#at any given time during the day there are dozens of bears just at the falls and I want to learn to identify all of them

[cultivating-wildflowers]

was having a great day until I opened up comments under a Katmai video and saw that Chunk attacked Grazer’s cubs last night 😭

I didn't watch the full video, only the first part, and then I read through comments for a summary. The first cub got to shore and treed itself (people call the tree it chose the Nanny Tree because mama bears often stick their cubs up their when the boars are getting mean). The second cub was moving after Chunk briefly grabbed it and shoved it underwater, before Grazer fought him off. It sounds like later on down the river, 504 left her two teenager-cubs and rushed into to help Grazer, presumably on instinct. Not sure if Grazer has been seen with both cubs today; the comment that first sent me on this track suggested one was missing, but I can't confirm that.

I've been cheering on Chunk becoming more of a dominant bear (he took over The Office fishing hole that Otis typically spends his time in) but I guess I didn't take into account that this meant he'd be attacking cubs.

(In related news: Otis is still MIA. So is Holly. I'm willing to bet Otis is gone, but I'm hoping Holly has a cub and more sense than Grazer and is lying low this year.)

[mariacallous]

(JTA) — As we mark the grim second anniversary of the Ukraine conflict this Shabbat, I’m reminded of a haunting melody I heard in the city of Poltava last month.

I was standing before Sonia Bunina, a plucky 17-year-old, when she opened her mouth to sing when an air raid siren rang out.

I flinched. Not Sonia — she didn’t miss a beat.

“Kol haolam kulo gesher t’zar meod, veha’ikar lo lifached k’lal,” she belted out before seeking shelter. “The whole world is a very narrow bridge, and the most important thing is to have no fear at all.”

Sonia, like so many Jews I know in Ukraine, is many things — determined, grieving, focused — but she’s certainly not cowering.

As she sang those words by Rebbe Nachman of Breslov — the Ukrainian Jewish sage whose followers continue to come by the tens of thousands to his grave in Uman annually — she embodied the prayer’s indomitable spirit.

Sonia and I met outside Poltava’s Hesed, part of the network of Jewish humanitarian hubs founded by my organization — the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, or JDC — more than three decades ago. Today they’re a lifeline to tens of thousands of Jews facing loss and strife. Since she was a toddler, Sonia has been attending activities at Hesed — her mother coordinates cultural programs for the elderly, and she connects teen volunteers like herself with isolated seniors, a critical source of comfort these last two years.

These days, traveling to Ukraine feels like a pilgrimage — there’s a pull in my soul to visit family near Lviv, to bear witness to Ukrainian Jewish resilience, and to be inspired by the clarity of purpose that is so palpable there. Since my first trip in 2011, I’ve been eight times. Last year, I wrote about how a year of crisis had transformed the ordinary into the sacred in Ukraine. Now, visiting feels even more essential with the worsening humanitarian situation.

Ukrainian Jews aren’t blasé about these challenges — far from it. Just take the delicate ballet of emotions on their faces when checking their phones during an air alert — contacting loved ones, scrolling through photos of devastation, and analyzing Telegram chats speculating on a given rocket’s make and trajectory.

But life goes on — there’s work to do — and though they’ve lost so much, they refuse to give any more away.

Showing up for each other, whatever it takes, is now baked into their very essence as Jews, and in Ukraine, there are tens of thousands to serve — hungry old women and displaced young families, disabled Holocaust survivors and stunned middle-aged professionals, shocked to now need help when they were once donors and volunteers.

They act fearlessly to ensure their communities make it through this crisis, body and soul intact. Can we expect anything less than boundless creativity from the people who birthed Sholem Aleichem and the Baal Shem Tov?

“These bombings, all these things that are killing people, destroying houses, leaving children homeless … it’s very scary,” Galina Limarenko, an 82-year-old retired nurse, told me in her small bedroom in Berezivka, taking note of the warm blanket, firewood, and other winter supplies my colleagues provided. “Thank God for the Jewish community, which never gives up and always shares even their very last piece of bread.��

I saw that irrepressible spirit again at our Beit Dan JCC in battered Kharkiv — a shapeshifting wellspring of strength just a few dozen kilometers from the eastern border. Shortly after Feb. 24, 2022, the center became a staging ground for truckloads of emergency aid — part of the 800 tons of humanitarian assistance we’ve delivered so far.

A few blocks from missile strikes, it now hosts children’s camps and soulful Shabbat services and operates a “kids hub,” offering academic enrichment to children who haven’t had in-person school for years — robbed of normal childhood by the pandemic and now the ongoing crisis.

And amidst blizzards and blackouts, Beit Dan has also become a “warm hub,” a safe place for beleaguered Jewish Kharkivites to charge their devices and obtain a hot drink and warm meal.

“If you share in our pain, and provide support where it’s needed, I’m forever grateful,” said Nika Simonova, Beit Dan’s program director. “The ability to remain human is the main thing. Done right, I believe that can save the world.”

That’s why we at JDC, aided by a coalition of partners including the Jewish Federations, Claims Conference, and International Fellowship of Christians and Jews, deployed a historic response to this conflict and remain committed to the Jewish future here.

We’re focused on ongoing humanitarian support for more than 41,000 Ukrainian Jews, expanding trauma relief, closing children’s educational gaps, and getting unemployed Jewish community members, among millions of Ukrainians plunged into poverty, back to work.

There is no doubt that the Jewish world is now responding to crises on multiple fronts, including this one, but we have been here so many times before. We must draw strength from our history and from the sure knowledge that this is what we’re built for. Our compassion and commitment, when leveraged with that timeless sense of mutual Jewish responsibility, means we can tackle the challenges we face — and come out on the other side even stronger.

As I walked through Lviv on my last day in Ukraine, I asked my cousin Anna Saprun, a 25-year-old business analyst, how this period has changed her.

“I hate what’s brought me here, but I love who I’ve become,” she said with a fierce and feisty smile. “Nothing scares me anymore. I feel powerful.”

Two years after the conflict began, Ukraine’s Jews are inspired anew each day, resolute in the sure knowledge that they know exactly who they’re working for — each other.

[immeasurablesaladagere]

first i want to thank you so much for all that you do… feeding the housemd agere community near single handedly and bringing me and many others so much joy…. o7!! do take care of yourself tho!

second… sorry this is SUPER specific, so you don’t have to follow every detail if you don’t want to haha 😅 but could you write smth like, the ducklings find out abt house’s regression (to like 5ish) because he got triggered or was super stressed during a case, and started slipping involuntarily? trying to hold it back but fails and is then upset/scared and small… the team tries to take care of him for a bit b4 getting wilson who explains a bit & worriedly helps, n he & the team get greg to feel better! & maybe they ponder on the surprise of it a bit

Ahhhhh sorry for the wait! School begins once more. One more request to go in the stack!

-----

Word Count: 1552

Summery: House is given a bear from a dying child patient whose case they fail to solve in time. It causes him to regress involuntarily after being informed of her death.

*Warning for mentioned death of a child patient.

-----

CLANG.

House pitched his pager off the metal leg of his desk, and it skittered across the carpet. She was dead. They failed. They should have had at least a few more days. She shouldn’t have declined so fast, they had time. 

Apparently they were wrong. He was wrong. The little girl had her first of a series of cardiac arrests in the early hours of the morning, and each arrest that followed got harder and harder to pull her back from until, according to his pager, twenty minutes ago, when her time of death was called.

He wasn’t known for grieving dead patients. He wasn’t Wilson, he didn’t get emotionally invested in his cases enough to mourn when some inevitably died, but even he could admit that this failure stung worse than the others. Madalyn Fleech, just six years old. The nurses had gushed obnoxiously about her in the first few days after her admission, cooing about how cute, how sweet and brave she was. Like all child patients, he had thought. Oh-so brave and adorable until it came time for a test or exam, then suddenly they became a pain in the ass like all children. But Madalyn didn’t fight a single test. She didn’t fight any of the dozens of tests they’d put her through; she barely even cried. And then, and then…

The stuffed dog sat innocently on his desk, dressed in a doctor’s coat and staring blankly at him with its plastic eyes. It was purchased from the hospital gift shop by one of the girl’s visitors, and Madalyn had given it to him the day before when he was overseeing her lumbar puncture.

“I already got so many stuffies! I want you to have it, for helpin’ me.”

He intended to get rid of it, or maybe give it to someone more sentimental, like Cameron, but between DDX meetings and tests he hadn’t found the time. Now it was on his desk, looking at him, reminding him that he failed. She was dead because they had done something wrong somewhere.

Where? What did they do wrong?

Something stupid and emotional prompted him to reach forward and grab the dog. It was a golden retriever, filled mostly with stuffing with beads in the paws to allow it to sit upright. The lab coat it was wearing was cheaply made compared to the rest of it, and the flimsy stethoscope was curled up on itself. He smoothed it down with his finger and gave the dog’s head an absent scratch. The ambient hospital sounds outside blurred over, and it was like the only two things left in the world were him and this little toy dog. His hand brushed over a rough spot in the fur. A small portion of the fluff was matted with a hard neon green substance. Jello. Madalyn had probably finished her cup of lime flavoured hospital jello and then buried her sticky face on top of its head without thinking about it, like every dumb little kid.

But she wouldn’t have any more jello. She wouldn’t cuddle any more stuffies because they failed her. Madalyn was dead.

His eyes began to burn, and a wall of fuzz crowded his brain without his permission. No. Not right now. Go away. He couldn’t be small like this. Not here, sitting in his office with a dead girl’s stuffed animal, and not now, when his fellows would be back any minute for a debriefing on the case. But the fuzz wouldn’t listen, and the urge to squeeze the dog to his chest and cry only grew stronger. Did Madalyn feel like this? So small and out-of-control? 

It was like his adult brain was being smothered in a warm blanket, both comforting and terrifying. He hated slipping, and he hated it even more when it was caused by something like this. It was his job, death happened all the time. He gave in and hugged the dog tight. But it was his fault, and she was so little. He didn’t mean to let her die. She wasn’t supposed to die.

-

Cameron clicked her tongue and sat back on her heels. She’d asked every way she could think of; concerned co-worker, worried friend, stern request, she’d even broke down and patient-voiced him, a tone that should have had House snapping at her for daring to express pity, but nothing could get House to tell them what on earth was going on. All they knew was that they’d failed to diagnose Madalyn in time, that she had passed away, and suddenly House was crying at his desk with his face shoved into a gift shop stuffed dog and refusing to speak to them.

She turned to Foreman and Chase, who were hovering awkwardly by the door. “So… differential?”

Chase ran a hand through his hair, perplexed. “Jeez I dunno, brain tumour?” His tone was equal parts sarcasm and genuine suggestion.

“Maybe he finally snapped and this is some kind of mental breakdown?” Foreman suggested. “Who knows, maybe this patient finally got to him.”

“Patients don’t just ‘get to him’, though. We’ve lost people before who were a lot younger than—“

House cut her off with a little sob, and she startled. Madalyn’s death hit them all hard, but hearing House cry twisted something deep in her stomach.

“I think it’s safe to say this is about the patient.” Chase said flatly, then he squinted and pointed at the stuffed dog. “Is that the dog she gave him?”

Cameron raised an eyebrow. “Madalyn gave him her toy? And he kept it?”

“Yeah, yesterday, when I was doing her lumbar puncture.”

House really was clutching the dog like his life depended on it. She’d never seen him act anything like this, and if she was being honest, it was a bit unsettling. Everything about his body language screamed scared, curled up on himself like he was trying to hide away from them.

“Oh, no way…” Chase muttered under his breath, and she and Foreman looked at him expectantly. “He’s nonverbal, the dog, the crying, the hiding… What if it’s age regression? He was stressed out, he was upset about Madalyn’s de— the case, and her toy could’ve triggered it.”

Instantly House tensed up in his chair, and that was enough to confirm Chase’s theory.

“If our boss is mentally a child, does mean I’m in charge?” Foreman said after a long moment of silence.

Cameron rolled her eyes and turned back to House. The only way they were going to be able to help was if House told them how. “House, have you ever felt like this before?” She asked gently, but not too gently. Even if he had the thought process of a child, it was still House. 

She had to stop herself from chuckling when he tried glaring back at her over the head of the dog. While it was a valiant effort, through his wet eyes and red face it turned into more of a sad pout. Still, he gave a short nod anyway. It was both surprising and relieving to find out that the regression was at least something House seemed to be familiar with, whether intentionally or not.

“Okay, uh… good! What do you usually do when you feel like this? How can we help?” She prodded a little further, maybe a little too far into pity-territory, because House made a disgusted face.

“Go.” He said, like he was trying to order them, but it came out weak.

Cameron looked back at Chase and Foreman, who both gave her similar unhelpful stares. Great. Thanks, guys. “Are you sure? It’d make me feel better if one of us stayed here with you, just to make sure—“

“No!” House physically recoiled at the suggestion like she had just spit on him, then let out a whiny huffing sound. “…Wilson.”

Chase snorted behind her. Cameron ignored him. “You want us to get Wilson? Okay. Yeah, sure, we can do that.” She turned to glare at Chase. “Make yourself useful and go find Wilson, would you?”

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for Chase to return with Wilson in toe, looking concerned but calm.

He took Cameron’s place in front of House. “Okay, fill me in? What happened?”

“We lost a patient today, and when we came back for the debriefing, he was acting like this,” Cameron said, “We’re pretty sure it’s—“

“Regression.” Wilson filled in. He didn’t elaborate any further and she didn’t press him for details, but it did make her wonder; just how much did Wilson know about House regressing?  

“…Yeah. Um, does he need anything? What can we do?”

“Honestly? Leave.” Wilson said bluntly, but his expression was soft. “You three should go home, get some sleep. He’ll be fine, I’ve got him.”

It felt wrong to leave when House was obviously still upset, but she trusted Wilson. If that was what he thought was best, then they would listen. She glanced to Foreman and Chase, who nodded and left to gather their things.

After lingering for an extra second, just to make sure she wasn’t needed in some way, she went to follow them. As she opened the door, she turned and gave House a little wave goodbye. “Feel better, House. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day 11 - Prompt: Cauldron @jegulus-microfic

December Daily Series - 499 words

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

“Sirius?”

“Hmm?”

Regulus tapped the window lightly to get his brother’s attention. “Is he alright?”

Sirius leaned up onto his knees from his bed and lifted his chin. A frown knitted his eyebrows together. As he studied the situation, Regulus watched James’s prone form.

Normally, when someone fell as dramatically as he had, it would be a cause for concern. However, the sheer number of times that James had lost his balance this weekend alone made him hesitate. The bloke was remarkably uncoordinated for an athlete.

“He’s fine,” Sirius decided, settling back against his pillows. “If he was hurt, Padfoot would be dancing around and barking like mad.”

Regulus hadn’t given the bear-shaped “dog” any consideration, but now that he mentioned it, the animal was sitting next to James rather calmly. In the short time he’d been around it, the dog had leapt on him a half dozen times and barked more than that. If it wasn’t so large, he wouldn’t mind giving it a pat, but it was too big to be so aggressively insistent.

“Is he always like this?”

Sirius nodded, then glanced up. “Wait, James or Padfoot?”

Regulus rolled his eyes and gestured at the window. “Your friend has spent more time on his back than upright over the last two days.”

When his brother cackled, Regulus threw a pillow at his face. “You knew what I meant, pervert.”

“Oof!” Sirius swatted the pillow away and huffed. “Considering you’re the reason he hit the ground at least twice, I’d say that’s more of a you problem.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that he’s flustered around you. Pads likely tripped him up just now, but it’s certainly not a daily occurrence.”

Regulus watched as James finally hauled himself to his feet. Granted, he had contributed to his fall on the ice, but James’s trip into the bushes during the snowball fight seemed a bit more intentional. He accepted that the dog was a factor this time, but it was becoming a pattern.

Don’t you dare turn this into a puzzle.

He couldn’t resist a puzzle. It was a weakness that he indulged in selfishly, particularly when it was related to a fit bloke. That was his favourite kind.

“What are you up to?” Sirius asked, circling his hand in Regulus’s direction. “What’s this face?”

“I’m not making a face.”

“Mm-hmm. You’ve forgotten how well I know you. This reminds me of the face you made when you were whipping up ‘poisonous concoctions’ in your toy cauldron. You were…what? Six?”

Regulus smirked at the memory. “Four, I think. I loved that toy.”

“Never understood why mother bought it for you. She was adamantly against ‘improper toys.’”

“Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella,” he corrected. “I think Narcissa told them it was a chemistry set.” He shrugged as he leaned against the window frame. “Mother wouldn’t risk offending them by chucking it.”

Sirius rolled over and aimed a pointed look at him. “Right. So, why this current deviousness?”

“It’s nothing. Relax.”

“Liar.”

Liar.

Next Part>>>

[redrapscalian]

Stuffed Animals in Wayne Manor

Dick: Used to have an extensive collection, but after passing some of his down to his siblings, has closer to a dozen now. Most of them are in his closet, and two get a place on the bed, but he has them all on a biweekly rotation so none of them feel left out. They all have names and he loves them very much. He prefers ones that are perfect hugging size. Calls them “stuffies”.

Jason: Has four total. One he got from Bruce, a black cat, one from Alfred, which is a bear wearing a Batman outfit, one hand-me-down from Dick, a well-loved monkey, and a giant sloth that’s almost as big as him that he bought with his own money. All but the one he received from Dick are kept in his safe houses, and Dick’s stays at the manor on his bed. When Dick insisted he name the monkey, he dubbed it “Fucker” and Dick was appalled, the rest don’t have names. Calls his own “dumb toys”, but wouldn’t dare call his sibling’s plushies that.

Tim: Has a large collection of original Beanie Babies and keeps them all pristine and organized on a shelf in his closet. Has one stuffed animal on his bed from Dick, a golden retriever plush named Sunny (Dick named it), and every time he remakes his bed he puts her in the middle by his pillows where she belongs. Refers to them as “Plushies”.

Steph: Has a lot of stuffed bears of different shapes and sizes and a couple dragons from her childhood Dragon Phase. Also has a lot of Cursed Baby Dolls that are all mangled (Dick tells her they don’t count as stuffed animals, she is adamant that they are). Some are named, some aren’t, and all the dolls have names along the lines of “Anita Hoe”. Refers to them as her babies/stuffed animals.

Damien: Didn’t have any growing up, but Dick kept gifting him them because “every kid needs a stuffy”. Despite resenting the sentiment, he kept every single one and has a basket of them in his closet. A majority of them are various sea creatures and farm animals, and his favourite is a stuffed cow named Freya. It’s under his bed during the day and he sleeps with it at night. Every one of them has a name with a very specific and researched meaning, not that he’ll ever admit he’s named them. Refers to them as “Stuffed toys” with an eye roll.

Duke: Has a couple stuffed animals from his childhood. He doesn’t sleep with them or have them out, they’re in a box as nostalgic keepsakes. They don’t have names, but if he’s feeling homesick or just wants to look at them, he takes them out for a bit and just kind of smiles to himself. He has a lot of plushy keychains on his bags. Dick gifted him a Build-a-Bear wearing a custom Signal hero costume. Calls them “stuffies”.

Bruce: Has one bear from Alfred, it is named Batbear, and it sits on a dedicated place on a shelf. It’s been given to every child who’s come into his care at least once after a nightmare or a particularly bad mission, or just for comfort. It has seen many bad days, many tears, and many injury recoveries, but he makes sure to keep it in relatively good condition. The beans inside are heavy and so the bear is weighted to help with anxiety, and can be microwaved and used as a heating pad.

[epicthemusical]

Alright I’m actually so bad at writing, and this wasn’t beta read, so any feedback is appreciated!

The noise and heat of the celebrations faded, beat back by the limbs and lengths of the black poplars. I was glad for their shade, even under the darkening sky - after the days before, any number of gods could’ve been watching. Usually said number was only one, hovering at the edges of my attention, right at the line of divinity. If not for the lingering remnants of my own godly heritage, I wouldn’t have been able to sense my patroness’s eyes.

But enough of the gods as, for the time being, I was just a man. My hands were stained, and I had no hope of ever cleansing them.

The day had been beautiful, cool and damp in the wake of spring. I’d tried to enjoy it: the lovely weather, the doling of spoils and treasures from Priam’s rich city, the sacrifices and feasts that followed. Most of it I’d spent crouched in the hold of a ship though, tallying supplies and calculating how many days of rations we had. Not enough, but with any luck we’d find an island on the way home and resupply our stores. I had gold enough to pay now, and men to hunt and forage.

After ten years, I’d learned the landscape of the forest bordering the Achaean camp. The trees soon gave to rocks and boulders, cliff overhangs and lichen. Just past these one could find a gentle stream, clear and cold as it eddied along its banks. Here, sat in the silence, I could truly think (even if that thinking traced one well-worn path).

Astyanax, his name had been, a boy of only a few months old. His blankets had been crisp and white and embroidered finely along the edges. His eyes, large and dark as the sky above. The King of the Gods spoke, voice ringing like the crack of thunder through mountain gorges. Astyanax was tiny in my arms, soft against bronze plates, softer still against the ground below. No one forced my hand.

These were the facts, indisputable and true as my own title. Still, was I to solely bear the blame? The King of the Gods had given me a task, threatened my family, denied my contrary offers. What choice did I have? But it was my steps that had taken us to the edge of the wall, my hands that released their hold in his swaddling. My eyes averted during the fall, sparing myself the view.

Something crunched at the treeline a few dozen yards away. Something, or - no, definitely someone. The sounds came in connected pairs, with definite breaks between. This was all that kept me from turning my head, whipping around and seizing the sword at my hip. That, and the knowledge of my advantage if I could take them by surprise in those first few seconds.

They moved delicately, but not stealthily - with caution if not cunning. So, if not to attack, what were they there for? If not an attacker, then who?

I wagered a guess. “Polites?” My voice was far too loud in the night. I could practically hear his smile behind me, beaming bright as the sun.

“What’re you doing away from the festivities?” I continued as walked past my side, “I thought you of all people would have fun.” It was not a pointed remark. Someone, at least, might enjoy the night, I’d hoped.

My friend settled just in front of me, perched at the edge of the stream. He seemed to truly ponder his answer, humming lightly as he leaned forward to dip a finger through the water. Finally: “Same as you, I guess. I’m all for celebrations, but not like this. I’m just glad it’s over.”

“And on that, we’re agreed. We’ll be home before we know it though, my friend.” White lies slipped out as easily as breaths.

Polites paused a few seconds. “So how bad is it, exactly?”

I narrowed my eyes, though he didn’t see from where he sat. “What do you mean?” All innocence.

“Nothing,” his voice was easy and light, “just that you don’t speak like that unless something is wrong.”

“Like what? I didn’t even say anything!” My indignation surely gave me away, but I didn’t seem to care when it was him.

“‘We’ll be home before we know it, my friend,’” Polites said, his voice slightly lowered in imitation. “It’s unlike you. If everything was fine, you’d be going on and on endlessly about maps and charts and labor division. You’re an awful liar, Ody.”

“Says you,” I retorted automatically, dully.

He reached back and fiddled with the ends of his headband, which were limp in the still air. “So, what’s wrong?”

I sighed. “I wish you’d let me pretend everything’s alright.”

“No can do!” His words were bright with victory; Polites usually didn’t try to ‘win’ in banter, but on occasion he’d best me.

“I can tell. Anyways, we only have a few weeks of food. We could maybe get to Ithaca on it alone if nothing else went wrong…”

“But the gods are angry,” he supplied. “We have the sea god on our side, at least!”

“There’s that, I suppose.”

We lapsed into silence, my words inviting no further conversation. Polites continued anyways. “There’s something else, huh?”

“No.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

He seized upon this, quicksilver bright. “So there is something else!”

“No! Polites, stop. It’s nothing. It’s not up for discussion,” I snapped and stood up from where I’d been sitting. “Goodnight.”

My friend didn’t follow me, didn’t even glance back when I did. He did call out, though, “You know you can tell me anything, Ody, right?” The nickname, one I usually didn’t mind from him, only fed the guilt flaring in my chest. For a heartbeat, I wished he didn’t care, that he’d never asked, even if it was unlike him.

Then, softer and more distant as I reached the tree line, “Please. I can’t stand to see you like this.”

I clenched my teeth and froze just as the shadows began to slide over my skin. It would be easy, so infinitely easy, to head back to my tent and forget this conversation. Polites might’ve even had the tact to not bring it up for a while. I’d win a few more days or weeks of guilt, but he’d still love me for that time. If he knew what I’d done… well, Polites had never had the stomach for war like me, and even I was struggling to swallow the facts. He’d never keep them down.

Still, when I glanced back over my shoulder at him, curled up with knees to his chest by the stream, I found myself unable to leave. The water and stone and his unstained clothes seemed to glow in the moonlight, which softened the world, turned it a bit kinder. It wasn’t like I could leave him, I reasoned, not without a weapon of his own. It only made sense for me to go back.

Polites had moved away from the water, so when I sat we were companionably side by side. He glanced back at me, one arm lifting from where it held his knees and settling so his palm cupped my shoulder.

“You’ll hate me if I tell you,” I said, my voice thick and clumsy.

His eyebrows lifted in acknowledgment. “So there is something?”

“Polites-“

“Just shush. For half a second, please. I could never hate you, Ody, you know that. I’m probably physically incapable of it,” he joked gently.

“You don’t know that! You’ve… never really had a reason to hate me before this.” I’d started too loudly, volume dropping at the end of my second sentence.

His voice lowered, lost its joking edge, “We’ve all done awful things, my friend, things we wish we could take back. Even me, even your men. You didn’t choose this war. I know that nothing is certain, but I trust that whatever you did, it was the best you could’ve done at the time. I’ve never known you to be cruel.”

As long as I’d known him, Polites had a seemingly-genius way of always cutting to the heart of the matter. He was like a perfectly sharpened blade, leaving behind minimal pain and a wound healing without a scar. To extend the metaphor, he didn’t hide behind pretty, cunning insignias and jewels that caught and tore in flesh, nor was he dull and hacking.

Still, this one would leave a scar. It was simply buried too deep.

���Then you’ve never known what I’m capable of.”

Polites inhaled slowly. “Not unnecessary cruelty, then. You don’t burn fields and claim women for the fun of it. You fight to get your men home, and no more.” His grip tightened on my shoulder in a gentle squeeze.

I sighed deeply. “If you insist. During the taking of Troy, I received a vision from the Sky God.”

My friend didn’t interrupt. He stared with solemn, owlish eyes as he scanned my face.

“I’m not even certain what it was of. Someone stabbing me from behind. It would come true if I didn’t kill a certain enemy, I was told.”

I felt tears filling my eyes, but forced myself to continue, “A foe who won’t run.”

“Oh no,” Polites barely breathed.

“Hector’s son- just an.. an infant. I did it. Right off the Trojan wall. They - the gods - said he’d kill my family if he lived.”

The tears came freely now, choking any further words I might’ve used to justify myself. Polites watched me, and I swore I saw on his face disgust, horror, malice, shame. I looked down at my hands, unable to face him any longer.

It took him a few seconds to say anything, and I’d prepared myself for the harshest rebukes. When he spoke, however, his words held only grief. “I’m sorry.”

There had been no need for me to worry, really. I’d never known Polites to be cruel.

“What?” I managed to force out through sobs. He wrapped an arm tightly around my shoulders and, despite my guilt, I leaned into the embrace.

“I’m sorry that you had to make that choice. That’s an awful thing to have to do.” I had to strain to catch some of his words, soft as they were and muffled by my shoulder. Hesitantly, terrified that Polites might come to his senses, I hugged him back.

We stayed that way for a few minutes. When I trusted myself with words, and him not to leave in utter disgust, I spoke, “So you don’t- you don’t hate me?”

“Not at all. I told you I couldn’t, right? I don’t lie.”

“No,” I sighed, wiping my face, “you don’t. You should try it sometime. Add some excitement.”

“I’m good, thank you. You’re evasive enough for the both of us.” He stood, leaning down to offer a hand.

“Thank you,” I echoed quietly. “We should be heading back. We’re leaving early tomorrow, you know.”

Polites nodded, but didn’t respond, just squeezed my shoulder once more and disappeared into the trees. I didn’t follow for a few long minutes but, upon returning to my tent, I slept better than I had in days.

omg I am screeching this is so good! I love it so much! Ahhhhh Polites and Odysseus deserved so much better than they got😭 I saw a few spelling errors and the wording was a bit awkward at times but in general it's beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing this! If you would like a more in depth review I would be happy if you DM me! But seriously this is such good hurt/comfort 🥹 feel free to share any future writing with me as well!

[cogsandgadgetry]

“Colonel, I never knew you had a niece,” Gadget said, offering a cautiously optimistic but sad smile. His eyes darted from the armchair where Nozzaire sat, then swept toward Digit and Fidget, who were perched on the couch, exchanging concerned glances.

“She was a handful,” Nozzaire replied with a smirk, his voice carrying a bittersweet edge as he handled the book resting in his lap. It was a keepsake, a diary of sorts, filled with her hand-drawn pictures, Polaroids, and memories from a time when his life had felt fuller than it had ever been. For a brief, shining period, he had been more than just a Colonel—he had been an Uncle.

An Uncle, just like Lieutenant Gadget had once been. Well, used to be.

He couldn’t be her father, nor could he ever replace his late brother Jean, but he had been Arlette’s Uncle. He had been her strength, her determination, the one who banished her childhood fears.

As the Colonel recounted his niece’s name, Arlette, he smiled wistfully. Like any seven-year-old, she loved sweets. He fondly remembered the pastry shop they used to visit—it had been their after-school ritual whenever he picked her up. One of his strongest memories of Arlette was tied to countless cups of hot coffee for himself and baker’s dozens of donuts that could satisfy even the most insatiable sweet tooth.

It had been Nozzaire’s desire to raise Arlette alongside her peers, as his late older brother Jean had always envisioned. Jean’s words echoed in his mind: “Vivre libre ou mourir”—or, in plain English, “Live free or die.” It was a motto adopted by the French Resistance during the German occupation of France in World War II.

To raise Arlette so that one day she could step out of her uncle’s shadow and join the fight against MAD alongside him—that had been Nozzaire’s dream.

“You know, Gadget…” Nozzaire began, but the words caught in his throat. He hesitated, his grip tightening around the worn diary, as though holding it together would somehow hold himself together too. The grief was heavy, suffocating, driving the breath from his lungs as he struggled to express his emotions. That heartache, raw and relentless, persisted, refusing to ease even for a moment.

Gadget, ever observant in moments like these, reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table. With quiet patience, he held one at the ready, his own eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Yet he said nothing, offering Nozzaire the silence and space he needed to speak when he was ready.

“…She was far too young to be taking on the world by herself. And while Arlette was still within arm's reach... she'd always be my little girl…” The Colonel's voice cracked, choking back a sob as the weight of his grief became too much to bear.

Nozzaire carefully weighed his options, unsure of what else to do. With a slow, deliberate motion, he placed the diary back on the coffee table, his fingers lingering on its edges as though reluctant to let it go.

Given the Colonel’s history, Nozzaire knew that sometimes, in the grip of such deep pain, he had a habit of lashing out—like a wounded animal cornered by its own emotions. The rawness of his grief could turn into anger, explosive and uncontrolled.

When that happened, the Gadgetinis—Digit and Fidget—were always ready. With their heightened instincts, they positioned themselves, prepared to step in between Gadget and the Colonel if things escalated. Their loyalty to Gadget, and their understanding of Nozzaire's torment, made them vigilant, ready to shield the Lieutenant from the raw, unfiltered pain Nozzaire was struggling to express.

The Colonel suddenly pulled the Lieutenant toward him, his arms wrapping around Gadget’s waist in a desperate, eager embrace. Nozzaire's strength faltered as he clung to Gadget, crumbling before Digit and Fidget’s eyes, his body shaking with the weight of his grief.

Burying his face in the crook of Gadget’s neck, Nozzaire sobbed, giving voice to the pain he’d kept buried for so long. His tears soaked into Gadget's collar, the rawness of his emotions pouring out as the walls of his emotional barriers dissolved.

At that moment, Nozzaire's thoughts turned to Arlette. She had never been afraid of hugging her uncle. His strong, protective arms had always been a safe haven for her, driving away the sadness and darkness she fought against. Whenever he returned eagerly from his missions, she would rush into his embrace, finding comfort and solace in the warmth of his presence.

Arlette had never been afraid to reach for her uncle, to seek comfort in his arms when the world felt too big and too dark. Now, as his body trembled in Gadget’s embrace, it was as though he needed the same—his strength drained, his heart breaking all over again.

His arms tightened around Gadget, pulling him in with desperate urgency. Nozzaire wasn’t just clinging to the Lieutenant out of need—he was reaching for something he couldn’t give himself: healing. He needed this, this closeness, this human touch. The darkness inside him had held him captive for so long, and though his grief still threatened to swallow him whole, deep down he knew that if he ever hoped to move past it, to honor Arlette’s memory, he couldn’t do it alone.

Arlette would have wanted him to let someone in. She had always believed in the power of human connection, of love, of finding solace in the embrace of those who care. Now, Nozzaire needed it more than ever. As he clung to Gadget, he silently acknowledged that perhaps it was time to stop carrying the weight of his grief alone—just as Arlette had once sought his strength, now he sought Gadget's.

[avas-snazzical-corner]

✩ SELFSHIPTOBER ‘24 ✩ DAY 2 - BLANKET

A/N: Ta-da! Here's day 2 of Selfshiptober! No TWs for this one, just some cute fluff for today! Can't say the same about day 3....but you'll have to wait and see for that one 👀

But anyway, enjoy the writing!

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With the weather outside growing more chilly with every passing day, Ava found herself staying inside a lot more. As much as she loved the fall, it got a little too cold for her liking during the evenings. So, she had no complaints with staying inside. Inside, she was all nice and cozy, snuggled up on the couch, book in hand, a mug of warm tea on the coffee table, and a soft blanket draped over her shoulders. This was the life of luxury if she’d ever seen it. She felt comfy and warm nestled in her blanket. Though, she knew it’d be a lot better if Edward were here sharing the warmth with her.

The house was a lot quieter now with the German in question choosing to spend his time tending to his many studies in his lab. “The duties of a scientist are never truly done.” He’d told her, just before he disappeared around the corner. The German had invited her to stick around if she wanted to, but she had declined under the guise of not wanting to distract him. And lord knows she distracted him a LOT. She wanted him to indulge himself a little without her presence. Either way, Edward was happy with his endless scientific studies, and Ava got some peace and quiet to enjoy some reading time all to herself.

Of course, she went to check on him periodically, bringing him snacks or water to help him concentrate, which he was of course thankful for, but for most of the evening, she simply left him be.

As evening dragged on, darkening into night, Ava eventually found a good stopping point in her book, setting it down on the coffee table. She looked up and out the nearby window to see the near pitch black sky, speckled with dozens of tiny stars outside. She then glanced at the clock. It was a little close to 10:00. Surely Edward would be out by now..

Ava stood up, shaking her voluminous wings out, blanket still draped over her. She gingerly made her way down the hallway, her footsteps light and careful as she rounded the corner, stopping just outside of Edward’s lab. The door was slightly ajar, but the winged girl didn’t hear any noise coming from inside. Now, she was getting worried. As she nudged the door open further, wearily peering in, she saw her love slumped over his desk, not moving. Raising a brow in worried curiosity, she tiptoed across the floor to his side, and her eyes widened at what she saw.

Her expression softened into a warm smile.

Edward had his head down on his work desk, laid atop one of his many blueprints, eyes closed, hand still holding a pencil. Ava sighed quietly in relief. Poor guy must have worked himself to sleep. Part of her wasn’t surprised. Aww, he looks so peaceful.. She thought, fondly smiling. Given it was already pretty late, she decided not to wake him. Instead, she slid her blanket off her shoulders, and gently wrapped it around his. She made sure it fully covered him before another idea popped into her head. Rushing out of the lab, she returned a few moments later on swift wings, landing silently by her beloved’s side once more. In her hands was none other than Fredrich, Edward’s teddy bear. As if she were handling fragile cargo, she slid the small bear securely into the German’s arms, being extra careful to not wake him. Luckily, she didn’t. Smiling once more, she placed a tender, chaste kiss on his temple. “Sweet dreams, my love,” She whispered. She backed away, making sure to turn the lights off as she left, leaving him to get his much deserved rest.

The next morning, Edward’s eyes slowly opened, blinking in the dim light of..his lab? He lifted his head, now half awake and very confused. Had he fallen asleep at his desk? He pushed his hair out of his eyes, looking down to see that Fredrich was suddenly in his hands. “Well, how did you get here, alter Freund?” He asked the bear, like the toy would give him the answer. How had he gotten there? He thought. Why is there a blanket on my back? Why was- His train of thought paused. Realization dawned on him. He relaxed in his seat. “Ah, of course..” He glanced down at Fredrich once more. The answer was obvious now. Ava had been here. Edward chuckled quietly. “That girl..what am I ever to do with her?” He sighed. The exact answer to that question, he wasn’t sure. But as he sat there, his eyes fixed on the worn teddy bear in his hands, he knew he was sure of one thing.

He was pretty damn lucky to have her around.

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A/N: The fluff, it consumes me /lh I hope you guys enjoyed the little drabble for today!

Stay tuned for day 3, where things won't be as fluffy... 👀

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!

[handeaux]

13 Curious Legal Cases From Cincinnati's Historic Courtrooms

When the Cincinnati Bar Association was first organized in 1819, our city of 10,000 citizens supported the livelihoods of just 27 attorneys. Since then, the Cincinnati legal community produced some stellar lawyers including Chief Justice William Howard Taft, Nobel Peace Prize laureate Charles Dawes and Speaker of the House “Uncle Joe” Cannon. Over the years, our barristers have represented some curious cases. Here are a few:

Testy “Ass”-ociates Way back in Cincinnati legal history, at the ancient Hamilton County Court House erected in 1819, a lawyer named James W. Gazlay argued a motion before the court. The county bench back then comprised a presiding judge who was usually an actual attorney and three associate judges who were often not lawyers but respected members of the community. When the presiding judge ruled in favor of Gazlay’s motion and the associates voted it down, Gazlay objected. The court agreed to reconsider the motion the next day, and Gazlay showed up, ready to argue. This time, the associates favored Gazlay’s motion, but the presiding judge over-ruled them. Attorney Gazlay expressed his frustration at having to argue before a “Demerara Team.” The presiding judge asked what that meant. “This court is a Demerara Team composed of one mule and three jackasses; when the mule wants to go, the jackasses won't, and when the jackasses want to move, the mule won't budge a step!” The presiding judge found Gazlay in contempt but, true to their nature, the “ass”-ociates voted against the censure.

Spelling Leads To A Spell In Jail Attorney Edwin S. Morrissey was assigned to defend a young man accused of obtaining money under false pretenses. The principal evidence was a receipt given to the complaining witnesses in the case. Morrissey’s client provided a reasonable alibi, but the prosecution asked him to provide a writing sample to compare against the receipt in evidence. The suspect produced a sample in handwriting totally unlike the original receipt, but the prosecution noticed that the word “received” was misspelled identically on both documents, transposing the I and the E. The defendant was found guilty. He confessed to Morrissey that he had, in fact, forged the receipt. “He said that if he had a better education he could have put it over.”

Stamped For Blackmail While he served as Assistant United States Attorney in Cincinnati, Edward P. Moulinier investigated an attempt to blackmail a lawyer named Howard Douglass, who had received a dozen letters threatening to expose unsavory aspects of his legal work. The blackmailer ordered Douglass to pay $7,000. Moulinier suspected an inside job and had a postal inspector apply a barely noticeable mark to the stamps in Douglass’ office. Sure enough, the next threatening letter arrived bearing a marked stamp. Fred Horman, who had worked as a clerk in the Douglass office for 25 years, and Horman’s wife were arrested and convicted of blackmail. No record if they were charged with embezzling stamps.

How Much Moon In That Shine? One day during Prohibition, some Ohio liquor agents found a stash of bottles containing a clear liquid, presumed to be moonshine, in an abandoned building in downtown Cincinnati. As a crowd gathered to watch the contraband hauled out of the cellar, the agents realized they had evidence, but no culprit. They decided that a passing peddler who had paused his horse-drawn cart long enough to witness the raid was as good as any, so they charged him. Attorney Bernard C. Fox was assigned to defend the poor man and quickly realized that not one of the bottles found in the abandoned building had even been opened to determine its contents. Fox grilled the agents on the witness stand as to their ability to identify moonshine on sight alone. How much moon, he asked, is incorporated into moonshine? The agents were clearly befuddled. Well then, he asked, how much shine is necessary to constitute moonshine? Again befuddlement. Fox was shocked when the judge found the innocent peddler guilty anyway and only an appeal to a higher court cleared him.

A Wedding Guest Helped Hang The Groom In 1879, the National Association for the Promotion of Marriage concocted a “marriage picnic” at Cincinnati’s Inwood Park to encourage destitute young ladies to marry and avoid a life of shame. The whole idea, according to attorney Rufus B. Smith, was the brainchild of a mayor “who had more emotion and sentiment than common sense.” Because he lived in the neighborhood, Smith attended the picnic and watched three couples share their vows. A few years later, as Assistant Prosecuting Attorney, Smith was involved in convicting one of the grooms for the murder of his wife. “I think there are very few lawyers who have been guests at a wedding, as I was, and subsequently found it their duty to hang the groom for killing the bride.”

No Room In The Pen Captain Thomas H. Morrow, as U.S. District Attorney for Southern Ohio, handled a poison pen case involving one of the smaller towns in this area. More than 40 residents reported that they had received letters containing vulgar and obscene language and unfounded accusations against the recipients. An otherwise unassuming woman of 57 years of age was found guilty of the crime and sentenced to three years in the penitentiary, but which one? There were no federal penitentiaries for women in 1923. Southern Ohio had contracted with the State Penitentiary for Women in Missouri, but that contract had expired and Missouri was unwilling to renegotiate. The convict was actually delivered to the Minnesota Penitentiary for Women but was turned away at the door. She was then sent to the New Jersey Penitentiary for Women, where she was again refused until some hasty and heated negotiations by telephone secured her a three-year stint in that institution.

The Pocketed Deposition Isaac M. Jordan enjoyed a distinguished reputation among Cincinnati attorneys and once found himself in court, arguing a case against an attorney with a very much different character. Although Jordan had secured a deposition very much in his client’s favor, that document had mysteriously disappeared. Jordan’s counterpart vociferously regretted the loss of the deposition because, so he claimed, it would really have benefitted his client rather than Jordan’s. As the other lawyer expostulated, Jordan noticed, hanging from his pocket, the corner of a piece of paper. Jordan grabbed it as the shyster passed nearby and, amazingly, it was the “lost” deposition. The courtroom erupted in cheers, involving even the jury, who returned a verdict in favor of Jordan’s client.

The Difference Of Night And Day In the days before Hamilton County established a public defender office, the courts regularly drafted lawyers to defend the accused. Attorney Albert D. Alcorn was thus recruited to assist a man charged with burglary. Although otherwise entirely involved with civil cases, Alcorn emerged triumphant in this case. On reading the statutes, he saw that burglary was defined as illegally entering a house “in the night season.” While in court, Alcorn dialed the U.S. Weather Bureau and determined that sunrise on the day of his client’s arrest was at 4:56 a.m. while the arresting officers had testified they witnessed his client enter the house in question at 6:20 a.m., an hour and a half later. The accused burglar was released on that technicality, much to the displeasure of the judge, who began to chastise him. The now legally innocent man stopped the judge mid-sentence and declared, “You can’t tell me anything. The jury has said I am not guilty, and I don’t care to listen to you or anybody else lecture me. I bid you all good-by.”

A Premature Burial The legal intricacies of deeds and land titles rarely excite much public interest, but attorney Dudley C. Outcault had a doozy. Outcault was retained by a prominent Cincinnati developer who wanted to acquire a prime piece of real estate in O’Bryonville. The land was owned by a man whom no one in Cincinnati had seen for many years. He was presumed to be dead and negotiations were underway to determine which of his heirs were the rightful beneficiaries of the property in question. As the gears of legal machinery ground on, a substantial wrinkle emerged. The “dead” man returned to Cincinnati, in remarkably fine fettle, apologizing for not writing as he had made his 15-year jaunt around the country. He informed the court he had no intention to sell the land coveted by the developer, much to his relatives’ dismay.

The Pot Calls The Kettle Black During Prohibition, it was common for small Ohio municipalities to establish Liquor Courts to enforce the “dry” laws. Attorney Harry H. Shafer wrangled with many of these courts and eventually pursued a case to the United States Supreme Court to essentially outlaw them. Shafer was hired by a man who had been an agent for one of these liquor courts and had been fired, he believed, unjustly. Not only had the man been fired, but he had been charged with possessing and selling spiritous liquor. On investigation, Shafer was able to prove that the firing and the subsequent charges grew out of a disagreement between his client and his accusers, who were all liquor agents. Shafer was able to prove that the whole lot of them were involved in reselling the booze they had confiscated in their official capacities.

A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy Attorney William Thorndyke knew very well that he could not ethically advise a client to avoid appearing in court, but there was no ethical prohibition against prophecy. The client in question, named Francis, was charged with arson and the Fire Marshal wanted to know where Francis had lived before he moved to Cincinnati. Francis refused to tell and explained to Thorndyke that he had been convicted of setting two fires in that town, which the Fire Marshal would learn by telegram if he knew where to inquire. Francis asked the attorney if he should run away and Thorndyke told him he could not offer that advice but, if he stayed in Cincinnati, he would surely end up in the penitentiary. On the day of the trial, the accused was nowhere to be found and the judge asked Thorndyke if he had advised his client to disappear. “I didn’t tell Francis to run away,” Thorndyke said, “But I did tell him what would happen to him if he stayed in Cincinnati.” It took a few months to locate Francis and return him for trial, and he did end up in the pen, just as his attorney predicted.

Ain’t No Law Against It Cincinnati Police arrested a young woman in 1916 and hauled her into court on charges she had been clothed as a man. Forced into a dress for her arraignment, she refused to enter the courtroom until she had been draped in a floor-length overcoat. Attorney Harry W. Quitman was assigned to the case and secured a dismissal by pointing out a particularly salient fact: There was no law in Ohio prohibiting women from wearing clothing associated with men. “The law especially defends women in their right to wear any clothing they see fit if the women do so in an innocent and not objectionable manner.” Quitman’s client walked free although she was harassed enough to leave Cincinnati for Columbus, where she was arrested – and acquitted – again.

Leave Well Enough Alone Haveth E. Mau was an Assistant District Attorney who, at one point in his long career, prosecuted a man for burglary of an occupied house and the theft of a number of articles. Under Ohio law at the time, burglary of an occupied house carried a penalty of life in prison. The jury, after consideration, found the defendant guilty only of petit larceny. Attorney Mau was shocked to learn that the man was unsatisfied with this misdemeanor verdict and wanted a new trial to contest it. A new trial was set and the same evidence presented. This time, the jury found the man guilty of burglary of an occupied residence and the judge sentenced him to life in prison. Mau was still shaking his head years later.

[eonasrose]

How to be Bu

I don’t think I’ve ever told this to anyone before, except a therapist I saw a handful of times in 2018, so if you’re reading this, you’re part of a very exclusive club.

My name, Bu Remiè, isn’t actually my name. My legal name and the name I go by most often is Amelia, but the reason for why I use Bu as my name and its origins would best be explained from the beginning.

When I was a kid, fresh from the trauma of CPS taking me from my mom and all that came with that, my grandma gave me a teddy bear. I name that bear Berry Bear because I thought bears ate berries in the wild. He was my best friend until I made friends in school, years later. We did everything together, until I accidentally left that teddy bear in a target shopping cart. However, I was given a new teddy bear to replace the one I had lost and they inherited Berry’s name and identity. I still have that bear today, sitting on my bed.

Now to the origins of my name. When I came out as trans, I decided my bear would too, so I chose to name them Bu. There wasn’t any grand reasoning behind it, I just thought it fit; however, the name Remiè wouldn’t come about until a few years later.

In 2017, I was working at a Walmart in my home town. It was a pretty terrible job tbh. I didn’t pass at all, so people would regularly misgender me and laugh at me. It made working there hell. In addition to this, at some point during that year, my dad changed his phone number without telling me. I would call him regularly and always received the voice message that comes with phones by default. This bothered me a bit, but it wasn’t until my dad’s birthday that it broke me.

I called him on that day, wanting to wish him a happy birthday, and instead of getting that voice message, the person on the other end picked up the phone and immediately hung up. I took this as my Dad’s way of telling me he didn’t want to talk to me or be in my life anymore, as he hadn’t answered my calls for months. This was the first time I really wanted to self harm and resulted in the worst self harm injury I’d given myself up to that point.

These two things made my mental health take a nose dive into the ground. I was having emotional breakdowns every day. This eventually lead to having nightmares about it, where I’d be bullied by dozens of people. I’d be kicked, beaten to a pulp and mocked the entire time, until one night i had a nightmare that ended in a positive way. At the end of this dream, a short, white haired, green eyed person showed up to save me. That person’s name was Bu Remiè. In a way, I saw them as the spirit of my teddy bear, come to save me once again, in adulthood.

When I end up in the deepest, darkest parts of my depression - the parts where I feel like I can’t reach out to anyone, where I can’t ask for help and where I’m feeling more alone than at any other point in my life, that white haired person shows up in my mind’s eye and helps pull me out of that pit.

So in short, Bu Remiè is the non binary, white haired, green eyed spirit of my teddy bear, who protects me and cares for me when there’s no one else who can. Though at the same time, Bu Remiè is my name as well, despite what I said at the beginning of this post, because that white haired person is just as my a part of who I am as my love for chocolate milk or my gender.

(There is more to the origin of my name, but I’m not particularly keen on sharing it here. However, these are the important parts)

[genyawritesshizz]

Part 4 of my Monty x animatronic reader

Angst

Angst

Not going to lie I’m having horrible writers block trying to write this chapter so I’m sorry if it’s quality is not as good as the others. I have ideas for the story but getting there is a struggle.😮‍💨

“Don’t worry (y/n) you got this thing in the bag!” You where currently sitting at a table with the Glamrock gang, Chica of course mowing down on a pizza per usual yet between her handfuls of it she still reassured you.

“Yeah dude chill out it’ll be okay” Roxanne rolled her eyes she was supposed to be the dramatic one.

“Yes I completely agree superstar! All the tours you’ve given me have been wonderful, and the coffee is outstanding!” Freddy ever the kind bear allowed you to give him fifty thousand mock tours to practice for today and Chica was more than willing to try any drink on the menu. They had truly been amazing friends to you the past few nights. Although ever since that first night on the catwalk Monty had been very distant, never really saying anything to you. It hurt honestly. The way he made you feel was something you’d never experienced before, you think, and to have to ignore you just made you ache. You never ventured to rockstar row before but you had half a mind to go see him. However whenever you asked about Monty not being present they all said it was best to avoid him for right now. Something about him destroying his room and lots of yelling. Yeah it was probably best to give him some space, besides during the tours you’ll see him sometime. Through the aching you felt joyful to see him.

The sounds of the front door opening alerted you to the first staff member entering.

“Alright guys show time!” Freddy and the others retreated to the stage front while you hid behind the giant display they’d position right at the front door. It was like a giant curtain that you would walk out of once they announce you. Unfortunately you would have to wait in anticipation for a good hour after the place opened for everyone to get rallied together for the big announcement.

“Oh gosh” you could hear the crowd growing and growing. Your metaphorical stomach was doing backflips, you couldn’t help but pace around the small area.

“Ladies and Gentlemen may i when your attention please!”

Oh here we go almost show time.

“Would everyone please put your hands together for the newest edition to the Freddy Fazbears pizza plex (y/n) the kangaroo!” The curtains opened and there you stood with your hands held high in the air waving to the dozens of cheering children. they all stared at you with pure amazement. Everything was a blur from then on. You came out of the display and high-fived, hugged and waved at about thirty children. They all absolutely adored you saying things like “I love your fur!” “You’re so awesome!” And lots of “Wow!” ’s. Your heart pounded with absolute love at this. Your fears slowly died when realizing they loved you already.

“For today only (y/n) will be giving free tours!” The children screamed. “After the tour be sure to check the gift shop for the newest merchandise!”

With the introduction out of the way you lined up the first tour and began starting with the main atrium and working your way back. Unfortunately the adoring crowd couldn’t calm your nerves about seeing Monty again. Throughout all the tours you had yet to spot him. Was he hiding from you? Of course not that silly! He wouldn’t do that! Would he?

Luckily for the crowd you ran into Roxan and Chica a dozen times and managed to slip in some interesting facts about chickens and wolves. The crowd loved it!

Though the day went by swimmingly with back to back tours you barely had anytime to pop into the cafe, luckily they had hired a team of works to assist in running the shop while you where away.

Some kids loved you so much they b-lined it for the gift shop to purchase a plushie of you! Seeing them hold a mini you close to their hearts made you melt. Wow this is your job… making children happy. Is there anything better?

Hm… there it is again. A sense of dejavu? It’s like you’ve felt this way before. But that’s impossible this is your first day online with children… right? You can shack the odd feeling in your chest.

“Ladies and gentlemen please make your way to the stage! The main show will be beginning shortly!” The children in your current tour exploded with absolute glee.

“Alright kids let’s go catch us a bear!” With that you marched your happy troop of screaming children to the main stage. Allowing them to disperse and find seats around the stage. This finally gave you a bit of free time to pop into the cafe and relax for a bit. You could always watch the show from inside anyways, it had a giant flatscreen for those who didn’t want to be in the crowd to watch.

“Hey (y/n)! Taking a break?” Said one of the cafe staff members from behind the counter. You simply nodded at them and took a seat at a bar seat beside a lone women. The flatscreen was mounted right behind the bar. You where excited to see everyone perform… and to see Monty. But right at the show began you felt someone staring at you. Turning to the side you saw the women you had sat next to ogling you.

“Hi! I’m (y/n) the kangaroo!” You greeted her. The women said nothing as she continued to stare. It made you a bit uncomfortable coming from an adult, normally it was children that stared without saying anything. But no matter, you allowed her to keep looking adults can be curious to! You glanced back at the screen. Freddy and the gang where no on stage greeting everyone.

“Can’t believe they actually remodeled (y/n) the kangaroo from batys. Even after the accident.”

‘Processing error’

‘Processing’

‘Processing’

.

.

.

“What did you say?” You stood from the seat towering over the women. Eyes wide and staring into her soul.

What did she mean by that? What the hell is going on?? Your sensors are going crazy trying to process what she had just said. Something about it just lit a fire under you, and you don’t even know what it meant.

What is batys? Who is baty? Accident? What accident?

“wow wow! Back up (y/n) you’re scaring her!” The same staff that had greeted you came barreling over at the scene before her. You where standing inches away from the cowering women in her seat. The poor lady looked like she was about to piss herself. Finally you got a grip on reality and out of your frantic thoughts. Leaning back and away from the women you blinked a couple time and sat back down.

“My deepest apologies ma’am! You just caught me off guard! Here have a complimentary coffee!” The women shacking did nothing but sit there, probably to frightened to move.

You where lured back to the screen before you as the music blasted through the cafe. Though you where watching it your mind was else where.

Remember.

Remember.

What is she talking about?

‘What else do you know?’

“Uh (y/n) I think it’s time for you to give another tour!”

“Huh, oh right, thank you!” You can out of the cafe and to the adoring crowd waiting for you. “Okay kids let’s go on an adventure!”

“Yay!!” They screamed

.

.

‘Welcome to Batys barbecue!’

.

.

This required further research. After hours you would conduct an extensive internal and internet search for answers. This could either be a coding error or… something else.

.

.

“Attention all Freddy fazbear mega pizza plex guests the mall is now closed please exit the building!”

“Ahhh (y/n)! You did so well! They loved you!” Chica of course ran up to you as soon as the doors closed to give you a big hug. You returned it of course.

“You did alright, except in the end when you got all fuckin’ weird!” Roxanne came around the corner from rockstar row, slinging an arm around Chica.

“Roxanne be nice! Maybe she was just nervous! It’s okay we all have our little hick-ups out there!”

“No she’s right! I had a bit of a malfunction while you guys where performing…” you lightly kicked at the ground, a bit embarrassed.

“What do you mean malfunction? Do you need to go to parts and service! Did one of the kids spill something on you? Oh gosh I remember the first time I had fizzy faz spilled on me! It was a nightmare to clean! Made my wires all hunker up and stinky. I mean we’re water proof but sti-” you quickly put you hands up defensively trying to stop Chica’s rambling.

“No no! Nobody spilled anything on me! And I already ran a self diagnostics test everything’s working perfectly it’s just I feel like somethings wrong.” She gave you a perplexed look, her eyes doing a quick one over you to try and see if there was anything visibly wrong with you. Roxanne simply rolled her eyes, and she thought she was a drama queen.

“Look newby it’s probably just nerves, we all got them our first time, well except me. I’ve been perfect since the beginning!” This earned a light elbowing from Chica.

“She’s probably right (y/n), it is probably just your nerves!”

“Chica report to the cleaning station! Chica report to the cleaning station!” A robotic tone yelled through the loud speaker, cutting their conversation short.

“Well, it’s time for my weekly cleaning! Try not to worry about it to much! I’m sure by next week everything will be great!"

The peppy little chicken required weekly cleanings due to her addiction to eating anything to even resembled food. Though, you’d never witnessed it yourself you heard from rumors within the staff that they’d caught her digging in the trash a couple times.

Of course wherever Chica goes Roxy goes, the two chatted together as the descended down the halls.

Something deep within your subconscious told you that this wasn’t just stress, no this was something more. Something that you should remember, something so important yet, no matter how hard you tried nothing popped up. Maybe it was best if you retreated back to your room. As in, the parts and service area. Until they could properly build you a room you’d forever be confined to the dark and depressing parts and service room. You didn’t even have a proper charging station, you had to manually hook into the main power banks. Oh well, it is what it is for now. Taking your hat off and moving aside a the tufts of fur you found the charging port located at the back of your head. Setting down with your back turned to the wall you grabbed the power cord and plugged in. It was a very odd feeling to say the least…. You closed your eyes and let the power flow through you.

“…l. ve… ou… (y/n)! D… f…r…et….

Please!…”

A scream rattled through your brain.

It wasn’t yours.

It wasn’t of anyone you recognized. Jolting up from the floor you dislodged the charging cable with force.

“Gosh! Ouch!” You rubbed the back of your head, the spot sore from the forceful tug. “What… what was that?” The voice felt like a distant memory now, as you tried to recall what it said. “Running voice analysis” you ran the voice through the pizza plex’s customer database, maybe it was something someone had said to you earlier? If not the analysis will identify if this voice belonged to a customer that’s ever been in the plex.

“Data entry error.” Huh, so they must not be a customer… if not then where did you hear this voice at? Running through your memories one last time you still failed to find anything. Though something tucked at you to look deeper.

‘Old suit.’ You thought, wait “old suit? What? You’re brand new! You don’t have an old suit!” You poor circlets felt fried from the pure about of over thinking. Since roxy and Chica where busy, and Monty seems to be ignoring you maybe you should go see Freddy. He’ll know what to do! You grabbed your hat and fashioned it back on your head.

Just as you where about to exit the parts and service room a little clanking sound caught you attention. It came from the corner of the room. Cautiously approaching it you found what appeared to be a little ‘spider’ animatronic. He held to small cymbals and a rather dapper top hat on.

“Hello there?” You questioned, it quickly turned around to face you. It looked almost scared. “I’m (y/n), who are you?” It’s pink eyebrows rose up for a second as if studying you. Before bowing it’s head in a greeting. “Are you lost little guy?” It shook its head before turning back to the wall it was facing. Upon walking closer to it you notice that it was in fact not a wall but a door.

How had you never noticed this door before?

“Oh are you trying to go in there? Here let me!” But upon trying to open the door you where met with a warning sign.

‘Level 10 security clearance required. Access denied.’

“That’s strange, I thought all animatronics had full access.” The little spider simply shook his head and looked up at you before darting up your leg. “Ah! Hey what are you doing!” Before you could fling the little guy off he’d jumped from your hat to the open vent above the door. He disappeared through the vent.

“What a stage little guy.” You’d certainly have to question Freddy about why you couldn’t access this door and what on earth that thing was. It was about three hours till opening time so you’d have to make it snappy. The way to rockstar row was short and silent until you reached the actual hall. The sounds of someone yelling caught you attention. It sounded awful. Glass shattering and wood splintering echoed out. Quickly you knocked on Freddy’s door. The lovable bear answered.

“Freddy! What is going on?!” You ushered you inside a nervous look on his face.

“Uhh… well you know how we talked about Monty having his ‘moments’ well he is having one.” Oh… ohhh this is why they told you to avoid him. He has temper tantrums. Makes sense. “He is very angry and just needs to let out some steam! That is all! Nothing to worry about!” He seems to be hiding something but you won’t press him about it now. You had your own quest.

“Freddy I need to ask you something, it’s very important.” He quickly shock off the nervous demeanor and got serious.

“Yes of course what is it?” You looked him in the eyes.

“Am I… new?”

“Well of course! You just arived at the pizza plex a month ago! You’re brand new!”

“That’s not what I meant, I mean am I brand new? Like when I came here did I have… a different suit?” He looked down at his feet.

“I… I do not know. Your endo skeleton is of an older model so it is possible that you could be from a different location. Why? Is something wrong? I assure you that we do not look down on you for being older! In fact I come from a long generation of Fazbears! My original model is from the 60’s!” He put a reassuring paw on your shoulder and brought you in for a hug, which you gladly accepted.

“No nothing wrong that I can tell, it’s just I think I need to see my old suit… for closer I guess.” He rubbed your back.

“I understand but, I’m also not sure where they would store such a thing.”

“I have an idea. There’s another door inside the parts and service room, but I don’t have the clearance to go through it. Do you?” He pulled away from the hug, his eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m sorry superstar but if you do not have the clearance I cannot allow you to go in…” you felt disheartened you knew the rules, and you knew it was a long shot to ask Freddy to break them for you.

“I’m sorry for asking..”

“Hey it’s okay! T-” Freddy’s door slammed open revealing a teary eyes alligator with disheveled hair. He looked wrecked, the tiny pieces of glass scattered across his form shimmered in the neon lights of Freddy’s room. Chunks of green wall paper clung to his clawed hands.

“Fre-” he finally looked up from the floor and the eyes he met where not the bright blues he was expecting. Instead the two of you made wide eyed eye contact for what felt like forever.

“Monty? What is it that you need? (Y/n) and I where just having a nice chat!” Freddy tried to draw your attention away from the fact Monty looked like he’s been through hell and back but it didn’t stop you from staring.

“Nothin’ ” Monty turned in the doorway, inches away from being gone. Instinct took ahold of you and you bounded over to the now gator.

“Wait Monty!” Your soft pink paw pads landed on his shoulder pad halting him in his tracks. Though he didn’t bother to look back at you. “Can… can we talk to? Maybe not here but…” you looked down at the floor. Monty’s shoulder relaxed under your touch and he sighed.

“I guess.” Was all he said before shugging it off and walking off again this time slower allowing you to trail behind him. You briefly turned back to Freddy. He had a weird look on his face, like he was nervous but happy. Yeah that old bear knew something.

Making your way to Monty’s room you hesitated behind him for a second before entering and immediately stepping on a pile of shredded cotten. Upon closer inspection you find a shredded doll of… yourself.

Yikes…

The poor star shaped vanity mirror in the corner was smashed to pieces, that explains where the broken glass came from. The walls had huge gashes taken out of them along with giant fist shaped holes.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess.” You tried to ignore the poor replica of you shredded to pieces on the floor and return to Monty who flopped down on the couch. The poor thing was split in half and struggled to hold the gator.

He ran a clawed hand through his hair and tried to shake the pieces of glass out with little to no precision.

“Here let me help.” Bounding over before he could stop you, you began picking the tiny clear specks out. He sighed again.

Being this close to him again made your internal processors heat up with excitement. It took everything in you to focus at the task at hand and only pick out the glass not rub your hands through his luscious red locks. His hands however where locked to his sides as if he where afraid to move. Head tilted down for you to get a better look.

Hmm how those hands wrapped around your waist the other night was nice. Made you feel all kinds of warmth and happiness… oh yeah that’s why you wanted to talk to him.

“Look Monty… did I do something the other night? Im so sorry if I made you mad or-” his head shot up your hands falling from the frizzed locks.

“No.”

“Then… why have you been avoiding me?” You hands now crossed over your chest. The two of you locked eyes.

“Because… well” In all honesty he was the gator was at a lose for words. He wasn’t sure how to put his feelings into words. He was never good at it that’s why he always went to Freddy to vent about how he felt. Contrary to popular belief Monty and Freddy got along swimmingly. Their ‘rivalry’ was just a stunt pulled by corporate to boost sales.

“Well? Do you not… like me?”

“No! It’s not that it’s actually the opposite. Look (y/n) I like you. I’m not sure what it is but I just can’t keep my eyes off ya.”

“Then why have you been ignoring me?” Testing the limits you stepped close to him. The two of you now less than a foot apart.

“I… I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you. You’re new…”

“I see… look Monty I don’t know exactly what this feeling is but I know that when I’m around you I get happy.”

Huh, weird as the words left your mouth it almost felt like you went into auto pilot. As if you’ve spoke these exact words before…

The two of you engaged in deep eye contact for a solid few minutes, searching deep within each others very being to see if there was ever a hint of unsure or uneasy. Slowly his clawed hand came up to your face. Finding a lone piece of your fur. He twisted the hair between his fingers a bit before tucking it behind your jaw.

“You’re just hypnotizing sha.” His large palm now rested on the side of your face. Gently caressing it. “I just don’t want you to feel like uncomfortable around me.”

Bringing your much smaller paw up you leaned into his touch.

“You could never make me uncomfortable Monty.” The two of you fell into a deep lull of this sweet embrace. His head coming to rest against your chest as His thumb gently rubbed at the soft tan fur of your checks. Your fingers tiny in comparison to his glided over each knuckle until

“Oh” you felt something sharp rip at your finger tip. Upon glancing to the side you noticed that Monty’s hand plate had multiple dents. Your finger had grazed over a rather large and sharp tear where the metal had broke open assumably against the wall. “Your hurt!”

You could feel his snout scrunch up against your chest. His hand pulled away from your face and he began to flex it around a bit.

“It’ll be alright.” His voice muffled.

“But Monty…” your hands reached down to try and tug his face up from your chest but the stubborn gator refused to budge.

“This ain’t nothin’. ”

‘Maybe if I take him to parts and service he can open the door for me…’

Wait where did that thought come from? Freddy had already told you that that room was off limits. But yet, something still absolutely gnawed away at you to go inside.

Have to find out.

But

Why?

“If you say so big guy.” You shook the thoughts from your head. The two of you where having a bonding moment no need to ruin it with these radical ideas. But that did have you wondering. Would Monty help you? Would be allow you in? Those where questions for another time. For now you continued to cuddle the alligator until his systems shut down in his resting state.

[a-libra-writes]

How the GoT Characters Propose To You

We’re BACK AT IT AGAIN FOLKS

In this imagine, you’ll be proposed to by: Ned Stark, Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, Jon Snow, Benjen Stark, Jory Cassel, Dolorous Edd, Yara Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont, Missandei, Grey Worm, Tywin Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Sandor Clegane, Bronn, Petyr Baelish, Stannis Baratheon, Davos Seaworth, Margaery Tyrell, Brynden Tully, Edmure Tully, Brienne of Tarth, Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton, Oberyn Martell, Beric Dondarrion

NED STARK

In spite of the fact your families arranged this marriage years ago, Ned has to be his usual honorable, traditional self and go along with the expected courting process. That includes a formal proposal, but… that’s not for the purpose of tradition. The way he beams and looks at you with such adoration, you can tell he just really wants to hear you say “yes” to the proposal he shyly talks through. The ring is on the more modest side, combining the direwolf and your house’s sigil. There’s a personal touch on the inside; either an inscription or an engraving that has a special meaning to the two of you. He likely has a matching ring, very unassuming, that he wears whenever possible.

ROBB STARK

He didn’t expect to fall so completely for you during this stuffy courting process. Robb can’t believe how lucky he is, and it’s obvious to everyone how enamored he is with you. He’s ready to jump straight to the wedding, tradition be damned, but oh well. What he does do is give you the ring quite early, and his own proposal, even if your marriage has been long decided. His proposal is straightforward, but there’s love and earnestness in his eyes as he takes your hands and presents the ring he secretly acquired. It’s beautifully crafted, with silver direwolves and gemstones that match your house’s sigil for their eyes.

SANSA STARK

Sansa had thought about this for a long time. Letting that romantic spirit come back, even after you’d been together for a while, was difficult. The whole concept of marriage had become repulsive to her, but together the two of you could make it something different. She gave you an unassuming ring you could always wear, with gemstones that reminded her of your eyes. She tried not to cry with happiness as she gave her heartfelt proposal. You’d say your vows in the weirwoods, where she always wanted to be married. The whole day would seem like a dream to her, like the innocent daydreams she had as a girl, before the world took everything.

JON SNOW

He had it planned out: What he would say, where he would say it, but his nerves and doubts bite at him again and again. You can tell he’s been thinking about something for months, it’s been weighing on him, but you hadn’t expected this. It all makes sense when you both are alone in a godswood and Jon takes your hand … and finally blurts it all out. He had a silver ring made; you don’t know how he managed it, but it’s pretty in its simplicity. There’s a direwolf running across the ring, its teeth bared, and another one running beside it. A pack of two.

BENJEN STARK

The asking and ceremony would be more of a ‘symbolic’ thing - being you both were in the Night’s Watch, and you were in disguise. It’s why when he first asked you, you thought it was some silly jap. “Of course, Ben,” You rolled your eyes. “I would love to be your wife.” Then he took your hand, removed the old woolen glove covering it and put on a small, unassuming iron ring that fit you perfectly. Benjen couldn’t stop grinning as he asked you again. It’s a sweet moment you share high up on the wall, in the middle of the darkness, where it seems like you both are totally alone in the world. Days afterward, you notice the engravings of the direwolf inside the ring.

JORY CASSEL

No matter how long you both were together at this point, Jory gets tongue-tied and stumbles over what he carefully rehearsed. He’s still so sure you’ll refuse him, given the small land and influence his family has. He thought for a long time about what sort of ring to get you, and admittedly, he was thinking about it early on in the relationship. It’s something quite pretty and elegant, and it references your house and personal taste. Honorable and traditional as he was, it didn’t feel right going to your family for “formal” permission. He wanted to know your feelings first, and that you truly wanted the arrangement.

EDDISON TOLLETT

You being his “old lady” was a dumb in-joke you and Edd had for some time. You were disguised in the Night’s Watch, of course, but the way you two (playfully) bickered made everyone call you an exhausting old couple. Even when you both were alone, Edd would use “wife”, though you were increasingly aware it wasn’t a joke anymore. Finally he really asks you, even if it’s pointless, even if it’s while you both are freezing in the middle of a frozen wasteland. And even then, he’s still surprised you say yes. One day he ties a piece of old twine around your finger, blushing the whole time, insisting you don’t have to keep it on if you don’t want to.

YARA GREYJOY

If you were from the greenlands, from the get-go, Yara liked to refer to you as her salt wife. It was half teasing, half telling the other Ironborn to stay away. Whenever she’d say it, she’d keep such a protective hold on your waist, you were half-convinced she was going to carry you off to her ship. Eventually she made good on that promise. If you were Ironborn, Yara would be more willing to be forward. She’d tell you about some story she heard from her uncle about brides of the sea, women who stayed together and never married, though you knew she wasn’t one for fancies. Regardless, she’d have matching necklaces made for the both of you, leather and iron, like most of what she owns. She keeps it protected under her clothes.

DAENERYS TARGARYEN

Oh, she’s brought it up with you plenty of times - how you’ll be her Queen before gods and men, no matter what anyone thinks. The thing is, you both never did a grand ceremony. There were other matters to attend to, but Daenerys always made it clear to visitors who you were to her. She has plans for a wonderful ceremony once she takes her throne back, a celebration of your unbreakable union… Well, until then, you both can have your private vows. There’s dozens of beautiful things she’s given you (mostly from suitors who won’t bugger off), but your favorite is a necklace she had specially made. It’s a necklace of obsidian with dragons in flight, all connected together. The three largest dragons have a ruby, a diamond and an emerald for their eyes - a reference to her children, who are also fond of you. You two also wear matching obsidian bands with small rubies, made from the same stone as the necklace.

JORAH MORMONT

First, you knew this was happening. Jorah wears his heart on his sleeve and that’s even more evident when he’s worried about something. You noticed he was being both especially loving and anxious. You considered saying something, but he was clearly waiting for a perfect moment. Seriously, he’d look ready to say something, then back off at the last second at least a dozen times. Finally Jorah asked you, with the most loving smile on his face, and he was so choked up when you accepted - as if he really thought you’d refuse. You’ve told him before that you don’t need anything fancy, but he still gets you a lovely and elegant ring with silver-black engravings of small bears and another animal you’re fond of. He’s thrilled if you got him a matching ring or necklace; again, Jorah didn’t imagine you’d want such a thing. He’d wear it constantly and it’d become something he’d fiddle with when he was nervous.

MISSANDEI

Missandei would wait for you to pop the question because, in truth, she never imagined you’d want to. She understood that was a tradition in your home country, but you were both women, and she was… well, she just didn’t expect it. But Missandei’s eyes light up with surprise and adoration at your earnest question, and she says yes without even thinking. She isn’t one for anything fancy, but she’d love you both to have a matching set of bracelets, necklaces or rings - something elegant but not flashy, perhaps with stones or engravings that mean something personal to the both of you. She’d always wear it, even if she had to hide it under her clothes for some reason or another. She’s terribly flustered when someone asks her who it’s from and what it means.

GREY WORM

Oh, no no no. He’d grown a lot beside you, and as Daenerys’ commander, but there were still areas where Grey Worm felt like he wasn’t enough. It would take a lot of prodding and reassurance from Missandei before he’d finally start planning. You’d wonder what he was up to, and he’d just shyly say it was a surprise and you’d learn eventually. His proposal is sweet and faltering; he tried to stay serious, but he just couldn’t when you looked at him with those kind eyes. Grey Worm decided to make the jewelry himself - it would be an intricate leather bracelet with gemstones inlaid. He hunted the animal and tanned the leather himself, and spent many evenings hurting his fingers to put it together. He has a matching one, though it’s far simpler.

TYWIN LANNISTER

First off, this was a marriage arranged well in advance, so you didn’t expect any extended courting or proposals. This was Tywin, after all. Still he managed to surprise you a fortnight before the wedding with an absurdly jeweled ringbox. The ring itself was Lannister gold, and you anticipated lions and rubies… but it was your house’s sigil, with your birthstone inlaid, and small lions along the band. It’s far more than you anticipated from such a man. And when Tywin presented it to you, you sensed his expectation, and the heat in his eyes... He would never admit to wanting your approval, but that look was saying otherwise. Some years later, you have more jewelry than you could dream of, but you still wear that original ring most often. You’ll catch him glancing at it when you put it on, or twist it around your finger, then he’ll glance aside like he wasn’t watching.

TYRION LANNISTER

Naturally, he’s been thinking of this and planning it for weeks, maybe months, depending on how in love he is. Even if it’s a marriage of love, Tyrion will still have late-night nagging thoughts that you’ll back out, or you’re doing it out of duty. When he takes your hand and gives you the sweetest proposal you’ve ever heard, he still isn’t sure… until you kiss him and tell him what a silly man he’s being. Of course you’d accept. The ring has beautiful craftsmanship, with delicate flowers, lions and gemstones matching your house. It’s rosegold and silver rather than Lannister gold, and the inscription inside is something of an in-joke between you two, likely a quote from a book.

JAIME LANNISTER

You were concerned when he first approached you. It’s rare Jaime is this solemn with you, and he’d been acting strange the past week. Then he started to speak, and you realized he was nervous. His cheeks were starting to get red, and he was having trouble looking right at you. His nervousness came from the fact that Jaime wasn’t entirely sure you’d say yes, no matter how long you’d been together, no matter how confident he was that whole time. All the doubts would begin to creep, and before you could even answer, he considered backing out. But you said yes, and the smile that grew on his face was so wonderful to see. Jaime doesn’t want anything fancy or ceremonial, tradition and his family name be damned. The ring is gold, naturally, but it’s simple and charming. There’s small, pretty gemstones inlaid beside lion engravings.

SANDOR CLEGANE

At this point, you two have been married in all but name for years. He has his own thoughts on marriage, and you have your’s, and there was never a rush. People in the village already thought you already took vows, so honestly, you might have kids before Sandor starts considering something a little official. It would be something simple, but heartfelt. He’d have a fancy leather bracelet woven for you, or a simple silver ring, if you’d prefer that. He wouldn’t want much for himself, and would be flustered if you made something - but he’d absolutely wear it. Instead of taking the three black dogs from the Clegane sigil, you both would think of something new.

BRONN

He’s made all sorts of stupid jokes about marriage, especially now that he’s a proper lord. You’ve never taken any of it seriously, especially when these sentimental rambles come from when he’s drunk and wanting under your dress. Other times are when you’re out and about and pass a sept - “We oughta made it official, then go straight to the wedding night” - really, you never expected him to be serious about it. One evening he tossed something shiny at you, and you caught it. It was a beautiful ring with a huge diamond … and your first thought is if he stole it. He didn’t look at you, only mumbled something about maybe talking to your family. Maybe considering it for real. Bronn’s terrible with emotions, especially speaking them out loud. His gestures speak louder, and the whole time he’s talking he’s trying not to look at you.

PETYR BAELISH

Naturally he planned out the whole proposal - the right location, what he would say, and a beautiful ring that meant something important to you. It wasn’t big and conspicuous, rather it was something absolutely tailored for you, with a mockingbird etched inside. Petyr starts strong as he takes your hand, but begins to falter in his words when you look at him with such adoration. That undivided attention and love just gets him flustered, though he knew you’d accept. This was all part of his plan, but even knowing it would happen didn’t make him any less pleased.

STANNIS BARATHEON

Your houses had been in discussion about the betrothal for a while, but being the man he was, Stannis still wanted to do the usual courting and formal proposal. His words were blunt, the tips of his ears were turning red and he kept darting his eyes away, but he said it. He remembers the ring when you accept, and you assumed he had it ordered without much thought… Though when you look at it, you notice it’s not just pretty woven gold and black diamonds. In the center of the diamonds is your birthstone, and you wonder if he added that touch - your parents certainly wouldn’t have. Even after you’ve been married for years and have plenty of jewelry to pick from, Stannis gets a little flushed that you wear the first ring he gave you so often.

DAVOS SEAWORTH

Your dear Davos made your ring, a pretty and modest thing he created with the help of a blacksmith friend (you were wondering where those little burns on his fingers came from). You both had been together for a while now, talking about marriage here and there but never actually doing it. When he takes your hand, he’s bashful, though he gets through his words. They’re sweet and honest, like you expected. He knew you’d say yes, but he wanted to say it, and to give you the ring. Even if you don’t want a ceremony, he wanted to give you this. It’s a pretty silver and iron ring with pretty engraved flowers, your favorite, and a loving inscription on the inside.

MARGAERY TYRELL

First off, she’d been asking you strange questions for weeks. You could tell she wanted to get you a gift, and she wanted it to be just right. Then you realized she must have some sort of elaborate date planned… Well, you didn’t expect the wonderful evening to end in a proposal. Even if it wasn’t possible for you by the laws of Westeros, Margaery didn’t care. She had a beautiful ring made for you, and she had her “vows” ready. As far as she’s concerned, your hearts belong together, and the gods will understand. She only cries a little, but she’s mostly beaming as you say yes and allow her to put it on your finger.

The gold ring is made wonderfully, with sculpted roses and a large emerald in the center, with her birthstone around it. Margaery wanted a matching one, but that might be suspicious. So, her ring is your favorite flower sculpted with your birthstone in the center.

BRYNDEN TULLY

All his life Brynden resisted the brides his brother threw at him, absolutely sure he was going to die a warrior and not some lazy lord… Well, you certainly changed that perspective, though he likes to say he’s still too old and you ought to spend your life with someone else. Because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, and you deserve it - and with the upcoming war - he gets the ring. Brynden is actually flustered the whole time, giving you a curt and honest proposal. He wants to be with you until the rest of his days - even if they’re numbered - if you’ll have him. No fancy ceremony, ideally, it’s just the two of you. The ring itself is unusual and also not traditional. It’s cool silver with black etchings, and the sigils are your house’s sigil or a favorite flower. It’s not very Tully, except for a small chain of trout engraved on the inside.

EDMURE TULLY

He’s completely confident in this proposal. And why not? You both adore each other, the marriage has been planned for well over a year now, he has just the right place to ask you… Though he’s so excited, he ends up stumbling over some words while he asks you. The official arrangement had already been announced, but he still wanted to do something private and romantic. It was difficult for Edmure to keep the ring a secret. He oversaw every step of it being made, and when he notices you looking at it, it makes him very happy. It’s an elegant silver ring inlaid with diamonds, rubies and sapphires; the latter being in a wavy formation like the Tully banner. You think it’s a bit extravagant, but he says otherwise.

BRIENNE OF TARTH

She’s been thinking about it over and over… you can tell she’s been agonizing about something for months. Finally she shyly presents you with a pretty and simple gold bracelet she figured you could always wear; stumbles over her words to explain it, then you understand her meaning. Yall find an abandoned sept and do cute lil vows and shes crying lol. You rlly want her to wear something similar and she’s just blushing the whole time but she agrees; she takes extremely good care of the necklace/bracelet and wears it under her armor.

RAMSAY BOLTON

Your parents and Roose made the arrangement, so you and Ramsay had little say in the matter. Still, he loves to play his roles, so he wanted to play the part of the attentive, doting lord, especially in front of your family. Though you’re surprised by the unusual ring he gives you; it’s two smooth rings interlocking with each other. The proposal is a little intense and unsettling, but you notice something when he puts it on your finger. He has small burns on his fingers, like had smithed it himself… And you wonder how he knew your ring size… Later on, when you both are married and living in the Dreadfort, sometimes he’ll take your hand and run his thumb over the cold ring.

ROOSE BOLTON

You both were officially engaged for some time, so he didn’t have to do any sort of proposal. When you both were at a private, quiet place in the gardens, and he took your hand. You weren’t expecting it at all. It was simple enough. He promised to look after you, to ensure your protection and health. It almost seemed… genuine, though those eyes were cold as ever. The ring was another surprise. You realized it was an heirloom, but it still looked impeccable. It was iron that was twisted into an elegant shape, with rubies and morganite. The largest ruby was in the center, shaped like a tear-drop… or maybe that was a blood-drop? You notice afterward he’ll glance at your hand each time you meet, as if concerned you wouldn’t wear it.

OBERYN MARTELL

You both had been paramours for years now, and you didn’t need the ring to be happy or official… So it surprised you when after a wonderful evening of dancing and drinking, and pressing against each other in the gardens, he asked you the question. It was romantic, like you’d expect, but also so earnest. Oberyn always wears his feelings on his sleeves, but this didn’t seem like a spur-of-the-moment passionate proposal. His words seemed like he’d worked on them for a long time. Oberyn is understanding if you want to stay paramours and not an official Lady Martell, as that title comes with trappings and expectations. He just had to ask you and hear your acceptance. The ring he gives you is gold, with vibrant topaz and rubies. The inside is engraved with the spear of Martell. You later learn from his brother that it’s a beloved family heirloom.

BERIC DONDARRION

The two of you don’t have much, but you’ve been in love for a long time and he very much wants a “proper” ceremony to express that. He shyly proposed to you in the moonlight after you both made love, and the almost desperation in his voice surprised you. He gave you a smooth, iron ring with a faint design of interwoven flames. The “ceremony” is a drunk Thoros and equally drunk septon his men found, for a double ceremony! It’s extra luck! Or something like that. Beric insists that makes it even more official, and he’ll marry you under a Godswood too, if you come across one. He’s full of smiles and wants to bridal carry you every chance he gets.

[abyssal-author-and-artist]

My objection to people who say they never would isn't because of the consequences (or lack thereof), it's because of the nature of the time loop itself.

So I gotta be a little long here but I have a LOT of thoughts on this so just bear with me.

The way we're presuming the time loop works is this:

At the end of every day, the time loop resets. The time loop also resets if you die or if the clock hits midnight (to circumvent you trying to run out the clock and force the loop to end).

When the time loop resets, all evidence of the loop is wiped. This includes memories of the previous iteration of the loop and any physical thing created or altered during the loop, as well as any internet activity. We'll be nice and say anything you have on your person when the loop resets is unaffected, but anything you make is affected if you're not holding it when the time loop ends.

There is an end condition. You don't know it, but there is one. (This one affects what my answer to the original question would be so I'm including it.

The time loop is one day long, 24 hours starting at midnight. This is for simplicity's sake more than anything.

It's a very normal day. You have no unusual obligations and there will be no disasters to deal with. It's as normal a day as you can imagine.

No one but you remembers the previous iterations of the day.

On that note, every single person other than you will take the same actions every single day unless affected by your actions somehow.

So here we have our time loop. You, in this scenario at least, are a rational person - a person who has a full grasp of logic and human emotions. You act based on a healthy mix of logical reasoning and emotional impulses. I'm aware this isn't going to be true for everyone, but it's easiest to define "you" as a rational person whose behavioral patterns we can predict. For this exercise, an irrational person is a person who is unable to make decisions based on logic - as opposed to a person who simply doesn't choose to make decisions based on logic. If you are unable to look at a decision logically and take in all information before making a decision, you are an irrational person. If you can but choose not to, you are a rational person choosing to act irrationally.

Now, you go through Day 1 and 2 like normal. You might even make it through Days 3-6 before noticing anything's wrong - although you're likely to notice something is up by Day 6 or later. (Day 20 is the absolute latest you can notice.)

Sweet, you're in a time loop, time for a vacation. Every morning call in to work and/or school, tell them you're not coming in, get comfortable.

Well, you've got a stack of books that need reading and some snacks that you're pretty sure will refill. Get reading! Watch that show you've been meaning to check out, learn about something that interests you, try and cook that new recipe, eat a dozen cookies. Nothing matters, go ham!

It's fun until you go to make something. That drawing you made? Nope, not there the next day. That story chapter? Deleted. That project you were excited for? Can't make any progress on it. Even if you store it in your pockets or whatever for when the day resets, that barely works. Eventually you run out of pockets, and our rules make it so anything saved on your internet-powered phone is wiped when everything resets. You physically cannot save anything.

Well, that was disenheartening. Let's go hang out with your friends. That should work, right? Well, it does until it doesn't. You get into a fight with your best friend that you're seething about 20 resets later. You meet a new person and hit it off amazingly but can't replicate that energy any other time you meet them (they think you're creepy because you act like you already know them). You can't make or further any meaningful relationship.

It's reset, what, 100? 200? You've lost count. You are now an irrational person. You can't keep track of the days, you've given up trying to make things, and every single interaction is pointless, so you've lost the ability to engage with the world around you rationally.

If this seems fast, keep in mind two things. Two hundred is a lot and this isn't 200 days, this is the same day 200 times. You've lived this one day 200 times. You can't change anything. Sure you can learn, but there's no point.

Let's be generous and say you're a very kind person who is extremely disposed against murder. Though you may think of it, you're not giving into the impulse easily. In fact, you're likely to kill yourself before anyone else. And you do. Multiple times. Often on a whim - again, you're now an irrational person. You just went "that sounds fun right now" and did it.

You last another hundred days.

Who knows what sets you off? Maybe you forget to call in and a coworker shows up at your house. Maybe that bitch Jessica who's always complaining about your music heard you screaming for no reason other than because it seemed fun. Maybe you go into work and a mean customer comes up. Maybe you're chatting with a friend and they say something mean. Maybe you just feel like it.

In the end, it doesn't matter. Someone is dead. You'll never forget what it felt like or looked like. You'll never forget their screams. Resets or no, you've done something horrific.

You made it 300 or so resets. Then you killed someone.

And I want to make it clear, you lost your mind at the end. You went well and proper insane. When the resets end - and you know they will, it's why you held off so long - you will never be the same. Even if the end condition was "lose your mind" and the loop ends before you kill someone, you are no longer a rational person. You need medicine and therapy and very likely someone to make sure you're not a danger to yourself or others.

I don't care how good a person you are. At this point you have lost the capability for rational thought. You are no longer going to look at a person and think "we are the same" because you're no longer going to look at a person and think.

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk this took a while. Sorry if it's incoherent, I am writing this at 12:30 at night

if you were trapped in a time loop how many repetitions do you think it would take for you to willingly kill another person, knowing there would be no consequences

[donutloverxo]

A Royal Scandal 3

Modern Royal King!Steve au

(Image from Pinterest)

cowritten with @lizzygal​

Note - There will be no taglists for this. You can subscribe to the  ao3 story to receive updates!

Please note that my stories are not to be stolen or reposted on any other site. Reblogs are welcome. This blog and this story is 18+. Do not read, follow or interact if you are not 18+.

Summary - Modern ruler, His Majesty King Steven G Rogers, is on a quest to make his long term secret relationship the real thing. He is a man in love and wants his lover and partner to be his queen.

Warnings - Smut (m/f), dub con/non con, sex tape, scandals, mentions of past domestic abuse, soft dark Steve, possessive Steve, spanking, power imbalance, mentions of previous domestic abuse, somnophilia.

Pairing - King!Steve x reader

Word count - 7k

Story masterlist

Sometimes Steven forgot that you weren’t that much younger than him. He forgot about a lot of things when it was only the two of you. You did that to him. You made him forget things that everyone else reminded him of constantly, intentional and not.

Early that morning was no different.

Long before his alarm went off, Steve found himself on his side watching you sleep. Feeling in every way equal to you, like there was not this huge ocean of things that he did not have in common with you, opposed to what the two of you shared.

Obviously, he was the son of kings and tyrants while you were the daughter of immigrants and a blue-collar family. You’d grown up in a house full of love and kindness and acceptance, he had not. You’d ended your teenage years going to college and then travelling and ending up here, where you chose to stay and work and travel and live a life that Steve could only dream of, his own had never been his own and never would be.

You had dreams and hopes, little things like aspirations. He didn’t.

Steve’s life was dictated by things like duty and obligations, expectations. Yours was not.

Maybe that was why he’d been so drawn to you?

Compared to all the royals around Europe and titled individuals, politicians, even old families, none of them interested him even a fraction of the amount that you interested him. To Steve you were exotic. You were a fascinating creature who might as well have come from Mars.

He couldn’t even say what it was or why.

For so long it had felt right to be alone. Considering the blood of monsters ran through his veins, Steve had been uninterested in any sort of companionship more than a brief encounter at a private location.

For Christ’s sake, he refused to sleep in the bedroom that his father had slept in.

Upon assuming the throne, he’d selected to take up older quarters in an unused part of the palace living complex. As if to ensure he was as far away from the rooms that his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had slept. Choosing to sleep in a bed untainted by any of those men, stored from when his land was ruled by an emperor. Hoping with the hopes of a young king that it would save him from their madness.

Beside him, you slept so peacefully, trustingly.

Steve had never brought anyone into his private apartment. Nor had his bed seen any carnal action since it’d gone into storage. Until you. He’d simply never been so inclined.

A rough sound from the growth on his cheek rubbing against his pillow. A pleasant reminder of that night that felt so long ago, yet also like only yesterday.

He’d had a beard back then he remembered.

A full bushy one.

One that had made you laugh softly at, roll your eyes and still manage to pull off an acceptable bow when you greeted him that late night.

“They beat Canada then Your Majesty?” You had inquired with good nature, setting down a whole stack of papers and folders onto the very modern conference table in a big room that could fit two dozen, more if the people were standing.

He’d beamed.

Steve remembered he’d been in a particularly good mood that night. Even if he was working late on the education push into the outer regions of his kingdom. A good amount was still very rural, many simple villages that lived as they had fifty or more years ago. Many parts of his kingdom were still deeply rooted in the past.

“Indeed. Eleven to four.”

He was beaming. Beaming! You were pretty sure you could see molars. It made you shake your head and begin to sort out all your work into piles to go over. Not that you’d ever admit to secretly being caught up in the hype of the team being so close to gold at the Winter Olympics. “So then the beard stays?”

“You of all people,” he admonished, coming over to help you. Picking up the well-marked up maps you’d spent hours annotating.

Making you roll your eyes.

On he went though, obviously needing to drive home the seriousness of this matter. “The beard stays until we win gold. Next we play Norway. I don’t think it needs to be said that we cannot risk it.”

He was serious. Really serious. If that full glorious beard was any indication.

More focused on the organizing task yourself.

Sorting your work by region, pile by pile, each had taken much work and effort and negotiation, endless phone calls and trips and emails to each area to get them to work not only with you, but one another. It was like herding cats. It had taken you months to get this all sorted out for Steve to see. His ideas weren’t even ready to be implemented. This was just the pre-gaming, the leadup, the work in preparation. You weren’t even on Step One. You were on Step Zero.

“Now that I know, I’ll be sure to grow a beard next Winter Olympics.”

And then you were rewarded with a rich hearty laugh from your king.

Well not your king, as you weren’t a citizen of this country. But you still liked to think of him as your king.

Watching you sleep was something he’d never tire of. Never get enough of. It was a luxury that he didn’t realize he wanted day in out.

The ability to wake up with you tangled up in blankets. Curled back against his front. Hogging pillows as you did. Allowing Steve to run his fingers up and down your bare thigh, along the curves of your body. Letting him lean forward to press his lips to your shoulder and see the peaceful rest of your face in his slowly lightening bedroom. Every last inch of you here for him.

Hungry.

That was what it was, he was hungry for you. Like a big bear that woke from hibernation after a long winter. At times he felt such a way. Never having felt this way about anyone prior.

In his own time, he slipped his fingers down along the round of your ass underneath the flesh of your hip. Warm. Soft. Smooth. Neither of you had left the bed since the late night bath in his tub.

Further down Steve allowed his fingers to trail.

Memorizing every last second to get him through his day. From how you felt pressed against the front of him, how your back moved against his chest with every steady breath you took. The way your legs tangled in his buttery sheets with his own, how the soft cheeks of your bottom pressed against his alert groin.

Most definitely though, how your skin tasted and felt beneath his mouth. Smelling like yourself from all your favorite bath products kept in his bathroom.

You’d smelled so good that night too.

You always smelled good.

It was something that he had noticed but hadn’t given any real thought to.

It seemed to be a mix of perfume and body lotion or cream. Cause Steve found the flowery smell would linger after you walked by in the way that perfume did, infusing the air and making his brain scream out that you were near. But also, when you shook his hand, it always had that sweet fresh clean smell afterwards.

Now, whenever Steve smelled it, all he could think about was you.

Those smells danced around him. Making the late hour bearable. Making the fact that the offices were empty but for the two of you, when you both should have been home in bed, not matter.

“Ok…” you were talking to him, pointing out places on the massive map that was his nation. Arms crossed. Legs spread. Standing beside you as you informed him with tones that indicated your happiness, your displeasure as well as your utter irritation. “…so I managed to get in touch with every Education Department in all nine of your territories.”

Though you were not looking at him, Steve nodded, laser focused on this project he’d tasked you with months ago.

“All of the department heads are on board with your desired overhaul to completely modernize the entire system. Unfortunately, they told me that I had to call all the district heads for all forty-six provinces to get their agreed participation too.”

Your tone went from pleased with yourself then skeptical and then annoyed.

You turned your head to look at him. “Which is what I spent the last three months doing. It was something of a thing.”

Steve could only imagine.

He was quiet though so you could go on. More than pleased with how well you worked in this position. He’d originally been skeptical with your being a foreigner. How dedicated would you be to a job in a country that was not your own? One hundred percent as it turned out.

Your hands flattened out dramatically on the table. Outrage surged from you. “I’m still waiting on two appointees because their predecessors apparently died during harvest season and no one could be bothered to replace the position. I literally had to fly out to the outer reaches of civilization to find this out. Cause all the government offices are closed during harvest season, fyi. But they’re literally filling the positions now.”

Such was the challenge of having a large kingdom with one foot in the future and one in the past. Such things led to the difficultly of keeping a Chief of Staff.

Steve’s previous Chief of Staff had come highly recommended and lasted a little over a month.

Whether it was from a lack of dedication, the obvious frustrations of the job or maybe he simply had not wanted to jump on a plane and fly six hours then ride by car five hours to remote areas in order to complete his work. Steve could not be sure. All he knew for sure was he’d keep you as long as humanly possible.

In his eyes, you were a saint.

“What’s with the question mark?”

Making you look to see which question mark you’d marked on the map full of stickers and marks and tabs. Hours had been spent working on the damn thing.

Seeing which question mark in question made your nose scrunch. “Oh…them, they refuse to even answer my calls until they are allowed to take their traditional name for their province. Which is way above my pay grade. Someone else is going to have to deal with them. I tried.”

Ah, Steve nodded, that was far from surprising. The far outer regions were notoriously independent or rebellious, depending on your stance.

He would deal with them accordingly. Not how his father did, but in his own way.

Steve’s attention was drawn to two nearby provinces. Each had a frowny face sticker. Without asking, he merely pointed.

A noise of pure disgusted frustration came from deep in your throat. Making you stand and look to him, brandishing your hands in all directions. “I tried my best with them. I really did. Both of those provinces absolutely refuse to take part in anything if the other is involved. Apparently, they’re still salty at one another over something that happened in fourteen-seventy-three and refer to me as the foreign she-devil. So…good luck with them Your Majesty.”

Soundly you slept.

Comfortable. Safe. At peace.

Making him feel like a true man. A provider able to care for you, protect you, satisfy you. As if he were stripped down to what nature intended. Instead of what society had dictated for you both.

Reaching down to that heavenly place between the V in your thighs, Steve pushed his fingers further to find your softness slippery, your skin slick with viscous arousal. In pushing his finger up further, running it around the edge of your slit to where the gateway to your body was hidden, he found you heavily aroused. Coating his fingers with a thick fluid that promised you would be able to take him now. Oozing into the cervices between his fingers and smearing thickly down his palm and over the back of his hand.

Unable to help himself, he brought his hand out from between your legs in order to look at your arousal. Merely the sight made his balls clench in eager anticipation. Tasting the bodily excretions had his hips moving against yours on their own.

A noise came from you. Though you were far from waking. Always one to enjoy your sleep.

On his tongue you were heady, ripe. Tasting like sin. Steve licked his fingers. Eyes closed so he could savor the taste, how you clung to his tongue and were thick, like a burst of brandy swirling with his saliva.

Awakened now from his deep sleep. Ravenous like a beast of the forest. He pressed a lingering kiss to your shoulder. Making you mumble. Making you wiggle in your sleep, causing you to reach your arm out for a pillow to pull close. Hooking your leg up higher too. Becoming more comfortable in the bed in addition to opening yourself up more to your king. As if your body had connected to his on a level your mind was unaware and encouraged him to take you.

Down he peered. Strands of hair fell across his forehead at the harsh angle. A soft lightening of the sun through drapes he never closed last night allowed the sight of moisture. Folds of bare skin sheened up at him. Tempting him with that webbing of goo that promised him you were ready.

Taking himself in hand, he caught sight of your name curled over his side. Reminding him of your absolute possession over him. Sending his hand low to pull his foreskin back in order to feed this hunger of you that consumed him.

Your signature was all swoops and swirls.

Recognizable above anyone else’s writing he came across on a daily basis.

All over paper and on the maps. In little corners. Highlighted. In different color pens. On stickie notes. Written on napkins or on the back of random pieces of paper.

At the time, he’d had no idea how far gone he really was.

Not even when he watched you take note after note with a purple inked pen, your hand flowing across paper like a swimmer cutting through the water. Taking down his every word, every command.

A incredibly distinctive feeling of being full woke you up from your glorious sleep, in a very singular sort of way that could be from only one thing. Only one thing on earth felt like that when waking you up.

Pulling you out of a warm blissful sleep only to wake you with the exquisite feeling of being stretched open, pushed into, filled up. Making your fingers clench bedding or pillows or whatever they could grab.

A low breathy moan came from you in the time between you were woken and awake, your face burrowing in a pillow was followed by a soft profanity. Weight slowly covered you. Weight pinned you down to the bed a little at a time. Skin and sheets and soft dustings of hair rubbed against you.

Only when you had fully woken did you feel pubes brush against your cheeks. A light tap of scrotum bumped you too.

Long arms wrapped around you. Wet lips mouthed along the curve of your neck.

This was a far superior way to wake up. Compared to your apartment, in bed alone, to your neighbors loud shrilling alarm clock through your paper-thin wall.

Groaning out at the feel of His Majesty’s cock stuffed safely up in your secret garden. You found yourself whining at Steve at whatever time it was in the early morning. “…fuuuuck…what’d I say about doing that…” A swivel, nay, a swivel with a pop of his pelvis followed, making you see stars, gasp deeply as if you’d been stabbed in the lungs and then add on for God and Country. “…My King…shit, My King…oh shit, My King.”

Though it may have been said in jest, his tone was hot enough to scald. “If memory serves me correctly…” another deep push of thick hips shoved you forward into the pillows. “…you say, not in my ass unless I’m awake.”

Stars.

So many bright and colorful stars.

Mmm.

Yes, that was something you had told him on many occasions and it still held very true. If Steve was going to put anything in your ass, forget that thing he claimed was a dick, you needed to be fully awake so you could both physically and emotionally prepare yourself.

Nothing at all could have prepared you for the drastic turn your life was about to take that night.

Nothing.

Everything had been so normal. It was so regular. Like many a long night working late hours at the palace before. Hours had been spent going over all your hard work contacting each and every head in each education department per province, as well as per territory. In addition to the national department of education, preparing to prep them for what the king wanted.

Like any other late night, Steve helped you put all of your paperwork back in the correct order you had it in. Like every other time, he requested a palace car take you to your apartment. Granted the apartment you shared with your best friend was walking distance away. It was late and simply not safe and you found were touched that Steve would think about your well-being.

For a king, he wasn’t that bad. When it was the two of you anyway.

Looks aside, which he had in spades, he could be very funny in a sarcastic sort of way. He was very well read and intelligent, quick on his feet. Although people seemed to think of him a certain type of way based on his father and his own kingship at a young age, when he really was his own person.

You’d noticed he had a definite interest in the classical masters and had on rare occasion seen him sketch out something on a flight or during a less than stimulating event. He had an artistic ability that would never come to anything due to his role.

His strong sense of duty paired with a disgusting moral obligation pretty much guaranteed his life would be spent in service to his country. Period.

You could see why people thought he was hot. The man had been blessed by the genetic gods. Plus he was a king. Who didn’t grow up dreaming about being a princess? Or think about a literal Prince Charming from fairy tales?

Having now had the benefit of working in a real life palace. You knew the realities of that fantasy.

You had two pages of notes that could attest to the reality of your childhood Disney Princess movies.

Reality was always so different.

Not for the first time, you found yourself repeating yourself. “…and let me say one more time. Thank you so much for talking with my parents. I know it was only ten minutes, but, I know how busy you are and it just completely topped off their visit. My mother has been telling everyone about how she met the king. You even have my father cheering for the hockey team.”

A smile came over Steve’s face that was real.

It wasn’t one of his practiced smiles. It was an actual smile. You could tell because it reached his eyes.

“Well,” Steve answered you with a shrug, sounding genuinely pleased even if he also sounded tired and like he wanted nothing more than to go off to his living quarters in the palace and crash into bed, before he had to get up to start a new day. Helping you stack the last of your papers up. “Anything to convert a soul to hockey. Technically, it is his team too.” And because he could not help himself, Steve added on, “Even if his grandparents fled from here for a cushy life in the west.”

Up your hand flew to your chest.

Your jaw dropped in mock pain. “Ouch, Sir! That one was painful.”

His smile grew at your over-the-top reaction.

Still though, he dipped his head and you noticed there was a little blush on his cheeks above where that magnificent beard grew. Chagrined, he quickly followed up with, “I apologize. That was a cheap shot.”

In a physical sort of way that his people were known to interact, personal space be damned, Steve reached over to touch your arm apologetically. Not something he did frequently. Although he had done it a handful of times. The press of his mouth to your cheek was new. The little kiss was brand new. Steve’s lips were gentle on your skin. His beard tickled your face.

Never in your life had your heart pounded as violently in your chest as it did at that gesture. Quickly, your head turned. Though you did not move back or say anything. Instead, you found yourself staring at Steve. Looking into those pools of blue that were looking at you with the same amount of surprise that you felt. His lips were right there, right there.

Blood roared in your ears, your heart pounded faster and faster and faster.

He kissed you.

Did he really though?

Was it a kiss or was it a kiss?

For a moment in time, you leaned in. Leaned closer. Leaned till you almost touched him because that was what your body wanted to do. Until you remembered that Steve was a king. A KING. Remembering that made your head command your body to lean backwards a bit. Allowing you to see that he had leant in to meet you.

He’d leaned closer to kiss you.

What were you doing? What in the hell were you doing? You had no business doing this, no business at all messing around with Steve.

Fingers moved along your arm, tracing up the back of it softly. That simple touch made goosebumps break out over your skin. It made your breath hitch. Your hands began to shake so you grabbed the fabric of your skirt.

However, you made no move to step away from Steve. Nor did he make any sort of move to step away from you.

Another attempt at a kiss was not made.

Fingers touched your face instead. Steve was close enough to you that you felt his legs brush yours. You felt his breath against your face. Fingertips ran across the swell of your cheekbone, down over your lips, tracing the bridge of your nose in what felt like a desire to memorize your face.

Steve was gentle. His fingertips felt like feathers on your skin. He made you shake like a leaf in terror because you wanted him to touch you more. You wanted to be touched. You wanted to feel his hands on you and the soft glide of his thumb along the line of your jaw was painfully insufficient.

Without thinking, you reached up with your hands until you remembered that he was the king.

Were you allowed to touch the king? You weren’t sure. He was touching you and it was fabulous but were you allowed to do the same? You wanted to. You so deeply wanted to. You just were not sure what was allowed in this situation. It had not exactly been covered in the Royal Protocol Guidebook you had.

Then came Steve’s voice. Harsh. Gravelly. Desperate.

“Touch me. It’s ok. I want you to.”

For only a heartbeat or two you remained still, observing him, making sure. Only after that did you reach up with your hands to cover his wrists. Rub along the fabric of his button-up shirt. In doing so, you not only felt the strength in his well-muscled wrists, or how warm the silky fabric was, but, you could feel him tremble. He was shaking about as much as you were.

A rush of air surged from his lungs as if you had burnt him.

Curious, you turned your head so you could place a single kiss on the inside of his hand touching your face, right at the base of his thumb. In doing so, you ripped a noise from deep within him. A noise that was both pained while also infused with wanting.

“This is ok?”

“Yes,” he croaked out, as if he were terrified you would stop.

Never would you have ever imagined he would be so responsive. Almost touch starved it felt.

Sometimes, Steve still felt as if he were a little touch starved to you. Sometimes it felt like he’d gone his entire life without having that physical connection between two people. As complicated of a man as he was with as complicated of a life as he had, you at times forgot that he was still a human being with human being needs that were essential to thriving.

And it wasn’t like you were complaining.

Far from it.

Not after the orgasm you just had, not from on top of him either. Lounged across the front of him. Loose limbed. Languid down to your marrow. Peppering the damp skin of his neck with slow wet kisses and scrapes of teeth. Long drags of your tongue collected drops of salt that tasted of him. Lazily. Heart to heart. Stomach to stomach.

There really were worse ways to wake up.

Like, for instance, in your apartment taking cold showers cause the building’s water heater was ancient. That wasn’t fun at all and usually had you shivering and hurrying through an icy shower. Straight up not a good time.

This? This was soooo much better.

Feeling Steve’s long legs wrapped up in your own, paired with his softening member filling you by virtue of sheer size not letting himself just pop out…this was a much better way to wake up. Far superior in every way.

Not that you were willing to waste precious time like this luxuriating in post-coital bliss. No, no. A burning question was hot on your mind that kept popping up after last night. After all, you were a modern woman and this was a serious relationship. You had every right to ask this question at any time you wanted. Even now. As your boyfriend, the king, fondled your breasts in his hands with such intensity that you would have thought he’d just broken out of Alcatraz after a decade of no nookie. Not that you were in the least bit complaining. Not one bit.

“Am I going to have to quit my job?”

It was something of a concern.

You loved your job. You loved working with Steve. You loved your life as it was and a big part of you suspected becoming queen would mean big changes.

Not that you lifted your head from his neck, or ceased your trek down towards his collarbone. Trail of your kisses never slowing or stopping. No hint of any sort of disruption came. Not for a moment or two. Not till your ravenous boyfriend squeezed your breasts possessively. Thumbed your nipples and finally opened his eyes, as if it were the biggest chore on earth.

His voice was rough. His tone felt like hot gooey honey that just got everywhere. “No…not yet…”

Leading you to make a noise. A pop followed when your mouth left the dark spot you’d been sucking on nearly at his collarbone. What with your name already etched on him. What else could you leave in a display of ownership over him? “Nothing else to add My King?” For added emphasis, perhaps you gave you vaginal muscles a clench knowing what that did to him.

A grunt came from beneath you.

Wrapped up in yours, Steve’s legs clenched in response to what you did. White teeth sank into his upper lip and you absolutely thrived at the sight and feel of him arching up against you, shifting around beneath you at the way your body squeezed him.

Those hands left your breasts only to reach down, run over your waist as they had so many times before, leading you to grab them. Snatch then right up. Press them down into the mattress over Steve’s head. Since the man was far larger than you, this sent you leaning downwards and ever closer to his face. “Steve? I asked you a question.”

How easy it would have been for him to get free. Yet, he seemed content where he found himself. Still wedged within you. Warm in bed. Body a sea of a complex cocktail of chemicals after physically releasing into you. A far better way to wake up than alone in a massive bed. Or worse, to his mother jabbing at him to urgently tell him something that was not urgent at all.

Feeling your breasts press against his chest. Lightly brushing over his skin, your nipples little points that sparked a definite interest in his dick.

God did he want you to be his queen.

“Not yet,” Steve ground out, nearly close to being overwhelmed by you. Each and every word was enunciated to utter perfection, as if it took all of his concentration and effort to get them out. “I’ll have the palace leave your name out of the official statement today. We can go slow. Ease you into things…ease you out of your job…” and to reward him for such a thoughtful statement, you clenched around him once more.

However, it seemed, there was more and even though his eyes rolled up into his head at the feel of your core squeezing his not entirely soft organ, he pushed on with the determination of his ancestors. Grunting. Arching back into the bed as the pillows had all wound up on the floor. Perfect teeth clenched together. “M-my people…will…love you…too.”

So, it was entirely possible, that you were feeling all kinds of powerful watching him writhe beneath you. Knowing exactly what sort of repercussions this could have to your morning. Which was still progressing on time. It was entirely possible that you may have intentionally pushed your own pelvis against his to reseat yourself.

“Oh yeah? How can you be so sure? You saw what happened with those two over in England. And that prince isn’t even next in line to the throne.”

Perhaps it was the seriousness of the direction in which your conversation had taken, Steve remained beneath you. Taking no action, even though you could quite literally feel his dick grow more interested in what your hips were doing.

A panted out, “…fuck…” escaped from him, before he opened his eyes to look at you seriously, if not also a little heatedly. “Quit obsessing over them. The King of Jordan married for love. Queen Rania was a commoner. If you must, focus on them.”

Sudden movement found you falling off Steve and onto the bed, shoved onto your back and in a flash, he was on top of you again. Over you. Hovering. Though he’d escaped out of your body, you could feel the king’s most delicious semi, slick from your previous copulation, squish between you both.

Admitting on an exhale, “Forgot about them.”

“Everyone does.” He agreed, surveying down, taking in the sight of you. “My country appreciates you. They’re fond of you. You’re in all the papers and they’ve given you a nickname.”

And that. That. Nearly killed the mood.

It sent your eyebrows together dubiously so.

Everytime you were in the press it was when your skirt had been blown up on a windy day, or if you’d accidentally gotten food on your shirt. Or that time a baby goat pooped on your shoes. Or when you’d tripped and fallen off a dock into a lake. Who could forget that time you’d accidentally called the Prime Minister of Canada a ‘moose fucking cannibal’ when you’d still been getting the hang of the language, your first year on the job?

You’d been affectionately dubbed, ‘the King’s Foreign Devil’ and it had stuck.

Hell, you still got asked about your thoughts on the Canadian Prime Minister whenever a member of the press was around.

“Most the time, you have a higher approval rating than I do,” he added. Much to the consternation of Maria Hill in PR. “Trust me. There is nothing my country loves more than a hard-working loyal servant of the people who talks shit about western leaders.”

Mood totally killed, you seethed and not for the first time, “That was an accident! I was trying to call him Canada’s Disney Prince.”

***

The note had been hand delivered to the palace and was now crumbled into a ball in the Queen Mother’s bedroom as she stormed off, once more, that early morning in a fury of rose satin and silk. Her perfume clouded around her, drifting behind her, much like the wake of a boat cutting through the water.

Thick carpets silenced her heels. Doors opened for her as she neared them, allowing her to not need to slow her step even for a second. Not a single moment wasted as she made her way through the private living quarters of the palace.

Down hallways and around corners, over to the rooms that her grown son had selected as his own.

It would have been so much easier if he would have just taken the rooms that his father had lived in.

Although, with the horrific memories attached to those rooms, how could she blame him when he elected not to? She had her own private rooms. The dead kings rooms were locked up tight and still not used. Abandoned like so much he’d done, started and accomplished in his life.

Upon coming to her only child’s rooms, those doors were held open for her and on she pressed on. Sailing through his rooms, one after another, until she got closer to his bedroom and could hear his shower which was the direction she headed.

A brief glance was made at the mess that was his bed.

A roll of her eyes was followed by a shake of her head.

Some things males never grew out of it seemed.

“Steven!” She called out in warning, should he be in the bathroom about to come out in the nude. Which was the last thing she wanted to see.

Not only was his bed a mess but his clothes from yesterday were all over the floor.

She had every intention of telling him that he needed to straighten up this mess before the cleaning staff came in his room. The last thing she wanted was for them to think he was messy and then tell their families and friends when they went home that the king had a messy bedroom and word would get out that her son was a slob. Ugh. No. She’d make sure that he straightened up.

Speaking of the devil.

As his shower ran, Steve peered out of the bathroom with a wet head. A midnight blue towel was wrapped around his waist. A toothbrush was in his hand. To Sarah, it was very clear that her grown son had not shaved yet either.

Seeing him in such a state that morning along with his messy room and the fact the shower was going wasting water. It did not make her mood any more agreeable.

Though her son was taller than her and considerably more muscular, she never feared him.

She knew he would never hurt her like his father had so many times. Towards the end, Steve had even defended her from his father’s physical attacks. Those days. They had been dark. Horrible. Terrible. When she noticed that her husband had begun to carry a knife to protect himself from his son. Well. What was she supposed to do?

Attacking her was one thing. Being violent towards her was one thing. There were some things that she learned to tolerate. It was unescapable. Their son though. To take a knife to their son? Her son? Sarah would never allow such a thing.

She was queen at the time.

It was not so difficult to get the drug that she put in her husband’s evening nightcap. She’d used all of it. Thrown the vial away the next day when she went to rouse the king as she did every morning, only to find him dead in his chair. Fireplace having long gone out. Slumped down. Cold. The coroner had said it was a heart attack. Exactly as she’d been told the drug would work. He’d been buried with no one the wiser. Not even Steve.

“Yes mother?”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You are not growing another beard. Last time you looked like some man that lives up in the mountains in a tiny shack.”

Just as her own father once did, Steve’s eyebrows rose in surprise and question.

No. That was not why she was here.

Sarah had a higher calling that morning and straightening her slim shoulders, she so informed him. “Hope and Janet are here in the city. They’ve come for a surprise visit and will arrive at the palace within the hour.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed at her in response to her information.

It was horrifying. It was outrageous. It was not what he wanted to hear that morning one bit. Not at all. Not one single bit.

Hope and Janet?

Those were two names he never wanted to hear with the additional words being, ‘on their way’. No. Just no.

All he could say that was remotely civil, after what the then Princess Hope van Dyne had done, came out in something of a tone. “I don’t want to see either of them. If you want to see them, that’s your choice. Keep them away from me.”

Considering what the now Duchess Hope had spewed to every reporter, journalist and whomever with a platform…Sarah was a little surprised that Steve was being so kind.

She’d expected a bit more of a reaction from her son.

Could she be holding a bigger grudge against her one-time closest friend’s daughter? After what had happened, Queen Janet van Dyne had become somewhat distant. Which was not surprising. Hope had not broken the engagement gracefully. Nor had she been anything less than opinionated afterwards.

“I suspect she is in trouble,” Sarah confessed. “Why else would they come here? Considering everything that Hope has said over the years.”

Steam continued to seep through the cracked door.

Sarah was about to say something about the shower. Steve was wasting a considerable amount of hot water. She herself was leading the Go Green Initiative in the country and as she stated constantly, it all began at home.

“Mother, don’t take this the wrong way, but, I wouldn’t shit in Hope’s mouth if she was starving.”

Ah.

Perhaps she’d been too quick to judge Steve’s current opinion on the wayward duchess?

Pondering his statement, Sarah found herself looking for any way to come back with a counter when she noticed that the shower turned off. Which was odd. Shower’s didn’t turn themselves off.

What was even more peculiar, Steve reached back behind himself to shut his bathroom door.

It clicked.

Like a light going off.

How could she not have noticed? How could it not have been obvious?

Blue eyes that were a little softer than her son’s narrowed. “You aren’t alone.”

Silence.

Quiet.

Her pink lips opened in surprised. A question hovered on her tongue.

“No mother.”

“But…”

“Mother,” he implored as only a son could. “Not now. She would not want the first time she officially meets you to be when you’re dressed for the day and she is not.”

And though her son’s words were true. They were right. They were exactly what she would have wanted him to say and because she had raised him well, she was even proud that he had made such a quick decision. It wasn’t fair.

Sarah wanted to find out who you were. She wanted to meet the woman that her son was involved with. Was that so wrong? Sarah wanted to meet the woman that her son was considering marrying. There was so much she wanted to say to you, so much to teach you, so much she wanted to learn about you. Perhaps her desperation showed because her son reached out to place a hand on her elbow.

“If you can chase Hope and Janet away, we could have lunch together. The three of us. If not, dinner? Or even tomorrow. I’m not doing anything with Hope under this roof. Not after she referred to our country as a third world plus hellhole full of war criminals and superstitious backwoods heathens.”

Ah, so he did remember.

Those words had been seared into her memory as well. Sometimes Sarah wondered, as Steve had never really given much indication that he cared one way or the other what Hope had said. It was only after she began to speak unflatteringly about their people that he grew irritated, much like herself.

Although, what irritated Sarah more, was the quiet that came from the royal house of van Dyne and Pym a few countries over. Never once had Janet spoke up. Never had Janet said anything about her daughters outrageous remarks or behavior. Nor had she apologized.

Knowing her son, Sarah knew that he would never court anyone who was not kind or compassionate. Steve would never pick a Hope as his queen.

Up came a hand that bore a lovely ring decorated with fresh water pearls from their own waters. “I’ll have them gone before lunch and then we will all sit down together so I can finally meet her.”

[thetriggeredhappy]

first of the commissions is done! the request for it was demo/scout hurt-comfort, emphasis on softness. also posted over here on ao3, otherwise, meet me below the cut! warnings for non-graphic injury and alcohol mention

Shrapnel. Just one part of the job of any Demolitions Expert that was worth keeping around just about anywhere, one part that this particular Demoman had always had a bit of an issue with remembering to account for (something that ran in the family, apparently, judging by the dozens of oil painting family portraits riddling the family home of Scots dual-clad in eyepatches). He always remembered to keep his head on steady when it came to accounting for the way structures would fall–borderline got a degree in architecture and physics for that purpose, even, learning about load bearing walls, about studs, about pillars (cosmetic and otherwise), accounting for the windage of the thing.

But the shrapnel, that was an entirely different beast. The mess of it, really. The little variables. Those tended to get scrambled a bit, the same way his mind did when he was ample or scant a quarter of a glass of whiskey at the start of his day, and opting for pushing it all aside to just detonate the damn thing was only sometimes alright, only sometimes a thing of glancing around after the fact and noticing a shard of glass the size of his breakfast plate embedded four inches deep into plaster a foot off from his head.

Today he’d opted for the self-confident man’s way of detonating, as he chose to just pack up and fully fucking skeddadle before the BLUs could catch him trussing up his project of the day with bombs and wires like one would use bulbs and string lights on an evergreen–that is to say, in layman’s terms, he detonated it with his back turned. A bit of a shame, as he liked to take note of how things went down, so if it went sideways (or sideways in the wrong direction, perhaps) he could analyze it after the fact, maybe learn something. This time, especially a shame because that meant a shard of wood and three of its friends (was it three? Five? Ten? He couldn’t tell, actually) embedded itself into the muscle of his uppermost left shoulder.

“The trapezius,” a teacher had told him in a sidebar-type anatomy lecture during one of the art classes he’d taken when he was young, pointing on the little replica bust of Michaelangelo’s David, then up towards the neck. “And that much more prominent in this particular piece, the sternocleidomastoid.”

Words like that were what he tried to focus on as he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to figure out where the hell the shrapnel had ended up between where he’d felt it and where he’d picked the tweezers back up. This wasn’t like at the base, where frankly it was more worrying to not hear shouting at any given day, he and several others of the team were staying at a motel at the moment, their missions that week being just far enough from the base that they couldn’t just drive to and from. Already the bloodstains on the carpet were going to be pretty bad, sounds of a man shouting in agony would be investigated at least some amount, and he really didn’t want to deal with that.

The trouble was that it was his left shoulder. If it was his right shoulder, it wouldn’t be an issue. Inch of head turn, pluck of tweezers, one-two-three and he’s done. But no, it just had to be on his left. In the eyepatch’s hemisphere. And maybe he could really crane his neck (and sternocleidomastoid) and get an eye on it, but that would also be flexing the enshrapneled muscle in question. And the mirror in the tiny bathroom might be helpful, if not for the fact that it would mean pilot controls on trying to pull the things out, and trying to account for already lackluster depth perception. 

He tried carefully to feel out where the splinter was, one more time, and bit down hard on where he’d pressed his own shedded shirt between his teeth to keep from crying out, and readjusted the tweezers, trying to find it again.

Trapezius. He’d taken Latin once, learned a bit about root words. Maybe that was from ‘tri’, as in three, because it connected in three places–once at the neck, two towards the shoulder joint.

Another bite hard enough to make him think this might be yet another shirt to scrap into rags as he found and pulled on something, maybe shrapnel or maybe not.

Sterno-cleido-mastoid. That one was an easier guess–sterno like sternum, cleido like clavicle, mastoid like a mast of a ship, helps turn the head. Connects at the sternum, specifically at the clavicle, and–

Alright, that one was definitely not shrapnel. Good lord.

He was still seething through that one when there was a knock, a one, two-three rhythm, and the door opened.

“Woah, holy shit,” Scout said, as if his own shirt didn’t appear to be smoldering slightly and one of his eyebrows and some of his bangs weren’t partially burnt off. He propped his bat next to the door and tossed his bag onto his bed, moving a few steps closer. “You look like hell.”

“Hello to you too,” Demo greeted through a mouthful of shirt, so mostly it just came out a vaguely pained mumble.

“You, uh, need a little help there?” Scout asked, looking sympathetic but hesitant. “Uh, let me just uh–”

Demo spit his shirt into his lap as Scout moved to presumably wash his hands free of soot, hurry in his step. “No, no, I, I’ve got it, darl,” he assured quickly. “I know you get a bit, er, squeamish–”

“The hell I am,” Scout protested right back from out of his sightline over the sound of running water. “I mean, it’s not needles. I fuckin’ hate needles. But I can, uh, this should be fine. Like, seriously.”

“I’ve had a handle on it, truly,” Demo tried again. “Look, I’ve got, er–I’ve got some shards out as it is.”

And he did. He had one shard sitting on the table on a now-ruined washcloth, next to a bowl of water he had been planning to wash back off with once he’d made enough progress. By the scoff he heard behind him, it wasn’t particularly impressive.

“Look, I’ve only got to get enough to keep a lid on things until I can see the Doctor,” Demo said. “We’re headed back after sundown tomorrow, y’ken?”

“Yuh-huh,” Scout said in the deadpan that Demo had learned to understand meant he wasn’t being believed, and was maybe in trouble. “And you’re gonna do crap all day tomorrow with like, wood crumbs in your shit. Because we ain’t supposed to use the healing module things Doc gave us unless we’re for sure disaffected and stuff.”

“Disinfected, darl,” Demo corrected.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I said that.” The water shut off, and a moment later the tweezers were plucked out of Demo’s hands. “You’re not stopping me. C’mon. I’m like, way more stubborn than you.”

Demo sighed, facing forward again. “Ach, fine. But if you faint on me, don’t say I didn’t go on and tell you.”

A scoff from Scout, and a brief pause, and a hand gingerly against the uninjured part of his neck, and Scout started in.

Admittedly, Scout was fumbling a lot less. He went pretty slow, seemed hesitant, but he didn’t fumble. Slow movements, pausing, and quick plucks. A hand reaching into his line of sight to drop the new shard with its friends.

“Christ on a bike,” Scout mumbled, “this really fucked you up. What’d you do?”

“Shed got absolutely shagged.”

“Shit, yeah, that’ll do it,” Scout seemed to shrug, and another pluck. “It’s all like, splintered. It didn’t get you anywhere else?”

“That’s what the vest is supposed to be for. Covers the vitals. Padding thins out up towards the shoulders, though. Same one that was on fire a week ago, as well,” he explained.

“You didn’t fix that yet?”

“Patched up the main body. Replacement was supposed to be here in a few days.”

“Bad luck, huh?” Scout murmured, and sighed a little. “Alright, uh, you might wanna put your shirt back in your mouth for this one. I’m gonna grab the big pieces now, and they’re kind of, uh. Kind of way in there.”

“Ach. Steady on,” Demo said, rolling the shirt and biting it again.

This time, the plucks became hard yanks, followed by a hard squeeze to his opposite shoulder for a few seconds in reassurance and to ground him through the wave of pain following, a wince of sympathy. He blinked through it and flashed a thumbs-up, and then came the next one, rinse and repeat.

“C’mon, you’re a champion. You’ve got this,” was one reassurance he got. Scout seemed to be good at those.

He was genuinely blanking out as much as he could by the time the squeeze to his opposite shoulder became a pat. He blinked, inhaled, exhaled, until the room stopped spinning quite as much. He wiggled his fingers a few times and they weren’t cold, so he was at least confident it wasn’t blood loss, which was good. If he bled out after all of this, he was going to be pretty upset.

“Alright, just little ones now,” Scout said, and he exhaled again in response, spat the shirt back out. “You’re a legend, babe. Seriously.”

“Legend yourself,” he mumbled, cleared his throat. The urge to apologize flooded into his mind, and he paused before he could.

Scout had talks with him, sometimes, when they were alone. Usually just off of tangents of tangents of tangents. Demo would say something about… well, anything, about his family sometimes, or a story from that day’s grocery shopping, or about an interaction he had in high school, it could be any recollection. And usually, Scout would laugh with everyone if it was in front of the team, but when they weren’t, he wouldn’t laugh. He would get this look. Just like when he walked into the motel room and saw the shrapnel. Sympathy and hesitance. Worry. Concern.

And he would say these things, like, ‘Hey, it’s messed up that your mom said that to you’. Like, ‘Hey, it doesn’t really matter if the gal at the register was looking at you weird, you’re a grown man, y’know?’. Like, ‘I don’t think that’s stupid. I think it’s cool that you like all this science stuff, and all these books about magic and whatever. It makes you happy, doesn’t it?’

Would say things like, ‘You know you don’t gotta apologize for wanting to hang out with me, you’re literally my boyfriend, dummy, you already know that I like you!’. Like ‘I don’t mind when you have these downswings and stuff, I just wanna help make you feel better, make sure you’re gonna be okay. I’m not mad because you feel like shit, I’m mad because you don’t ask me for help when you totally can and definitely should.’ Like ‘Y’know, if you feel bad about feeling bad or whatever, you can just, like, say thank you instead of stewing in it. Get the feelings and shit out. Just try it, okay?’

So, “Thanks for the help, darl, I mean it,” was what he went with instead of apologies.

“Yeah, yeah,” Scout mumbled, followed by a pluck. “No problem. No way in hell you’re getting these out yourself. Were you seriously gonna just try and do it alone on this one?”

“...Maybe,” Demo said, drawing the word out much longer than it needed to be, hoping that would earn a laugh rather than a lecture. He was right, hearing a scoff, and smiled at it.

“Well, you’re a dummy. Just because you’re all good with the, uh, eyepatch situation, like, most of the time? Doesn’t mean you gotta just tough it out when it’s causing an issue.” Another pluck. “Like, seriously, though, I forget it’s a thing like most of the time. Pretty sure Hardhat having the goggles messing with the peripherals is a bigger issue for him than literally half your vision gone. It’s nuts.”

“Well,” Demo said, “not really half my vision, y’ken? More like, er… A third or so. Less, maybe. Most of your sightline is both your eyes working together. I can just turn my head and compensate, see?”

“...Huh. Touché.” Another pluck. “Didn’t you say somethin’ about it messing with your like, uh… what’s it called? Depth periphery?”

“Depth perception.”

“Yeah, that! Like–yeah, because you’ve gotta shoot too, right? And it’s like, different, but it’s still shooting. Is that not, like, pretty annoying?”

“Nah. Hardly,” Demo replied. “I don’t use sight for that much, is the thing. It’s all maths.”

“What are you even talking about,” Scout deadpanned.

“It’s arcs, mate. Just standard trajectory with the stickies since they play where they land, then a general sort of winging it for the pipes, but if I shoot straight at them in the first place the bounce doesn’t matter. I shoot at a set velocity every time with the gun, I make a guess at the distance, and the thing shoots in a straight line. So I just, er, memorized the arcs.”

“Fuckin’ what did you even just say.”

“Because it’s–if I’ve got velocities and all that memorized, all I’ve really got to calculate for is the angle of the shot, right? And, and also height just a bit, but we’re all usually on the same ground. So all I have to adjust for is angle, maybe time if it’s particularly far, but the bombs are only in the air for, what, one or two seconds? And now I’ve got it practically to muscle memory. Just took a bit of practice.”

A few beats of silence.

“Apologies for the physics lecture,” Demo tried to laugh, “I realize this is all a bit ridiculous–”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Scout cut in, voice firm. “Okay. Okay, babe? Listen real quick? Okay, what are you even doing being a merc. I’m so wicked serious right now.”

All he could muster was a sound of vague confusion.

“Like, can you not just go be a fuckin’ college professor or whatever? Or like, straight up a–a fuckin’ scientist? Like, you gotta know how insane that is. You gotta know how crazy insanely smart you gotta be to do something like that.” Scout placed the tweezers on the table and picked up the bowl of water, starting to clean off the area of the wound. “You literally make your own bombs and weapons and stuff already, and now this? What are you even doing here? Go make a billion dollars making planes and shit already!”

“Don’t care much for aerospace engineering, shite’s boring,” Demo protested under his breath.

“Babe.”

“It’s the family trade!” he finally said. “Explosives as far back as the invention of gunpowder and the Celts getting their hands on it. Might as well do it right, I’m the only son in the main branch of the family, I can’t just abandon it.”

A hard sigh from behind him, a pause. The pain had died down to a general rawness, prickling alongside Scout so carefully cleaning around the wounds. “I guess. I dunno. Just… you’re so goddamn cool. I dunno how you haven’t noticed that you’re so goddamn cool.”

The prickling had progressed into his chest, beneath his sternum, beneath his clavicle, a tightness forming. He couldn’t seem to help it once Scout started getting all… sweet. All quiet.

Scout was like shrapnel. Not in terms of pain, in terms of… he couldn’t ever seem to account for him. To plan for him. He could plan for the columns of Scout, for him being excitable, always looking to try something new, always encouraging, earnest even. He could account for a general gung-ho attitude and a stubborn core and a sweet, squishy heart down beneath all of that. But he couldn’t account for this. Couldn’t ever seem to remember it until it was embedding itself into his ribcage.

The times when he wasn’t loud and brash and shameless. Where instead he was quiet, and he was worried. And he was looking at him with two soft, sad eyes, at the shrapnel in his shoulder or the empty bottles on his table or the project he’d worked on without rest for days in a row or the sleeping through an entire weekend without once getting out of bed except to go to the bathroom or refill his flask.

When he pulled the truth out of him, one splinter at a time. Painfully. Instead of squeezing his shoulder, he would find Scout clutching both arms around his midsection, hugging him so tightly, as if he never wanted to let go, face buried in his neck (sternocleidomastoid) as he said, again and again, earnest, honest, that it was okay. That it would be okay. That Scout was there for him. That Scout loved him. Not in spite of anything about him, but because of it. Because that’s who he was. And the tweezers hurt less, every time, stung less than the way his eye did in those moments. Even if he knew deep in his heart that there may never come a day when he can fully believe all of it.

Scout wrung out the washcloth one more time, brushed it gently over the whole of the area, squeezed his shoulder. “Alright, I think I got it all. I’ll, uh, I’ll go phone the Doc, ask if we’re cool to try and use one of those healing, uh… whatever-the-fucks,” he said, voice back to usual, self-assured.

“Thanks, mate,” Demo ground out, and got a pat on the shoulder for his trouble. “...Love you.”

“Aw.” He felt lips peck at his temple briefly. “Love you too, babe. Fix that vest next time, alright? I’ll be right back.”

That, at least, Demo could believe. He could get to the rest some other day.

[svnflowervol666]

Ma Petite Chérie: Christmas Now (Harry Styles x fem!Reader)

Read more from this little universe, Ma Petite Chérie, in my masterlist!

Word Count: 3.7k

Summary: Their first Christmas as a family of four. Underwhelming gifts, naughty kitchen counter shenanigans, being suspicious of Santa Claus, baby kissies, oat milk. 

Author’s Note: Baby bub is here! I’ve been so excited to finally be able to write about them, and I’m even more excited that you all get to read about them! This is the second part of my Christmas bits for this year. Unlike the last one, this one is obnoxiously adorable and no where near as upsetting (I really hurt my own feelings with that one). Reblogs, likes, tags, and feedback of any kind is always greatly appreciated! If you don’t see me before the year is up, I want to wish you a Happy New Year! Enjoy, take care, and tpwk.

“Two.”

“No. One.”

“Two.”

“One.”

“Four.”

“Now that’s just bein’ greedy,” Harry spoke in a wounded tone with his brows furrowed together as if he were genuinely offended.

“But if Santa’s coming tonight and bringing more presents, why can’t I open these ones right now?”

Tallulah was on her knees in front of the sofa, fingers laced together with her chin resting on top of them. She was quite literally begging her father, who sat above her with one leg crossed over the other and an arm slung around his wife, to allow her to open the gifts that were prematurely nestled underneath the festive fir tree in their living room. Well, they weren’t married yet, but Harry couldn’t help that he preferred how the word felt rolling off of his tongue than “fiance.”

“Because they’re Christmas presents,” he stressed.

“Makes no sense t’ open them the day before.”

His freshly six-year-old daughter clearly didn’t like that answer - the pouty jut on her lip and subsequent huff told Harry all he needed to know.

“I already told ya, sweet pea. You can open one tonight. That’s it. The rest are for tomorrow.”

“Fiiiiiine,” the small girl said, although it was implied in her tone that it very much was not.

Tallulah hobbled over to the tree whilst still on her knees, and began riffling through the small litter of perfectly wrapped boxes to inspect which one would elicit the most satisfaction on her end. She seemed keen on a rather large one, decorated with tartan print and a red gift tag that read, “To: Lulah, From: Daddy & Mummy.” What she hadn’t realized, though, was that Harry had already made the selection for her. 

“Not tha’ one,” Harry reprimanded over the steaming mug of coffee in the hand that wasn’t rubbing circles on Y/N’s shoulder.

He typically strayed away from caffeine this late in the evening, but he knew he was in for a long night of waiting up until Tallulah was fast asleep so he could take on the role of Santa and deliver all of the gifts he had promised her for being good enough to make an appearance on the Nice List. Knowing how much shit he had packed in his office that stayed locked this time of year, he really wasn’t sure how he was going to do it successfully.

Another exasperated sigh left his eldest child’s lips, to which she replied, “But this one’s the biggest.”

“But it’s not the one we want yeh t’ open, Lulah. ‘S the one with polar bears on it,” Harry stated, though not with full confidence.

“It is the one with polar bears on it, right?” he whispered to Y/N.

This earned a laugh from Y/N, who muttered a quiet, “Yes,” in return. She laid her head in the crook of Harry’s neck, basking in the warmth that radiated from his body. He smelled like cinnamon and the nutmeg-flavored coffee beans he’d ground up just a few minutes before, and maybe a hint like baby barf.

Tallulah scavenged the space under the tree like a predator hunting its prey - all on the lookout for the present fitting the description Harry had given her. Harry and Y/N found themselves thoroughly entertained by watching her overturn almost every gift, and shared a similar giggle when she narrowed in on the box in question before letting out a victorious, “Aha!” into the room only lit by a firelog in the chimney.

“Grab the one for Olive too, please. Don’t want her feelin’ left out,” Harry called out to Talulah. 

“Okay, daddy!”

Her small arms stretched to the limit, trying to grab both packages without toppling over onto the others. Tallulah noted that they both felt the exact same underneath the wrapping paper, only her baby sister’s was much smaller than the one addressed to her.

“They feel like clothes,” Tallulah stated matter-of-factly as she took back her place on the floor with both presents in hand.

Harry sighed, leaning down to rest his mug near his feet against the sofa.

“Good grief. Just open it, will yeh?”

She needed no further instruction. Her fingers dug into the paper, piercing it with her nails and ruining the pastel blue parchment that was covered in dozens of cartoon polar bears partaking in various yoga poses. When Tallulah was able to tear the gift away from its wrapping, her hands grasped something soft.

“It’s....pajamas.”

Her tone was flat and unamused. Harry sensed her disappointment, though in his heart he certainly felt like he’d done a great job concocting his plan to have her open this particular gift on Christmas Eve.

“Yeah, but they’re Christmas pajamas. Don’t yeh want t’ look nice when Santa comes to visit tonight?”

This seemed to...disturb Tallulah. That was really the only way to describe how she looked at her dad - with her eyebrows scrunched up and her normally-plush lips pressed together in a thin line.

“...He’s gonna come in my room when I’m sleeping?”

Y/N hadn’t meant to, but a loud cackle erupted from her chest, which jostled the four-month-old baby girl that had the beginnings of sleepiness settling into her body. In contrast to the laugh from Y/N, Olive let out the tiniest of shrills, obviously upset that her mother had interupted the peacefulness she’d felt whilst being curled up against her chest.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, bubby,” Y/N cooed quitely, quickly moving to pat her daughter’s bum and comfort her.

“Mummy didn’t mean to wake you up.” 

Y/N pressed a quick kiss to the sparse tufts of hair atop Olive’s head before returning her attention back to Tallulah.

“Lulah, I promise you that Santa will not come in your room while you’re sleeping. What your dad means,” she snuck a glance in Harry’s direction in which he smirked back at her, “Is that you want to look nice on Christmas morning, don’t you? You know Nana’s gonna take a thousand pictures of you and Olive tomorrow, so now you don’t have to change when she gets here, yeah?”

Tallulah nodded, though it didn’t do much to lift her spirits. She fumbled the cream-colored thermal set adorned with gold stars between her fingers, the motion she was always somehow doing whether it be to her dad’s t-shirt while she laid next to him during a movie, Y/N’s lotus pendant when she was smaller and could fit on her chest, or otherwise.

“Plus,” Y/N added, a hint of irony in her voice, “I’d imagine the presents Santa’s going to bring you are much less boring than this.”

They shared a knowing smile, Tallulah’s cheeks growing rosey and her eyes twinkling at the mention of the magical, bearded man.

“I’m offended,” Harry scoffed.

“Really thought those pajamas were proper cute.”

“They are cute, daddy!” Tallulah chimed in, “I like them a lot. Thank you.”

It appeared that the young girl had realized her moping about not receiving the nail polish kit she’d asked for didn’t do her any good. And whether Harry was joking about being upset or not, she’d never want to hurt her dad’s feelings. He’d raised her too kindly to do otherwise.

“You’re welcome, bug,” Harry smiled at her.

“Let’s help Olive open hers, yeah?”

“I bet it’s pajamas,” Tallulah mumbled under her breath.

That earned her a light tug on one of her two braided plaits on her head from Harry. The two of them chuckled at each other, their faces almost looking like identical portraits of each other.

“Humor me for a second then, Lulah. ‘S your sister’s first Christmas.”

Tallulah scoots over on the floor to stand on her knees, this time by Y/N’s legs as she turned Olive around to sit up straight in her lap. Olive, who was once determined to fall asleep right there on the couch beside her mum and dad, was now awake and had taken an interest in the crinkling sound of the wrapping paper on the gift her big sister placed on top of her chunky thighs.

“Here, Livvy,” Tallulah cooed, “You tear it like this.”

She tried to show Olive how to tear away the present by ripping it halfway open, but her effort proved to be unsuccessful the second Olive managed to get her fingers around a scrap of paper and immediately placed it in her mouth. It appeared that Olive was much more interested in the gift wrap than she was her early Christmas present.

“Well, there goes that,” Harry said as he fetched the then soggy parchment from his infant daughter’s lips, making somewhat of a disgusted face as he wiped the excess drool on the leg of his pants.

Tallulah takes the honor of opening Olive’s present for her, and is unable to stop herself from rolling her eyes when her eyes meet a set of thermal pajamas like the ones she’d just received herself, only Olive’s were green with tiny, silver stars. She’d parted her lips to make an undoubtedly flippant comment, but Harry cut her off before she even had the chance to mutter the first syllable.

“Don’t do it, stink head,” Harry quipped, reaching for the discarded paper that was scattered on the rug beneath him so he could put it in the bin later.

“How about you go put on your lovely new pajamas so we can get everything set up f’ Santa to come, alright?”

“Okayyyyyy,” the small girl grumbled before snatching the thermal set from the floor and darting off to her room.

“That didn’t really go the way I hoped,” Harry mumbled as he reached over to take Olive from Y/N.

“It’s Christmas, baby,” Y/N reminded him.

“Kids want toys, not pajamas.”

“Yeah but,” Harry focused his attention at worming the tight-fitting pajamas up his baby girl’s abnormally chubby legs.

“’S what mum used t’ do for us when we were little. Always got pajamas on Christmas Eve. Figured it’d be nice t’ do it for the girls, too.”

“It is sweet, Harry. Just wouldn’t expect a six-year-old to be that enthused about it,” Y/N snickered.

Harry hummed in agreement, his tongue poked out as he fed Olive’s arm into the tight sleeve of her top, struggling a bit to get her balled up fist through the other side.

“Ahh, there we go. Thank god ya only have t’ wear these tomorrow, Chunk. They’ll be too snug by next week.”

“Leave my fat baby alone,” Y/N scolded.

“There’s nothing wrong with being well fed,” she added, leaning over to lightly pinch on her daughter’s round tummy in an attempt to get her to smile at her.

A gummy grin took over Olive’s features at the sight of her mother, a true mummy’s girl at heart. She was much like Tallulah in many ways, but so different at the same time. Olive was still nearly bald, whereas Tallulah’s hair grew like a sprout when she was Olive’s age. Tallulah had always been teeny tiny, no doubt due to her premature birth, and Olive clearly made up in weight for what Tallulah lacked when she was a baby. They both loved cuddles with Harry and listening to the sound of his voice as they fell asleep, but it always puzzled him when Olive didn’t respond to some of his antics in the way that Tallulah had. 

“‘M not bein’ mean. I’d jump on the chance to suck on your tits all day if I could, too.”

“Har-” Y/N began to reprimand him about how she can’t say that because there are little ears in the room, but was stopped short.

“I’m back! Can we set out the cookies now?”

Tallulah breathed heavily as if she just sprinted a marathon into the living room. 

“Sure can,” Harry responded.

“Come tell Livvy good night first, though. Mummy’s gotta feed her and put her t’ bed.”

She smiled at the mention of her little sister, whom she was always keeping at an arm’s reach. If Tallulah was awake, she was in the same room as Olive. It made Harry’s heart ache in the best way to watch the two of them interact with each other. The feeling he felt when he first saw Olive in Tallulah’s arms at the hospital never subsided. He was absolutely besotted for his girls.

“Bonne nuit, ma petite soeur,” Tallulah whispered to Olive, reaching down to hug her sister and kiss the crown of her head, which she happily accepted in the form of weaving her pudgy fingers into Tallulah’s braids and pulling them rather harshly.

Before he handed her off to Y/N to be fed and put down for the night, he gave Olive a kiss of his own.

“Bonne nuit, ma petite chérie.”

//

“‘How do you know Santa likes oat milk? Did he tell you that? Luna at school told me he likes chocolate almond milk.’ What kinda shit is that?!” Harry exclaimed with a mouth full of sugar cookie and in the quietest voice he could muster.

He’d just spent the last hour with Y/N, silently digging Tallulah’s gifts from Santa out of his office and placing them underneath the tree. Thankfully, he hadn’t tripped over his own feet and woken her up or else he would have cried right there on the spot.

All Y/N could do was giggle back at him from where she sat on top of the counter, bare legs swinging as she had a mouthful of the very same oat milk in question swishing in her mouth.

“She’s asking too many questions n’ I don’t like it one bit.”

“Think she’s just growing up, babe. The magic doesn’t last forever. She’s about at that age. Probably only have one or two more Christmases before she figures it out.”

Harry stared at the remaining half of the frosted cookie Tallulah left for Santa in his palm, eyes quiet and sullen.

“Don’t like that one bit, either,” he muttered.

“I know you don’t, bubby,” Y/N cooed, pulling Harry into her so he stood between her parted legs on the countertop.

“But you’ve still got Olive.”

He seemed to perk up at that, looking up at her through thick lashes with a smirk.

“Just Olive? We stoppin’ there?”

“I mean,” Y/N pursed her lips.

“Wouldn’t mind trying for a boy.”

Harry placed his hands on either side of her thighs, stroking her skin with his thumbs.

“Might not happen on the first go, though,” he tisked.

“Could take havin’ a few more for that t’ happen. Yeh alright with that?”

“As long as you’re not tired of me by then, then sure,” Y/N jested.

“’M never gonna be tired of you.”

He leaned in close to her, touching his forehead to hers. He was a split second away from kissing her, but then Y/N spoke up again.

“Harry,” she called out.

“Hmm,” Harry’s voice oozed with desire and darkness beginning to turn his eyes a deep shade of juniper.

“Can I please have a bite of your cookie?”

He softly bumped his forehead against hers as they both broke out into a fit of chuckles.

“Allumeuse,” Harry uttered, raising the sickeningly sweet cookie to her lips.

She chewed the baked good tantilizingly slow, making a scene of rolling her eyes back and moaning as if the taste was euphoric.

“Tu aimes ça,” she snided.

“Je fais.”

The two sat in silence after that, finishing up what was left of the small plate of sweets Tallulah had left by the chimney. It wasn’t often that the house was this quiet. Normally, there was a crying Olive to attend to or a needy Tallulah begging for one of them to get more paper out of Harry’s office printer so she could draw pictures of the plants in their garden out back. It would have been eerie, had the multi-colored lights from their Christmas tree not illuminated the majority of their open living space. The twinkling bulbs brought a sense of peacefulness about them. Maybe it was the season, or maybe it was because they’d been feeling so grateful for their small family as of late.

“Honey,” Harry broke the silence.

“What?” she looked up from where she’d been fussing with the hem of her shorts decorated with tiny snowflakes.

“Yeh got a little,” he gestured to her mouth before bringing his thumb to the corner of Y/N’s mouth.

Harry swiped a rogue dollop of blue frosting that rested there and pressed it onto her tongue. She wrapped her lips around his digit, sucking lightly to remove the sticky icing from his skin. Her eyes met his, not once straying as he applied just the slightest bit more of pressure with his thumb. He noted the way her breathing slowed and how she gently shuddered when he tightened the grip of her jaw with the rest of his fingers.

“So pretty,” he purred, marveling at the sight in front of him.

God, how Harry wished it weren’t just his finger resting on the soft, welcoming warmth of her tongue.

Y/N slid off his thumb with a calculated pop of her lips, licking them to ensure she’d rid herself completely of any stray crumbs.

“Kissy?” she posed, smirking.

“I’d be pretty rotten if I said no,” Harry replied before pressing his mouth against hers.

She wrapped her arms around him, forcing him to stand flush against the counter and even closer to her body. He teased her with this tongue, gliding it along the plush skin of the inside of her lip. Y/N welcomed him and parted her lips enough for Harry to get through. Both of them taste the saccharine remnants of the cookies they’d shared, and soon all that’s heard in the house are the suckling noises and heavy pants coming from Harry and Y/N. It’s not loud enough to be a disturbance, but it’s just enough to have them both yearning for more.

“Talk t’ me, lapine,” Harry broke away from her for long enough to mumble one sentence, still pressed against her lips.

“Tell me what yeh want.”

“Want you,” Y/N said in a shaky exhale, chasing Harry’s mouth to reconnect with her own.

“Yeah?” he taunted.

“Want me right here in the kitchen?”

“Ideally, no. But I wouldn’t stop you.”

She parted her legs even wider, attempting to rut against the thick fabric of Harry’s fleece sweatpants. Her center met something stiff and Harry pulled her even closer by the flesh of both bum cheeks, massaging them with his massive palms in a manner that he knew drove her mad.

“That’d be pretty naughty of us, wouldn’t it? Not sure if Santa would approve of that one.”

Before she’s given a chance to respond, Harry snuck his hand between their thighs and began softly petting Y/N over her shorts. Her head fell back in pleasure, temporarily detaching her lips from Harry’s. She knows she can’t make a single sound or else she’ll wake up the entire house so she just sits there with her brows furrowed, silently gasping and letting these sweet, broken moans spill from her throat that spur Harry on even further.

“Can feel you even through your fuckin’ shorts, Y/N,” he grunted, slowing grinding against his own palm that was the only thing separating him from her heat.

This time, it’s Y/N that reached between them, feeling for the stifness that lies between his legs. She wraps her fingers around him through his sweatpants, leisurely tugging at his cock. Harry’s all but forced to begin sucking on the sensitive skin of her neck to keep himself from crying out at the contact, working at blossoming deep lilac and mulberry colored bruises there.

“Bet you could cum just like this, couldn’t you?” he muffles into her collarbone.

Y/N hummed, crossing her legs around Harry’s back as he began to focus his attention to rubbing her clit over the material of her shorts.

“Bet you could too,” she whined.

“’S that what you want, hm? Want me t’ make you cum without even touchin’ you right?”

“‘M not gonna have a choice if you don’t do something else pretty soon.”

She sped up the work she’s doing near Harry’s crotch, paying mind to what she can make of his tip between his boxers. With her thumb, she rubbed expert circles around him, massaging him in the way that he’s doing to her. Both of them could feel it, the slow build up of pressure deep in their abdomen - a coil winding tighter and tight with the threat of snapping.

“Fuckin’ hell, Y/N.”

He was biting her neck now, completely consumed by the feeling of both the damp patch seeping through Y/N’s shorts and onto his fingers and the precum dripping onto her more delicate ones through his sweatpants.

In an attempt to not embarass himself like a horny teenager, Harry withdrew his hand from in between her thighs and places it around her bum all in the same breath. Y/N sighed defeatedly at the loss of friction against the place she needed it most, dropping her head into Harry’s shoulder and whining rather noisily. Before she even has the chance to curse him for stopping, he scooped her off the counter with all of his strength and began walking both of them to their bedroom so he could fuck her properly.

Their lips detach when Harry drops her onto the bed and a woosh of air leaves the down comforter, causing the hem of Y/N’s top to fly up and expose her tummy. She still wore the deep, almost-metallic stretch marks she’d acquired when she was pregnant with Olive, but it wasn’t with shame. Her and Harry had a talk not that long ago about how much he loved them because it reminded him of how much he cherished watching his baby girl grow before she made her grand, earthside appearance. She’d not mentioned the slightest bit of disdain for them after that.

Just as Harry tugged his jumper over his head and threw it off somewhere that he’d worry about in the morning, his eyes caught the digital clock that rested on the wooden night stand on his side of the bed.

“’S past midnight,” he said with a lopsided grin, climbing on top of the girl he vowed to spend his last dying breath beside.

“Yeah?” Y/N asked, for the life of her unable to understand why that was relevant when just minutes ago, he was rutting into her hands and aching for release.

“Yeah,” Harry smiled against her lips.

He pulled up once more to add, “Happy Christmas.”

She had half the mind to smack him, but all she did was shake her head and smile.

“Happy Christmas, Harry. Will you please fuck me now?”

“Think I can manage that.”

It was the first of many Christmas presents for Y/N.