene of a twist ending (angst)

“hey lol”

When the text comes through, past the jarring initial response of hopefulness and wishful thinking of who it could be, your next immediate reaction is to hide the screen...turn it the other way, from potentially prying, curious eyes on the other side of the bed.

The problem with that being: you are alone, in your own apartment, not at Hongjoong's as was once common place.

Rolling over in bed and lying on your back, still staring at the screen — reading the time, 2:45am, you hate the fact that you're awake, struggling to sleep these past few nights now on your own, but even more than that, why was he texting you this late, and after so long.

Realistically, it hadn't been that long since your first contact with the man, though. A year or so back at a mutual friend’s graduation party — the tall, pretty guy with the long black hair in the front, sides and back shaven short — you recall being wholly unsurprised when he tells you that he does some modeling, far more so when he tells you that he's pre-med. Not that a gorgeous man can't be both, of course.

Hitting it off, you exchanged numbers and texted occasionally, but with busy schedules (mostly on his end) it was next to impossible to meet up, and as a result, texting would die off as well.

You hadn't expected to hear from him again; ever, really.

>you: don't think I know you well enough for you to be booty call texting me at 3am

A playful response back, but also testing his motives. The typing bubble pops up almost immediately, and a reply comes through just as quickly.

>Seonghwa: very funny. what a warm welcome. 'wow Seonghwa so great to hear from you it's been so long!' awww thanks, it's nice to hear from you, too.

You roll your eyes at the conversation he begins having with himself, already beginning to type back to him.

>you: men usually text this late for one thing, you know that as well as I do.

>Seonghwa: well I hope that 'thing' is picking out an outfit for a thing I have coming up because that's actually what i'm texting you for. I need your assistance tomorrow.

>you: tomorrow? thanks for the heads up dude...what if I have stuff going on?

>Seonghwa: i'm not above begging. I just got back in town like 45 minutes ago okay i'm working with the best that i've got. we can use the time to catch up. plsplspls.

Rolling your eyes again, you confirm a time and a place with him, receiving numerous different heart and smiley emojis back in response before shutting your phone off and setting it back down on the empty bed space next to you.

Being back in your own place feeling so foreign to you now.

Your mind wanders back to Hongjoong and what it is that he could possibly be up to at this time of night; no doubt out with friends, drinking, smoking, partying — dealing with his emotions the one way he knows best — not. Almost certainly drunk past the point of making good choices and quite probably bringing someone back to the very place you had made yourself so comfortable only days ago.

Screwing your eyes shut tightly, you try to force back the mental image of exactly how your best friend likes to deal with his problems — a couple of stiff drinks and being over, or under, someone else.

Grabbing your phone again, you shuffle through your texting app to bring back up your conversation with Hongjoong, last message sent four days ago — four days since that conversation in his kitchen, him disappearing off to who knows where in a huff after the fact and you texting him that you're taking some of your things and spending some time back at your place.

With no response from him, of course.

“hey lol”

You chuckle at yourself lightly at the fact that you're really considering sending him the same thoughtless text that Seonghwa had just sent you minutes ago, before backspacing it all entirely and locking your phone again, gently tossing it off and towards your side in a hearty exhale of desperation, exasperation...

Missing him.

And of course you know, you've known that you're in love with Hongjoong. You're in tune enough with your feelings to know it, despite being entirely unwilling to admit it to him — not without something more concrete, not without him giving up and giving in just a little. You don't think it's a lot to ask of him, to put his hurt, and his worry, and whatever it is that clings to and harms him so deeply — to take a leap of faith and just say the words, the words that are so painfully obvious to the both of you.

That maybe he isn't necessarily in love with you, not yet — but he wants you, wants you all for himself. To be had and held by no one else. Is it too much to ask, to hear the words from his mouth without using them as a means to an end to make the both of you come?

A man so aware and enlightened, only willing to use his words when he knows he can take them back — not completely, but any deeper meaning behind them.

‘All talk, of course, it doesn't mean anything.’

Much like the first time.

And in spite of conversation number one not going according to plan, you find your chest empty at the loss of him next to you — wherever it may be that Hongjoong finds himself on this night, it's with your heart alongside, tightly in hand.

You only hope that he's thoughtful enough to be aware of it, to not make any rash decisions; for all intents and purposes perhaps—

For him to be better than you.

“So, what are you looking for, exactly?”

Stepping through the large, perfectly polished glass doors just behind the man that you've met with, you look around momentarily — luxury brands and department stores far from something that you're uncomfortable or unfamiliar with, it's not all that often that you find yourself shopping about in such places, given Hongjoong's interest in the more 'far out' of fashion trends, as it were — this, a place for people with money, and who want to look like they have money.

It reminds you of Wooyoung, mostly. Expensive, untouchable. The opposite of Hongjoong in every way.

“Not a suit but,” he slowly answers, head only slightly turning back and looking as if he's even more out of his depth than you are. “Something...nice.”

“Not giving me much to work with, here.”

Seonghwa stops in the middle of the fragrance department, you nearly bumping into him from behind at the abrupt halt — looking around, you watch him intently, as if awaiting his next command on where it is that the two of you should head off to.

Hair still the same, black and swept off to the side of his face, sides shaved and neat — you take a second to enjoy the view, beautifully effeminate features, perfect teeth, and when he opens his mouth, such a deceptively heavy, deep voice.

Enough to knock anyone off their game, even just a little bit.

But the truth was, that Park Seonghwa was kind of a fucking nerd.

Not in the typical way, perhaps like Yunho — ex-pro gamer, but more in the sense of being a little awkward in a way that one might not expect upon laying eyes on him. Easy to assume a cold, tough personality to the man, but not so much the case at all.

He was awkward. Sexy, but definitely awkward.

“Is just a button down shirt nice?” he finally asks, making eye contact with you again after scanning the expanse of the room.

“It really depends on where you're going, was there no dress code?”

“Business casual, I think it said.”

“Oh!” you chime, all of the day's problems solved with ease at the description. “That's easy then, yes, you can get away with a nice button down. See? When you give me information to work with...”

A few strides into the direction of the men’s section, the both of you fanning through different colors and brands of shirts, Seonghwa finally pipes up in a lull of quiet from the typical, dull small talk.

“So,” he says plainly. “Are you seeing anyone?”

You're thankful for the way that he cannot see nor hear the way your heart drops at the question alone.

Swallowing hard, eyebrows furrowing just for a moment as if to collect your thoughts, you finally reply. “Um, yeah. I guess. It's kind of complicated, though.”

“What does that mean?”

And in most situations, you wouldn't want to open up about the situation. Still too new and raw and painful to the touch, but the lack of the ability to do so eating you up inside in such a way that the pain drawls on endlessly — Seonghwa probably isn't the right person for this discussion, but frankly, you're not really sure who would be.

You just know that right now you're dying inside, so it has to be somebody, and well...he's offering.

“I've been seeing this guy for the past bunch of months, we're actually best friends, or were— before all of this,” you begin, sighing between the statements and emotional exhaustion from it all evident. “He's obviously into me, just like I am into him, I'd love to just...be in a relationship with him but he can't...talk, say the words. Be vulnerable.”

“Real tough guy, huh?” Seonghwa quips as he pulls a navy blue shirt off of the rack to check the size and fit against himself.

“Not really, that's what really gets me,” you start again. “He's really not that sort of macho, out of touch with his feelings kind of stereotype dude that you'd expect, but I guess anyone can have their problems with intimacy.”

“You're sure he wants what you want?”

The question comes out of left field, especially from the man just across the rack from you — and despite not needing it, you do take a moment of pause to think the question over before giving the same answer you would have either way.

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

Seonghwa sets the shirt back onto the metal tubing from where it came before leaning forward onto it with arms crossed and chin pressed against them to look at you.

“Then he kinda needs to shit or get off the pot, ya know? Tell him to grow up.”

“I don't think it's that easy. If it were that easy I think he would have by now, there's something else there holding him back.”

“Are you fuckin' other people still?”

The question gives you whiplash, the velocity at which it leaves Seonghwa's mouth and proverbially slaps you right across the face something you never could have expected — paired with the fact that yes, it was something you had considered...

But coming from someone with completely fresh insight on the situation—

Perhaps you hadn't been as safe and accommodating as you could have been, after all.

“I mean,” you stutter out, eyes darting away from his own and back down into the slew of button down shirts before you. “Yeah, we're not exclusive or anything, so...”

Who is it that you're trying to convince, anyways? That everything that you do is okay.

The idea that right and wrong can coexist simultaneously. That someone's right is someone else's wrong, or someone's right and wrong all at once.

Of course you are allowed to do that, and shoulder the consequences of your actions, you shall. Not a punishment, merely a result.

Choose wisely.

“Obviously,” Seonghwa says, pulling back to stand straight again. “But if he has feelings for you and you know that, and he knows that you know that, and yet he knows you're fuckin' other people still...I mean, I can only speak for myself I guess, but I would not be jumping to bare my soul to someone who's probably got a date to get her back blown out twenty minutes after, ya know?”

It's funny in delivery. The truth behind it making you wince all the same.

“You told him?” Seonghwa asks, shortly after amending the question. “That you have feelings for him? Want to be with him?”

You nod silently, carding through a rack of shirts that you've long since stopped paying attention to.

“Then I maintain my stance that he's gotta get a grip,” he says with a shrug, finally settling on an item and holding it up with confirmation. You smile gently at him.

“You threw yourself into the fire, he's gotta meet you there eventually.”

Stepping into the apartment and gently shutting the door behind you as you kick your shoes off, you hear the sound of Seonghwa casually tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter only a few feet away as he steps further ahead, bags set down behind the couch on the opposite end.

You stop and take it in for a moment — another new place, new sights, new smells, a new man.

And sure, Seonghwa wasn't new. Not in the typical sense of the word. He wasn't a random guy that you had just picked up that evening with every intention of drowning your worries in anything that he was willing to give you to help you forget, if even for a moment, but he wasn't...well...

He wasn't comfort. He wasn't home.

He wasn't Hongjoong.

Checking the screen of your phone again for notifications — notifications that you know have not arrived, for if they had, you would have felt them, you attempt to swallow down the knot in your throat. The feeling of being forgotten, of potentially being moved on from.

Did he even care anymore? Was it too little, too late, before you had even known it?

Vaguely, you can hear Seonghwa's deep voice ring out towards you, but the words fail to make their way to you. Not in any real, meaningful way — instead, past words spit like venom once again swim around and consume your memories, making their bed in your mind like a disease you may never find yourself rid of.

‘After all, you didn't know I was going to be there that night.’

“Hey,” you hear, Seonghwa finally breaking through the heavy thought clouding your mind. “What is going on up there?”

Lightly tapping the top of your head with his index finger, you lightly swat his hand away, awkwardly laughing and trying to shake off the way the memory makes you feel even now — the same way it felt then. As if no time had passed between at all.

“I'm fine.”

“Thinking about him?” Seonghwa chimes, teasingly mocking you like you're a girl with a crush.

It's not wrong, but hurts far more than he seems to be aware of, even in spite of the conversation earlier. You're unsurprised by this, as he never had come off as one quick on the emotional uptake of others.

A little self-centered, and a lot into himself. Med student, model — you figure it just sort of comes with the territory, perhaps, and truly — you had known him not to be the one to confide one's deepest, most vulnerable thoughts and feelings in, for those hands however skilled they may be, know not what to do with such items.

Opting to ignore the comment for as long as you can, instead eyes trailing along the medical books, papers, diagrams strewn about on the coffee table in front of the couch...only a few feet away from a few rather expensive looking garments carefully laid out across the top of a lounge chair — you find it charming, in some bizarre way — the juxtaposition of Seonghwa's lives carefully balanced on a thread via a man with no time to spare, and seemingly little knowledge about anything else.

You wonder if there's anything there, really, beyond medicine and beauty. Albeit, the path of medicine such a selfless act in and of itself, almost jarring in comparison to knowing the man; barely able to carry on a serious conversation, or offer a consoling word.

And hilariously, through all of the split second introspection, you come to the ultimate conclusion that you're not even all that sure you even like him that much.

“No,” you eventually answer, shuffling the thoughts from your head with finality. “Thinking about what we should eat.”

“What are you in the mood for?” he hurriedly responds, jumping up and into one of the stools next to the counter, phone in hand. “I'll order whatever.”

“Kind of want a pizza, actually.”

“Done.”

You find this to be the easiest conversation that you've ever had with the man, relief washing over you a bit and, for once, not feeling an undercurrent of battle with every word that is exchanged between the two of you, but you remember after all — you're there for a reason.

“By the way,” you say suddenly. “Need a tape measure, do you have one?”

“Ummmm, yeah, should be in my bedroom. The big white dresser? Not sure which drawer. You can go in there though, don't worry, won't find anything crazy.”

The words aren't all that comforting, you find, in spite of the fact that he's quite evidently trying to be. The promise of not finding whatever insanity the man may have hidden somewhere in the apartment something that you are thankful for, but as you step into his bedroom, the looming feeling of alarm washes over you just as quickly — that previously mentioned undercurrent of battle, now replaced with uncertainty. Not worry, so much, but with the crashing acknowledgement that perhaps you don't really know this man at all.

And you know that it's really none of your business. Not even a little bit, but he had you go in there, and knew what you would find—

—It seems only fair.

“Uh, Seonghwa?”

Long eyes looking up from his phone and straight towards you, dark hair dangling at one side of his face, it takes a long moment for the realization to hit him — so used to his version of normal, that you realize then and there, he had not actually thought about what it was he had been sending you off and into upon informing you where to find the tape measure.

That he obviously should have gotten off of his ass and retrieved himself.

“Oh, oh God,” he groans, eyes darting side to side and most importantly, far away from your own. His discomfort adds to your comfort instead, finding pleasure in the way that he is for once the one in the compromised situation between the two of you.

He was always awkward, but this was way better.

“Okay, ummm, I guess—“ he pauses, eyes screwing shut as if immediately trying to disappear himself from his own apartment, only opening them again upon accepting his failure in doing so and with lips forming a straight line, Seonghwa exhales heavily from his nostrils.

“—It's kinda...what it looks like.”

“The camera,” you plainly state, thumb over your shoulder and pointing back from where you had come from. “Want to tell me about that?”

Sighing, Seonghwa simply slumps forward with his head buried in crossed arms on the counter in front of him, words muffled. “No, but I guess I'm going to.”

“I mean, I won't say anything,” you comfort, shrugging and setting yourself down on the couch behind him. “I'm just already in here so if you're going to like, murder me for the dark web or something then I'd like to know ahead of time.”

You hear Seonghwa chuckle in response, probably thankful for the lighthearted banter in response to your findings. “Okay well, if that's what it looks like then it's not that.”

“What are you, a camboy or something?”

The chuckle in your voice as the words exit your mouth are evidence enough of the fact that you're still trying to make banter of the situation.

Seonghwa's silence in reaction, however, tells you that you're right on the money with your guess.

“Oh my God,” you chime out, a bit louder than you had anticipated. “You are.”

“Can you keep your voice down,” he hurriedly replies, pulling himself up and around to face you with the utmost urgency across his features. “These walls are paper thin, God.”

“Sorry, just—“ you pause, still taken aback by the discovery. “I was joking, I didn't think you really were. Not that there's anything wrong with that.”

With a heavy inhale, and equally heavy exhale, Seonghwa groans in anticipation of having to explain himself even further.

“It's good money, and it's fun,” he explains, standing up and heading over towards you on the couch so that the two of you can finish up the reason that you had gone over there to begin with. “The modeling is good but sometimes I don't take jobs because the travel just takes up so much time, it's hard to juggle with being a med student, so camming sort of supplements my income when I don't take jobs.”

Watching Seonghwa's face as he explains — cheeks and ears flushed red and the complete inability to make eye contact with you as he talks about it, laughing through it awkwardly even though nothing humorous is being said — you hate to admit the way that you find it charming, that perhaps in all of the ways that he is unattractive to you, there's still this. Goofy, uncomfortable, incredibly regular, like a little kid entirely too big physically and especially in life to handle all of the things being thrown his way.

An incredible juggling act, perhaps shocking that he didn't turn out worse.

So awkward, for a guy that jerks off on camera for who knows how many strangers.

“I think it's kind of cool.”

And for the first time since the conversation topic had been breached, Seonghwa's eyes meet your own, albeit briefly. A silent thankfulness for your understanding, for your willingness to accept him.

“You want to get into it? I'll fuck you on camera, we'll make a killing.”

Ah, right, there he is. Spoken like a truly insufferable prick.

“You wish, moron,” you say, flat in tone and forcing him to spin so that he faces away from you. “Get down on your knees so I can measure you out and get this fit right, and if you don't behave I'll have you out there looking ridiculous on purpose.”

Tape measure in hand, you extend the length enough to cross the width of the man's shoulders, making note of the number and dialing it in on your phone laid just next to you on the couch cushion, Seonghwa's head turns just slightly as if in attempt to look back at you, despite not having the range of motion to do so to any reasonable amount.

“Are my shoulders wide?”

You roll your eyes.

“They're a perfectly normal width, Hwa.”

“Wider than What's-his-face's?”

There's that burn in your chest again, and you can't tell if Seonghwa just doesn't get it or doesn't care, at this point.

Swallowing hard at the question, hoping and praying that your voice doesn't break as you force out a light response to an absolutely painful topic, you manage well enough.

“Yes, he's not a model.”

“He's short? Small?”

At this point, you're glad that Seonghwa can't see you — the way that you chew on the inside of your cheek or lip at the mere mention of Hongjoong, and now especially at this bizarrely competitive way that Seonghwa seems to be...having a go at him, despite not even knowing him, it's unappealing, unattractive, and downright right fucking annoying.

“Yes, he's small,” you answer, this time with far less effort to conceal your irritation at the line of questioning. “What does it matter to you, anyways?”

Shrugging suddenly as you continue on with what you had gone there to do to begin with, he sighs. “Just trying to lighten the mood, surely this guy isn't all that, and especially not if he can't even tell a girl he likes her.”

You kind of wish you could disagree.

Appreciating Seonghwa's mismanaged attempt at making you feel better in some way, you allow yourself to let the anger fall to the wayside a bit. The man just before you clearly only good at so many things — matters of other people's hearts, maybe not so much.

Which you sort of knew already.

Silence finally taking the room as you move to measure the length of his right arm, you're delighted by it. The fact that no words are currently exiting his beautiful mouth. You consider for a moment that perhaps beautiful men are far more often better off not using their words.

Wooyoung sort of springs to mind.

Paradise crashes down pretty quickly, though.

“He got a small dick?”

“Seonghwa.”

Swatting the back of his head gently, the man chuckles at your response. “What!? I find it admirable that you love him despite his flaws if that's the case.”

“You have got to shut up before I walk out of here.”

“Okay, okay, I was just jokin’—“

It's an almost pleasant bit in the evening, interrupted by the sound of a notification coming through on your phone, and as the screen illuminates, you only have to glance at it for a second to recognize the length of text — the name — that comes through on the screen.

You take pause, not only due to the unexpected nature of it, but given your current circumstances and just — everything. The feelings all rushing back to your chest, throat tightening in an instant, heart feeling as though it could beat straight through your rib cage at any given moment, you can only assume that Seonghwa doesn't hear the sound, or thinks nothing of it at first, before taking notice of the way that you freeze behind him, arms stuck in statuesque figure as you stare down at the device next to you with thoughts racing a mile a minute.

“What?” he finally questions, moving to turn more and take in the scene behind him, first looking to you, but following your eyes down to the object as the screen dulls again only seconds later. “Oh, is it him?”

You nod, slowly allowing your arms down and swallowing down a dry throat.

“Just ignore him, come on, we're having fun,” the man with you insists, grabbing you playfully by the arms and flailing them about for you. “He can wait a few hours more, don't let him ruin your night.”

Snapping back to reality, you blink, then turning your attention to Seonghwa — eyes bright and eyebrows down turned as if pleading for you not to ruin his good time, you take control of your arms once again as you reach towards your phone.

“I'm just...surprised, he's texting me—“ you say, inhaling deeply before unlocking the screen. “I can't ignore him.”

“You can, come on, we're having a good night!”

>Hongjoong: hey. i'm sorry. we should talk. I want to talk. about the conversation we had a few days ago. when you have time, obviously.

The message hits you in the chest like a freight train, for so many reasons, but the pointed willingness of the apology quite possibly being the most gutting of all.

Hongjoong, a man never above an apology, so you're unsure why it is that this one in particular hits you in such a special way — that he leads with it, that it feels so strong, so meaningful, so much.

And the acknowledgment of the failed conversation, of course.

Looking up from your phone, you meet the sad, puppy dog eyes of Seonghwa — pouty and evidently beyond bummed at the inevitability of the way the night will end — a child starved of play dates, his one moment cut short just like that.

You flash back to the night that you met Seonghwa, and how sexy you thought he was. The reason that you exchanged numbers with him to begin with. Truthfully? A quick fuck was ideally in the cards.

How unfortunate now that you've gotten to know him.

“Nah, I don't think so!”

Before the words really register to you, Seonghwa has your phone swiped from your hands, pulling it from your reach and back behind him — holding it far and away from your own as you attempt to swiftly grab it back from him but with no avail. Repeatedly calling his name to give it back, the man only laughs as you try to best his long limbs without closing too much of the space between the two of you — something that you would like to avoid.

And that he would not.

Pulling forward and nearly off of the couch entirely with Seonghwa leaned back and away, you attempt to reach behind him for your device, still far out of reach, but it's when the man quickly leans back in again without your ready — lips firm against your own and free hand cupping the side of your face to pull your further into it that you find it so easy to melt into the feeling without so much as a second thought; the warmth, the inviting plush of his mouth with a kiss not rushed, or needy, but passionate and soft.

You meet his motions briefly, before pulling back and away from him entirely.

Hand still gently pressed into the side of your head, fingers lightly curling into the hair that resides there, you take in the way that Seonghwa's features soften so much just in that moment — as if a man now knelt before you that you'd never met before. A new man.

He delicately pulls your face back towards him, and you hate the way you allow him to.

Only centimeters from your lips, Seonghwa whispers into you, voice heavy and laden with obvious desire that, if laid dormant all of this time, you had not noticed it until only now.

“If you're really gonna give the fun up for this guy,” he begins, pressing his lips to your own again and so gently that you almost couldn't even feel it. “Then what's wrong with one last one for the road, huh?”

Another kiss.

You're melting into it far too quickly, so easy for Seonghwa to lull you into this sort of comfort that only minutes prior you never would have thought him capable of — a new side of himself, so sensual and inviting and deeply, you wished you weren't curious about what else there was that he had to offer you.

“—He'll never have to find out.”

Okay, fuck it.

Scooting backwards on the couch a bit further, parting your legs to allow room for him in between them, Seonghwa leans into you even more, mouth heavier against your own, with more intent now. Your eyes dart down, in view of the hand clasping your phone still — the buzz of another notification ringing through your ears, knowing precisely who it is that's attempting to contact you — it takes everything in you to muster up the courage to ignore it, cast it aside.

Cast Hongjoong aside.

Seonghwa stands, carding his fingers through long, black hair as he does so before reaching for his belt buckle and beginning to undo it right in front of your face — your eyes fixated on the obvious tenting in the front of his pants at the promise of a fuck that neither of you should particularly be indulging in, but especially not you.

You can. You're allowed.

“Have you thought about this before?” you ask, curiosity getting the best of you and desperately needing to cut through the silence of only your thoughts.

Seonghwa chuckles, still looking down upon your features as he pulls the leather apart, fingers then moving to the button — it's happening a little faster than you needed right now, but also, perhaps that's exactly what you need.

“Of course, every guy thinks about fucking every attractive, female friend they have — at least a little bit.”

An unfortunate byproduct — everything reminds you of him.

Pressing his jeans down slightly and pulling himself from the black fabric of his briefs, he strokes himself slowly, gently, for your viewing pleasure — only inches from your face, eyes still engrossed and watching you as you watch him.

You wonder if this is how he does it for however many viewers he brings in.

“Don't think about him,” he says, bringing the hand up that still clasps your phone and turning the screen towards your face. “Unlock it, just for a little fun.”

“Are you crazy?” you bite back, leaning away from him altogether, but the man before you still lazily pumping himself only snorts a bit and shrugs before answering you back.

“It's your phone, think of it as a bachelorette gift from me.”

The confidence in his tone, while irritating, is intriguing — you wonder briefly who and what he's done to make himself believe that video recollection of you sucking him off could be something that you'd watch back later, holed up in the bathroom late at night with nothing or no one better to do and only a fond memory of something that you had no business partaking in to begin with.

Though, come to think of it; when you put it like that, the appeal was certainly beginning to present itself.

You snatch the phone from him and plug in your pass code, handing it back to him just as quickly — as if the faster it's done the less either of you will have to acknowledge the acceptance, but the grin on Seonghwa's face says everything as he evidently pulls up the camera app and angles your phones lens down and towards your face.

“Lemmie see you work, baby.”

You're certainly not proud of the way the sentence is felt straight between your legs — not entirely sure if it's the words themselves, the man, the camera, or the deviousness of the act as a whole — taking him into your dominant hand and replacing his as he pulls away and instead runs fingertips through the hair at the top of your head, you carry on with the work that he had started on himself. Heavy and warm, long, thick enough but not anything that would take any exceptional prep to work up to, you quickly (and unfortunately) have to settle on the fact that the guilty fuck is doing more for you now, in this moment, than you'd ever really like to admit to yourself.

Pulling yourself forward on the couch more to situate yourself best for taking him, you angle your head down as to run your tongue against the tip of his cock — wet, showy circles across it and looking up to see the effect on him — bottom corner of his lip pulled between his teeth and slightly hooded, brown eyes gazing down upon you.

And the camera, of course. You're making a show of it.

Moving upwards again, you take Seonghwa fuller into your mouth, properly for sucking him off — too big to take the entirety of but you're thankful that he doesn't seem stuck on the necessity of it, hands in your hair and on your head for the sake of being there rather than with intent to guide or pull you onto him, he allows you the ability to take him at your own pace and depth, languidly bobbing along his cock with wet, swollen lips as airy, devilishly sexy groans topple from the beautifully plump ones that had just been kissing you only moments before.

Kisses testing the waters: ‘How horrible are you, really?’

Even with cock in mouth, or especially with cock in mouth, you can't help but have the thoughts spring to mind — how wrong it is, how fucked up it is.

How you're only doing this with promise that Hongjoong will never know, because if he were to, you wouldn't.

But the knowledge of it devastating him not enough to stop you from pulling the trigger on the act, either.

Is this love?

“Feel so good, look so pretty like this,” Seonghwa says, the words nearly startling you from your thoughts despite the act still taking place. “Like a big dick? Hm? Mouth looks so small around me.”

You know he's playing it up for the camera, likely because it's what he's used to doing — talking the viewer through to their finish — he's assuming that someday you will, in all actuality, make yourself come to this little snippet in time at some point in the future.

Depending on how it turns out, you can't really promise that you won't, either.

Picking up your speed along him, hand following suit to make up for the amount of him that you can't fit into your mouth, Seonghwa groans at the extra friction, head falling back briefly to take in the feeling of you swallowing him whole, as best you can.

“God.” And it's nearly a whisper, eyes falling back down to yours once again. “Wanna come all over that pretty face of yours.”

Arousal pooling between your legs much quicker than you'd have ever hoped, the promise of him emptying on your face — while enticing — not exactly the finish you were looking for, but just as you pull off of him slowly to voice the concern, Seonghwa locks your phone screen with an audible click and tosses the device to a plush chair sitting adjacent to the two of you.

“Kinda short but should do the trick if you're hard up for time, here, stand up.”

Somewhat confused but following the man's lead all the same, Seonghwa pulls you up and off the couch before seating himself down where you had just been, cock still hard and all present — you finally come to realize that it was all for show, that he had no intention of finishing then and there.

What a magnificent actor, you think to yourself.

“Take your pants off,” he then instructs, sitting with his back against the couch and hand around himself as he resumes stroking himself at the visual, you wasting no time shimmying out of your clothing for him to watch — lips slightly parted and eyes so strong and intensely situated on your body and all of its movements. Once down to your panties, you look at him again, unsure if meant to strip in totality.

“Should I...?”

“Up to you,” he says, suddenly grabbing towards you and pulling your hips forward and against his face as fingers quickly make their way between your legs and into the sides of the fabric there — but pausing to look up at you again, the dastardly grin is really what sends home the words themselves, thereafter.

“Depends how dirty of a fuck you want it to be, the more clothes the better then.”

And you don't really have time to answer the question, had there ever even been one, before his lips press hard against your pussy and tongue making quick work of the quest for your clit — nearly toppling forward, hands falling to his shoulders for leverage as your knees just about give out from the sudden contact, lewd, slurping and sucking sounds resonating through the apartment as Seonghwa wastes no time tasting you — and just as quickly, the feeling of a single finger slowly pressing into you as you stand before him.

“God, fuck, Seonghwa—“

He hums in acknowledgment of the name, two, three slow pumps of the digit, you feel him add a second. Delicate hands, but by no means dainty — fingers with thickness to them and the feeling of fullness is immediate as he continues the suction on your clit with earnest.

Your own fingers digging into his shirt and the flesh beneath it, head falling back and feeling almost dizzy at the onslaught of sensations, clenching your eyes shut, he pulls his head back from you to look at your features. “Good?”

“Yes,” you whimper out, heavy and barely audible at all. Seonghwa chuckles at the scene before him.

“C'mere.”

And you know he's being annoying when he does it, the words paired with the curl of his fingers deep inside you as he ushers you forward, pressing hard against your g-spot as he does and it's everything you have, all of the strength in your legs to not completely fall forward and against him — but slowly pulling his fingers from you, he instead brings his hands to your waist, steadying you to ease you down and into his lap. Another kiss, this time much heavier and needy and messy from both sides — panties slick and wet and pulled apart messily, allowing you to feel the faint press of his bare shaft against you as the two of you pant and bite at each other's mouths, you want him, and you want him bad.

The coming to a head of so many different thoughts and feelings all at once: the longing, the missing, the sadness, the desire. The allure of being in places and arms where you shouldn't dare be, all the while wishing you were in the ones that you should.

It was good, he made me come, I prefer you.

I prefer you.

You want Seonghwa to fuck you raw.

And you know that the strongest factor in favor of it is the fact that it would be so easy. That the both of you are already right there, so simple, and you shouldn't, and all the while knowing it's sort of why you want to.

Maybe somehow you can undo all of the work that Hongjoong's done if only you allow someone else to do it all over again.

“Seonghwa,” you whisper against his mouth, hips pressing forward and against him, swallowing up the hiss that escapes his lips as a result of it and loving every second of it.

“Condom.”

Nodding, the man reaches down and into his pants’ pocket — still conveniently wrapped around his thighs and pulls for his wallet, metallic package quickly found and ripping it open with his teeth, he nods for you to pull back a little off of him to grant him room to roll it on — watching intently as he does. Settling back comfortably, large hands finding their way up and around your waist again to lift you gently, to hover over him before your descent down — the two of you make eye contact only briefly as one of his hands edges down and between your legs to pull the side of your panties away just as before.

‘Depends how dirty of a fuck you want it to be.’

You quickly dart your eyes away from him, opting to close them instead as you sink down along his length — faster than you might normally and barely allowing yourself any time to adjust, you wince at the stretch, the length, the pull of him against your insides — not completely ready to take him yet.

But ready to get it over with, get out of there, and carry on like this never happened.

Rocking your hips against him, you start out at a relatively quick pace, one hand on his shoulder and the other between your legs to rub you into your orgasm as fast as possible, not even wanting to leave it up to him to get you there — screwing your eyes shut tighter, allowing yourself to feel the way he pulls you down to take his cock; a little hard, a little rough — but it's kind of what you want, what you need, given the circumstances.

In some ways, Seonghwa may as well not be there at all.

“H—harder—“ you whisper, desperately trying to get the friction you need from him out of the position but being starkly limited in availability, you only hear Seonghwa laugh at first, in response to your demand, before stopping the both of you altogether and nearly pushing you off of him.

Your first thought, is that he's pissed. You're not sure why, or what happened, and before being able to get the question out of your mouth, you find yourself face first into the couch cushion and lengthwise on the couch, with Seonghwa already pressing back into you from behind.

Moaning out at the new, different kind of intrusion, Seonghwa leans forward and over your back, hand nestled in your hair before tightening only enough to get your attention.

You said 'harder,' not 'rougher,' — 'rougher' was the next command on the agenda, though.

With a hard, sudden snap of his hips into you, you whine out loudly in response. Then another, and another following — crying out at the feeling, just teetering on the edge of being too much, too painful, you finally hear the words from behind you through gritted teeth.

“I'm fine with being your guilty little fuck,” he says, still snapping his hips harshly between every few words. “Use me to forget him? I can do that.”

Hand still pressed against your head, Seonghwa adjusts his positioning behind you just enough that it gives him better, easier access to continue his relentless drives into you — hard and fast — your hand once again buried between your legs and now orgasm much faster in its approach, you whine out with every full thrust of himself, nearly pulling all of the way from you before plunging back in.

“Feel good? You like that?” he asks, breath heavy and husky and sounding almost bitter in the exchange.

It almost turns you on more, knowing that he's angry with you for this, hates you for it.

“Yes.”

“Yeah? My cock feel good to you, baby?”

So vulgar and with a tone so hateful, you know he's trying to make a point. The reminder that it's him and not Hongjoong. Making you pay attention to it. Not letting you disassociate from the fact. Forcing you to be present and in the moment no matter how much you don't want to be — not entirely, at least.

“Say it,” he adds with a particularly harsh thrust, and you give in right away. “Yes, yes, fuck, Seonghwa—“

“That's right, good girl. Close? Wanna come around my cock for me?”

A moan first ripping through your lips, fingers desperately attempting to grip into unrelenting cushions, you feel Seonghwa's own curl harder into the skin of your hips with every second that you don't answer him.

“Yes, I do, fuck, please I'm close—“

Continuing into you, he quiets long enough to focus on getting you there; fucking into you hard and fast and all of the way through it as you cry out at the way your orgasm finally takes you, you barely even notice as Seonghwa suddenly exits from you, pulling the condom free of himself and stroking himself through his own orgasm — translucent white strings of his cum painting your already stained panties and backside.

A fitting end — filthy and used and an amalgamation of things that never quite should have taken place to begin with.

Slowly, tiredly flipping back over to face him, Seonghwa avoids eye contact at first — the easy excuse of needing to toss the condom away in a rush able to pull him from the situation long enough to steady himself and his feelings before coming back — pants now pulled back up and into place before sitting down on the couch next to you again, eyes away from you as you awkwardly reach for the garments you had left on the floor onto ten or so minutes prior to now.

And then, your phone.

Buzzing lightly against the plush of the chair, you can't help but allow your attention to draw to Seonghwa in light of it all — but the man turns his head from you gently, instead opting to reach for the device as the one closest to it and handing it to you without ever making eye contact.

Talk about guilty fuck.

And of course it's Hongjoong. It's always Hongjoong. The vibrancy of the name on the screen in juxtaposition to the scenario that you just took part in and the way Seonghwa isn't helping in making it feel okay, feels like a knife to the chest.

Maybe, just maybe, it's not okay. Maybe it hasn't been for a while.

“I need to get—“ you quietly clamor out, your existence feeling like a disturbance in the man's home, but unable to leave until you wash the remainder of him off of you. Seonghwa turns his head to you briefly, finally realizing the situation and quickly — awkwardly, pointing you into the direction of his bathroom.

And it's unfortunate the ways that hurt people sometimes expel that pain. For Hongjoong, it's a spitfire tongue and thoughtless words — precisely as he thinks and feels in the moment but with every intention to hurt the recipient just as much as he, himself hurts.

For Yunho, it's repetition — the starry-eyed hope that if given the ability to go back in time, do the same thing over again, maybe do something differently, that he can forge a different outcome of the same situation.

For you, it's actions — thoughtless and selfish and entirely self-absorbed. Desperate for the acknowledgment that the choices one makes along the way are good and right, objectively so, even if at the expense of the ones we love around us.

And for Seonghwa, it's revenge.

Coming back from the bathroom, as best cleaned up as you can manage, you find Seonghwa standing in the kitchen — arms crossed with a glass of unknown liquid in hand as his eyes coldly fall over your figure. A far cry from the man you had arrived there with, but knowing all the same when you had worn out your welcome — you certainly don't feel bad about being kicked out after the sex, truthfully, you couldn't get out of there faster if you had tried to.

“I'm gonna get out of he—“

The sound of your phone vibrating stealing your attention away, but not because of a message notification.

Rather, a phone call.

Phone on the glass coffee table, face up, and not where you had left it when you went off to the bathroom — glancing down at the phone call as the tail end of it comes through, only to find it add itself to a slew of three other missed call notifications.

And all from Hongjoong.

You slowly look back up and towards Seonghwa, still silently perched in the kitchen — watching you, but with nothing to say. Slowly, he brings his hand from the side of his arm to take a sip of the beverage...

But not before ever so gently tipping it towards you.

Cheers, indeed. And 'fuck you, too.'

Panic setting in immediately, before you even have a chance to call Hongjoong back, another call rings through, and gathering your things, shuffling towards the door with little else on your mind beyond getting the fuck out of that apartment and away from that man, you pick up the call finally.

“Hongjoong, I— hold on, just—“

You haven't even heard a word from him yet, pulling the phone back down from your face to swipe through your apps at lightning quick speed, desperate to locate your texting app but not all that ready to lay eyes on precisely what it is that you expect to find.

And you do, of course.

The last thing in your messaging conversation with Hongjoong, the video Seonghwa took of you with him less than an hour earlier.

Not even bothering to acknowledge Seonghwa further as you leave the apartment, barreling down the staircase as quickly as possible with your bag slung over your shoulder, you're finally able to situate yourself enough to bring the phone back to your face.

Inhaling deeply, pausing from exhaustion and pressing your back against one of the concrete walls, you huff out his name. “Hongjoong—“

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

But the tone on the other line isn't angry, not in the way that you had anticipated. It's not a man furious, violent, aggressive in any sense of the imagination — but rather, a tone dripping with desperation, with tragedy, with pain. This question posed, to avoid the other, obvious question that lied bare and rubbed raw behind it: Why would you do this to me? Why would you hurt me like this?

“Look, I didn't send—“ you pause the line of thought, realizing that the details of who or why it was sent to him mean little, and truly the only thing that matters is why were you with him.

And why does Hongjoong mean that little to you.

“Hongjoong, I'm sorry, it was a mistake, I fucked up—“

“I've been texting you all night, is that why I couldn't get a hold of you?”

“Look, please, we should talk—“

“We should talk? I've been trying to get a hold of you all night to talk!”

“I know,” voice breaking with the words, the burning creeping up quickly and pulling yourself together again enough to continue down the stairs and out of the building and in a ride share towards Hongjoong's place, you continue to plead with him. “Please, Joong, I'm coming over. Please, let's talk about this.”

‘About this.’ The concept of ‘this.’

The unmatched, unswallowable feeling of impending nothingness. The loss of something — someone so great.

Everyone has a breaking point.

When silence greets you on the other line for far too long as your car carries you towards his home, a home that the two of you not too long ago once shared, you can almost hear the way that Hongjoong has to swallow down his feelings, the gut-wrenching twist of the dagger that you so ceremoniously planted directly into his chest.

“I don't know why you're tormenting me,” he whispers through broken voice, otherwise calm words falling onto your ears like death itself.

“So fucking jealous when I slept with your friend, before we even started getting involved—“

“I know, Hongjoong, I know please—“

His voice turning whiny, more broken and pointed. “—It was fucked up then, and it's so fucked up now.”

Throat burning, ears on fire, you know it's on the tip of his tongue if he can muster up the courage to do it, to say the words, to do the deed himself.

I don't love you anymore, goodbye.

But he doesn't, and in an effort to cut him off before he can, you make the quick decision that it's enough with the bullshit, and enough with the games. Emotions have been worn and dragged through the mud enough up until this point for the both of you — and for no reason at all. You know what you want, and you've always known what you wanted.

Him.

“You can come to the apartment to get your shit but I won't be there—“

“Hongjoong—“

He silences, you await the inquiry that apparently won't ever come, and it gives you pause again. Veins running ice cold and breath thin, you figure now more than ever before;

It's now or never.

“I love you.”

♡ send me your thoughts and feelings in my ask.

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[pdrrook]

Hii! How old is the Perfumare world? It seems like you've had it thought out a loooong time ago. It's very atmospheric. The characters, too, are built very deeply (it's giving 🧅). Everything about this story is giving 🧅. When did you first think about writing this story? When are your oldest notes about the Perfumare world dated (as in year)?

Heya! It's like 4 y old? Add a few months to the release date coz I developed the idea from a short dream I had (it was the dream sequence, the bathtub moment) in about 3 months before I started coding the script into Ren'py. I started with Twine though, so I had the base drafted there, and then I switched to Ren'py and focused on the assets. I did spend most of my time on the characters' backgrounds and stuff that I thought would never be shown in-game like family relations and so on. Which is funny considering I started thinking about writing it for the sole purpose of using it as a test story to learn to code on, lol, but then it grew as I wrote more. 

As for the notes, I tried to find some to share here, but I have a bad habit of deleting old/unused stuff from my PC so 🤡

I can tell you that the earliest draft had Flavio in Laurent's place (as in the RO, not the character, they both existed still), but it wouldn't work with both Reed and Flavio being the ROs, so I scrapped that idea. Oh, and the og was literally just the dream sequence, but I felt like it lacked substance bc it was so short, so I decided to develop it more, and the rest is, as they say, history. 

[fluent-in-lesbianism]

hi! long time follower, first time asker. this is a fandom question related to CPS. show is finding carter, a 2014 MTV show. MC is a teen girl who finds out that she was kidnapped when she was 3 and is reunited with her family. now the show definitely fumbled on how CPS should handle such a situation. i've been trying to research about it but have been having some difficulty. so i was wondering if you know of any resources or just professional knowledge about such situations. thank you so much!

I can only speak about Alabama CPS policy since that's where I work. CPS policy varies from state to state (even county to county within the same state). So I can only speak about my experiences in my state. Also, I've never actually seen Finding Carter. I'm only basing this off your short summary of the show.

I actually read this ask over the weekend and first thought I'd never actually worked a case like Finding Carter before, so I asked my supervisor (who has been in CPS for 22 years as both a worker and a supervisor) about her experiences. She'd never worked a case like that in her time as a worker, but she reminded me of a similar case I worked a few years ago that I'd completely forgotten about.

I'd gotten a report on a couple for non-kidnapping issues (that I don't remember anymore), but both I and my supervisor became suspicious during my first contact because the parents couldn't produce any adoption paperwork on a child they'd allegedly adopted from another country.

I couldn't do anything that night bc I can't remove kids off "vibes", but I made note of what they told me of their adoption process and their lack of paperwork in my notes for the primary worker. Two days later, I learned the couple was arrested and charged with kidnapping. They'd actually gone to another country, paid off hospital workers to give them a newborn baby, then flown back to the US with the baby to raise as their own.

In these situations, kids would not immediately go back to their biological parents. The kids would be placed in foster care until a judge determines that the bio parents are actually the bio parents. CPS can't change legal custody to non-relatives, and we wouldn't be able to immediately prove the child's relatives, so foster care would be the only option.

A judge would order CPS to complete DNA testing, checking hospital records, filing a police report, and checking missing persons reports before the child would even be considered for reunification. It would involve several court hearings and take a very long time. Probably several months, especially if it involves a child from another country. If it's a kidnapping from another country, Homeland Security would get involved as well.

So, let's say CPS proves that the bio parents are the bio parents, the child still wouldn't be immediately sent back. CPS would check the bio parents to ensure they're safe and appropriate. If CPS determines that the bio parents are unsafe for the child to return to (like prior criminal child abuse charges, parents use drugs, DV in the home, etc.), then the child would not be reunited with them until the parents complete court ordered services. Once the parents complete their services, a judge can make the decision to return the child to the parents.

In the mean time, the child would be placed in a bio family member's custody until a judge allows the child to go back to the bio parents. If there isn't a family member for the child to return to, then the child would remain in foster care. The child and family would also receive services through CPS like specialized counseling and supervised visitations between the parents and child prior to reunification.

I haven't seen the show, but I'm sure the show writers made it a plot point where the child was allowed to have contact with her kidnapper for the ~drama~. But that wouldn't happen in real life. The kidnapper would have a no contact order and jailed on felony kidnapping. If the kidnapper allows contact or encourages contact with the child, then they would face even more charges and jail time.