#I thought they were mid even as a snot dripping child

[pixlmonkeys]

update wooooo I did Not get any concrete diagnosis other than the umbrella term of dysautonomia (heartbreaking) but I also do not have any serious heart problems (heartwarming) but that doesn’t mean I don’t still feel like shit (heartbreaking) and the advice they gave is to drink and eat more (extremely heartbreaking, I have bad food aversion so I physically cannot get myself to eat sometimes) so I’m not dying but I sure as hell don’t feel good either. so be it I guess (COPING SO HARD PLEEAAAASSEEE JUST LET ME FEEL NORMAL AGAIN PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE)

AWESOME news though the guy who did the first half of the tests reminded me of zasp. how, you may ask? I DO NOT KNOW HOW he gave me zasp vibes he was cool and tall and that’s enough to be akin to zasp in my eyes i kinda wanna draw a human zasp now frfr

hype (DIES)

[januaryembrs]

AD ASTRA - CHAPTER SEVEN

CHPT VII. THE PROTECTORS

Description: Tatooine proves as unforgiving as you remember it as Mando is betrayed by his temporary Bounty Hunter companion.

Length: 5.5k

main masterlist

AD ASTRA MASTERLIST

Din Djarin x Jedi!reader series. Friends to lovers, (Somewhat) slowburn, female!reader, JEDI!READER, possible smut, jealous!mando, reader has problematic childhood, fluff, saviour complex!mando, canon star wars characters mentioned, Obi wan x padawan!reader, dad!obi wan, general star wars bloodshed etc

Chapter Triggers - Blood, needles, stitching of wounds, death of Toro Callican, tough childhood, lost family, use of blaster/g*n.

AD ASTRA PER ASPERA

“To the stars through hardships”

The following day was spent finishing up the final adjustments to the Razor Crest, double and even triple-checking that everything was in order so you didn't have to return back to this maker-forsaken planet any time soon. Peli Motto was surprisingly caring, and damn was she sassy for her older age, but you would wholeheartedly admit you hated the feeling of the gritty Tatooine air and the woman alone couldn’t compel you to stay any longer than you had to.

Satisfied the job was complete, you spent the rest of the morning playing sabacc with the pit droids who were quaking like a leaf the second they had seen you sit down to play, thinking you'd been as unfriendly as Mando had been. Luckily, you were not and instead sipped a glass of water greedily and entertained the child bouncing on your knee.

He thumbed, well clawed, over your cards as you held them in front of him. You smiled, showing him the values of each one and letting him pretend he had a say in which one you put down, receiving a happy babble from the baby when he thought he was playing himself.

By the time it had reached mid-day you realised the child was getting antsy, choosing to try and chew up the deck you held out to him instead of merely stroking them gently as he had been doing before. You sat, confused by his sudden change in attitude when the kid's mood took a turn for the worst and he began squealing, bottom lip quivering pitifully.

"What is it, kid? I changed you about an hour ago." You received no response obviously, "How about we play a game, huh? Do you want to play a different game?"

"Maybe he's hungry" Peli offered, though the tone she'd said it in meant that she already knew that was the case and she didn't want you to feel dumb for not realising it yourself.

"Hungry? I already fed him twice today" You said incredulously, confused as to why this kid was so ravenous suddenly.

"Kid of his age should probably eat around four or five times a day I'd say," Peli replied, collecting the wet cards up from his needy, barely-toothed mouth.

"Five times? Kriffing hell, kid. Where do you put it all?" You asked, picking the child up and resting him on your hip the way that felt unnatural to you, but it was how Peli had shown you. You stood from the table, ready to take the kid aboard the ship where you had kept some leftover broth. The mechanic spent the free morning explaining to you some basic meals suitable for a kid at his stage of development. You didn't even realise there were things children of his size should never eat in case they were to choke on them. You knew that kids were a handful, but you hadn't bet on so many do's and don'ts with the little monsters.

"How about it huh? You want some food?" At the sound of a meal, the child quietened down, his cries becoming a low whimper as he snuggled into your neck to watch you prepare his meal for him. You could feel something wet dripping down your collar bone, and you weren't sure whether it was tears or drool or even snot from the menace's tantrum, but you figured it was best you didn't know. As much as that thought grossed you out, you were just happy you had been able to satiate the child's needs. You heated the leftover stew over the small makeshift hob the Mandalorian had in the hull of his ship, feeling the child's sniffles simmer down as the meaty smell met his button nose and instead he began chittering happily, realising he was about to be fed.

You laughed as his mood swung around, taking the food off the heat and allowing it to cool down before you handed it to the child. Peli had nearly had a heart attack when you had almost given him a piping bowl of the freshly made broth last night, scolding you for nearly burning the child's little grabby hands in the mixture.

You waited a moment, setting the kid up on a crate and tucking a piece of cloth Peli had suggested you fashion into a bib inside his brown robes. you watched him squeal happily as the bowl was placed in front of him. You had to hold it yourself due to how big it was and hand him the tiniest spoon you could find, though it was still much too oversized for the poor boy.

You watched him practically dive into the food, chuckling at how hungry he indeed had been and thankful you had Peli's guidance to keep you from burning the excited child. Mando would have killed you himself if you had.

The child had finished his meal in less than five minutes flat, sitting back contently and burping. You laughed, wiping the remnants from his giggling mouth and standing to wash up the cutlery you'd used. You had never thought you would enjoy the domestic side of life, being much too wrapped up in self-pity and fear for the past few rotations to even comprehend having children or a husband (or even wife for that matter). Settling down wasn't really an option for you since day one. The Jedi teaching was instilled into you that attachment and the strong emotions that came with it had the potential to lead down a dark path, and you'd witnessed it yourself in the angry yellow orbs Anakin had glared at you with the day he mercilessly killed the younglings. Every single one except you.

"The Emperor has big plans for you, Y/N," You still heard his empty voice echoing in your head, and the thought made you shudder.

If only it were possible to bury away awful memories like those. But instead, ones like that had been haunting your brain since you were a young girl.

You were mid-reminiscing when you heard a small creaking sound coming from behind you, assuming it was just the child trying to get down from the crate you had set him on. But something was wrong. Something felt wrong.

And then the feeling of the force signature was back, only stronger. Invading every single one of your senses as though you were standing right in front of the man himself. Your nose was filled with his familiar smell of the soap Anakin always used alongside a more natural sweaty undertone he carried after a long day of training or fighting, a scent you hadn’t known since you were seven years old. Some part of him was there with you, for what reason you weren't sure.

But before you had any chance to question it further, the sharp frame of a blaster collided with your temple and you felt your vision blank for a moment, before it came back in a single flicker and died out like a broken light. The last thing you heard was the kid screaming, sending a sick feeling to your gut before your consciousness was completely stolen from you altogether.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Din stalked his way into Peli's workshop, part of him hopeful that you had been able to take care of this Toro Calican guy who had double-crossed him, but his heart sank when he saw the area empty. That only worried him. He saw the older mechanic in a set of cuffs by the entrance to his ship, eyes wide at his arrival. But before he could ask her what exactly had happened Toro came strolling down the ramp, the child in one arm and a blaster in the other. Not only did the sight of the kid now in his grasp scare him, but the fact you were at the charge end of the weapon, hands raised in surrender and a trickle of dried blood leading down your cheek raised red flags in his head, and his leathered hands curled into fists at the sight.

"Took you long enough, Mando." The man smiled devilishly, and Din watched you scoff at his words, "Looks like I'm calling the shots now, huh, partner? Drop your blaster and raise 'em or this pretty lady a' yours is gonna get real messy,"

The Mandalorian hesitated, thinking over his few options carefully. He guessed the only reason you hadn't taken the guy out already was that he had the child and one small mistake could be fatal for the innocent little guy. He stared at your solemn face briefly, wondering if you were okay seeing you was clearly wounded, before lowering his weapon and throwing it on the sandy floor.

Toro pushed a set of handcuffs into your palm and shoved the blaster in your back to gesture towards the beskar clad man.

You said nothing. You were thinking of all the ways you would have slaughtered the man behind your were it not for the child being in his hands. You couldn't be stupid and reckless, not when his life depended on it.

"Cuff him," He ordered, raising the blaster towards the Mandalorian as you did as you were told, walking over to stand behind him so you could reach his own surrendering hands. There were questions you needed answering like who the hell was this guy, and why was he picking a fight with you. Instead, you said nothing. You could say nothing, not right now at least, and raised your hands to grasp his wrists gently, cuffs ready to lock around him. "You're a Guild traitor, Mando. And I'm willing to bet that this here is the target you helped escape."

You almost growled in anger when you saw the stranger waving his weapon towards the child's face, were it not for the fact you noticed a flash charge in Mando's hand, clearly there for you to see.

Bingo. You were glad the man under the suit was as smart as he was buff. You could have kissed that cold helmet out of gratitude for his quick thinking. You didn't, but you very well could have. Instead, you reached up and gently slipped it out of his palm as a way of telling him you understood the plan.

"Fennec was right. Bringing you in won't just make me a member of the Guild, it'll make me legendary." Toro's finger inched towards the trigger meaning you had no time left to waste. You squeezed your eyes shut to be sure you didn't damage them in such a short range and detonated the flash.

The assailant grunted, covering his eyes at the sudden blinding light but shooting in the general direction he'd seen Mando standing. By the time the glare had simmered down to a low lustre, his two captives were nowhere to be seen, leaving Toro Calican reeling back in fright.

He knew he was absolutely kriffed.

He caught a glimpse of Beskar to his right, but he was much too late. Mando had shot him dead in the chest, leaving his body to fall off the ramp with the kid still in hand. The child made a noise of fright, seeing the ground coming fast and hard, but was gladly surprised when he felt two arms snatching him out of the bad man's grasp.

The child looked up at his saviour, giggling and throwing his arms around happily when he saw the eyes that had been watching over him for the past few days while his other carer was gone.

"Hey, little guy," You spoke affectionately and he simply chittered in response. You hadn't thought you'd grow so attached to the young Jedi, much too afraid of what his powers meant for you than anything else, but seeing that bastard waving a blaster in his face had worried you infinitely.

Peli came up behind you, also cooing and shushing the child as Mando checked over Toro's body, looting anything of value.

"You need to get that head of yours looked at, missy," The curly-haired woman said, stroking the child's ears gently. The trail of blood had mostly dried up at this point, but the gash where the blaster had connected with your temple looked red and angry.

"I'll see if the kid’s okay first," You said, your eyes not leaving the child's sweet smile directed at you, "And that hunk of Beskar too, I guess," You said, pointing over your shoulder at Mando.

"So I take it you didn't get paid?" Peli asked, somewhat dejectedly as the Mandalorian came strolling over as if on cue, you immediately handing the child to the comfort of his arms. His gaze was locked on the nasty cut on your head, and he was left racking his brain if he had any Bacta-shots in the small medkit on board the crest. His annoyance at your irresponsibility the day before was long forgotten. He would have been a hypocrite for chewing your out about trusting a stranger to watch the child seeing as the man he had trusted nearly killed all four of you.

The burly man pulled out a pouch of credits that he had unremorsefully snatched from Toro's body, tipping out the contents into the mechanic's wrinkled hands. Her eyes widened comically; this was much more than it would have cost him for the repairs, especially since you had helped with a significant amount of the work.

"Will this cover me?" Din asked, and you sensed a teasing tone to his words. It was hard to spot at first, what with his few words and lack of expression, but over the past two months you had known him, you'd grown to be able to see the subtle wit in his humour.

"Yeah, yeah this should cover you," Peli nodded, a little stunned for what to say, before turning to you and smiling smally, "I'll see you three around then. You better get that stubborn head of hers fixed up, mister," The woman patted you on the back, neither of you really being the type to hug but you understood the intent behind it anyway. Your odd trio made your way up the ramp, turning around and catching Peli's somewhat sad gaze. You waved to her, a grin plastered on your face.

Perhaps not all of Tatooine was bad after all, you mused as the door shut on the sandy planet.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"Would you quit being such a baby?" Din chastised as you winced at the sharpness of the needle against your temple, "I'm nearly finished now,"

"I probably am a baby compared to you, old man," You gasped as one particular bolt of pain shot through your, gritting your teeth tightly. Truthfully, you were used to the tough love treatment from Shenzi, but it didn't make the process any less painful. You cursed Mando for forgetting to buy more bacta pouches, particularly for a man of his profession, but there was little you could do now except bite your teeth together to prevent the hisses of pain escaping any more.

"I'm only a couple of years older than you, wise-ass," The cold man responded somewhat teasingly, wiping a small trickle of blood from your cheek, much more gently than you would have expected from such a heavy-handed guy, "I'm done now anyway,"

You stood, inspecting his handy work in the mirror across from you in the refresher. You had been sitting in the small cubicle for the past twenty minutes, bickering like children about his technique as a medic. He only knew enough to get by, but he too was used to a lack of sympathy when it came to scrapes and pains and thus didn't have much for you back.

"Hmm. Not too bad. Could have tried to avoid the hairline though, gramps," Mando huffed, throwing the bloodied rag he'd been using to clean your wound at your face, making you snicker at his theatrics.

"You're on your own next time, baby," Din hadn't even realised what he'd said until it slipped out, trying to tease you for the fact you were behaving quite childishly and instead giving you an affectionate pet name. He was relieved for the fact you laughed it off, tending to the child who had been staring at the two of you in wonderment, but it still didn't quell the sudden shyness he had felt.

He didn't know what about you had sunken itself deep into his flesh, but he had noticed himself much more playful and light-hearted than he used to be before you happened. Then again, when he was alone on the Razor he didn't have much to be particularly giddy about. Before you and the kid, his life had simply been about providing for his covert, one bounty at a time.

You made him laugh more than he had in a long time and for that alone he was grateful, but he found himself looking forward to your friendly quips towards one another, the way you would tease him like a child though he knew you could snap him in two given the chance.

"How about you, sweetheart? That beskar hold up or do I need to play nurse droid too?" You teased, sliding down off the crate you were using as a seat and collecting your nightclothes, fully intent on passing out in your makeshift bed and leaving him to sort it out himself. Still, you found yourself waiting for his reply, wanting to make sure he actually wasn't injured and needed your help.

"Nope," Mando replied shortly, holding the child out to you as he whined and grabbed his hands out for your, the child himself more than ready for bed. Being held hostage was tiring work for a little green fella like him, "Kid wants you though, you'd think he'd have got tired of you by now."

That was one thing he'd noticed in the few hours you’d been back on the crest, the way you held the child, tending to his every little cry and coo over third meal you had made together for yourselves and the kid. You looked very out of place and uncertain of your actions as you did, but the kid seemed to quieten down quicker than usual as though you had understood his problem. You had seemed very disconnected up until this point, leaving him to do most of the care work which he hadn't minded. If anything, it reminded him of being back in the covert. Mandalorians were ruthless hunters and killers, but their main priority in the covert was each playing their own role in raising the foundlings, Din having done so himself ever since he was a boy.

He wasn't complaining. Actually, he thought the sight was sweet of you actually taking an interest in the child.

He had tried pushing down the thoughts that had immediately sprung to his tired, touch-starved mind when he realised you looked so exquisite holding a child. Yes, the kind of thoughts that fuelled naughty holo-films or the thing that had him turning a shy cheek to you when he had called you baby not ten seconds ago.

You took the little boy from him, holding him out at arms' length to see his big, round eyes stare at you tiredly. He cried out impatiently, making you chuckle and bring his head to rest on your shoulder, remembering Peli's advice that a short temper usually meant tiredness.

"You tired, squirt?" You asked affectionately, smiling when you heard no reply and instead felt the boy's head fall limply on your shoulder.

"I think that's a yes," Din teased, speaking as quietly as his vocoder would allow. He watched you smile toothily, stroking the child's head gently, "You seem different with him." He noted though he was thinking about how his heart warmed to see you be so affectionate, something he hadn't seen in the time he'd known you. You would throw around pet names jokingly, as would he, but you were quite wooden when it came to physical affection. Though, who was he to talk? He wasn't exactly the most welcoming of men, quite literally being wrapped in a thick metal wall, all day every day.

"Well, the little bugger's grown on me." You smiled at the man behind the visor, feeling oddly vulnerable that he was staring at you so intensely, probably waiting for you to make a mistake and to drop his child or something, you thought cynically.

"Do you remember much about your family?" Din didn't know where he had gotten the balls to ask you such a personal question, knowing how touchy of a subject it was for both of you. It had just slipped out, part of him beginning to wonder if this was how it was going to be for a while. Just the two of you and the baby, traversing the galaxy with mischief usually following.

In all honesty, you were probably one of the only people Din felt comfortable doing so with. Part of you understood each other in a way no one else had. Even Omera, as much as Din had wanted to drop everything and stay with the gorgeous Sorganese woman, living in peace drinking spotchka for the rest of his natural life, hadn't fully accepted what his creed meant to him. But you did. He had always been holding his breath around Omera, his obvious amorous gaze on the woman meaning he was much too afraid to say the wrong thing, much too delicate with her as he would be with a lace glove.

It was different with you, who was now thinking over his words solemnly. He felt like he could be himself around you, as though he could say exactly what came to his mind and you would have been thinking the same thing.

"Bits and pieces. I was taken in by my father when I was very young so I never knew my birth parents. But he was good to me. He worked as a tutor of sorts on Coruscant, and so I attended school there where he could keep a close eye on me," You went quiet for a moment as you thought about the half-lie you'd told, "How about you?"

"I knew my parents before they passed, but it all changed when the Mandalorians found me," The man started, looking at the floor as he recounted his time growing up on Nevarro, "As children, we didn't need to wear helmets and so we shared rooms with each other, got taught the ways of the Mandalore until we were old enough to swear by the creed. After that, we were assigned a cabur, a protector, who taught us how to fight properly." You didn't have the heart to tell him you already knew the way they were raised from all the times you pestered Shenzi about it, and that you had meant more about him in particular. But you found solace in hearing him speak about something so tender to him, so you didn't mock. Instead, you nodded quietly waiting to see if he had more to say. It was a rare occasion you heard his deep voice talk so much with no teasing tone either and you found it soothing.

"So we're this kid's caburs then, huh?" You hadn't bothered to soften your accent when speaking the Mando'an word, once again being well versed in the culture from the teachings of the cold, midnight haired woman you had formerly known. Din looked at you for a moment, thinking over your words with a new heat in his chest hearing you describe yourselves that way.

"Yes, I suppose we are," He replied shortly, letting that be an end to the conversation as the kid was well into the land of nod by this point. You smiled at the thought softly, thinking how perfect the word rolled around in your mouth. You, by far, weren't ready to label yourself the child's mother, not sure whether Mando would even like you to do so or if you would ever be that, and so the thought of settling for a protector or guardian suited you well.

You went to sleep that night in your little quarters you’d fashioned out of a cupboard near the cockpit, knowing the child was tucked up into his hammock fast asleep, with Mando probably the same knowing how long a day he'd had. You couldn't help but smile to yourself when you realised for the first time in years you weren't alone anymore. You were a protector, a companion. A Cabur.

You had found a purpose with your little tribe of three. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・

I might do a chapter next or in the future as a prequel or chapter about little headcanons/scenes from living with obi wan and then shenzi so you get an idea of what their relationship is like in more detail, how do we feel about that? Would anyone actually be interested in reading that? More will be revealed in the following chapters but I was just thinking in case anyone wanted any gaps filling in?

taglist: @zapsalis-d @mishasminion360 @itsnottilly @sebschicken @katialvi @lexloon @vampgguk @ajeff855 @thatonedindjarinfan @archaeoheart @sunipostsstuff @eternal-fandoms @fredd-weasley @lost-xim @evyiione @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @dessinemoiunehistoire @littlemissoblivious @laraschestakow @eury-dice3

permanent tag list: @greeneyedblondie44

if you'd like to be added to either of these lists please just message, comment or send me an ask and I'll add you!!

[ogravensimp]

this one is for@mistkissedmoon a lil more Dad!Constantine with a ft. from Jason Blood and John would be so terrible at taking care of ppl but still like really care, so I hope I captured that feeling in this

“This was your big emergency?”

Jason Blood gave a blank stare to the British man across from him.

He didn’t usually just drop everything to attend to someone; especially if that person was John Constantine, but ever since the exorcist decided to take care of the Gem of Scath he proposed it would be a good idea for John to keep him on speed dial.

He didn’t actually expect John to use said number.

Constantine was a demon expert in his own right. Jason believed that he was right to assume that the only reason his help would be sought after was only if the apocalypse had begun.

He felt a nerve in his temple twitch in annoyance (and, ashamedly in disappointment).

It's just that when John rang him and pressed for him to come to the House of Mystery, he had simply been expecting more...destruction. Maybe some blood and fire raining from the sky, the earth itself cracking open to release eldritch horrors of all kinds or even complete ripping of the fabrics of reality.

Anything along those lines would have justified his presence being required, but instead, he was met with-

“achoo!”

Jason looked down at the small form below him.

The spawn of evil incarnate was smaller than he thought it would be. If one ignored the glowing red gem wedged into its forehead, it could easily fool for another harmless 7-year old girl.

Especially as it laid half-dazed in its bed, staring up at the ceiling in a lucid trance. With only half its face poking out from under their star themed blanket, it sniffled pitifully due to the snot dripping out its flushed nose.

The room was perfectly mid-temperature, but the child has so drenched in sweat that even the towel on top of its forehead had over-soaked but yet it still shivered as if it was below -0 degrees.

Was the level of the child’s symptoms extreme? Yes.

Was it worth calling him for? Definitely not.

The daughter of Trigon was sick, yes, but it was obviously just the flu.

“That’s what I‘ve been saying.”

Jason turned to the source of the voice—a young woman stood in the doorway and held a tray of what seemed to be cups and bowls.

John had introduced her as Zed and he had just assumed they were in a relationship— to focused on the assumed threat to try to examine their personal lives.

Maybe he should’ve guessed this excursion would be a waste of time by Zed’s expressions. When he arrived she had shot him nothing but apologetic looks. At first, Jason believed the worst laid behind the doors he was led to but as he now knows, that was not the case.

“That idiot thinks it’s some paranormal curse,”, Zed huffed as she sent a glare at the blond man who began to try and defend himself.

“It's been weeks and she's still under the weather. You think Beelzebub gets the bloody sniffles?!”

“But a child of her age would! Especially one who reads in the tub and doesn't dry her hair before going outside in August,” Zed rolled her eyes as she spoke as if the answer was obvious—and they were, "maybe if you stopped treating her as the destroyer of worlds and instead as a 7-year-old, you won't have wasted the poor guys time."

Jason couldn't help but internally agree with her words.

John continued his defence, "All I'm saying is when I got a cold, I just carried on with my day maybe a bit foggy up there but hardly half-dead like Blackbird over 'ere."

Another eye roll from Zed was the only reply.

Approaching them, she extended the tray towards Jason. He gave a look at the cup of tea and noticed it seemed to be next to another 'sweat towel' in a bowl, he cringed a little before rejecting the offer.

Zed just shrugged before dropping the tray onto a side table and drinking the cup herself. Taking a seat at the edge of the bed, her gaze was soft as she stared down at the child, her hands ran through the child short dark tresses in a comforting manner.

Jason studied how she gently cupped the back of the Gem of Scath’s head and raised it, picking up a cup of water from the side and bringing it to the demon’s mouth and it drank with obedience.

The more Jason watched, the less he could even continue to refer to this child as a demon.

Etrigan was a demon—looked like one too.

How could he use the same term he'd use to describe the bastard in him, to describe this tiny looking thing before him? And though he could sense the hellish magic pouring out of her, for now, she was harmless.

"Alright, summon him out."

John's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He gave him a perplexed look before asking, "Excuse me?"

"Etrigan. Your demon buddy," the way John looked and spoke, you could tell he saw no issue with his request, "Just wanna confirm from a primary source whether if this is something worse or natural way of life."

Jason was flabbergasted, 'was this why he was called?!'

John sighed.

Actually looking peeved by Jason's confusion.

To the side, he heard Zed's chuckle as she began to switch the towels on the girls head, "told you he wouldn't do it."

"Oh bog off," John retorted back before turning back to him and placing a hand on Jason's shoulder, "Listen, it's either you or I visit ol' Luci and I'm simply not really...eager to have that encounter. So do me a favour here, and just bloody say the rhyme."

Jason looked at the hand on his shoulder like it was a parasite before smacking it off. Taking a breath to compose himself, he turned to the exorcist, " I assure you, there is nothing Etrigan can assist you with that I cannot also offer."

"A huge fuck-off sword?"

Jason glared, "Let me see the child," he spat—obviously ignoring the previous statement.

John put his hands up in surrender before indicating with a turn of his head to the child who had actually risen during their conversation and was now sitting upright—well, slouched and she was staring half-lidded at the wall with the only sign she was awake being her harsh breaths.

He bent down as to be in her level of sight and stuck his hand out, "Hello, my name is Jason Blood, you must be..." "Raven." "-yes, thank you, Zed. They tell me you are a bit under the weather?"

Jason realized halfway that he never learnt the girl's name and had simply just been referring to her as the Gem of Scath. He felt a tinge of guilt for his rudeness, but the dazed stare the girl gave him was confirmation that she was barely conscious enough to even notice.

He also realized it was ridiculous to try to shake a child's hand and was bout to retract it when he felt a pair of smaller ones latch onto his fingers.

Looking up he met a sleepy pair of amethyst eyes trying to focus on him, "N-n-nwot sick...jus-jhwust..uh sleepy and...cwold," with a voice that was softer than a whisper, plus the slurring of her words due to the fever, she was basically incomprehensible.

He was going to try and retract his hand again when he felt something soft come in contact with it. He looked down to see that she had placed her face in the palm of it and wrapped around it like a snake.

With a single muttering of, "...warm...like hellfire", she fell asleep with his hand still under her.

He looked at Constantine.

Not really sure what to do, but the con-man only grinned before giving him a tap on the back, "Good lad Jason, put her to sleep. Even I couldn't do that, let alone Etrigan. Guess I'll leave it to you."

And with that, Zed and John stood up and began to exit the room.

Jason was still in shock to even speak; so before he realized what they were doing, they already switched off the lights and closed the door with a soft click.

He simply stared into the darkness, the only illumination being the moon and stars outside.

Sighing, looked down at the fiend holding his hand prisoner and contemplated yanking her off. She was small. it would incredibly easy to flick her away and then he could simply depart home...but then he felt a squeeze.

As if the girl sensed his thoughts, she clung harder onto his limb like it was a lifeline.

She looked truly at peace right now; her harsh breaths were now nothing but puffs and she was less...sweaty. Demon spawn or not, the girl was no more vulnerable than a newborn fawn at the moment. Jason just didn't have the heart to disturb her peace for his own gain.

Another sigh could be heard in the silent room.

'Maybe an hour longer won't hurt but after that, never accept a favour for John Constantine again.'

hope you like it, feels weird writing characters that aren't just raven and my other faves, hope I didn't make anyone ooc

[ak47stylegirl]

Sick days: Chapter 11

Okay here’s chapter 11! XD 

Poor Allie isn’t having a good time at all 😞😟😭This cold is really being horrible to him, and he’s struggling to deal with it. (Partly because of his age, he’s still very much young child, the poor baby 😥)

Anyway I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! 😁

Rest of the chapters found here. 

---

Alan pov

He blinked his eyes open; his vision was blurry as he took in his room. It was still dark out, the sun having not risen yet. It was still night-time. He squinted at the digital clock on his bedside table, trying to see what time it actually was.

12:43 am  

He groaned in misery, rolling over to lay on his other side. He has been up for the last 30 minutes now, and no matter what he did, he couldn't get back to sleep! His head felt like a balloon about to pop, his horrible headache not going away for even a moment, and his nose would not stop running, so he needed to blow and wipe it frequently.

Which kept him up and made his nose burn like fire. 

His throat felt like someone had poured hot metal down it, and it hurt so, so much to breathe. And it seemed like he was solely breathing through his mouth, unable to get any air through his swollen nose. 

And that made it hurt so much more! He thought as he broke out into coughing fit, spluttering everywhere as he tried to sit up a bit to lessen the feeling that he was suffocating. His arms gave out beneath him, causing him to collide cheek first with his pillow. 

He whimpered, still coughing slightly. He didn’t feel well, not even a little bit, he thought as he rolled over again, this time onto his back. He felt like he was drowning in sweat, he felt so overwhelmingly hot and feverish he was surprised he hasn’t combusted into flames yet. 

But at the same time, he was also shivering from the cold; he felt so weird. He was cold, then he was hot, then he was freezing, then he was boiling, and it started all over again! 

His blanket was discarded at his feet as he had kicked it off a while ago and he just didn’t have the energy to...to-

He sneezed into the open air, watching with tired watery eyes as the sneeze particles floated in the air above him, before landing back down on his face. He sniffled damply, feeling another sneeze building before launching forward, catching it with his hand. 

Only to realise that he now had snot all over his hand and face, thick gunky snot running down to his chin. He moaned as he reached blindly for a tissue, wiping his nose with what felt like sandpaper. 

He blew into the tissue, making his ears pop and his head hurt. He could hear himself groan, even to his own ears, he sounded dreadfully sick and congested. 

Maybe if he could just fall asleep, he'd feel better, he thought as he rolled on to his side again, throwing the tissue off the bed. 

He didn’t care where it landed; he felt too sick to care about anything. He looked at the clock one last time.

12:57 am

He whimpered and closed his eyes tight, forcing himself to focus on sleep and not how terribly sick and tired he felt. He just needed to sleep; he felt so tired, he just wanted some sleep…

He felt himself drift off…

---

1:34 am 

He stared at the number, barely able to think straight as he continued to stare and stare. He had only been asleep for half an hour, and he couldn’t even really call that sleep. He had been constantly tossing and turning, on the edge of sleep, but his body refused to let him get there. 

He wailed softly, covering his eyes with his arms as he started to sob. He just wanted to sleep, why was that so hard?! Salty tears ran down his cheek and down the sides of his nose, causing his already sore and swollen runny nose to burn. 

He sniffled, his nose running so much that his upper lip was starting to get really sore as it was constantly moist. He wiped at his nose haphazardly, trying to stop the flow to no avail.

His breath caught, and he started to hitch, sneezing all over himself once again. For the next couple of minutes, all he did was sneeze and wipe his nose, falling into a foul trance of misery. 

He groaned, wet tissue held over his burning red nose. He hesitantly removed it and threw it away, thinking the sneezing fit was over for the moment, but then his nostrils flared, and his breath caught again, and the cycle started all over again. 

As he reached for another tissue, his eyes watering immensely, he saw the time on his clock. 

2:04 am. 

He stared, his hand frozen in mid-air just above the tissue box, his nose dripping relentlessly. 

He has been sneezing and wiping his nose for almost half an hour; he realised in horror as his nose started to protect not being tended to soon enough as it began to flare and twitch. 

An unbearable itch built in his nostrils, causing him to gasp and hitch as he desperately tried to grab a tissue and bring it up to his nose in time, but it was too late, he launched forward and sneezed all over himself and his side table. 

He groaned in misery, collapsing back down against his pillow, tissue held to his nose. This was going to be a long night…

---

He tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable no matter what he did. He felt so hot and bothered, but he also felt so cold, so he was constantly pulling his blanket back on or removing it. 

He sneezed into his pillow, which turned into a throat tearing coughing fit. He moaned as he wiped his nose, he just couldn’t win...

He coughed again and heaved himself up on his elbows, starting to cough so harshly he was almost gagging. He felt like he was going to be sick as his chest rattled with each painful cough, his elbows starting to shake and tremble beneath him.

All of his limbs felt like lead and were getting harder to move each minute he couldn’t get to sleep; he felt so light-headed and weak. His elbows finally gave way, causing him to slam suddenly into his pillow mid cough, making it one thousand times more painful. 

He glanced over at his clock and groaned, covering his eyes with his arms.

2:40 am

---

Just as he was about to fall slightly asleep, nature decided to call and complain that they haven’t talked since yesterday morning. In other words, he was bursting to go to the toilet, he thought with a groan, clenching his stomach.

He felt so exhausted and so, so very sick and out of it at this point that he was tempted to just go where he laid instead of getting up. It wasn’t like his brothers would be surprised by it because after all, he has a history of accidentally wetting the bed from time to time. 

And it was becoming a serious challenge just to hold it, he thought with a whimper, crawled up into a slight ball, his legs held tightly together. And he was sure if he didn’t get up soon, he would have an accident no matter what. 

It was only the fact that he would have to lay in his mess for the rest of the night, (Or get Scott and tell him he wet the bed, either way, he would still need to get up...) that made him slowly sit up and swing his legs off the edge of the bed. 

He pushed himself off the bed, and instantly regretted it, having stood up too fast. He latched onto the bedside table swallowing deeply as he suddenly felt dreadfully dizzy and nauseous. 

He swallowed deeply, almost having an accident there and then, but he was able to catch himself with only a little bit escaping, wetting his undies slightly. But unfortunately, it was wet enough to make the need to go even more intense. 

He whimpered, making his way out of his room the quickest he could, stepping out into the dark, empty hallway. His bare feet touched the cold wood floor, causing shivers to run down his spine. 

He didn't like the dark, and he was suddenly freezing, shivering where he stood. 

(which did not make holding his bladder any easier, his wet undies were freezing cold against his skin.) 

He clenched his door handle, scared to wander into the dark, but his need to go to the toilet overpowered his fear. 

He leaned heavily against the wall for support as he made his way to the toilet room, navigating the hallway the best he could in the state he was in. It was like every step he made seemed to drain his energy more and more, he thought with a little groan, turning left of Gordon’s bedroom and into a little mini hallway. 

The bathroom door was to his right, adjacent Gordon’s bedroom and the toilet room was right in front of him, at the end of the hallway. The momentary relief was almost instantly replaced with horror as his control over his bladder started to slip away at an alarmingly fast speed.

And what followed was a mad dash to turn the toilet room light on, close the door, lift the toilet lid, get his pants and undies down and do all that before he fully and thoroughly wet himself. 

After he finished doing his business, somehow just making it in time with his pyjama pants and undies only getting slightly wet. He stepped out of the toilet room feeling drained of all of his energy, the adrenaline-filled run having used all of it up.

His head was throbbing from the sudden light change, and now that his bladder wasn’t screaming at him anymore, all the other things that had been ailing him all night started to speak up, he thought with a congested sniffle, entering the bathroom. 

He turned the bathroom light on, whimpering slightly at the brightness of the room. The itch in his nose, which he had started to dread feeling, came back full force and left him sneezing multiple times into his elbow, the world spinning around him.  

He grabbed the door frame to steady him, for a second feeling like he was going to throw up. He sniffled damply, his nose dripping immensely, but he didn’t have any tissues on him, so he wiped his nose with his palm.

And almost started crying as his swollen red nose screamed at him, stinging so much that his eyes began to water even more. He sniffled, he just wanted to sleep….

He slowly made his way to the sink, pushing the little stool that normally stood to the side, in front of the sink. He needed the stool to reach the sink, as he was still too small to reach it on his own. 

He stepped onto the stool and turned the tap on, washing his hands with soap like his brothers’ taught him, the cold water feeling nice against his hot, feverish skin. He glanced up at the mirror in front of him and felt his shoulders drop; he looked just as sick and exhausted as he felt...

His eyes were red-rimmed and watery, with dark purple shallows developing under them. His skin was blotchy and covered in sweat, really pale in places but also flushed red from fever in other places, like his cheeks. And the thing that stood out the most, the thing that had been causing him the most misery, was his nose. 

It was rubbed raw, a bright irritated red that stood out against his otherwise pale skin; thick oozing snot hanging out of his inflamed nostrils.  

He stepped down from the stool and walked out of the bathroom, forgetting to turn the lights off as he made his way back to his bedroom in a daze, feeling too sick and exhausted for his brain to function correctly. 

He collapsed belly first onto his bed with a groan, crawling up to his pillow and crawling up into a ball of misery, catching a glimpse of the time.

3:38 am

---

The sun was taunting him! Because with every inch it crawled higher into the sky, lighting his room up, was another minute of possible sleep slipping from his fingers like sand. 

The sun rising was concrete proof of how little sleep he has gotten, and his sick body was struggling to function on so little sleep. His symptoms had steadily worsened as his body gave way to the cold virus that was wracking his system, unable to fight properly in its exhausted state. 

He coughed weakly, staring blankly up at his ceiling, his eyes glazed over with fever and fatigue. His nose decided it wanted in on the ‘fun’ and started to itch, his red nostrils getting damper by the minute. 

He brought his hand up as he hitched and gasped, the itch in his nose getting unbearable until-

He launched forward and sneezed into his hand, some of the stray missing his hand and floating in the air above him. He sniffled and instantly regretted it as that triggered another sneeze, this one bigger and more out of control than the last. 

Which was followed by another one, and another. By the time he was done sneezing, his nose was streaming relentlessly, and his hand and lower face was covered in snot. 

He groaned in agony, coughing slightly as he reached for a tissue. He gently wiped his nose and upper lip, whimpering as the tissue tore across his swollen nose like sandpaper. He threw the used tissue away and grabbed another one with a stuffy sniffle, being it up to his nose and blowing into it.

His ears popped and his head screamed, his headache worsening. He blinked wetly up at the ceiling, tissue still held over his nose, a couple of tears leaking out of the side of his barely opened eyes. He was so tired...

He sniffled into the tissue, his nose starting to feel irradiated and itchy again. His stomach churned at the sensation, dread filling his entire being as he began to hitch and gasp again, before launching forward and sneezing into the already soaked tissue.

Five more powerful and moist sneezes followed, each getting messier and more out of control. By the time he was finally finished sneezing, he was shaking, and tissue in his hand had almost pulp, completely soaked through.

He moaned as he dropped it off the bed, reaching for another tissue but his hand met thin air. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he sat up slightly and reached for the tissue box, spotting the time on his clock briefly.

4:25 am 

His tissue box was empty; he had no more fresh tissues, he realised as he stared down at the empty box, his nose starting to twitch and flare again as another sneeze built. He sneezed all over himself and all over the bedside table, unable to cover in time.

He swayed where he sat, feeling so awfully sick and light-headed, in desperate need of sleep but unable to get any. He collapsed back down onto his pillow with a groan, his bottom lip trembling as he tried to keep the tears away. 

His nose was running, and no amount of sniffling was going to stop it. And to make things even worse, he sneezed again, causing the snot to run even more. He rolled onto his side and spotted a scrunched up tissue lying near the edge of his bed; he grimaced as he reached for it, bringing it up to his nose.

Using the dirty tissue wasn’t pleasant; it was damp and soaked already, the moisture irritating his nose as it was rubbed across his nose. But It was better than using his hand, even if it still left his nose somewhat wet. 

---

He heard Scott get up for his morning run a while ago, which told him it was around five in the morning. And his clock confirmed that fact.

5:24 am 

He would have called out to Scott, (oh he so wanted to) but he just didn’t have the energy, and his throat felt like someone took a razor blade to it, and then poured molten tar down it, so he really couldn’t...

Everything hurt so much, he thought with a whimper, crawled into a ball facing his window. His nose was one hundred times worse now ever since he had to start using the dirty used tissues, his nose glistening with moisture as it glowed bright irritated red. 

He could barely keep his eyes open, and he was flashing in and out of sleep, never able to stay asleep for more than a couple of minutes at most. He could barely move, his limbs feeling boneless and immensely heavy, not wanting to work for him.

The whole act of reaching for a tissue and blowing/wiping his nose, was so exhausting, leaving him so drained. He felt so hot and bothered, his pyjamas soaked with sweat. But he was also getting cold chills, which left him shivering and shaking where he laid. 

One minute he was overwhelmingly hot, and then the other, he was freezing cold, wishing for his blanket which he had kicked off the bed.

He didn’t have the energy to sit up and get it; he barely had the strength to blow his nose, let alone do that, he thought as he broke into a coughing fit, his chest heaving and rattling with each cough. 

He just wanted to get some sleep, any sleep, he thought with a damp sniffle, a used tissue clenched in his hand. He sniffled again, before sneezing into his pillow. 

He brought the tissue up and dabbed at his nose, feeling too weak to do much else. The dirty tissue didn’t really work; it just spread the snot around instead of wiping it up. 

It felt like he was wiping wet sandpaper back and forth his sore nose. His upper lip was feeling the pain as well, seeing as his runny nose dripped onto it.

And he was breathing through his mouth, which was starting to chap and dry his lips out and in turn made them sore. 

He heard voices in the hallway, which sound like Scott and Virgil. Scott must have gotten back from his run, he thought, coughing as he glanced over at his clock. 

5:47 am 

Usually, six or six-thirty was the time Scott and Virgil would get them up for school, Scott getting up an hour earlier to fit in his morning run. John and Virgil woke up earlier than him or Gordon as well, but he knew for Virgil it was out of necessity, not a choice. 

He didn’t know if John was a morning person or not, he was normally gone by the time he woke up, as John had to catch a train into the city and be at his collage by eight at the latest. 

He sniffled, before starting to hitch, breaking into a loud and messy sneezing fit, which was followed by an equally violent coughing fit. 

The hallway went silent.

His bedroom door cracked open, causing him to look over with a sickly groan. Scott was standing in the doorway, his hair wet from his morning shower, with a concerned expression on his face.

“Allie, are you okay?” Scott asked softly, opening the door a little more. “You don’t need to be up yet sweetie..”

He blinked, his exhausted brain taking a while to realise that Scott, his big brother, was standing right there, but once it did? His face scrunched up, all of the night’s frustrations and sorrows rising to the surface. 

And he burst into tears, wailing loudly.

[trashynoona]

Clothes.

Imagine opening your wardrobe, for that spring cleaning you ought to have done ages ago. As you sort through your hundredth cute outfit into the ‘keep’, ‘donate’ and ‘throw’ pile, you notice a box of clothes that you haven’t seen in awhile.

The old high school tshirt you had borrowed the first time you slept over at his place. The dress shirt you picked out for a formal event. The jumper you casually claimed ownership of. The flannel that you gladly accepted when he was clearing his wardrobe. These are his clothes. No, these WERE his clothes. You sigh. These clothes were no longer just clothes, they’re memory agents; each item carrying a very vivid memory you shared with him. They used to be special, but not anymore. In fact, they have been packed away such a long time ago that you had absolutely forgotten about their existence.

Hold on, why do you still have them if you had broken up ages ago? Ah right, Kim, your best friend, had forced me to do a wardrobe clean up after you hung around your room moving around for an unhealthy extended amount of time. You could not bear to part with all his belongings, so you ended up making a deal with Kim; to throw everything, except his clothes. You smile at that memory. It was a sight to remember, ‘no no I need this, please!’ You begged Kim while snot carelessly dripped onto the tip of your lip. Kim carelessly threw every thing that he had left at your place into a black trash bag. She would never understand, she did not have access to the memory bubbles these item/ held.

You picked up the old tshirt from the box. It smelled staled, as it should be.

‘Would you... perhaps... like to stay over tonight?’ Taehyung avoided your eyes as he shyly traced squiggly lines on your palm.

It was the first week since you guys have started dating. You became acquainted with Taehyung after you guys bonded over your love for melted ice cream when you offered to share your table with him in your university’s cafeteria. It was the first time Taehyung had invited you over to his place since you became official.

‘I’d love to. But... I have nothing to wear...’ you timidly replied.

‘Oh oh don’t worry! You can wear my high school tshirt! It’s super worn in and super comfy! I promise you’d like it!!!’ Taehyung was rambling as he jumped out of the sofa and into his bedroom.

‘Here!’ He showed you his washed out tshirt with a triumphant glee.

You guys took turns to wash up in the bathroom. You fumbled around with Taehyung’s tshirt. The fabric was made out of white cotton and the fact that it has been so worn it makes it very translucent. You were not used to wearing a bra to sleep, but you did not wanted to appear to brazen. But what’s the point of putting on a bra if it’s going to come off anyway? You made your decision and headed out of the bathroom.

Tae was fidgeting at the edge of his bed when your eyes met. Placing his hand on the bed for support, Tae struggled to place his eyes.

‘Is this... too much?’ You asked.

‘NO. No. Not at all.’ Tae responded as he shot out of bed.

‘You look beautifuller than I ever will in this tshirt.’ He muttered as he closed the gap between you.

That was the first night you had spent with your new boyfriend, Tae. Subsequently, it became a no brained for you to pick up the washed out high school tshirt whenever you stay over at his place. It always had an effect on Tae, it turns him into a very horny, very helpless puppy.

It was your faculty’s mid year formal and you’ve decided to attend as a couple. The only problem was that Tae was more of a ‘street fashion kinda guy’ as he described himself. His only white dress shirt has turned yellow and no way were you going to allow him to wear that garbage out.

You loved Tae, except when it came to shopping. Your boyfriend was the fussiest shopper ever. Too narrow, too pale, too baggy. In your eyes, it seemed like Tae was nitpicking every outfit he had tried on. By the 15th outfit, you lost it.

‘Kim Taehyung. Are you even taking this seriously?! Just tell me if you’d rather wear your yellow wash cloth. I’ve had enough!’ You half yelled as Tae came out of the dressing room in a pale lilac shirt, coupled with a deep purple suit.

‘Babe, I just want to look good for you.’ Tae pouted. Your boyfriend had that effect on you. For some reason, he looked like a five-year-old child who have just broken his favourite toy whenever he was down. How could you stay mad at him?

‘Sweetie, you look good in everything. In fact, I don’t even think I’d mind that much if you went in that washcloth of yours as long as you’re with me!’ You comforted the doe-eyed man.

‘Aw babe. I know you’d love me a little less if I had turned up in that washcloth. I actually really like this set, shall we?’ The boxy grin was back, as you marvel at your blessing for having Tae as your boyfriend.

In the end, you decided to pay for the lilac dress shirt to commemorate what you decided was your first formal event together. Your cheeky boyfriend on the other hand, announced to the world that it was a cover up to commemorate the first time you got mad at him.

In time to come, you’d realise Tae was setting you off more than you expected. You loved him, but you could not understand how could a grown man be so silly and happy-go-lucky all the time.

This leads you to the jumper. It was your first winter together and it was about 6 months into your relationship. You had just stormed off from your boyfriend’s place for a reason you can no longer recall.

Just as Tae thought you might be gone for good, he heard a little knock on the door, to the rhythm you have both came up with.

‘Babe?’ Tae muttered as he rushed to the door.

‘There’s a snow storm, I can’t leave. But I’m still mad at you!’ You push Tae aside as you invite yourself into the warm room.

Some how, Tae managed to appease you and you guys had the best make up sex that night. You had Tae’s jumper on as he licked your pussy just the way you liked it.

‘Do the Super Sonic babe’ you moaned as you grabbed a bunch of your boyfriend’s hair.

‘At your command mam.’ Tae muttered as he worked his way skilfully around your clit.

‘Super Sonic’ was a silly name Tae had invented for the technique that he knew would drive you crazy. As the name suggests, he had a mad way of moving his tongue at a high speed you could not imagine yourself. Perhaps it was the fact that he was highly skilled with the saxophone that trained his mouth muscle; but this boy can go on forever. The finale to ‘Super Sonic’ is a mind blowing orgasm that ends with you squirting all over.

‘I love you, so much , babe.’ Tae confessed for the first time as your wetness coated his face.

‘I love you too Tae.’ You said as you wiped the mixture of bodily fluid off your boyfriend‘s face.

You sigh as you picked up the last item in the box. The flannel shirt. It was the shirt that contained the most memories. It was Tae’s favourite shirt, so, it was naturally yours too.

Taehyung had worn the flannel on the day you first met and chatted over an hour. You had a tutorial to attend but you did not have the heart to interrupt the handsome stranger who was going on and on passionately about his love for melted vanilla ice cream.

The truth was, you were so busy chatting with Kim that you had forgotten to eat your ice cream. You never had a particular liking for melted ice cream but you went with it anyway, just because.

Tae wore the same flannel on your first date. The boy had planned to bring you to the carnival. Except, in typical taehyung fashion, he had forgotten to check for the weather forecast. You were actually glad that it rained, for you have acrophobia. You literally have to pop medically prescribed sleeping pills whenever you had to fly. But you went with it anyway, just because.

Tae turned up in the same flannel shirt the first time he met your family. You brought him around your childhood home for a tour when he came across a photo of you and a familiar stranger as children.

‘Babe you’ve never told me you have a brother?’ Tae asked.

‘Oh.. erm, he lives faraway and doesn’t come back often anymore.’ You answered as you hurriedly pushed Tae onwards. The truth is, your big brother had killed himself several years ago. It had taken away a part of your family, but you decided it was not time to tell your boyfriend the truth, just because.

Coincidentally, Tae was also wearing the same flannel shirt the day you guys decided to split for good. It was true that you could not stand how childish and flighty Tae could be. But Tae was the one who insisted on the break up.

‘It’s like I can never truly get to you. Do you even trust me?’ Was one of the last things you could remember Tae saying to you.

It was true, to an extent. It’s not that you could not trust Tae, but rather, you simply could not trust yourself. After the death of your dear brother, you have feared opening up to new people. You were terrified that they too, would leave.

You wish you had fought for Tae to stay. But you could not. The only thing you did was muster the courage to ask for that flannel shirt. The flannel that started it all and ended it all.

You decided to place all of taehyung’s clothes into the ‘throw’ pile, for it was just too painful to imagine somebody else wearing his clothes; unaware of the stories that came with it.

It has been over a year since Taehyung and you had broken up. You did not keep in contact since and decided perhaps it was time to casually check out his profile. Tae was looking very handsome and cheeky as usual. He was wearing a new flannel shirt with the Gucci shoulder bag that you have bought for him for your first and only one year anniversary. You smile to yourself and wondered if Tae still think of you whenever he used the bag, or perhaps, it is simply a bag to him now, a meaningless, overpriced bag. You will never know.

Just then, a notification came in and blocked your view of your ex boyfriend.

‘Heyyyy, just wanted to confirmed if we’re still on for drinks tonight?’ - Jin.

Yes, you have moved on. Memories of taehyung no longer leave you in tears and despair. You were regretful that you never found the courage to open up to taehyung but you figured, these things are not meant to be forced. Perhaps you had never found that courage because Tae was never the one to be. At one point, both Tae and you were probably convinced that you were meant to be. Unfortunately, time has proven otherwise. You are open to going on dates now. You are not sure if you will ever find the strength to break down all your walls, however, in the meantime, no harm trying you suppose.

Ps. It took forever to find Tae in a flannel, it’s almost like flannel is his fashion crux or something. Rip.

[5bi5]

It’s a crappy sort of place, really. The windows are broken, the paint is chipping, a couple of the inside doors are missing, rusty hinges still hanging loosely from the walls. Then and again, we’re not paying for it, so we can’t exactly demand perfection.

At eighteen years old, he’s fresh out of the foster care system, and I’m fresh out of my legal obligation to my parents. So this is it. This is the year we finally make it out of here.

Two years ago, at the age of sixteen, we met. I’d known about this place for a while; whenever school or my parents or the news or anything else became too much for me, I would come here to be alone. One of the windows is completely missing, and it’s not that difficult to climb in. That combined with the fact that this place is way out in the woods, and nobody is ever around to condemn us for trespassing, makes it the ideal hideout.

One day, I climbed in the window, and there he was. Tears streaming from his eyes and dripping off the tip of his nose, face red and slimy with snot, hair wild and disheveled. Everything about him screamed for help. Unsure what to say, I just stood watching him for a second, until he looked up and saw me.

He looked defensive for a second, and then he seemed to take in more closely just what he was seeing: my own hair was perhaps just as out of place as his, my left eye was blackened, and the denim jacket I wore every day hung loosely around my ribcage. I was, to say the least, not threatening. He cleared his throat, and spoke softly, his voice a hairsbreadth from breaking at every word.

“I’m Jasper. Who are you?”

“My name is Zach.” I told him. “Are you okay?”

We sat there for maybe an hour as he told me about his life thus far, about how much he missed his parents, about how the whole foster care thing wasn’t really working out for him, about how much he just wanted to be done with it all. He was ten when he had been orphaned, he said, and six years later he still felt alone in the world. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the idea of foster care, but rather that he seemed to always wind up unlucky in just which people attempted to take him in.

After that, we sat for some more time just listening to the birds, and before I climbed back out the window to make my way home, we made plans to meet back there the next day.

In the following months, we would both spend a lot of time crying in this place, but it also became one of the only places either of us would smile, or laugh, or joke. Once, in the sunshine of a mid-July afternoon, he sang me a soft rendition of Going to California. He grew up on Led Zeppelin, he said, and he knew their songs the way most people around here knew lullabies, or the national anthem– he never struggled to recall a word.

“Maybe we should go to California.” I said when he had finished singing.

“What, like, for real?”

“Why not? We have to get out of here someday. Go somewhere.”

He nodded, chewed his lip, and asked, “Where do you want to go?”

“I’ve heard good things about San Francisco.”

“Alright.” He looked over at me. “San Francisco it is.”

That was the day we started saving up. We had both had some money set aside for the future already, but once we had a real plan, we kicked things into high gear. I worked five days a week, and rarely spent a penny of it. To my knowledge, he did the same.

Once I found him staring at an unopened pack of cigarettes, his eyes glazed over, and blood oozing from a cut on his lip. Most of me, the part of me that I hope he sees, was worried for him. My more selfish side simply reminded me that this could eat all our money, and with it our future.

As it turned out, he hadn’t been planning on smoking at all.

“Some kid punched me a couple times. Threw this at me.” He turned the pack of cigarettes to me to reveal the word “fags” scrawled on it in sharpie. “Thought it was funny, I guess. His friends certainly did.”

The selfish part of me disappeared in a flash as my heart played leapfrog with my throat. “Jasp, that’s terrible. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He smiled. “It’s his money to waste.”

I took care of his lip as best I could, but I couldn’t prevent the purple bruises from blossoming across his face in the days afterwards, or the anxieties that stung my eyes and filled my throat like smoke. The bruises faded eventually, but the worries never subsided.

It sounds cliché, but falling in love with him was like falling asleep. We became each other’s worlds in an instant; it might have seemed unhealthy had everything else in both of our lives not been so toxic it was hard to judge. The empty house in the forest felt like home to me– or, more accurately, he did.

Once we turned eighteen, it really did become our home, just for a little while. We wanted to stick around to graduate high school, but neither of us felt safe enough to stay in our current living situations, even for a short time. The house isn’t technically that much safer, but it feels better. At night, I cling to his arm the way I held a teddy bear as a child. I doubt I could fall asleep alone anymore.

The day we finally bought our train tickets, we were on top of the world. I wanted to kiss him there in the railway station, but public affection has always been too much of a risk. It wasn’t until we made it back to the privacy of the house in the woods that I could truly let down my guard and let everything sink in: we were going to make it.

We leave tomorrow afternoon. It’s maybe midnight now, and I’m trying to get some sleep, but I’m wide awake from the awareness that this is our last night here. It’s a strange place to leave– this has been our safe haven, our home, our hope. But we’re off to a future where we won’t need a safe haven, because we’ll just be safe.

I breathe in time with Jasper, trying to lull myself into whatever world he’s dreaming of. Eventually, everything fades to black.

[ipurpletaev]

Two sides of a coin Pt. 2

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x reader

Type: Superpower au

Genre: Angst

Word count: 3k

Authors note: kinda inspired by the incredibles 2 but also infinity war and divergent lol my brain just was excited but it’s not that sad trust me

————

Even if your eyes had been down, looking at your own scar as the hand Taehyung had placed upon it began to grip harder, the golden color in his own eyes beginning to rim that dangerous blood rouge that indicated that his patience was wearing thin, very thin.

“All I heard was the mothers screams, and then the little girls… my own before my dad came in and stopped him…”

Needless to say you had been under care at the hospital for the next two weeks, with a lash that large on your torso, as young and small you were, the man ended up serving some time.

Your hand mindlessly rubbing at the scar as Taehyungs own stayed latched to your side, as if he didn’t know how to talk he growled and made you look at him, large hands forcing your face to face him. His eyes boring into yours, flickering to each orb, wanting to make sure that you were understanding his words.

“Y/N, I NEVER, EVER, EVER will let you get hurt like that again. EVER…”

You smile meekly at him, but the damage had already been done, the mental and physical scarring of a child whose childhood was stolen from her before she was even born. Growing up to not look anyone too closely in the eyes, keep your feet planted on the ground, keep her hands clasped at all times, keep your head down and don’t say a word to anyone.

It still stuck with you to this day; old habits die hard.

“I know no one would hurt you like that here, no one would even think about it Y/N. Trust me, believe in me.”

Now, this is the part where you would smile some more. Nod and hold each other.

But no, he was blinded, even if the people here were meek and kind that didn’t change the fact that there were still some out there who were. Sprinkled here and there.

So, you knitted your eyebrows together.

“Tae… I… I can’t trust what I don’t even know is true. And while I’m sure you mean it with a kind heart, there hasn’t been a day since I have moved here that i haven’t been scoffed at or looked at as if I was some vile creature that crawled out of hell.”

Your eyes were now the ones flickering between his. Indigo blossoming from the insides of your irises, anger and malice building up around your heart. Confusion laced his features as his lips remained partially parted, as if he didn’t know what to say but wanting to push the words that had been stuffed up in his chest.

“Yes you were lucky enough to grow up in a place where powers like ours are celebrated and looked at as if we are gods.. But you also have the life of an idol… so how could you possibly be hated most of the time when all the anger and hatred is drowned out by the screaming fans who adore you to no end.”

Your chest was tight with all these feelings each fighting to get a chance in the spotlight.

Anger. Sadness. Embarrassment. Vulnerability.

“You’re an idol, that’s the difference between you and me. I know you’ve had your own experiences, I know you went through shit when you were a kid, and so did I. But it got better for you, you’re going up up up. I’m only staying steady Tae, I’m just a small town girl who was beaten and spit at, yelled and punched and kicked and I never wanted you to know that I was this broken!”

Blubbering your words so tightly together it was hard to hear what exactly what you were saying, but Taehyung was still listening, eyebrows furrowed in worry as you began to shake, sniffling and wiping your tears and snot onto the sleeve of your loose shirt.

“I… I never wanted you to see the little girl who was torn apart… who never flew again after that day…”

He pulled you in as you collapsed against his firm chest, his strong arms wrapping around you as an attempt to keep you shielded from the horrible world he was dim too; until now.

Cooing at you as he ran his fingers through your hair, not caring as your tears and snot now dripped from your face to his sun kissed chest.

Not able to grasp the thought that you hadn’t flown since you were eight… he couldn’t imagine the pain you were put through, having to force your gift down deep inside of you, ultimately making you forget how to fly ever again, along with the pure joy that came with it.

He couldn’t imagine not ever using his powers again, the way the crowd would roar whenever he did tricks with the fire cannons at the concerts. Him and jimin would do tricks together, him with his fire and the other with water, making animals and stories with their opening to the concert. It was joy to see the fans cheer not only at their talent to sing, but also their abilities that made them so much more different from everyone else.

It was about thirty minutes later and you had fallen asleep into his arms. He had pulled the both of you to the headboard of the bed, tugging the sheets up to tuck you in warmly next to his heater of a body, as you were cooler than most because of your powers, a perfect fit.

Looking down at you, saddened that you had harbored so much pain, recalling of the day he met you months ago at BigHit. You were merely an intern, trying to find a job after just moving overseas in search for a better life for your family.

And as you had gotten older you only gained the ability to conjure up small gusts of wind or stop it all together, using it some days, only when it really mattered. Like if someone had gotten too close to the edge of the train platform, their arms swinging to gain balance did you send air to their front, sending them stumbling backwards as the train when rushing by. The individual staring in bewilderment of how they just survived, and you smiling after letting out a held breath of tension.

Though those were small moments that didn’t require a lot of energy, you still hadn’t flown in years.

So you had been stacking and organizing some papers, humming to yourself, before the stack that had been on the desk to your left had suddenly decided to topple over. Thinking quick, you put your hands up to stop the air, causing them all to freeze mid flight, before sighing as relief washed over you, moving your hands back together to bring all of the papers together again.

It wasn’t until you heard a sudden cheer of glee from the doorway did you drop the papers again, sending them in every which direction, Kim Taehyung had been watching the whole time as you thought no one was around to see you perform a small act. From then he would pester you, with no ill intention, he was just excited to see that he wasn’t the only one beside his members, someone new. And over time, your small frown and helpless pleas that he would just leave you alone turned into shy blushes and prayers that he would talk to you the next day.

Taehyung then began to doze off with you in his arms, guilt filled his heart for even pressing the matter, but at the same time glad he did. He was going to find a way to get you to be able to rely on him and fully be able to surrender your fear for the pleasure that was brought to you whenever you flew.

“I promise..”

He whispered as sleep finally took him under its spell.

Authors Note: YAY I finished!! hope you all liked this even if it was a spur of a moment, let me know if you want more okie baiiiii

Also I couldn’t find the same gif so enjoy this one lol  - Luna 💕

[santanasnaps]

Sunday funday || Pucktana

Who: Santana and Puck (and some Mateo and Francine)  Where: Francine’s house, Santana’s house Summary: Puck and Santana awkwardly meet up for Sunday Dinner, leading to them discussing the tension between them. Then oops, they sleep together. All night. Smut ahead! 

Santana knew today was going to be awkward. After the intense conversation she'd had the night before with Puck, and a grumpy little boy, she had a feeling something was going to happen. Not only had Puck been accusing her of sleeping with every man she mentioned, but he'd apparently been fighting with Finn and becoming best friends with Rachel. It was annoying that he couldn't seem to trust her. Sure, she'd initially lied about Mateo, but the truth had come out minutes later and she didn't really count that as a lie. She also didn't know why he thought he needed to act so jealous when it came to Finn, when it was obvious to everyone else that Finn was just her best friend.

Sighing, she scooped a pouting Mateo out of the car, rubbing his back. “I know you're mad, mi amor. I'm sorry but mommy has to catch up on work. Daddy will be so much fun,” she told him, walking to the front door. It seemed as soon as they crossed the threshold, the sobbing started. He didn't often get mad or upset, but when he did, Mateo loved tantrums. Rolling her eyes, Santana tried to set him down in the living room, Francine’s head shaking at her already, probably at the fact that she was ditching Sunday dinner. “Mateo let go,” she warned, separating herself from him, making him throw himself on the floor.

It wasn’t every day that Puck swallowed his pride and owned up to his faults.  In fact, he was adept at inflating his own ego.  However the texting between him and Santana had found him apologizing profusely and confessing his fears.  That left Puck feeling vulnerable in a way he hadn’t yet experienced.  Still, he knew he had to set his relationship with Santana aside to focus on their son.  Mateo was their number one priority and that meant any ill feelings or nagging regrets from the past had to take a back seat.  

On his travels, Puck had learned to cook actual food.  Long gone were the days of hot pockets and instant ramen, unless he was feeling nostalgic or particularly lazy.  Which was why he’d spent the bulk of the morning and afternoon grocery shopping with Francine, only to send her to the living room to relax and enjoy some TV while he prepared Sunday dinner.  The chicken was just finishing broiling as Puck plated out the cubed rosemary potatoes; he wanted to show Santana that he could provide for their son, both physically and emotionally.  The front door opened and closed as Puck pulled the sizzling tray of golden brown chicken from the oven.  Slinging the dishtowel over his shoulder and using it to wipe his hands, Puck hurried from the kitchen to greet Santana and Mateo.  Unfortunately, the happy excitement that he had been met with the last few times in visiting his son was nowhere in sight as the toddler clung to his mother.  The moment Santana disentangled Mateo from around her he was on the floor, kicking his legs and slamming his fists as he cried.  Puck’s eyes widened, his tongue smoothing over his lips quickly as he tried to think of a way to console his furious son.

“Hey kiddo, it’s okay.  How about we watch some Ninja Turtles before we eat dinner, huh?”  He bent down to the floor and tried to smooth his hand over Mateo’s tousled hair but the boy only seemed to scream louder and produce thicker tears.  “Or not…”  Puck stood and looked at Santana.  “Maybe Mommy can stay for a little while?” he offered, hoping Santana would throw him a bone.

In the grand scheme of things, Mateo’s fit couldn't come at a better time. With tension at an all time high between his parents, this was a welcome distraction. Most of the time, Santana didn't tolerate this kind of behavior. In fact, she often got Mateo to quiet down quickly due to what Francine called her ‘Witches eye’. She'd inherited the look from her mother and grandmother, and it was her one defense against a child that had both of his parent’s tempers. Smirking at Puck, she crossed her arms. “Mama is fine for a few minutes. Daddy needs to handle this.” Hearing Francine chuckle behind her meant she'd done the right thing. Puck needed to see all sides of his son.

Santana moved to put Mateo’s backpack down, leaving the room to put the fruit she'd brought in the fridge. For some reason Francine got on her about things being kosher even if Mateo wasn't jewish, so bringing fruit seemed to be her easy snack. She could still hear her son wailing away, and when he finally called ‘mama!’ She walked back into the living room, raising her eyebrow at Mateo and Puck.

For a fleeting moment Puck thought that Santana would actually come to his rescue.  What did he know about a toddler in mid tantrum?  Bupkis.  But an almost wicked smirk seemed to twist Santana’s lips, making Puck feel like the floor was falling out from underneath his feet.  

“Oookay,” Puck drawled, trying to ignore the hushed chuckle from his mother.  Apparently this was another sink or swim moment and Puck had to pony up the courage to dive off the deep end.  “Mateo, buddy, the floor isn’t really that comfortable, is it?  How about we go sit on the couch and put on Power Rangers?”  He was desperately trying to coax his son away from spontaneous combustion.  But Mateo was the product of two very stubborn people and he refused to even entertain the idea of listening to Puck.  “No?  How about more Star Wars then?” Puck tried, Mateo rolling onto his back and calling out for Santana.  “Come on, kid, cut me some slack,” Puck huffed, sitting down next to his son and trying once again to smooth out his hair.

When Santana came back from the kitchen, Puck cleared his throat.  “Think you can maybe give me a few pointers on how to handle this?”  If Santana wasn’t going to stay, especially with Mateo completely out of sorts, then the least she could do was give him a few tips.  He’d only been at this whole dad thing for a week after all.

Santana knew the crying had gone on long enough, and if she didn't handle the situation, Mateo would make himself sick. As much as she wanted to laugh at how terrified Puck looked, she knew he'd probably never seen a child throw a tantrum like this, and he had no idea what to say. She looked over at Francine who looked just as amused as she felt, waiting for the woman to give her nod of approval.

Quickly, she clapped her hands once. “Basta! No mames! Callete!” Santana rambled off in Spanish, raising her voice at the child and telling him to quit his crying. “Te daria una buena zerra!” With that, Mateo stopped crying, his wails turned to pouting. “Tell him you’ll spank him. He’ll stop right away. It's more menacing if you use the eye,” she smiled, looking down at her son with one eyebrow raised. “He knows better than to act like this.”

The moment Santana busted out the Spanish, Puck knew his son would respond; she damn near put the fear of God in him.  Mateo’s tantrum fizzled out as his screaming morphed from blubbering into stoic hiccups.  He wiped at his face, his eyes puffy from crying and slimy snot dripping from his nose.  In that moment Puck could feel for his son, his own mother had utilized those same threats when he was a child.  Of course Francine rarely spanked him, her words were usually enough to get Puck to stop whatever meltdown he was having.  “Spanking...got it,” Puck muttered, looking over at Mateo pouting on the floor.  Maybe it was because this was his first week as a full fledged dad, but Puck wasn’t exactly excited about threatening his son with physical punishment; he’d have to figure out his own method with time.  “Mateo,” he started, gaining his son’s attention, “if you don’t want to stay here, you don’t have to.  I just thought it would be kinda fun to have dinner and play with Legos, like last Sunday.  Remember?”  Mateo wiped at his nose, his eyes flicking between Santana and Puck before nodding his head.  “I don’t wanna take you away from Mommy if you don’t want to okay?  But if you wanna hang out with me for a little while, Mommy will be back.  I promise.”  Again, Mateo looked at both his parents.  “Promise?”  This time it was Puck’s turn to nod.  “Promise,” Puck repeated, crossing his finger over his chest.  “If you wanna stay, go give Mommy a hug and tell her you love her.  Then we’ll go get the big box of Legos out, okay?”  He was trying to be as gentle as possible with his son because he was still clueless when it came to being an authority figure.  Mateo pushed off the floor and trudged over to Santana for a hug, leaving Puck breathing a deep sigh.  “Legos and Star Wars it is.”

She knew she could stop the fit, but that didn't mean she was sure she should leave. Sure, Mateo’s grandmother could easily handle another one, but if the reason the boy was upset was because Santana was leaving, then part of her wanted to stay. Even though she kept Mateo disciplined, she still had a soft side that wanted to hold him and rock him until he smiled again. Santana held him against her, hands smoothing his hair out. “I'll hang with you for a little bit, bebito. But your dad is so excited to see you. Grandma too. You don't need boring mom around when there's so much fun to have here.”

Her eyes met Puck’s, the reason she wanted to not be here in the first place making her sigh. She'd wanted to stay far enough away that she wasn't wanting to hold him against her either. His nervous but excited way of parenting made her smile, and the more she saw him as their son’s father, the harder it was to keep the feelings she had at bay. “I'll stay and work. I won't eat or anything, just chill here and edit some stuff until he's cool again.” It would be an easy fix, and she could stay parked in one spot until Mateo decided he could ignore her and do his own thing. Their son still clung to her, making her chuckle. “That was only a preview, daddy.”

There was something about watching Mateo cling to Santana that reminded Puck how much of an outsider he really was.  Truthfully, he was still a stranger to their son, so he couldn’t blame Mateo for not wanting to be away from his mother.  On the flipside, he didn’t want Santana to think he couldn’t handle being a parent.  Still, relief flooded his system when Santana said she would stay.  Even though his own mother was around to help with any emergency situation, it would make for an easier transition if Santana didn’t just drop him off.  “Awesome.  See bubba?  Not so scary hanging out here, huh?”  Puck got up off the floor, a blush creeping up his neck at Santana’s words.  “Go big or go home, right?”  He picked up the dish towel that had fallen from his shoulder and wrung it between his hands.  “Well dinner is basically done anyway.  You don’t have to hole yourself away here.  We can eat and then you can work while us boys build an epic battleship out of Legos,” Puck explained, looking at Santana more than Mateo as his son’s back was still to him.  “I made plenty of food, so it’s not a big deal.”

Santana knew that Mateo was seconds away from another meltdown if she didn't tread carefully, so she nodded, lifting her son away from her body to stand him up. “Go with dad and wash up while I get my laptop.” Once her son actually moved on his own and went to hug his grandmother before looking at Puck, she walked back out the front door and grabbed her bag from her car. As she looked back up at the house, she sighed, wishing she could escape from having to spend the evening acting like a happy little family. Steeling herself, she went back in and set up on the couch, glad to see that Mateo was starting to perk up. Once Francine let her know that dinner was ready, she went into the kitchen to help set the table. “Mateo! Sit. I'll get your plate.” Santana walked into the kitchen, grabbing the child’s plate from the counter, already filled with food. “Thanks for cooking,” she told him, slipping past him again.

After Puck and Mateo finished washing their hands, they made their way back out to the living room, a little more pep in the toddler’s step.  “Do you like potatoes?”  Puck asked, realizing he didn’t even know some of his kid’s favorite foods.  When Mateo responded with an emphatic “Yeah!”  Puck felt his muscles start to relax again.  “Good.  Because I made you some awesome potatoes,” Puck smiled, Santana’s call from the kitchen beckoning them towards the table.  He helped Mateo into his booster seat while Santana set a plate of food in front of him.  “No problem,” Puck responded, his heart thudding against his ribcage when her body brushed against his.  Get ahold of yourself, dude he thought, shaking his head slightly before filling his own plate with chicken, potatoes, and salad.  “Nothing fancy,” he added, laying his plate on the table before turning around to grab himself a cup.  “Want anything to drink?”  he asked, looking at Santana since Francine already had her glass of ice water and Mateo his sippy cup of milk.

It was surprising that Puck could cook, and for a moment Santana wondered if Francine had cooked to make him look good, but she knew the woman wouldn't do that. Not after all this time. Francine had told her enough times that she was upset with Puck’s actions so she wasn't too worried that the woman was defending him. “Water,” she answered, going to make sure their son didn't start flinging food around the room. Noticing that as she sat, Francine had taken one head of the table, with Mateo at the other, meaning that Puck was directly across from her. That meant a full meal of awkward glances between them while she tried to not focus on the fact that his face had changed a little, or how he looked more relaxed than he ever had before. She tried to ignore the way she wished she could reach for his hand like she used to, instead she helped Mateo eat and then stared down at her food until she was finished. “That was awesome. Thanks.”

There was a palpable awkwardness that hung around the table, a tension that no one dared to comment on.  Once upon a time Santana had been the one person that Puck felt the most comfortable around.  Now, he glanced up a few times as they ate to find Santana’s eyes boring into her plate.  Puck shifted throughout their meal, eating faster than normal so that they wouldn’t have to sit there much longer.  “Yeah, it wasn’t half bad.  I’m glad you all liked it,” Puck answered, picking up the dirty plates and utensils.  A part of him was relieved that dinner was over and they didn’t have to pretend that they weren’t uncomfortable in front of their son anymore.  In an attempt to give Santana the space she’d requested, Puck set the dishes in the sink and turned towards Mateo with a happy grin on his face.  “How about we go get some ice cream, Bubba?” Puck asked, walking over to help his son out of his booster seat.  The boy was in a much better mood after having eaten and the surprise of dessert seemed to light him up.  “Yeah!”  Mateo cheered, no sign of another tantrum in sight.  “Yeah!  Let’s go get your coat on.”  Puck watched Mateo run towards the living room, but he hung back briefly to talk to Santana and Francine.  “I figured I could get him out of the house and you guys can do whatever you do on Sundays,” he started, rubbing his hands together.  He was still new to their routine and he didn’t want to screw up any more than he had.  “I’ll have him back in a couple hours, if that’s cool.”

She could tell everyone was eating quicker than usual to avoid having to speak to one another. She felt like it was entirely her fault because she'd brought up needing space from him, and now they were here, answering Mateo like they did family dinners often. It was weird how domestic and normal it was, and Santana didn't know if she liked how similar this seemed to dinners with Finn and Kate, Puck teasing their small child to make her laugh. At Puck’s offer of ice cream, Santana frowned slightly. Her son loved ice cream like every other kid, but Santana limited his intake because he bounced off the walls on sugar. “No crazy candy toppings,” she warned. “I want him to actually sleep. And if he's gonna run off with you, I might as well go home to my office. We usually just lounge around but I have about a million Christmas images that need editing.” She looked at Francine, who nodded and agreed she had things to do as well. “Okay, cool. Think you can bring him to my house when you're done? No later than eight.”

Spending the evening out with Mateo would definitely be a step up from walking on eggshells around Santana.  She’d made it clear that she didn’t want to do the whole co-parenting thing together and Puck had to respect her wishes, but now he felt like he had to be on his A game all the time.  “No crazy toppings and home by eight, got it,” Puck listed off, more than ready to get a breath of fresh air.  “If you change your mind and have too much work and need me to keep him for the night, just text me.  I’d be down for a Puckerman men sleepover.”  He tossed her a playful smile, thankful that she didn’t pump the breaks on him fueling their kid with sugar.  

After getting Mateo and himself into their coats and hats, Puck fiddled with the carseat for a good five minutes, determined to figure it out himself.  Once Mateo was safely buckled in, Puck slid into the driver’s seat and took off toward the ice cream parlor downtown.  Fizzywhips had been a staple in Puck and Santana’s date nights when they were home; an evening out just wasn’t complete unless they stopped in for homemade ice cream or a monster sized shake.  Just being back in the small shop had Puck’s heart warming; and now he was there with their son.  

Even in the middle of winter there was a line to the door, the icy air outside a a failed threat to the frozen treats.  It took at least twenty minutes to even get to the the counter and by then Mateo was still waffling over what flavor to get.  As big of a sucker as Puck was for his son, he’d promised Santana no toppings and only one scoop of ice cream to keep Mateo from turning into a wild child .  To Puck’s delight, Mateo finally settled on cookies ‘n cream, Puck’s favorite flavor as well.  And after they both watched the snow fall while slowly working their way through their cones, Puck realized that almost forty-five minutes had passed.  Eight o’clock was swiftly approaching and Puck wanted to take his time getting to Santana’s because of the snow.  He wet a napkin and did his best at wiping Mateo’s face and hands clean before ordering a strawberry shake to go and ushering Mateo out the door and back into the car.  

It was just past eight when Puck knocked on Santana’s door, steeling himself for the backlash for not having Mateo home on time.  He’d driven extra slow through downtown and had taken a few detours on the way back to show Mateo all of the best Christmas lights.  Even though he was Jewish, Puck had always loved the way Christmas lights seemed so magical.  If she wanted to be mad at him for that, Puck would let it roll off his shoulders because Mateo was practically beaming the entire ride home.  With Mateo in his arms and his hand clutched around the strawberry shake, Puck knocked awkwardly on the front door.  When it swung open, Puck was already apologizing.  “I know, I know.  You said no later than eight and it’s past eight.  I’m sorry.  The snow got a little heavy,” Puck explained as Mateo held onto him tighter.  “Daddy showed me the lights!”  Mateo chimed, looking over at Santana with big eyes.  A blush crept up Puck’s neck and cheeks, his son ratting him out without knowing.  “I took him down Brewster Street.  They have the best lights.”  He stood there for a moment before he realized that her shake was quickly becoming strawberry milk.  “Oh...I got this for you.  Thought you might want a little sugar yourself.”

Santana desperately wanted to go with them and experience Puck taking his son to get ice cream. It would be adorable. She desperately wished that they were okay enough to do this together, but instead she had to put up a barrier because she wanted things too much and she knew they'd only fight. So instead she spent the night editing Christmas photos, sending them out as she finished. Thankfully, Puck gave her enough time that she only had half a shoot to finish by the time they knocked. She noticed it was after eight, but the way Mateo’s face split into a smile when she opened the door made her stop the rant threatening to spill out. Mateo ran past her to take his coat off, and she closed the door behind Puck before taking the cup. “You got me Fizzywhips? I haven't had it in ages,” she grinned, taking a long sip. Her eyes closed, a satisfied moan spilling from her. “I rarely do sugar. This is so good. Thank you.” She looked at him, biting her lip as her eyes scanned his face. His cheeks and nose red from the cold, eyes lit up from making their son happy. “I-” she started, being cut off by Mateo tearing into the room in his pajamas. “Daddy! Can we watch Force Waking?” He asked, making her laugh. “The Force Awakens. He just got the DVD yesterday. I uh… you're more than welcome to watch it.”

A soft laugh billowed from the back of Puck’s throat as Santana moaned around her straw; she used to make that same sound every time she got a shake from Fizzywhips.  “No problem,” he hummed, watching her indulge happily.  Puck’s eyes were practically glued to her as Mateo rushed back into the entryway already changed into his pajamas.  Puck’s brows furrowed for a moment, a smile on his face as he tried to decipher what exactly his son was asking.  Santana translated the toddler speak, making Puck huff another soft laugh.  “Wow.  Did mommy get you that DVD?” he asked, entertaining Mateo’s excitement.  The boy nodded and jumped around, the sugar working its way through his system.  Puck knew that the sugar high wouldn’t last much longer and Mateo would be crashing into a deep sleep in less than an hour, so he looked back at Santana.  Her invitation made his lips bow into a soft smile.  “You sure?  I don’t wanna overstep.”  Puck was really trying his best not to encroach on her space and they’d already had a tense dinner together.  “If you have some more work to do I can hang out with him for a bit until you’re done and then I can head out,” he offered.

“No, it'll be fine. I'm almost done editing. You guys can watch it in here and I'll just chill on my end and finish.” Mateo was already rushing to put the DVD in the player, making her smile. “You can hang up your coat there,” she pointed to the hooks by the door, turning back in to the living room. “Mateo, go get your blanket. Puck, if you want anything to drink, there's different stuff in the fridge. And snacks in the cabinet. Make yourself at home.” Santana didn't want things to be awkward, especially because Mateo needed to settle down. “Y'all behave. I'm here if ya need something.”

Puck was pleasantly surprised by Santana’s warm welcome.  After the dinner they’d had, he was sure she would be eager to have him out of her hair until at least Tuesday.  Looking to where Santana pointed, Puck shrugged off his coat and pulled off his hat before hanging them on the hook next to the door.  He smoothed out his shirt and patted down his hair before stepping further into Santana’s home.  “Thank,” he mumbled, watching her walk back to what he assumed was her office.  Puck blew a long breath of air out through his nose before joining Mateo on the couch.  “Bring on the storm troopers!”  Puck announced, Mateo bouncing into his lap.  He was taken aback at first, but his arms easily molded around his son as the movie began to play.

Seventy-five minutes later, Mateo’s eyelids drooped close and his body went completely limp in Puck’s arms.  The sugar had run its course and, try as he might, Mateo just couldn’t stay awake any longer.  Not that Puck could blame the kid, he’d been on a bit of an emotional rollercoaster today and Puck wasn’t a stranger to that kind of exhaustion.  As quietly and carefully as he could, Puck stood up and carried Mateo back towards where Santana had disappeared to.  He could have left the boy on the couch, but he figured he’d help Santana out and carry their son to bed so she wouldn’t have to later.  Peeking into the only room with the light on, Puck lightly tapped on the door.  “Hey...he’s out.  I dunno if you want him in your room or his room...,” Puck explained, keeping his voice soft and low.  “Or I can put him back on the sofa If you want.”  His hand rubbed up and down Mateo’s back gently as he rocked slowly from side to side on the balls of his feet to keep their son in dreamland.  

Thankfully, she had finished editing, sending off the last of her digital albums to her clients. Now all she had left was a wedding, but she could do that over the next day or two since it wasn't on a deadline. As much as she loved taking pictures, she hated how much time editing took sometimes. When Puck appeared in her door which a sleeping Mateo, she smiled, pushing her glasses up on her head as she sat her laptop down next to her. “His room. I've officially kicked him out of my bed. No more tiny cold feet on my back at night.” She pushed the covers down to get out of bed, leading him to Mateo’s room, pulling his covers back. “He's a heavy sleeper thankfully.”

Once Mateo was in bed, Santana flipped the night light on and left the room, slightly closing the door behind her. Now that it was just the two of them in her hallway, she felt like she was much too close to him, and it was much too dark for them to act like rational adults. “Thank you. The milkshake was amazing. Mateo had an awesome time. I bet he absolutely loved the lights.” She smiled at him, crossing her arms. “I, uh, I wanted to talk to you about last night.”

After tucking Mateo into bed, Puck stepped back and let Santana finish up her nightly ritual with their son.  He watched through the doorway as Santana pressed a kiss to his forehead and turned on the nightlight next to his bed.  Observing the way things came so easily to her in regards to being a mother made him happy and sad at the same time; he’d have had the same confidence in being a parent if he had only stayed three years ago.  Puck chewed on his bottom lip, taking another step back when Santana came out of the boy’s bedroom and closed the door behind her.  The air around them seemed to disappear and Puck swore he could feel every fiber pulse in his heart.  “You don’t have to thank me.  Really.  I love spending time with him.  I wanna get to know him...every part of him...including the part that likes to throw tantrums.  Pretty sure he got a double dose of our bad tempers, so I can’t really blame him.”  He tried to keep his eyes from roaming over her, but he couldn’t help but soak in the way her body had softened just the slightest bit since she’d given birth; her breasts were a little bigger and her hips had more of a curve than an angle to them.  When she crossed her arms over her chest, he was sure he’d been caught admiring and a blush crept up his neck.  “Last night...what about it?”

Maybe she didn't need to bring up the night before, but after the way she'd made dinner awkward, she felt like she definitely needed to say something. Though, she knew if she started talking so close to her bedroom, she'd probably end up dragging him in. The few glasses of wine she'd drank had her cheeks flushed and her tongue loose. Never a good combination when the man that still held your heart was around. She led him back down the hallway towards the living room since she figured that was a safe space, no overly inviting bed or romantic lighting to tempt her. “I just wanna apologize. For Finn’s behavior, for me going off about some random ex. For all of it. I don't like this tension between us. I wanna be around you without being worried about what might be said.” She pushed her hair off her shoulders before rubbing over them, fighting the nerves. “Look, we have our son and I don't want to impose some strict rule about you seeing him. I want you to come over, for him to go there. Whenever you get your own place or whatever, he’ll go there. No ‘every other weekend’ shit. We aren't divorced and angry. We’re just… harboring feelings that we eventually need to discuss. When you're ready or when I'm ready or whatever. I want us to work.”

His confusion ebbed away as Santana spoke, her nervous mannerisms betraying her calm and collected tone.  She was anxious, Puck could practically taste how jittery she was, but still she pushed on with her explanation.  If Santana Lopez was one thing, she was a fighter; she’d been a fighter her entire life and her tenacity only seemed to grow stronger with motherhood; it was one of the many things that Puck loved about her.  The knot that had been growing in his chest started to fray and sever with each word Santana offered.  Things between them definitely weren’t perfect, but knowing that she genuinely wanted him in Mateo’s life had his lungs relaxing.  “You don’t have to apologize, Santana.  I…” he started, his thoughts jumbled after the harsh tension between them was released.  “It’s not my place to comment on your relationships with Finn or with any other guy you have in your life.  You’ve raised our son to be this amazing little dude and I know that every decision you make is with him at the front of your mind.  And I didn’t come home to screw up your life or his life.  Hell, I didn’t even know you were back.  And I obviously didn’t know about Mateo.”  Puck felt like he was getting off track, rambling because he finally felt like he could talk to her without there being some huge blowout.  “I didn’t like the idea of visitation, but I’d do it if that’s what you really wanted.  I’m not trying to change your mind about that by inviting you to dinner or taking our son out for ice cream.  I just...I don’t want to do anything to make you hate me even more than you already do.  So if you’re changing the whole scheduled visits thing because you feel guilty, then don’t.  But if you’re changing it because you really don’t like it, then I’d love to have that kind of relationship with him...and with you.  You’re his mom, Santana.  You’re his ride or die.  You call the shots,” he echoed her words from the first night he was home because they would always hold true.  “For the record...if it counts for anything...I want us to work too.”

Santana sighed, shaking her head. “I know you didn't come home to screw anything up. I know you didn't know. I know that you aren't trying to be a dick… minus the few times you have been,” she laughed. “Look, I don't know if it's jealousy or what, but I get it. You're a new dad, you're protective of your child, you're unsure of who I bring around. Trust me when I say it's only been Finn and my ex. Both trustworthy guys. And the visitation thing was a hasty decision I made because I was upset and didn't know how to just be around you.” She took a deep breath, motioning between them. “Since we were teens, there's been this thing between us that makes it hard for us to be calm and cool around each other. I want us to just… exist. To be able to sit next to one another at class recitals and football games. We can do this. We can parent together. We can.. be a sort of family. Different, but still a family.” Pausing, she looked at him, not hesitating to wrap her arms around him, pressing her face to his chest. “We’re gonna be good parents. Together.”

Puck felt like he couldn’t breathe properly again, but this time it was because Santana was saying everything he needed to hear.  Unlike himself, Santana had learned to reign in her anger and think more logically than emotionally; devoting her life to her son had really taught her some harsh lessons.  Puck nodded as she spoke, silently encouraging her to continue sharing her thoughts on their situation.  When she mentioned the way they seemed to ignite one another’s fire, Puck merely chuckled.  It was true; ever since high school they could get under each other’s skin and push just the right buttons.  But now their dynamic had shifted and they needed to be a united front for their son.  “Still a family,” Puck echoed, his heart pounding painfully in his chest as Santana wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his shirt.  He wanted to apologize for every tear he’d made her cry, for every second that her heart was in pain.  If there was a way to undo that hurt, Puck would find it.  His arms anchored her in place, one hand cupping the back of her head as the other smoothed up and down her back just as he’d been doing to Mateo not even ten minutes ago.  “Better together.”  Puck was sure his heart was ready to beat its way right of his chest.  It had been three years since he’d held her like this, three years since he could smell the mix of her perfume and sweat.  Without thinking it through, Puck pulled back enough to tilt Santana’s chin up, his lips meeting hers with firm pressure.

She knew that hugging him was dangerous territory. This wasn't some random person, this was her person, back from god knows where, ready to be there for her and their son. Call it mother’s intuition, but Santana knew that Puck wasn't just going to take off again. She'd seen him after Beth, after Shelby dangled the girl in front of him. She knew he was capable of being a father, capable of taking care of their child when she wasn't around. Since all that had been settled, now she just needed to deal with her feelings for him that didn't involve Mateo. She loved him. She'd been in love with him the entire time he was gone, which was one of the reasons she beat herself up about it so much. Hearing him agree they'd be better together made her think of just how great they could be, the feeling of his arms making her sigh softly against his shirt. Feeling his fingers in her hair, she let him maneuver her head, his lips sending her into shock. After a moment she kissed back, hands fisting in his shirt as she leaned closer, her lips chasing his.

There was a brief moment where Puck thought he may get slapped, but then Santana started kissing him back, her fingers twisting into his shirt,  and Puck couldn’t think of anything but her.  He’d tried and failed to push her out of his mind for the last three years; no matter who he shared his bed with, they didn’t come close to Santana.  Puck figured it was his punishment for just up and leaving, but now he knew that their lives were so intertwined that he’d never be able to cut her out without risk of losing himself.  The floodgates had opened the moment their lips met, bringing with it the rush of shackled feelings that Puck had tried to lock away three years ago.  His tongue swept past her lips, the sugary sweetness of her mouth making him groan as his hand slipped down her back to grab her ass.  It felt like he couldn’t get enough of her, like he’d been denying himself the one thing that would make him feel complete.

Since he'd come home, Santana had a small feeling that he still had feelings for her, but she wasn't sure. Puck had always been critical of who she slept with, so even though she'd thought it was jealousy, she couldn't be sure. Now she was. There was more than just old feelings between them. She didn't know if she should keep kissing him, or stop to ask him what the hell they were doing, but his hand gripping her ass answered that for her. It was embarrassing how much she needed this, how good it felt to be wanted again. She hadn't been with anyone in ages, and no matter how many times she wanted to, she couldn't find time to date or hook up. Her hands moved from his shirt to his hair, a small moan of delight escaping her. When she pulled away to actually breathe, she chuckled, biting her lower lip. “That was surprising,” she offered, her eyes falling from his eyes to his lips before she leaned into kiss him again, suddenly feeling like if she stopped, she'd wake up from some sort of dream.

Swallowing the moan that bubbled from Santana’s throat made Puck smile into their kiss.  He was genuinely happy, his heart blooming in his chest.  As she pulled away Puck slowly opened his eyes, preparing himself for some sort of reprimand.  But Santana’s words were light and breathy, her mouth seeking out his own before he could even answer her.  The need for her started to ebb out towards every cell in his body, the taste of her tongue spurring him on.  Puck lifted her into his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist, as he carried her towards the couch.  He couldn’t remember how many times this kind of kiss had lead them into a night full of tangled and sweaty limbs.  “You feel so fucking good,” Puck groaned, his mouth parting from hers to nip and suck down her neck once he was pressed between her legs on the sofa.

She didn't know how she went from trying to make things okay between them to making out with him, but she wasn't ready to stop it. She wanted him, loved him, missed him. There was no way she was going to tell him they couldn't do this. Being lifted made her gasp against his lips, but she went with it, wrapping her legs around him to let him carry her wherever he pleased. Her hands stayed in his hair, giving the longer strands a light tug as she laid back against the cushions. “Mm, don't stop kissing me. I've missed it too much,” she told him honestly, one hand moving to slide under the back of his t-shirt, fingers running over smooth skin. Her lips traced his jaw before nipping lightly under his ear, something she used to do constantly, before kissing him slowly again.

He was starting to mark her neck, make her his again, when her desperate demand brought his lips back to hers.  She’d missed him, his kiss at least, and that was enough for Puck to rock forward against her.  The warmth of her fingers along his back made a shiver zip down his spine, his cock growing stiff beneath the confines of his jeans.  “I’ve missed you too,” he admitted, his words pressed against her lips.  Enjoying the way Santana seemed to fold around him, Puck continued to rut against the basin of her pelvis, the friction helping to ease the ache at his base.  His hands worked their way beneath her shirt, fingertips grazing up her ribcage before he palmed her heavy breast.  

She could feel him through the thin material of her leggings, her own body rocking up against his as his lips left marks on her neck. She knew she needed to keep him from marking her, but her sixteen year old self reminded her she could do wonders with a cold spoon and some foundation. Santana used her legs to keep him against her, moaning as he finally found a stiff bud to roll between his fingers. Her sensitivity was off the charts, making her squirm under him. “Let me up,” she told him, waiting for him to sit up. Once he complied, she straddled him, grinding down against him as she pulled her sweater over her head, reaching to yank his shirt off as well.

At first Santana’s words sounded like a warning, despite the fact that her heart was beating just as hard as his was, but when Puck sat up she didn’t push him towards the door.  Instead she straddled his lap, her center pressing down over his covered member as she peeled off her sweater and tossed it aside.  Her breasts were on full display, magnets for Puck’s mouth as his hands guided the motion of her pelvis along his cock.  She tugged at his shirt, practically ripping it off of him before throwing it to the floor to join her sweater.  His mouth was on her then, carving a path down the valley between her breasts before sealing his lips over her pert left nipple.  He pulled it through his teeth, one hand abandoning her hip to slip beneath the stretchy material of her leggings.  There was no denying that she would be wet, he could practically feel the heat of her through his denim, but Puck couldn’t help the moan that roared from his chest when his fingertips dipped between her sopping folds.  “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growled, his cock twitching at the thought of sinking deep inside of her.

She cried out, her back arching as her eyes snapped closed, his mouth making her rock her hips harder. She wanted less clothing between them, but she didn't push it, wanting them to go at the pace that felt natural for them. Instead of trying to think about what any of this meant, or why they were doing it, she focused on how good it felt to just be touched by him. His teeth had her whimpering, his rough treatment making her shiver. Then his hand slid beneath her leggings and into her, making her drop her head against his shoulder, nails digging into his arms. “Oh fuck,” she whined, voice shaky. “No shit. You're dry humping me like we’re sixteen and I haven't had an orgasm from another person in what feels like ages. Keep going,” she rasped, lips attacking his skin to suck tiny spots down the column of his throat.

“You’re anything but dry,” Puck countered with a smirk, a grunt forcing from his throat as Santana dug her nails into his skin.  The pain only added to the pleasure, making Puck curl his fingers to tap into the spot that made Santana’s legs quake.  Even after three years and a baby, he still knew her body; being inside of her was like coming home.  Her lips along his neck made him pulse, the blood rushing to his groin making it hard for him to concentrate.  While he’d had his fair share of sex over the past three years, it had actually been months since he’d gotten anything more than a blow job.  Not to mention that this was Santana, the woman to whom he compared all of the other notches on his bedpost.  Puck tried his best to focus on her, to build her up until she was primed.  He alternated between pressing inside of her and rubbing over her clit until she was so wet that he could barely keep contact with the slippery nub.  Puck pulled his hand free and pushed against her hips so she’d stand up.  “Get these fucking things off,” he ordered, snapping the waistband of her leggings before sucking his fingers clean while opening the fly of his jeans.  He let out a hard breath, his hand wrapping around his dick to ease the ache flaring up his shaft.  

She'd never been more thankful that her son was a hard sleeper. Usually it worried her that he could sleep through a tornado, but now she considered it a blessing. The last thing she needed was Mateo walking in on them. “Shut up,” she groaned, rocking her hips against his hand, breathy moans filling the silence. She was so close to coming that her thighs were starting to jump every time he brushed her clit, driving her insane. Being told once was enough, his demand making her stand and push the leggings off. She struggled slightly, the stretchy material getting hung on her ankle before she got them off. Once she was done struggling, she looked him over, a satisfied smirk on her face. He looked exactly the same, every inch of his body the same way she'd left it. His cock stood proudly, her center clenching at the thought of having him inside her again. She crawled over him, not even thinking to ask about tests or condoms, her body slowly taking him inch by inch as she stretched around him. “Holy shit,”

she whined, her forehead wrinkling. “Fuck, Noah,” she panted, eyes snapping to meet his.

One moment they were tucking their son into bed and the next Santana was panting Puck’s name as she lowered herself onto his bare cock.  All rational thought went out the window the moment Puck sunk into her.  This was the woman he loved for so many years, the mother of his child, the woman who still let him back into her life after pulling some David Copperfield shit.  It felt like his heart couldn’t contain it all, his ribs cracking beneath the pressure, but he let his physical pleasure supercede his emotional upheaval and eagerly watched her sink down on him.  His eyes flicked between the joining of their bodies and the look on Santana’s face as he bottomed out; he’d have her furrowed brow and gently parted lips burned into his mind forever.  The way she said his name made his stomach churn, their eyes finally catching as she adjusted to the intrusion.  “I got you, Tana,” Puck answered, his voice an octave below normal.  He didn’t break eye contact at all, his hands gripping onto her hips to help lift and lower her along his shaft at a steady pace.  “I got you, baby.”

With one hand gripping the couch behind his head and the other curled around the back of his neck, Santana slowly started to move, letting him guide her movements. She felt crazed from the pleasure and emotion running through her, making her snap her hips against his. The realization that the last time she'd done this with him had been the time she’d conceived Mateo had her feeling suddenly nervous. She'd had a child, gained a few pounds here and there, and apparently got stitched up so good down there that she felt like a virgin all over again. That thought almost made her laugh, but then he was looking at her and calling her baby, calling her Tana, and all she could focus on was how amazing this felt. Like coming home. She loved him, no matter how flawed he was, no matter the mistakes he'd made, and getting to be intimate with him once again had her heart bursting. She wished she could tell him, explain to him that he had her heart if he wanted it, and even if he didn't. But she didn't. Instead she let out another cry, her hips rolling against his as she clenched around him, thighs starting to shake. “I'm so close. So fucking close already,” she breathed.

If it was physically possible, Puck would stay inside of Santana forever.  Every twitch of her muscles and whimper from her throat made him pulse heavily between his legs.  He had been so focused on her orgasm that his own climb to climax was nearing fruition.  Puck felt like a teenager again, frustrated and embarrassed that he wasn’t able to last more than a couple of minutes before he’d nut.  He’d prided himself on mastering the long game in high school, but there was no way he could hold back much longer.  Despite the fact that he wanted to drag this out and prolong the heavenly feeling of Santana snug around his cock, he could already feel the pressure deep in his sack.  The day had been a whirlwind of emotions and all the tension that had been building between them over the last few hours culminated in a sexual release that they both desperately needed.  Santana’s thighs were trembling, her hips taking up a chaotic rhythm in her approach to her peak.  Puck dropped his hands away from her hips, one hand sliding between them to add pressure to her clit while the other fisted into her hair, tugging forcefully.  And when Santana clenched hard in reaction to the double assault, that was all Puck needed.  “Fuck!” he barked, his hips lifting off the couch in successive jerks, driving himself deeper into her as heat rose up his shaft and spurted from his tip in a heavy load.

It was like he shoved her right over the edge of a cliff, her stomach tightening as her legs shook, clenching around him as she came. Her eyes rolled, movements getting jerky as she fell apart, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Fucking hell,” she whined, leaning in to suck at a spot on his neck, rocking her hips against him as he came. “Jesus, it’s like we just had a quickie in your truck after a football game,” she laughed, smoothing her hands up and down his arms, head resting against his shoulder. “How long do I need to give you before you can get in the shower with me and bang me there too?” She was trying to keep things light between them, not wanting to overcomplicate whatever this was. On top of that, she still couldn’t get enough of him, and just the thought of having him again had her clenching around him.

There was no stopping the laugh that rumbled through his chest at Santana’s words.  She was right, when they were together in high school they’d find themselves crammed together like this in the cab of his truck after a big win; Santana had deemed it Puck’s reward for kicking ass.  And when they reconnected in college they couldn’t get enough of each other, his truck moonlighting as their second bedroom at times so they could fit in a quickie between work and classes.  Puck was going soft inside her, Santana’s walls still squeezing around him sporadically.  He’d never had a long recovery time, which for them was a blessing, and it would only take another five to ten minutes before he was stiff again.  “Depends.  How far away is your shower?”  Puck teased, his hands reaching down to lift her as he slipped out.  The fact that she wanted him again bolstered Puck’s confidence.  They had always been hot headed and impulsive together, but Puck didn’t want Santana to regret this.  He couldn’t sink into his emotions at the moment, he just needed to act on what every cell in his body was telling him: to rip every moan and whimper from Santana’s chest.  

Puck eased Santana off his lap, missing the weight of her once she was standing.  His hands smoothed down her body, his thumbs pressing over the jut of her hip bones.  “You’re still so fucking beautiful, you know that?”  He leaned in and nipped below her navel,  his eyes slowly looking up to find hers.  “I wanna make you come like that at least another couple times,” he admitted, pulling back before pushing himself off the couch.  Puck shoved his pants the rest of the way off, his boxers and jeans a puddle at his feet.  “Lead the way, mama.”

Santana ran a hand over his hair to cup his cheek as he kissed her skin. “Thanks. It's not the same tight cheerleader body from before, but childbirth and your mother’s cooking keep me from getting back to that,” she explained. It was weird that she felt the need to explain, but the last time he’d seen her naked, she looked perfect. Now she had tiny lines from being pregnant, and thicker thighs from too much cream sauce. “That sounds like a plan. Come on.” She scooped up all of their clothes, afraid to leave them out just in case. Leading them to her bedroom, she dumped them unceremoniously on the floor before walking in to her master bath to start the shower. “I love my shower. The shower head was so expensive but it's my favorite thing. Wait til you feel it.”

On their way back towards Santana’s bedroom, Puck kept his hand on the small of her back.  It was something he'd done since forever, a possessive protective gesture that came naturally when it involved Santana.  “Cream sauce and Mateo aside, I think you look incredible.  I'd say even better than before but you might take that the wrong way,” Puck teased, following Santana into the master bath.  Once she had ditched their clothes and turned on the faucet, Puck pulled her back against him, her ass fitting against his pelvis as both of his hands meandered up to massage her breasts.  They hadn't even stepped into the shower yet, but he couldn't wait to touch her again. Puck rolled both of Santana’s nipples between his fingers, his lips trailing down the side of her neck to her pulse point.  It was then that he started to suck against the rapid beat, his teeth digging into her just enough to bruise.

  “I think I look better than before too. Motherhood made my tits bigger, my ass bigger, and my body way more sensitive than before,” she laughed. It was true, she felt like she was shaping up to be an hourglass figure when before she was a stick. Perks of being a Latina mother. She wiggled her ass against him, hand going to grip the counter top as she moaned. Santana dropped her head forward, her eyes watching him in the mirror as he moved against her. “In the shower, Mi Vida.” She pulled away from him to guide him, stepping under the water. “Fuck yes. Perfectly hot. Scalding the way I like it.”

That damn nickname was Puck’s undoing; it was what Santana had started to call him six months into their college relationship.  He hadn’t thought to ask what it meant until she was lying breathless against his chest after a few rounds of sex celebrating the end of winter finals.  It was then that Puck realized that this wasn’t like high school; they weren’t just hooking up for the physical perks, there were actual feelings involved.  Four years later he’d felt the pressure of her marriage fever and decided that his best option was to run.  An idiotic, selfish decision, but his decision nonetheless.  Three years after that, here he was, standing in Santana’s bathroom as she uttered those same two words.  His heart felt heavy, his feet glued to the tiled floor as he watched her step into the spray of the shower.  What were they doing?  What was he doing?  He thought about leaving, letting her shower away the regret she would inevitably feel over this spontaneous reconnection.  But he couldn’t.  Not again.  He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.  Puck waited a beat before stepping into the shower behind her, steam already billowing around them.  Pulling Santana against him, Puck dropped his head to the curve of her neck.  “I’m sorry, Tana.  I’m really fucking sorry.”

She hadn't realized she'd said it until she was in the shower, frozen under the spray like a deer in the headlights. It had been so easy to revert back to the playful Santana and Puck that it seemed like the past didn't exist and they were right back in her college apartment. It was scary how easy it had been to just call him the same nickname she'd been calling him for ages, not even realizing that part of the reason he'd left had been because he truly had become her life. Her heart jumped in to her throat, waiting for him to bolt, to take off and pretend this night didn't exist because she'd shown too much emotion in two freaking words. To her surprise, he still got in the shower, wrapping her in his arms. “Sorry for what, Puck?” She asked, trying to not go back to pet names.

It was a simple question with a complicated answer.  What wasn’t Puck sorry for?  He was sorry he broke her heart, sorry he’d made her a single mother, sorry that Finn was more of a father figure to Mateo than Puck had been, sorry that she’d had to give up her hopes and dreams for the wellbeing of their son.  The list went on and on, Puck’s brain trying to mush all of his regrets into a single response.  He felt her stiffen, the air around them a little thicker and heavier than before.  There was a long pause while Puck tried to find the right answer, his hands sliding down her front slowly.  “I’m sorry for not believing that we had a chance to be something great.  You knew.  You’ve always known.  I’m sorry that I’m just realizing it now.”  He settled his chin on her shoulder before turning his face to kiss her neck softly.  It was true; Puck was so skeptical of any sort of long term relationship that he’d failed to see what was right in front of him three years ago: a genuinely happy life with Santana filled with love and untapped potential.

It was like all the air had been sucked out of the shower, and she was struggling to breathe through the hot water and the hot skin pressed to her back. She was scared of how he might answer that question, scared of what would be said in the shower and how it would be once they stepped outside of it. His answer made her let out a shaky breath, her legs feeling like jelly. She felt the tears on her cheeks, grateful that he couldn't see her so she could blame it on the spray. Hearing that he was realizing everything they could've been felt like a knife to the heart. She'd spent so much time imagining what their life would've been like, it tore her apart to realize that they'd wasted three years. So much could've been done. “Yeah. I knew.” Santana didn't know what else to say. Her hands held his against her skin, taking a deep breath. “I guess it wasn't meant to be before.”

They stood quietly, their bodies pressed together as the hot water made their skin redden and swell.  There was a tone of regret in Santana’s voice, her words wilting.  Puck instinctively hugged her closer, his arms tightening around her as if she might actually disappear into the steam itself.  “Really?  I think it was more because I was just too much of an idiot to realize what you already knew.”  He was trying to bring a little levity between them, both of their emotions running high.  “You always were smarter than me.”  Puck smiled against her then, his lips dragging along her skin.  “I'm just thankful that our son has you to teach him all that stuff.  Like not to be scared of loving someone.”

She wasn't sure what to say anymore. Why was he bringing this up? What was she supposed to say to that? She knew they could be amazing, she knew he would've been a great father, a great husband. “You learned the hard way. Everyone makes mistakes.” Her eyes closed to try and rein in the emotions swirling through her, making it harder for her to breathe. “That's why he loves you so hard. He knows to give it freely.” She didn't know how to put what she wanted to say, so instead, she turned in his arms to bury her face against his neck. It was too hard to meet his eyes still, unsure of what was happening between them. “You still have a chance to teach him to love freely. You can still show him what it takes to be a good man, to do what's right.”

What started out as a spontaneous kiss and urgent physical connection had morphed into something much deeper.  Puck was willing to admit his failures and take whatever anger and resentment Santana harbored.  He nodded as she spoke, his body reacting to having her pressed against him.  “That's exactly why I'm staying,” he agreed, his hand rubbing up and down her back firmly.  There was a moment of silence when Puck wanted to ask her if she wanted him to leave, but he swallowed the question out of fear she might actually say yes.  Instead, he tilted her head up again, briefly looking into her eyes before capturing her lips in a slow deep kiss.

Santana felt a little lost, feeling like her past and future were colliding, with her in the middle. He had been her everything, her world. He had meant so much, had hurt her so much. And their son? Their son was her future, her whole life, the person she lived for now. Could she carve out a space for him? Or would tearing out the old scar tissue hurt too much? Kissing him felt amazing, her hands sliding in his wet hair. When her lungs started to burn, she pulled back, breathing heavily as she finally looked up at him. “Noah, if you're only interested in sex, or you have some feeling of obligation to me, then we can't do this. I don't want you to think you have to have feelings for me, or you have to sleep with me because I'm the mother of your son. I want this to be organic, something you truly want. If it's not, then let's get out right now.”

As Santana pulled back, a muffled groan of protest was staunched in Puck’s throat.  Her words made his stomach queasy, his brows furrowing above his hazel eyes.  “If this wasn't something I wanted, I wouldn't be here right now.  I wouldn't be willing to see my son on a visitation schedule or sit through the most awkward family dinner to have ever taken place.”  He knew her walls were building back up and he couldn't help his own defensiveness from rearing.  “I'm not fucking you because you're Mateo’s mom.  I'm fucking you because you're Santana.  The woman who drew a dick on my face when I passed out at Finn and Kate's first New Year's Eve party.  The woman who unfortunately knows all my friggin tickle spots.  The woman whose heartbeat is like the most beautiful damn song I've ever heard.  I'm here, right now, because I can't be anywhere else.  I can't.  Because even thousands of miles away and years spent apart, no one has made me feel half of what I feel for you.  If that's not organic, I dunno what is.”  His chest rose and fell rapidly, his defense having been spoken with little room for breathing.  “I don't need you doubting me at every turn though.  I know you're entitled to because I fucked up, but it fucking sucks.”

It felt like her heart was beating out of her chest, the thundering noise in her ears nearly drowning out what he was saying. Hearing his walk down memory lane and his fierce defense of his feelings made Santana crumble. She wanted this to be real, she wanted to hear that even though he slept his way across the country, all he could think about was her. She wanted him to tell her how much he loved her and tell her she needed to love him in return. It was such a cheesy romance novel want, but she couldn't help it. She ran her hands over her face, noticing the temperature of the water starting to drop. It was true, she didn't fully trust him. She didn't know how to trust him after he left, but she was sure she could learn. He'd have to be patient, but she would try. “Look, I know you regret leaving, and I know it will always be a sensitive subject between us. I’ll be honest, I want to trust you more than anything, but I'm scared. I don't think you'll leave but there's this little voice in the back of my head saying to wait, that it'll happen. Noah, I don't want to think that. I know that I can trust you again, but it's gonna take time. But I won't treat you like I'm the judge, jury, and executioner. I just need you to understand when I have my moments.” She reached behind her to shut off the freezing water, shaking slightly. “I've spent three years missing you. I just wanted to make sure this was as real for you as it is for me. Me and you again.”

The water that had started to run frigid, along with Santana’s words, sobered him up.  Puck wiped his hand over his face.  All he wanted to do was pull Santana closer and put this conversation off for another day, but instead he stepped back and created more space between them.  “I'm not trying to rush or force anything here, Santana.  It just happened.  And it feels fucking amazing...at least it did for me.”  Questions started to creep into the back of his mind that he tried to swat away.  “I get that you need time and shit.  Trust me when I say I didn't anticipate tonight happening,” he defended, his body shivering from the evaporating water on his skin.  “If that little voice is telling you not to trust me, then you're right...we can't do this.  And I don't blame that little voice, honestly.  It's not like I have a great track record when it comes to sticking around.”  Puck was realizing how twisted all of this was and he started to distance himself more from her.  “We should really focus on Mateo.  We can work through our shit a little at a time.”

Santana could feel the divide between the two of them getting wider as she got colder. She stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel to wrap around herself to fight off the goosebumps starting to cover her skin. She could feel all the excitement of earlier start to fade, making her stomach clench as her anxiety ramped up. To calm her nerves and give her a moment to decide what to say next, she grabbed another towel, wrapping it around Puck’s waist, her fingers holding on to the waist as she took a deep breath. “I feel amazing. This is exactly what I want, what I've wanted for years. I don't want to just focus on Mateo. I want to focus on us too, work on us, because really, there's no one else but you.” Santana pressed her forehead to his chest, sighing. “Don’t pull away from me. Stay. Stay the night with me.”

As Puck watched Santana exit the shower, his own nerves started wreaking havoc on his stomach; he felt nauseous, like he'd just swallowed pop rocks and chugged a liter of Pepsi.  The excitement and adrenaline from earlier had worn off and now they were left with the reality of their situation.  Puck kept his eyes on her, unable to look away as she wrapped herself in a towel.  And when he was sure she'd head towards the bedroom and leave him dripping on the tilel, Santana turned to secure a towel around his waist.  The fizz in his stomach relaxed then, his breathing evening out as she pressed her forehead against his chest.  Puck’s fingers found their way into Santana’s wet hair, his other arm looping around her and pulling her close again.  “I told you...I'm not going anywhere,” he hushed, Santana’s words settling into his bones.  “I wanna work on us too.  Not just for Mateo...but for us.”

She pressed a kiss against his chest, hands sliding over his cool skin to slide over his back. “Good. Let's do it. Let's work on us. For Mateo and for us.” Tilting her head up, she kissed him, arms tightening around him. “Come on. I'm fucking freezing and I want your body heat.” Just like that, the panic started to ease, making her feel infinitely better. He wanted this again, he wanted to try. That was good enough. They could figure it all out. Santana pulled away from him, running the towel over her body quickly before hanging it up. Once she wrapped her hair up, she walked in to her bedroom, pulling an old larger t-shirt out of the drawer to put on. “Fuck, winter is so fucking cold. Even with the heater on.”

With just a simple kiss Puck’s anger and frustration dissolved.  The way that Santana clutched onto him made his arms tighten around her and pull her flush against his body, only letting go when she shifted away from him.  “Just using me for my meat and my heat?  I see how it is,” Puck teased, his eyes falling to Santana’s ass while he followed her back into the bedroom.  As she opened up one of her drawers to pull on a shirt, Puck dried himself off and tossed the wet towel onto the floor.  He was about to pick up his boxers again when Santana’s shirt caught his eye.  “That’s my Bengals jersey,” he pointed out, the orange and black shirt hanging down to Santana’s knees.  He had looked for that jersey everywhere when he left town and had figured he’d either lost it along the way or had left it at home.  The fact that Santana still wore it, let alone kept it, made Puck blush.  “Thanks for taking good care of it,” he added, stepping closer to her until his hands could smooth down over the material.  “I don’t think you’ll be needing it though.”  Puck gripped the hem of the jersey and tugged it up and off of her easily, dropping it on the floor at the foot of the bed.  A new wave of affection started to swell within him, the urge to feel her skin against his own making Puck more aggressive.  “I’ll keep you warm.”

“That's the only thing you're good for,” she joked, smiling. It made her smile how easy it was to be serious with him, but how they could flip a switch and be fun again. She looked down at the shirt she'd put on, chewing on her lip a little. Yeah, she'd kept the shirt, mostly because she loved how big and roomy it was, and partially because she'd missed him so much. “Washed and loved by me for years. It's been through some shit.” She pouted a little, watching the shirt fall to the floor, taking some of her warmth away. “You better,” she warned, sliding her arms around his neck again. “Please?”

“Well...since you asked so nicely,” Puck hummed, backing Santana up to the bed before pushing her down onto the mattress.  He soon followed, trapping her beneath his body to give her the heat she’d demanded from him earlier.  They shuffled around for a moment, Puck huffing and puffing as he tugged at the covers until they were within a cocoon of sheets and blankets.  “There.  Tell me that that jersey is better than this and I’ll call you liar.”  Puck smiled down at her in the dark, her legs cradling his hips.  He was starting to stiffen, the familiar soft scent of her soap and skin making blood rush to his groin.  “You sure you’re okay with me staying?”

She laughed as he worked to cocoon them in blankets, his body heat already spreading over her skin, warming her up. Her thighs tightened around his hips, fingers sliding up his sides to caress his back slowly. “The jersey is shit compared to this. Yeah, I'm okay with you staying. In fact, it would've been weird if you didn't stay. I'm not about the pump and dump anymore.” Lifting her head, she pressed her lips to his shoulder before traveling over his chest and up his neck. “Plus I can feel you're pretty damn excited to stay too.”

Despite the fact that their past was rife with quickies and casual sex, Puck didn’t see this as some general hook up.  He’d missed Santana for years and her willingness to let him back into her life made him grab at any chance to reignite what they once had.  “Can you blame me?” he asked, heat crawling up the back of his neck as Santana’s lips meandered across his chest.  Puck closed his eyes and let the soft ministrations along his back and neck build him up, his heart beating fast and hard as his body reacted to the woman beneath him.  “I meant what I said before...I wanna make you come at least a couple more times.”  He looked down at her, hips rocking forward toward her wet heat, as his eyes locked with her dark brown ones.  “Unless you’re too worn out,” he teased, knowing full well that any jab to her endurance would rile her up.

Santana couldn't get enough of his body, her hands moving over his skin as she traced every little scar and freckle she'd seen a million times. She'd missed the way he felt, missed how soft his skin was even when he was all hard muscle. “I sure can't,” she smiled, letting her head drop back to the pillow as she settled her hands on his hips again. “If you think that a few years of me not getting fucked every night slowed me down, think again. I can still keep up with you Puckerman. Show me what you've got.” Her hand moved to cup the back of his neck, her lips crashing against his to kiss him hard and deep as she rocked against him teasingly. Her free hand reached to stroke him slowly, guiding him between her folds to let him feel how wet she'd become. “See? I'm ready.”

She had challenged him, something that would typically cause Puck to bark back with bravado.  But before Puck could even think of something to say to boost his own ego, Santana’s lips were crashing against his own and his tongue swept eagerly into her mouth.  The taste of her tongue drove him wild as her hips lifted fervently toward his pelvis.  A groan rumbled its way through his chest as her fingers curled and squeezed around his member.  “Fuck,” he breathed, his jaw clenching as Santana guided his head along her sopping folds.  It always made Puck preen when Santana’s body reacted so easily to him.  “Yeah you are,” Puck agreed, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he pushed forward.  A shiver ran down his spine the moment his head sunk into her, a familiar jolt that made him stall briefly before snapping his hips forward and bottoming out inside her in one strong stroke.  Despite the way Santana clenched around him, Puck pulled back until he almost slipped out before filling her again.  He took slow, hard strokes to keep them both built up without tipping over the edge too soon.  “Think you can handle a whole night?” Puck huffed, his mouth dropping next to her ear as he sheathed himself within her, as deep as he could reach.  

She knew she was playing with fire by teasing him like this. It used to drive him crazy when she'd let him slip against her, but not let him enter her. It felt too good to not pull the same stunt this time. As much as she wanted to tease, she wanted to be fucked just as badly. Before, on the couch, they'd been frantic, desperate to touch one another after so long. Now, he was torturing her, building her up slowly with thrusts she felt through her entire body. Each snap of his hips had her whining, her hands clutching at his back as he hit deep and hard. “Fuck, yes, give me a whole night. Don't stop.” She let her eyes close for a moment before opening them to look between them, a moan escaping as she watched him move.

The desperation in Santana’s voice matched the ache in the pit of Puck’s own stomach.  They both wanted this.  They both needed this.  He watched her eyes close and reopen, her focus shifted to the joining of their bodies.  A wolfish grin tugged onto Puck’s lips as he pulled back and slipped out of her.  As badly as he wanted to just fuck Santana into exhaustion, there was another part of him that needed more than that.  His mouth carved a path down her body, stopping to suck and bite near her navel and hip bone.  It was only when his mouth was poised above her sex that Puck looked up from between her legs.  “Don’t come,” he warned, the scent of her arousal making him leak.  Puck knew he didn’t have much longer before he’d reach his own limits, but challenging each other in bed had always been something they were damn good at.  He slipped his fingers through her, spreading her before his tongue teased around the swollen bud of her clit.  

Of course he'd stopped when she'd demanded that he didn't. She wanted to force his hips, make him continue to fuck her like he’d been, but it wouldn't matter, he'd continue to tease her. Watching him move down her body had her catching her bottom lip between her teeth, her hands sliding up his arms to pull lightly on his hair before he pulled out of reach. His words had her pushing up on her elbows to protest, but the minute his tongue touched her clit, she couldn't seem to form words. Don't come? He had to be insane. She lifted her hips, body moving against his mouth to find friction even though he told her she couldn't find release. “You're evil. Let me come, I wanna come so badly.”

While Puck had intended to drag out this round, Santana’s eager hips and urgent tone had him sliding back up her body before she could come on his tongue.  His pulse was racing, his heart drumming against his ribs as he pushed inside of her hard and fast.  They were past the point of build up; teasing strokes and light touches were replaced by rough, erratic thrusts.  He was fucking Santana into the mattress, his hand bracing the headboard to keep from making too much noise and waking up Mateo.  In the past they had been known for their less than subtle sexcapades, but Puck wasn’t about to scar his kid for life.  Plus keeping their kid asleep meant more time just to indulge in each other.  Sweat broke out along Puck’s back and thighs as he let himself have her, his lungs begging for air as he focused all of his energy on sending them both into the tailspin of orgasm.  “Fucking.  Come,” he demanded through gritted teeth, his voice nearing a growl as Santana’s walls fluttered around him.  He could practically taste the moment she let go, her back arching, sending him deep as she squeezed around him so hard it was borderline painful.  But Puck didn’t focus on the pain; his mind was wiped into nothingness as he poured into her.  He felt stupid, completely brainless, as practically all of the blood in his body seemed to be coursing between his legs.  “Okay...yeah.”  They were the only two words he could think of, his ability to form a coherent sentence thwarted by the way Santana still rippled around his softening cock.

Puck’s recovery period had always been relatively quick and even though he wasn’t a teenager anymore, he’d retained that biological gift.  So after a quick cool down, which included two glasses of water and half a granola bar, they were tangled together again in sex-scented sheets.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a night completely devoted to sex.  In the back of his mind he knew things could get messy real quick, but when it came to Santana he was weak.  Which was how he found himself rolling off of her, drenched and exhausted, at 6:30 in the morning; they’d taken marathon sex to a whole new level.  Puck’s eyes squinted at the clock on Santana’s nightstand, a breath humming from his chest.  “Fuck, babe.  The sun’s gonna be up in less than an hour.”  He stretched out in her bed, shifting to wrap his arm over her middle as he yawned.  “I can go before Mateo wakes up.  If that’s what you want.”  As badly as Puck wanted to stay, he knew that it was Santana’s call.

Santana hadn't been this exhausted since she was in labor. Those thirteen hours were intense and grueling, and she had wanted to sleep for days after. This exhaustion was so much better. Even though her bones felt like jelly and her skin felt raw from friction and kisses, she was a puddle of smiles. Curling up against his chest, she sighed, not willing to let him go. He was warm, she was tired, and she was sure someone would end up scolding her that she let him drive home on such little sleep. Her hands smoothed over his chest, fingers moving until she could wrap her arms around his neck to keep him as close as possible. “As much as I don't want to let you out of this bed, I know I should make you go. If Mateo comes in and sees this, he might expect it, and I don't want him to read too much in to anything yet.” She held on for a few minutes longer before sitting up to stretch.

Her hands pushed her hair in to a messy bun on top of her head, trying to tame how gross it probably looked from being rubbed against the sheets all night. “Plus, I need a nap. I have to deal with a small child on no sleep. Why did you keep me up all night?” Laughing, she crawled out of bed to get dressed again. “Come on. I'll make you a cup of coffee to go. She knew spending the night with him changed quite a few things, especially after the talk they had, and now that it wasn't just them wrapped up in each other, things would be hard. But instead of dwelling on what might happen, she pulled his old shirt on and kissed him quickly before heading out to the kitchen to make him coffee.

[fuelgrannie]

Child of God

I have very controversial views of Jesus Christ, at least to Christians. I was raised in the Catholic faith and can thus attest to having played in the Jesus-as-God pool. I do believe Jesus existed and was an extraordinary bright, curious and loving mortal, but I do not believe he was a god nor in a god’s direct bloodline (because gods have no form, no blood, no sperm). But I do believe a higher force, God, exists.

I came to believe Jesus was mortal very early on in my life by a combo of logic and gut. This doesn’t mean I’m right. This just means I never bought into the idea that a couple thousand years ago a virgin gave birth to the lone valid god of all humankind. This belief in me has never wavered.

In my college Byzantine and Christian art history classes, I learned the Bible was edited in the 4th Century by the Council of Nicaea (a bunch of bishops and Roman Emperor Constantine at the latter’s lake house) so to exclude the years of Jesus’ life from age 7 to 32 when Jesus had traveled the world to learn about as many religions and forms of faith he could find and study. Decades of this trek, decades of this personality’s life and record of what he learned, were promptly and permanently erased from the primary tome of the Christian church.

By the fluke that I loved the teacher, I was in this particular art history class to learn potential confirmation of something I had long suspected: a more complete and full story of Jesus Christ, his travels and studies, perchance even his own attesting to his human mortality, may have been purposefully kept from public knowledge by the church itself.

The Council of Nicaea in AD 325 also decreed that the Bible universally refer to Jesus as the actual son of God, eliminating the concept and possibility that Jesus may have preached all humans were children of God, not just him. I’m not the only one to wonder or even suppose Jesus meant being a child of god was a universal concept, not just his sole status, so the Council of Nicaea deliberately set in stone for all forthcoming editions of the Bible that Jesus meant to refer to himself alone when referencing being a child of God; he more solidly and literally became the son of God.

It is not just my own supposition that Jesus never directly said, “I am the son of God and you are not.” He was known to have said that we were all God and that God was in all of us. Only an unresolved douchebag would land on this planet and say essentially, “I am better than you all, I am the son of an almighty power and you need to follow me,” yet that still happens from time to time when someone tries to pull off a second coming and pretends to be the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. These people are nothing unless, and until, they are believed (and then the trouble starts: “hey, is it me or does this Kool-Aid taste bitter?”), but, as of yet, none have proven to be Jesus, who has made only one earthly appearance so far. Still, what Jesus lectured, the word he tried to spread, was made foggy by the spreaders, the editors of his very lectures: it’s hard for me to trust what’s left. The Council of Nicaea had its own intentions: as previous empires declined in power, the rising popularity of this new Christian religion had become a critical tool for human leaders. Emperor Constantine recognized the power of unifying his people, perhaps with more than a whiff of fear, to keep his own flock in check.

There are very few versions of the Bible to be found that originated before the Council of Nicaea and they are certainly not in English, a language whose long, clumsy unearthing is centuries yet to come. No one talks about the Council of Nicaea anymore, but some people will tell you exactly who they think God is, as if they know. They’ll tell you Jesus Christ is the son of God. They’ll be sure they’re right. They’ll pray for your soul because they’re sure they’re right.

Glory

One night in the mid-1990s, I was up very late with the TV on, and instead of watching infomercials, I stumbled upon televangelist Jimmy Swaggart and thought, “okay, what the hell: let’s just see what this is all about.” Swaggart paraded on his stage, his face wet from tears and sweat. He yelled and sobbed “glory, glory, glory” over and over again. He said nothing else. People in his audience howled, throwing up their arms, crying, dancing, responding as if new words, different words were coming out of the mouth of the minister with the blow-dried hair in critical need of a decent trim.

“Glorrryyy, galloryyy, glORY, oh glorrryyyyy.” He cried looking at the ceiling.

“Say something,” I told my TV set.

“Ahhh, glorrrrryyyyy,” he stomped from one side of the stage to the other. He then held the microphone close to his mouth and stood still. The camera closed in, framing his face which glistened with tears, snot and dripping hair product. He raised his eyes again to the heavens, shaking his head, the mike capturing his raggy breath, the camera tight on his visage.

He inhaled. “Here we go,” I thought. Now he’s going to say something, I reckoned. You could hear the saliva in his mouth, the audience held its breath.  

He sucked in air, the microphone steady at his wet chin.

“Glory,” he whispered.

The crowd went even more insane.

I watched for 20 minutes. I wanted to give it a fair shot. The camera panned from sweating Jimmy, exhaling only the syllables “glore” and “ree,” to his hysterical constituents, who in turn shook their heads with an affected joy, smiling those creepy, religious know-it-all smiles that have never rung true to me. Nothing else was ever said other than that one word in as many ways as that word can be uttered. I finally turned the channel to Cher hawking shampoo. At least she talked. At least she was selling something you could actually buy.

Pliz Coiny

My sweet Brazilian neighbor Cecilia recently invited me to join her one weekend at a Baptist church service.  

“Awww hell to the no!” I thought as I tried to think of an excuse not to go but the truth always works best: “I don’t feel comfortable.” I said.

“Pliz, Coiny,” she pleaded “please Connie” pinched by her Portuguese. “Oi neffer ask anniting uff you. Pliz.”

I wasn’t thrilled with her logic. It’s true she never asked anything of me but then again she shouldn’t; I hadn’t of her, I don’t operate that way. Neighbors are not automatic friends to me: I’m a New Yorker after all. And now here she was asking me to join her at church, let alone a Baptist church, and she had somehow decided I owed her something because she had never asked me to do anything before.  

Given the choice, I would have rather cleaned her toilet with one single Q-Tip than haul myself to an hours-long non-English service (“dey haff interpritters,” she tried to sway me) at an outer-borough Baptist church. Baptists go crazy, don’t they? Crying in the aisles, yakking in tongues, yelling at the perceived devil? Did my neighbor expect that I would stagger out of a Queens storefront church at 6:00pm after having arrived at 11:00am, singing “Paaarrraise Jahesus!” and vowing to “spaaaarrread the WORD” to all non-believers?

I mean, I got stuff to do on a Sunday: I got to launder my unholy panties and stock up on ice cream and tortilla chips. I got DVRed episodes of The Real Housewives of Atlanta and Love & Hip Hop I got to catch up on. Sunday is for me, not Jesus.

“No, Cecilia.” I was firm, I was smiling: there were no hard feelings. I was not going.

“It do you good, Coiny. Pliz. Comm on.” Cecilia likely envisioned me burning in hell, innocent to the fact she’s arrived decades too late and with way too little ice.

“No, Cecilia,” I replied. “It’s not for me.”

HE HAS RISEN!!!!

Ten years ago, I worked at a Christian organization. My first week of work was a shock: I received emails that started with “Greetings in the Precious Blood and Name of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior!!” with signatures that screamed “Blessings in Christ!!!” and “He has RISEN!!!!” It was being shoved down my throat in capitalized words and ever-extending exclamation points. This was not my belief system and I resented seeing it so blatantly and that I felt unable to say anything about it because I suspected I would be perceived as offensive. And I did know no true ill was meant by these words so I learned to tolerate them even though they never became less jarring to me during the four years I worked there.

A Southern man called our office (the ecumenical agency of a major American Christian church) to complain that the Today Show had featured the Encyclopedia Britannica’s assertion on evolution. He sounded gay to me (a totally unfair assumption on my part but my gaydar is on point, sister, even over the phone) and he wanted me to do “something about” the fact that NBC may actually not believe that Adam and Eve are the ultimate foreparents.  

What shocked me even more was my kindness and tolerance of this man; I did not yap into the phone, “are you kidding me and when are you going to do yourself a favor and get out of that closet?” Instead, I told him I sympathized with his frustration, which is the truth: frustration is one of my favorite hobbies. Everything makes me kind of crazy, too and I’ve never been shy with my opinions, but my caller was absolutely beside himself with horror, he almost couldn’t be consoled.  

“They need to present both sides!” He squeaked in a lilt. “Doesn’t Al Roker beLIEVE?”

Apparently not. Maybe it’s out of Al’s hands even if he does.

I calmed down the Southern man and said I would follow up, which of course I never did. What could I say to NBC?  And why hadn’t this guy contacted them directly himself?  Did he know that only guffaws awaited him?

I emailed my gay friends immediately: “Wait ‘til you hear what I just went through!” I was living in a skit from The Kids in the Hall.  I was a fish out of water: all the elements felt false and I chose to play along just to stay neutral.

My first year at the Christian office, at their Christmas party, with home baked cookies and apple juice, the few other employees and I stood in a circle with our heads bowed while our boss led a prayer. I felt extremely self-conscious and didn’t mouth any words. I am not one to say anything “in his name;” after all, I hadn’t bowed my head to take two minutes to sing the praises of the New York Stock Exchange during previous parties at previous stints at financial service companies. I felt resentful this Jesus business was something in which I was literally being forced to participate. But I went along. How could I not?

Pussycats in Outer Space

I was five years old when a human boot first hit the moon’s surface on July 20, 1969 so I grew up grudgingly watching the plethora of space travel TV shows from the 1960s and 70s, the airways thick with the concept of this new frontier. The prospect of such a life, tooling around on a space ship with a bunch of people wearing the exact same upside-down-triangle uniform while exploring the dark unknown, was one of my first visions of hell. My autistic brother Christopher loved Star Trek and we watched it every day, I bored out of my mind yet totally anxious at the same time.  

Star Trek at least depicted willing participants in space travel. A horrific sub-genre grew from this theme: the unwilling, like in Lost in Space, a dreadful scenario built around the non-Swiss family Robinson, forever banished from planet Earth due to some spaceship mishap and doomed to an existence of trying to get back home while accompanied by a talking robot (clearly a costumed man resembling a large vacuum cleaner) and an obnoxious, fussy British guy. The latter two were almost like a couple, TV’s first inter-metal, intergalactic, gay marriage.

But the absolute worst for me by far was the animated series Josie and the Pussycats in Outer Space, a spinoff of the Archie comic books. Josie and the Pussycats were a musical group of beautiful girls, all small-waisted with turned up noses, who wore tight outfits, sang songs and played instruments, including an obligatory token African American girl who played the tambourine. These characters suffered a similar fate to the hapless Robinsons: the band accidently fell into a space vehicle which was then suddenly catapulted into deep space. The group proceeded to then float from planet to planet, back-dropped by paisleyed psychedelic purple swirls, running endlessly from kidnapping aliens who all (magically!) speak English. Josie and the Pussycats never make it back to Earth: every episode depicts another nightmare of being lost and being doomed, running and escaping. It was the ultimate exercise in frustration, almost pointless to watch. Gee, I wonder what will happen this week? Um, let’s see: they don’t make it home. No satisfaction, no variation, no happy ending: no ending at all. The same thing, the same existence of longing, loss: being trapped. 

Heaven

Every Sunday morning, my father hauled my four siblings and me five blocks south from our Fifth Avenue apartment to St. Thomas More, the Catholic church in which my parents were married, although my mother scandalously remained a Presbyterian. My mother was thus spared the pilgrimages down to the 89th Street red brick building where my dad assisted in services and sang in a loud voice. I paid no attention to any words spoken and instead spent my time people watching because people all performed when they were at church. I watched my father, too: at times he was called to the front, near the altar, to read from the Bible, he took it very seriously. I remain confused by my father’s blind allegiance to Catholicism; it was a faith that made not one milligram of sense to me at any time in my life. Even as a tiny child, I disagreed with the religion, especially appalled by the lack of romance allowed for its clergy.

“You mean they can’t get married? That’s ridiculous!” I announced at age three.

It all seemed so sad to me: nuns and priests couldn’t even kiss, couldn’t have kids or live together or make dinner together or wear normal clothes to not stick out. They were alone in a lonely life and I wanted to play matchmaker for them: it seemed so easy to just pair them all up, like by size or age maybe. But apparently the clergy had no use for base physical needs; they chose this life, this consequence, but to me they seemed trapped. Church was the last place I ever wanted to be, church was the last life I would ever want to live.

I deeply believe in something outside myself. But I don’t need to gather with other humans to express my respect and thankfulness for that something. I do that on my own, and not only by praying because, really, I am more of a thanker. I thank God constantly all through the day. I live like a queen in comparison to the vast majority of my fellow global peers, especially the female ones, and I never forget it, with every water faucet I turn, with every bite of Thai takeout I enjoy, with every precious second I get to spend by myself in the exact way I want. I don’t need church to remind me of what I have and how lucky I am; believing in and thanking God is me, church is not. Church is about the other people in the church.

I don’t know why religion segregates people; you’d think it would bring us all together but it’s just another thing by which we compete. I can’t begin to understand why we have spent centuries yelling at each other and killing each other because we think our version of God is the right one and that anyone who doesn’t think the exact same way that we do must experience our vengeance. None of us can ever prove we’re right and yet we are violent with fear to be proven wrong.

I look at our planet-mates: animals don’t need religion. They don’t gather at a certain place during regular time periods to ponder something outside of themselves. Their souls and brains are too busy making sure their bodies sustain. Religion has no place in any animal’s process of being alive and neither does God. The existence of God doesn’t affect their own existence or prove to them their presence on this planet: their very birth already did that. Instead of “I think therefore I am,” it’s “I’m alive therefore I am.” And unlike us, they don’t kill for God: they kill to eat. Or to not be killed, to just keep living. Somehow this is too simple for humans.

I also don’t believe God is a Christian.  

This concept makes some Christians absolutely crazy. I don’t believe a loving God (a male god) would plop his “son” (male child) on Earth (via untouched, virgin female flesh) and have that son represent only one religion. That’s favoritism, a very human tendency, and I do not believe God operates that way.

The old white guy who lives with his wife in the apartment upstairs from mine, rolls his eyes on occasion when he sees burqa-wearing Muslim women running after their kids on the sidewalk.

“I tell you,” he exhales, “I’ll never get used to it. They need to go back to their country.”

“They’re in their country, Monty,” I yap back. We both know he doesn’t mind finding no kindred in me when he gets into one of his rants. And I tolerate not one ounce of his crap.

“I know, I know. My wife says the same thing. You two are better than me.”

“Aww Mont, we’re not better,” I laugh, “she and I just look at it differently. Think about it: when you go to heaven, if there is such a place, do really you think it’s just Americans, just whites, just Christians who are allowed into heaven? Do you honestly think when you traipse through the Elysian Fields that you will be only surrounded by ‘your kind?’ Honestly?”  

(It’s not gonna be like Josie and the Pussycats in Outer Space: the folks you meet outside this stratosphere will not always know your native tongue.)

Monty’s eyes slant as he ponders this. “My wife says ‘angels come in all colors.’”

“Well, there you go,” I say.  

All colors, all languages.  Each child with their rightful place at the messy table, as it should be, amen. No “get out of my country:” instead “come sit next to me, I saved you a seat.”

Earth

The dirt of me has no god, the material of which I am made is leaderless, it is solely of this earth. I have not risen, I am not lost in outer space. I am selfish and arrogant about God: I expect Him to accept me, not the other way around. I taste Him in pork and chive dumplings in Flushing, Queens; I see Him inside the running sweat off a lover’s chest; I decide He loves me when I watch reality TV on the floor drinking lite beer out of the can with a pink bendy straw. I am the basest of humans. God is my ally, I honor Him by merely living, I pay no other respects, I am a rotten subject.

I assume I am loved by God but by no one else. I assume God loves us all. I assume organized religion is a joke and doesn’t really count, that it’s a human construct and no direct creation of God’s. I assume some humans wouldn’t mind killing me for such thinking, or at least feeling that I deserved a good yelling at.

It’s awful: I actually think I have all the answers for me in this area. I must be wrong: it just couldn’t be that easy.

All I have is the truth I know in my heart, it’s all I can go on, here on the grimy path: my church is portable with God existing inside and outside all bricks.

Glory, glory, glory and even some more glory.