#but then it's true this is a vitamin pills

[adm-starblitzsteel-4305]

Bro, this is hard, but yeah, I saw this on a random online shopping app and it's only available on Russia. 👁️👄👁️

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ snuggles for hire

summary: first years try helping you out with your touch-starved problem type of post: short fics (blurbs?) characters: leona, floyd, jade, vil additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

"Really? That's it?" Ace scoffs.

"So, they haven't been hugged in a while. Okay? Neither has Deuce,"

Deuce glares. It's almost menacing. "That's not true, and you know it! I get lots of hugs every time I visit home!"

"I do, too. But that's just the thing, though, ain't it?" Epel says. "They don't have no home to get hugs from."

The huddle of first years goes quiet. Some days, you become such a part of their world, they forget you're really not from it.

"...Okay, point taken," Ace sighs. "But they have Grim! And he only stinks like, half the time!"

"If memory serves, Grim usually sleeps on the floor..." Epel says. "Poor prefect, all lonely. Now even their sleep is suffering 'cause of it!"

Jack rubs the back of his neck. "It must be tough, not having anything to look forward to,"

Another melancholy silence. Finally, Ace stands, hands on his hips.

"Well, let's do something about it, then. There are tons of boys at this school- one of them should be willing to help,"

It's eight in the morning after another disappointing attempt at rest, and now you can't even sleep in. Damn visitors.

You throw open the front door.

"What? What could you possibly- wh- Leona?"

The housewarden smirks. He looks a little too proud of himself for this early in the morning...

"A little wolfie told me you weren't sleeping well. Lucky for you, that's my specialty. Now, are you gonna let me in, or what?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, letting himself in and making himself comfortable on the couch in the foyer.

He pats the spot next to him.

"Listen..." you say. "I don't know what you heard, but I'm fine."

"Don't be proud. I don't pity you, I just... owe you. Now get your butt over here, yeah?"

Leona isn't so scary when he's asleep. He's more like... the world's largest pillow. Of course, you're at risk of being smothered until you crawl into a better position, but once you're on top, he's surprisingly warm and comfortable.

You can tell you're being watched before you hear anything.

And you think you might just know wh-

"Shrimpyyy!"

For two boys so tall, the tweels are awfully quiet. Especially when it comes to "surprising" you in random places. This time: the hall.

Floyd pulls you into a bone-crushing hug while Jade watches from behind, smiling subtly.

When he finally lets you down, you're dizzy. (Though, at this point, you'll take whatever physical touch you can get).

"Shrimpyyy, why didn't you tell us you were lonely? We had to squeeze it outta Spade," Floyd pouts.

"His face makes fascinating expressions when he's afraid," Jade says, merrily.

Before you can answer, Floyd's already got you under his arm (seriously? Where do they find the strength?) and is heading straight towards the hall of mirrors.

You already know there's no getting out of this one...

Floyd is, unsurprisingly, all over, from leaning his whole body weight against you to lying across your lap, to biting your shoulder (in his sleep...?) Oh, and he drools, too.

Jade sits on your other side, one hand holding yours, the other leafing through an almanac from twenty years ago.

You're almost hesitant to admit just how nice it really is.

"And nothing else has worked?" Vil says, throwing open the door to your bedroom with no regard for a "hello" or, "how are you?"

You blink. "...Hello to you, too. May I ask what you're talking about?"

He storms inside, standing over you with his hands on his hips.

"Just that I overheard Epel Felmier asking my vice housewarden if he would be willing to satisfy your need for physical affection. You've been struggling? With sleep? And you didn't think to come to me, first?"

He almost sounds... offended that you didn't.

"...Well... I wasn't making a big deal about it,"

"So, no teas, no vitamins, no pills- nothing has helped?"

You shake your head. He sighs.

"Perhaps it is purely psychological... very well. Get up. I hope you don't toss and turn much, I'm a light sleeper,"

Vil is completely still when he sleeps. No tossing, no turning, no drooling, no snoring. He also insists on sleeping on his back, you, clinging to his side, and a single arm around you. Just as elegant as when he's awake. He'd be a true sleeping beauty if not for the mumbles of nonsense that come from him every few minutes. You swear you can make out your own name, once or twice or three times...

He is warm nonetheless, and his mumbles and idle stroking of his fingers on your waist is enough to satisfy you for a night of good sleep.

[prettyboykatsuki]

YOU’VE GOT THE CURE (EVERYTHING I NEED) | B. KATSUKI. 

✮ tags ; gn + afab!reader, soft dom!reader, sub!bakaugou, developing relationships, mutual pining and ambiguous relationships, anal play (m!recieving), dry orgasms, p in v, unprotected sex, 18+

✮ wc ; 6.7k

✮ a/n ; an anon comission from a beloved mutual im posting. also just dropping in to say hello

✮ synopsis ; katsuki is too fucking young to have erectile dysfunction, damn it.

“Hey.” 

“Hm?” 

The sound of your typing is especially loud in the empty office. It’s a Saturday and neither of you are supposed to be clocked in, but when duty calls - it’s up to the two of you to answer. 

“...I’m going to tell you something. If you so much as fucking laugh I will kill you.”

You don’t look up from your screen.

“Well that’s one way to start a sentence. I’ll try not to laugh.”

Katsuki slams his hand on the desk. 

“I’m being serious,” He says in a half-yell. You look up from the edge of your laptop unflinchingly with a displeased frown, shaking your head and throwing your hand up half-heartedly. 

“Fine, fine - I promise I won’t laugh. Can you stop being all ominous? You sound like Tokoyami.” 

“There’s something wrong with me,” 

“Well yes,” 

“Not like that,” He hisses, taking a deep breath. He leans forward with his elbows on the table, hands clasped seriously as he covers his face. “...I think my fucking..thing..is broken.” 

There’s a loud noise like a muffled laugh but when Katsuki looks up your expression is completely blank. Your lips are pressed tight, eyes out of focus as you continue to type. Or pretend to. True to your word, you don’t laugh but Katsuki still wants to fucking kill you. 

“Oh? What uhm,” You clear your throat, lips trembling as you try to keep yourself together. “What brought you to that conclusion?” 

He nearly snaps his pen in half. 

“What do you fucking think?!” 

“Hey. Calm down. I’m doing my best not to laugh but you are not helping.” 

This is the sort of thing Katsuki would normally take to his grave. Not only is it genuinely humiliating, it is the sort of painful personal detail he wouldn’t share with anyone even if he was fucking them. It wouldn’t matter either, that his dick isn’t working - if the other ways he relieved stress were.

He’s got an average sex drive, sometimes lower but a high libido. Getting off is a physical response to a bodily need. Like eating food or taking a nap. It’s just because it’s a physical need, it is noticeable when the need doesn’t get met. He is painfully aware of it. It’s been weeks and he thinks he’s starting to lose his mind. Worse? He’s exhausted every human option trying to fix the problem himself, save for going to the dick doctor. His testosterone levels are fine, he gets check-ups more regularly than the average person. Given his reputation is at stake, he’d rather not get prescribed anything. He’s bought ginseng and shitty vitamins and medicine he had to ship from overseas. Anything and everything. 

Picking up viagra at the ripe age of twenty four would give him psychic damage he won’t recover from, this much Katsuki is sure of. So not that. But everything else, every natural remedy conceived - he’s tried. 

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” He says, pinching the bridge of his nose and willfully ignoring the sound of your strained huffing “I can’t fucking get….it up and I don’t know why. I’ve tried everything. Everything. I’m going crazy,” 

“You know, it really says something about our relationship that you can confide to me about these kinds of problems. Like I’m so proud of us,” 

“Shut up. I’m already miserable enough without wanting to fucking tell you - but the only other option is Shitty Hair and Izuku. I refuse to buy a single goddamn pill for it, and I know if I go to a doctor they’re gonna recommend it and—” He can’t finish the thought. It’s a little too sincere for the kind of conversation you’re having. 

You’re a tactless person, so of course - you don’t bother with going along with the mood. Instead you smile like the evil bastard you are. 

“And…?” 

“You little—” He sighs rubbing his palms over his hands “And because I can trust you to be the least horrible option.” 

“So you acknowledge my valiant efforts as your underling and assistant and know you’d be nowhere without me?” 

“Shut up.” 

“Aw, you’re sweet,” You say, promptly ignoring him “But yeah, I mean - no judgement. I would ask if you’ve had anything major happen but I unfortunately already know that’s not really the case.”

Yes. You, of all people, would know that no major changes have happened in Katsuki’s external life that would make it hard for his dick to function. You spend so much time together. Minus the time he spends working and catching villains in the world - you’re practically glued to his side. You’re in charge of all of his affairs, his schedule, all other personal things. Katsuki is naturally neurotic, but you handle all of it with grace and care. You know everything about him, which is why he is asking you about this problem. 

(Does it border on unprofessional? Of course it does. But your relationship to each other degraded that border a long time ago. You’ve already slept in his bed and met all of his friends. And kissed him, but that’s irrelevant for now) 

“I need solutions,” Katsuki offers, totally and utterly defeated by the situation at hand. “I’ve done everything. Taken every goddamn herb, done every meditation. Nothing is working. Nothing. I’m going to go fucking crazy.” 

“Do you think just sleeping with someone would help? I know you don’t want to ask any of your friends, but maybe an escort? We can do it discreetly.” 

“Fuck no. If it were that easy I would’ve done it.” 

You pause. Katsuki can see the focus on your face and doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse. After an elongated period of silence, you perk up a little. You lock eyes with him and Katsuki briefly regrets bringing the whole conversation up in the first place. 

“Hate to ask,” You say, though there’s not enough embarrassment on your face to make anything of that statement. “But uh, have you tried getting off with other things. Like something that isn’t your dick.” 

He feels a flush creeping up his skin. “What the fuck are you talking about!”

“This is an important question,” You emphasize, an expression so alarmingly calm Katsuki doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse. “Cause if the answer is no, then that’s basically the best solution.” 

“How the fuck is that the best solution? Are you insane?” 

“Don’t be such a prude, Mr. Dynamight. You’ve bottomed before. It’s not that different. Have you ever tried it on your own?” 

“I fucking hate you.” He replies, closing his eyes and frowning. “No I haven’t. Why the hell would I do something so embarrassing.” 

“I know you’re super anal retentive - no pun intended there actually, but can you relax a little? It’s a good solution if nothing else is working. Your dick might be broken but an orgasm is an orgasm.” 

“Remind me to never ask you for shit again,” 

“I’d love that. Just keep me on payroll. Anyway,” You go back to typing. “I think that should be your first move,”

“How the—are you seriously telling me I should go fuck myself to solve my problem?” 

You giggle. “Well it sounds bad when you put it like that. But I guess yeah. I can help pick out some sex toys, maybe, do a little research. If you don’t want to do it in your apartment, there might be a love hotel,” 

A blush creeps up against the back of his neck. He covers his face with his hands. 

“I’m begging you to shut the fuck up. There’s no,” Another wave of humiliation sets in “There’s no way this is how I’m going about this. Like. Fucking none.” 

“The only other option is the good old fashioned doctors appointment, then. Which we can squeeze in over telehealth I think - since you got a check-up pretty recently. Want me to do that instead,” 

“Fuck, no. I just,” He groans, feeling the stress make his eye twitch “Fuck.” 

There’s a bit of silence and a little typing, like you’ve decided to leave him to his thoughts. Which he doesn’t blame you for, because all things fucking considered - there’s not really any more options. He’s a smart man and even he is fucking stumped. He’s going to have to give into something, eventually. He knows that, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. 

As soon as he gets close to giving up, you sit up straighter and give a deep long sigh. 

“Hey,” You scratch the side of your face awkwardly. “Do you want me to help you….?” 

He stares at you. “With what.” 

“With your dick being broken,” 

“What?!” 

“Don’t yell anymore, you’re giving me a headache,” You express, rubbing your temples. “Look. You need to get off, and you’re probably going to have to use your ass to do it. You don’t want to do it by yourself, and you don’t want to do it with a friend or escort. You’d prefer not going to the doctor's office or taking any pills. I’m offering - I’m not really your friend per se and you trust me enough to ask about it.” 

He hates more than anything that you have a point. 

“You can’t be fucking serious right now.”

“Hey. If you want your dick to stay broken for a while until you figure it out, do you. I’m just saying. Offering solutions is what you pay me for,” 

He pulls back a little. 

“...Are you fine with that?” 

“Oh banging you? Is that what you’re worried about?” He winces at the direct and crass way you speak. “I like you plenty and you’ve got a pretty face. I’m down if you are,” 

“I can’t believe I’m considering this.” 

“Really? I totally can,” You snicker, and he really, really considers firing you. “It’s not the first time we’ve crossed boundaries with each other. Just consider it, okay? Before you actually blow a fuse.” 

He leans back in his chair and groans. 

“Fuck. Yeah, whatever.” 

__ 

It’s another week before Katsuki takes you up on your offer. 

Miraculous it took that long, given the amount he suffered stubbornly trying to fix the problem on his own. The lengths he went too are too embarrassing to even disclose or recount but it very quickly became clear that this was not an issue that was going to magically disappear - no matter how hard he tried. 

Against his better judgment and after a long, cold shower trying to talk himself out of reality - Katsuki sent you a one line text. 

Fine. Come Saturday. 

The only thing he could say without dying of complete fucking shame. He’s grateful that’s the time you decided to have some tact. 

(Not a lot, since the text back you sent was a peach emoji and a thumbs up. But whatever, he’ll take what he can get.) 

It’s Saturday now, and he’s clean. All of him. He’s clean, and just wearing his boxers - sitting on his couch. You’ll be here very soon, and he can’t believe he’s saying this, but he’s nervous. 

You did mention you were fine with it. He believes that because there’s been long standing tension between you two for god knows how long he’s not entirely blind too. You sleep at his place sometimes and spend all day with him, and then there was that one time you two kissed (very sober) during New Years. You don’t bring it up because you know he can’t deal with it. Yet he’s comforted by the fact you at least want it (because you’ve said so), and that you’re willing to do this despite the ambiguity in your relationship. 

He knows that is inevitably going to come up today. But he really wants to fucking cum. And if it’s with you, then it’s fine. If his head was a little clearer, he would probably reject this whole thing based on his own emotional disparity. God fucking knows he is not in any place to deal with any of that. His heart barely gets by in the office and now you were going to fuck him. 

Is he stupid? 

Usually no, but because there’s a soft dick and tight balls where his brain used to be, currently yes. Everything put together, it’s a recipe for disaster. He considers telling you to fuck off and forget all this happens. 

But then he thinks about the prospect of your hands and your voice and it’s enough to at least get his heart pumping, though his dick still refuses to cooperate.

More than anything, he does trust you. Shitty, smug little fucker you can be sometimes - there’s not a single person who goes out of their way for him. More than just your job, sometimes it feels like every little thing you do is for his sake. Everything you don’t ask of him, every secret you keep. You push him where he needs to go and encourage him to take risks in his career without imposing on him. 

He blushes again, laying on his couch. He was nervous before but it’s not any better. Maybe he’s not so much of a dumbass as he is a total fucking masochistic. Is the level of overthinking the shit Izuku goes through? No wonder he’s like that all the time. 

He almost jumps out of his skin when he hears the doorbell ring. 

He answers the door shirtless and finds you on the other side. You have a cardboard box and the most nonchalant expression he’s ever seen. Normally it would annoy him, but right now he’s kind of comforted by it. You look at him with a flat smile. 

“Hey sexy,” You say with no intonation. “Can I come in?” 

He gives you a look of disdain. “Don’t ever say that shit to me again. But come in,” 

You laugh quietly as he steps aside. You don’t have much with you other than the ominous box and your bag. 

“You look like you’ve showered,” You say, taking your shoes off and putting on the house slippers he keeps for you. You don’t even look at him as you go towards his bedroom upstairs. He follows you with mild (faux) annoyance.“What a shame.” 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“I wanted to get a little romantical and help you clean up but you’ve taken that from me. I’m a little hurt.” 

“You’re such a dumbass. As if I’d let you do that,” 

“Don’t be such a spoilsport. I’m gonna be playing in your ass today anyway.” 

“Not the same thing.” 

“Tomato, to-mah-to,” You say with a wave of your hands. When you finally get upstairs, you look over your shoulder. Katsuki gets the message quickly enough, helping you with the door. You give him a little smile and let yourself in, dropping the box on the edge of his king sized mattress. 

He stands in the doorway for a short while, glancing at you before coming in. You put your bag somewhere on the floor before getting back to the box you’ve brought over. He can guess what’s in it, but he stands with you to open it anyways.

Predictably,  the thing is full of sex toys. The first question he wants to ask is how much you spent on all of it, but he bites his tongue. 

You look at him and do a little jazz hands gesture. “Tah-dah.” 

He gives you a displeased look, but you’re well used to this sort of thing from him. There isn’t actually a whole lot in the box. The theatrics of you bring it upstairs were more likely just you fucking with him for the sake of the bit.  He frowns. Typical. 

You do have some new things in the box. A few expensive look gadgets, like a pair of quirk canceling handcuffs (decorated with leopard print fur) and something that looks like it goes around his neck. The sex toys that are in there are noticeably high quality. You definitely used his dime to pay for this. 

“Handcuffs? Seriously?” 

“You’re too much of a control freak and I like not having my hands blown to bits,” You say, shaking your head. “We should establish some ground rules and stuff now.” 

“Haah? The fuck are you gonna do that we need rules.”

“I’m not just gonna jump scare you with dominating you. But that is what I’m doing.  What we’re doing.” You give him a more serious look, that makes him feel more shy than he cares to admit.  “You get what I’m saying? You have to trust me a little, okay?” 

He makes a petulant face at you. “I already trust you dipshit,” 

“This and that are different,” You say, shaking your head. He refrains from disagreeing with you a second time. They’re really not, but he has no desire to explain that. “I’m gonna touch you and be a little strict. Are you okay with that?” 

“I don’t care.” 

“That’s not an answer,” 

He grits. “I want to cum. And I…trust you or whatever. I already agreed to this. If it’s pissing me off, I’ll just kick you offa me. Anyway, ‘s fine.” 

“If you kick me I’m suing you for battery. We can have a safeword. I’m not going to duct tape your mouth and I’m gonna talk you through most of it - but just incase.” You say. He pauses, taken aback by how… delicately you’re treating him. He doesn’t know if he should be pissed about it or not. “Any word is fine. We can use the stoplight system too if you want.”

“Stoplight?” 

“Red for stop, yellow for slow, green for go.” 

“That’s fine. Easy to remember.” 

“Okay,” You nod to yourself, tucking the promise to memory before looking at him more seriously. “Are you okay with intimacy?” 

He stares at you. 

“The fuck…?” 

“Kissing and hand-holding and all that other stuff.” 

“Is it necessary?” 

“Strictly speaking, no,” You look at him knowingly this time. He’s taken aback, but you’re always like this. You look through him, not at him. “Are you okay with it?” 

The implication is there. Do you want it? is the question that goes unasked. Too direct for his tastes. He feels heat spread through his body, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Yeah…’m fine with it.” 

Your smile is more genuine this time around. He turns away from you a little. 

“Okay. That’s everything out of the way. I’m gonna cuff your arms,” You say. It all feels a little sudden. He figures you’d mean business, but still - he’s not all that prepared. He’s had a week to mentally prepared but that feels like nothing compared to now.  There’s an authority to the way you talk now he isn’t sure he’s going to get used too. “Repeat your safewords to me when you turn around.” 

He frowns but listens. He puts his hands together in front of him, waiting for you to cuff him, shyness making him hot. 

“Uh. Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for go.” 

“Good boy,” You say so smoothly it almost rolls off of him. The cuffs go around his wrists, and Katsuki can feel the familiar sensation of losing his quirk. Now it’s just the both of you. “I’m expecting a little pushback, but generally - you’re to listen to me. Clear?” 

“God, fuck - yeah clear,” Katsuki says, feeling ticklish all of a sudden. “All this shitty foreplay is making me feel weird.” 

You wrap your arm around his midriff in a sudden movement, making him twitch. He can feel your cheek pressed against his chest as your hands hover over his waistband. He takes in a sharp inhale. 

“It’s good that you’re feeling anything.” You say, breath just barely above a whisper. “Gonna take this off,” 

He just nods, silently. It’s still on soft, but something is happening in his gut at least. You help him take his boxers down. You’ve probably seen him naked before, more than once. You two being attached at the hip was no joke. This time there’s this lingering anticipation that’s there, and that changes things. 

He steps out of his boxers. He’s naked and you’re clothed and his head feels like it’s spinning. Your hand guides him to the edge of the bed. He sits and watches you, but you don’t undress. 

The first kiss (second kiss) that you exchange with Katsuki is pleasant. You bend down to do it. It’s a chaste way to meet his lips, weirdly soothing while his stomach is starting to tie in knots. It’s a little surprising how..comfortable it is. Your mouth is soft, your lips taste a little like chapstick and you smell nice. You pull away to kiss the corner of his mouth, trailing down his jaw. 

Your thumbs draw over the shell of his ear, rubbing the lobe tender. You’re so different. The contrast in your normal personality is a little too much for him to reconcile with easily, but you brush over these things well enough. He looks away when you meet his eyes. 

“Do you wanna lay down or kneel?” 

His throat is tight. “...Don’t care.” 

You laugh a little to yourself, another kiss. “Lay down then. It’d probably be easier if you put your ass up but knowing you, I doubt it.” 

He blushes, annoyed that he’s so obviously predictable to you. 

The sheets are soft where he lays. You don’t join him on the bed at first. He just waits there cuffed as you shuffle around for things - lubes and toys and pillows. When you do return to him, you pat his side and slide a pillow underneath his back. He quickly regrets laying down, because god the position is fucking exposing. 

You get between his legs and settle there comfortably. A hand rests on his bare thigh, rubbing your thumb into smooth, muscled skin. His breath is hitched. You lean down and kiss his hip. Still no dice on the erection, but you don’t seem discouraged. 

You flip the lube open and let it pour onto your fingertips. It’s pink lube. This is mildly irritating, but saying anything will feed into your satisfaction so Katsuki bites his tongue. He watches it as you warm it in your hands, patting his leg with your clean hand. 

“Legs up,” You instruct. “And deep breath. Try not to tense.” 

“Just goin’ for it, huh?”

You don’t reply to that, but you do smile. 

It’s not his first rodeo. His second or third, but certainly not his first - but he’s never had it done for a reason like this. There was an exchange prior, that someone was putting something in him for their pleasure too. This isn’t for that. This is just for him, with your skilled hands and your oddly gentle tendencies that he doesn’t see any other time. That proves to be too much, makes his belly feel honeyed with lust. 

The warm, thick sensation of lubed fingers presses against the tight rim of muscle. He breathes and unclenches. Tries not to think too hard about anything. He’s desperate, too desperate. At this point, it’s hard to be prideful. Your hands are noticeably daintier than the ones he’s had in him prior. It’s…weirdly nice. Makes the process easier somehow. He’s reminded that you’re just you, and that makes him more nervous. 

“That’s it, baby,”  You hum, so soft it’s startling. The way the blood starts to rush in that familiar way nearly makes him sick. Oh, fuck. No way. “Oh?” 

No way. No fucking way. No way that’s what does him in. 

You pause. He takes in a deep breath, ready to say anything to defend himself. Humiliation spreads through his whole body. He can feel how hard he’s starting to burn, like the blood in his body is struggling to keep up with the desire and pump of his heart. His chest and face start to flush a familiar rose as he grits his teeth and closes his eyes. 

Weeks. Weeks and weeks of trying to figure this out. And it was you calling him baby, of all things, to get him at half-mast. 

He’s too afraid to open his eyes, but forces himself too. He’s expecting a smug laugh or sarcastic jab but instead you just look surprised. You stare at him, unblinking. He’s so startled he stares back. 

“Do you wanna…keep going?” 

He gets hard. Fuck. 

“S-shit,” He says, wishing he could cover his face with his hands properly. “Yeah,” 

He can’t read your expression at all. Annoying. You don’t brush over it though - but you don’t force him to acknowledge it either. Maybe you’re just focused on the fact he finally has something to work with and don’t want to ruin it by making him talk about his feelings. 

“Baby,” You say again, smooth and deliberate. There’s that twitch again, something pooling in his gut. He starts to feel nervous. You’re doing the same as before, stretching him and teasing the rim - getting him ready for something else. “You like bein’ my baby, Katsuki?” 

He opens his mouth, only to close it again. He tries to choke some word about, telling you go fuck yourself - but he always ends up looking at your face. Your lashes on your cheek. Soft touches and even softer words. He stops knowing what he wants at some point.

“Ugh,” His voice grows thicker. “Don’t ask me that,” 

(If he were more apt at honesty, he could admit to you that he just wants you. In whatever way. Sometimes you get like this, when you’re not screwing around - and you’re so good to him that it hurts. He likes your sarcasm and dryness. 

But he likes too when you’re this sweet on him too - even if that feels shameful as fuck. That feels like it’s crossing so many more lines that you’re usual self. He knows that better than anyone. It is crossing more lines than usual. 

He can’t help but think about it anyway.)

You laugh a little. His eyes go lidded as you continue to work him open. It’s a slow process. You circle his hole with your thumb each time before pushing in. You get one finger in without effort. The second one takes a little more. Another heaved breath and unclenching of his muscles. 

He hasn’t felt the sensation of something entering him in so long. He can’t remember when the last time was. He’s antsy as you pump your fingers in and out, stretching him slowly. You find the bottle with your free hand, flicking it open with your teeth and pouring lube onto him directly before you keep going. 

“That feel okay?” You mumbles

“Y-yeah. Feels fine,” He huffs, closing his eyes “Feels…good,” 

“It’ll feel better soon. Just need to,” You curve the two fingers inside of him up. They search and search and search until—

There. Shit, there. 

“Oh, shit,” He gasps, arching himself up as you rub it. You smile at him, pleased. “Fuck,” 

You whistle. Katsuki can feel his cock throb properly now, up at full attention. You don’t touch him though. Your other hand grips his thigh for support as you focus your wrist and energy on curling your fingers against his prostate. His stomach flutters, waist tightening.

He’s been fucked before, damn it, but this is different. This is controlled and concentrated. Your fingers are perfect in their motion, pinpoint pleasure making him break out into a feverishness. You’re annoyingly good at this. His whole nervous system feels like it’s being unraveled so slowly. Pulled apart like the slices of a fruit, something for you to pick off and eat.

His head feels like it’s full of cotton, tongue too big for his mouth. Thoughts clouded and inhibition lowered. Real pleasure. He hasn’t felt that in what has to be more than a month now. It’s overwhelming. He’s sensitive and muddy and acting stupidly - he’s well aware. It’s an out of body experience being so unwound in general but this after everything is overstimulating. 

God it feels good. How can anything feel this fucking good? 

His breathing is erratic, heart pumping trying to keep up with it. Euphoric little pricks start at his abdomen and shoot off through his whole body. Like the splintering ends of a falling star. 

He’s never had any orgasm that feels like it needs every muscle in his body to pump through him. It starts in his center and spreads out, melts him slowly. Usually the feeling of needing to cum is passing - just building pleasure until the orgasm hits and the high relaxes. His cock is leaking now with every little press along his insides. Little white dribbles of pre-cum sliding down his shift all the way down to his ass. He doesn’t want to think about how he looks, so he focuses on how it feels. 

“Fuck, that feels so good,” His voice almost gives. “Shit, I’m gonna cum if you don’t slow down.”

“You can cum if you want to, Katsuki,” As if to drive the point home by massaging his inner thigh, neglecting his cock “Guess you’re pretty sensitive inside, hm? Gonna make you cum like a girl,” 

His blush deepens.. 

“Haah, fuck - fuck I’m not sensitive. It’s just, hng. Been a while,” 

“Don’t be a liar or I won’t let you cum,” You tease. 

His eyes shoot wide, brows touching his hairline.  “Fuck, d-don’t you dare. .” 

You have the nerve to laugh at him. All things considered, maybe you’ve earned. “Just teasing. I’m awful but not that awful. “ 

“You’re not awful, fuck - just really,” He throws his head back against the sheets. “Need to cum, really need to—” 

“Gonna cum without even touching your cock,” You say, half-amused. He shudders when the realization dawns on him.“You’re so sweet.” 

He’s drooling. The strength goes out in his jaw as the feeling just builds and builds and builds. It goes on like it’ll never topple. 

When it does, it doesn’t feel so much like a rope unsnapping as much as it feels like everything is being pulled from under him. Like the loss of gravity. His abdomen goes tight, the anticipation of it making it impossible to breathe. So close, so close, so close. His brain feels shut off, mindlessly humping along air to capitalize on everything. You’re encouraging only eggs him on further. He lets out a garbled little noise, choking. His voice rasps as electricity flows through him. 

And he cums, there’s an orgasm - but nothing comes out. He cums so hard but his balls still feel so tight and full. It feels good but he’s still so fucking hard. It snaps him awake as his eyes open, and you’re staring at his cock a little awestruck. 

“Oh, poor baby,” You say - not exactly mocking him but not exactly being kind either. Katsuki stares at you lost and hazy. “A dry orgasm after all of that. That’s just cruel. 

He heaves. “What the….how am I supposed to?” 

His dick aches. Fuck he almost wants to cry. 

Your hand wraps around the base of his shaft in a sudden movement, making him hiss. He almost cusses you out. Sensitive, too sensitive. You put your thumb over the tip of his cock, more pre-cum leaking from it as you. You look mesmerized as it dribbles against your thumb

A long pause. 

“Hey,” Your expression is  serious. “Do you wanna fuck me?” 

“What?” 

“I’m really turned on right now, shit. I was planning on just helping you but, you didn’t cum yet and I’m...,” You’re looking at him so directly. His heart pounds. “You can say no,” 

Of course he wants to fuck you. That’s what he wants to say. He doesn’t know where he’d find the fucking gall. 

“....’s sensitive,” He says instead, flushing with embarrassment. You brighten up. “Just… give me a minute,” 

“I will but first,” You rummage through your items and pull out a plug. His eyes widen. “It’ll feel good, I promise.” 

He grumbles, but doesn’t reject you. You have some kind of miracle in you - so he feels more inclined to just give in to whatever you say. You look eager to do it. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. 

It’s easy enough to put the plug in when he’s already all soft. He’s still sensitive and swollen. He hisses as the cool metal of the plug slides into softened hole, before settling. You give him a little tap on his which he glares at you for. Your only response is laughter. 

There’s nothing to talk about while Katsuki watches you undress. You don’t take it all off - just your bottoms. It’s not that he has nothing on his mind. Just that… seeing you like that isn’t making him any less hard. He just… looks at you. Dumbly. You slide your shorts off in one go and your underwear along with it, and you’re all on display. 

It’s pretty. Your pussy is really pretty. A horrifyingly embarrassing thing for him to think but it’s true. There’s a fine layer of hair on your mound that he likes. You’re dripping wet like you said you were, and that doesn’t make the situation any easier. You give him a little smug grin as you settle over his lap. He stares at you completely absent-minded, flushed. 

“Like what you see?” You tease. He’s too struck to lie to you. 

“Yeah,” He rasps. He’s out of his mind right now. He blames it on his dick. “I wish I could take these fuckin’ cuffs off.” 

You look at him a little surprised. “You don’t like being cuffed and restrained?” 

His ears feel hot, heat prickling up his skin. “Didn’t say that just,” He groans even trying to say it. “...Wanna touch you,” 

He trails off. You use your hand to turn his face back to you, cupping his jaw as you bend forward to kiss him. He stares at you wide-eyed, making a noise of surprise. This kiss is different from all the others. Deeper, with more feeling. He gets into it, lifting his head to kiss you back. 

When you pull away, you’re all fluttered lashes and adoration. 

“After I drain your dick dry,” You say with a confidence that astounds him. “I’ll take them off and let you fuck me proper. But you have to tell me you want that, first. Do you wanna fuck me, baby?” 

“Shit. Y-yeah,” He nods, feeling absolutely swept up in your pace. 

“Say it.” 

“I wanna fuck you, dammit,” He stutters through the last of his sentence. “Don’t make me beg, my dick is going to blow off if you keep torturing me.” 

You laugh good naturedly and he feels a little proud that he made you laugh. The thought that he’s beyond whipped wipes the smile off his face completely, but whatever. 

You pull back, sitting up as you examine his cock. You hold it up to you, weighing your options. 

“I’m too horny to open myself up. I’m just gonna sit on it, ‘kay? Don’t buck your hips up,” 

He opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his mouth. The warm, wet heat of your cunt is immediately overstimulating. He groans so gutterally it startles him. Like it’s punched out of him. This is the only pressure his hard cock has gotten in months and it’s making him feel like he’s on fire. 

You don’t give him a chance to cover. You lean over him as you maneuver his cock to your entrance with all disregard for his sanity. You hiss as the tip finds the spot. Fuck you’re wet. Your insides are so soft, so sticky - but you’re still so damn tight. 

As you promised you go slowly. It doesn’t help him losing his mind. Worsened by the fact he can see you on top of him, all bated breaths and shaky moans. There must be a dull pain, but you only give him a smile as you get the first inch. 

“You’re big,” You say breathlessly. His cock twitches to life. “Feels fucking good. Shit, that’s amazing. Haha, I can feel you so deep already.” 

“Please stop talking, before I, haah,” 

“Don’t cum yet,” You demand, lowering yourself further and further until you’ve bottomed out. Katsuki feels fucking crazy. “Let me get my fill first.” 

“Ngh, easier said than fucking done,” 

You just laugh. “Try your hardest, Mr. Hero. Show off your endurance, hm?” 

He groans as you start to move. You really don’t regard him at all. You lean over him with one hand and use your other to tease and toy with your clit as you ride his cock with reckless abandon. The room is quick to fill with noise - the sound of skin slapping skin, the skin sticking where your hips meet his thighs. 

 You’re moaning in little broken waves. He’s not going to last if he listens to you anymore. 

He’s biting the inside of his cheek trying not to cum, but you don’t make it easy. You’re riding him with so much force, using him. Your pussy is so tight it’s gripping him, sucking him dry. A vice-like grip, sticky and pliant over the hard curve of his cock. Everytime you bounce and throw your ass a little harder onto him, he can feel you. Feel himself and  how deep he is. His hands tighten into fists where they’re cuffed in front of him. 

He’s never been… used like this. But he doesn’t hate it the way you disregard him to chase your own pleasure while being so generally mindful of his own. You take and take and take but you make it feel so good. 

It’s not helped by the plug in his ass, brushing against his prostate every single time you move. Makes him jolt. Every fiber and nerve in his body is wound as tight as it can possibly go. All of his strength, sanity, and focus he has left in him is trying not to cum, not to buck his hips up and rut into you like a stupid animal no matter how much he wants too. 

He can feel you start to cum before you even tell him. Your walls pulse with need and your movement starts to get slower. The grip you have holding you up weakens slightly. 

“Gonna cum. Fuck baby, I’m gonna cum,” You say with a pant. You open your eyes and look down on him “Cum with me, okay? Don’t hold it in,” 

The words alone trigger a reaction. But with everything else, it’s like Katsuki explodes. Weeks worth of tension in his body, in his muscles, in his everything  - burst at the seams. You cum and he follows you nearly in succession. The hard pulsing of your swollen cunt suck around him like a vice and he goes practically limp feeling his dick finally drain. 

He cums and he can’t stop cumming. Pumps out so much white hot seed his head starts to cloud. He fucks up into you, sloppy and dumb. Chasing his high as he pours every ounce of his load into your pussy without so much as a modicum of shame. A month of dryness overwritten by the most intense orgasm he’s ever had in his fucking life. He doesn't know how long he stays there, painting your walls with his spend. It just goes on forever, longer than he’s ever experienced. 

He has his eyes closed as he goes limp. Fucking hell. 

It takes him a while to go soft again. When he finally does and returns to consciousness, he’s still nestled inside you. You give him a smile when his eyes finally open, leaning forward to kiss his hairline. 

“Still all there?” 

His voice is hoarse like he’s been screaming. “I feel like I fucking died,” 

You giggle. 

“So… no?” 

“Kind of. Barely. What the fuck is up with you.” He says laying his head back, sweat dripping down his back. “Shit.” 

“Did you like it?” 

He gives you an unimpressed look as you laugh. 

“I’m glad.” You say softly. You’re warm. God he’s down bad. “We have a lot to talk about later. You should take a little break for now.” 

He nods in agreement to both things before pausing. “For now..?” 

“You thought we were done?” You say with a tilted head. He gapes. “I thought you knew I was more ruthless than that.” 

He groans. 

“You’re insane.” 

You chuckle, leaning down to kiss him. 

“You love me.” 

He lets you kiss him some more and doesn’t bother denying it. 

[phas3d]

Crushing on You || Slytherin Boys

type :: fluff

tw/cw :: none

contains :: draco malfoy, tom riddle, mattheo riddle, theodore nott, lorenzo berkshire

summary :: cute little loser things they do because they’re so down bad for you. inspired by the fucking masterpiece that is ONE DAY ONE NIGHTTTT AHHHHHH by bts ofc. some of these might be creepy but I think they’re cute

DRACO MALFOY

It’s always an enemies to lovers for him, he literally cannot get crushes on someone unless he hates their guts

Probably cause he got daddy issue but meh, we’re not solving that today

He HATED your guts, he has literally thought of getting a hit-man on you before

You’re his rival in every single aspect, even more than Harry is

Academics, you’re better

Athletics, you’re better

Clubs and community, you’re WAY better

He hates you and makes fun of you every single day and time he gets the chance

Even worse, Harry, Hermione, and Ron all come to defend you which makes him even more mad

But overtime, his aggressive staring and cursing under his breath turned into admiration

It all started when one day during Quidditch practice, some annoying 3rd year thought it would funny to mess with Draco’s broom

He ended up malfunctioning during practice, almost speeding into the walls of the school at astounding speeds

But luckily, you came just in time and yanked him off his broom, letting his broon get destroyed into the castle. But he was unharmed and was wrapped securely in your arms

From then on, he’s had a huge crush on you and all of his hatred turned into admiration

His aggressive stares were a bit softer and his insults had a hidden compliment in it

Everyone thinks that maybe he just feels bad and is finally regretting how rude he’s been to you, which is kinda true

He’s always watching over you, kinda like a stalker (because he is one)

He learns your daily routine, your favorite foods, clothing brands, makeup products, skincare routine, everything

Goes as far to hire and pay different students to watch after you if he’s busy

Somehow, you never notice and just think that people are nosy

He takes his research really far though, like straight up creepy

Draco gets his hands on all of your medical history, every single thing about you

He learns what your allergic too, what your rising sign is, how much you weigh at every check up

When he finds out that you’re anemic, he crushes up pills and sneakily adds it to your food to make sure you’re healthy

Does this with other things too, like Vitamin C, iron pills, etc etc etc

But in the end, it helps you a lot and makes you feel much better

And it makes him happy to know that you’re better because of him

One day, you get asked out by none other than Harry Potter

Instantly, Draco is enraged and everything in his sight is going to die a painful death

He feels betrayed by you despite treating you like utter shit for so many years

Not the mention he’s also gotten with maybe two or three other girls

He plans to ruin your date and he succeed

He burns Harry’s outfit, posses someone to spill hot tea on you, and even goes as far to sneak food you’re allergic to into your food

The date ends with you crying back to your dorm and Harry beating himself up

From this, Draco is happy and prepares to come and play knight-in-shining armor for you

But once again, he sees Harry comforting you and giving you a tight hug

Draco is literally about to kill Harry for this, cause ain’t no way he just did ALL of that for Harry to swoop in again

“You can’t take her! I loved her first! I love her more than your stupid four-eyed could ever!” He shouts at Harry

So yeah…. He just confessed out of rage

TOM RIDDLE

Never ever EVER will he get caught lacking for someone

This man keeps all of his lovey dovey feelings to himself, bro literally got a diary 😭

But when he saw you, and just like all of those dumb movies he’s seen, he was instantly love struck by you

He never knew that this was possible, he’s instantly disgusted with himself and does his best to the diminish the crush

But it won’t go away… you’re just perfect in every way

He’s so frustrated that he genuinely thinks of just killing you

But, thank GOD, he decides to not kill you and just become a stalker 😊

He finds out your entire schedule and walking path just so he can get small glimpses of you

Whenever you see him or make eye contact with him, he looks at you like you killed his entire family and he’s coming for revenge

But he’s actually drooling and hearing the most beautiful classical piano in the background

He sees you as a god/goddess that blessed him with your presence

Tom has always seen himself as the chosen one, the one given enough power to destroy and fix the world

And he sees you as his future Queen to the brand new world he will make :) kinda romanticccc

Finds all of your social media and stalks it for hours

He makes one of those fake burner accounts that looks like a bot

So when he follows you, you think nothing of it

But in reality, he’s watching you in depth

Bro finds your SPOTIFY and YOUR AO3 ACCOUNT… That’s how crazy he is

He made an entire playlist of every song you’ve ever posted and mentioned

He listens to it daily :)

Honestly, he’s just like me fr

He’s just a lil crazy and wants to know EVERYTHING about you

If you ever come up to him or are assigned partners, oh my god he’s gonna act so cold

Acts like he hates your guts and despises your existence

But in reality, he’s gonna thank every single religious figure out there for blessing him with allowing him to be in your space

MATTHEO RIDDLE

When he first saw you, he thought you were fine as hell

He was just trying to get into your pants

But when he tried to make a move, you scoffed and shoved him away

Instantly, he was attracted to you

He’s only been rejected like twice, and both times it ended with them begging on their knees for him

He was about to do the exact same thing to you

Unlike the others, he’s the only one that shows it and actively makes a move

Constantly flirts with you, no matter the time or day

Kinda like Filipino courtingggg 🤭

Finds all of your classes and walks you to all of them

Even though you want to walk with your friends, he won’t let you and always pulls you away from them

He skips his classes constantly just so he can be with you and flirt with you more

Even if you keep rejecting him or even slap him, he won’t stop. He loves when girls play hard to get

Sends you flowers, they’re a little bit ugly, but it’s the thought that counts

Sends you chocolates and stuffed animals to the point where a whole section of your dorm is dedicated to the pile of 65 stuffed animals you’ve received

He can’t really write poems or love songs, but he sends you little drawings that are barely readable

He makes little stick figures to represent you guys, one that’s super tall with abs (him) and another one that has hair and a triangle body (you)

Although you can barely understand his chicken scratch drawings, it makes you giggle from how stupid they are

Sometimes it’s him fighting off dragons, or you drowning and he saves you, or him being a rich king and you’re his queen

Never ever gives up on you, no matter what

Will fight off every single competition he has, he doesn’t care if they end up paralyzed

One time, someone older than you guys by one year tried to ask you out

Because he was a grade above you guys, he thought Mattheo wouldn’t fight him

But nopppeeee he was dead wrong, Mattheo sent him to the hospital wing repeatedly for a whole month

Even though the poor guy learned his lesson, Mattheo was mad that not only did he have the balls to ask you out but to also doubt Mattheo’s strength

Surprisingly, he cares a lot towards your friends as well and never leaves him out of the picture which is sweet

If you get a 100 roses from him (an almost daily occurrence), then he’ll get your best friends a small bouquet of 10-12 roses in return

If you get a huge chocolate box of the most expensive chocolates, then your friends get a small little wrapped box of a few chocolates

It’s really sweet and it makes your friends see that he’s actually pretty cool and sweet

Definitely goes around and lies to people by saying you two are dating

Eventually, everyone is fucking tired of you guys and basically sees you as a couple

One day, your friends say they’re gonna have a girls day and ask you to meet them at this nice restaurant

But surprise! The girls lied, you got all dressed up for nothing :(

But surprise again! Mattheo pops up. Your friends set you up with him to help you two to finally start dating

THEODORE NOTT

He’s had plenty of one night stands, weird situation-ships, and more but with you, he’s never had that

You’ve been his friend for ages, before he got hot and ripped

And he appreciated you a lot for that, he felt like he could finally be himself with someone

Over the years, he’s slowly gotten more and more comfortable with you

When he was going to bed, he thought to himself “I wouldn’t mind marrying (y/n)”

He smiled as he said that, about to sleep until his eyes shot wide open as he repeated what he said

“I wouldn’t mind marrying (y/n)??!???!!?”

When he realized he likes you, he’s a complete idiot

Normally with girls, he’s super smooth and charismatic - but that’s only because he’s trying to get into their pants

With you, you knew all his tactics and how awful of a person he can and HAS been over the years

You’ve seen him cheat, yell, and sometimes be borderline abusive to his past girlfriends

He starts to worry about how you perceive him and wants to make sure he seems like a good option

He becomes so awkward around you, it’s painful

Starts to be way nicer to you than he ever has been and becomes a lot more chivalrous

He takes off his jacket and shields you from rain, if anyone teases you he’ll get really defensive, he spoon feeds you at times, always pays for your lunch and dinner

Even goes as far as to take you on shopping sprees with no limit - even if you say no he’ll just keep track of everything you look at and buy it for you

Gets you flowers every week and always excuses it as “this is what best friends always do”

You two are basically dating… just without an official title

He’s TERRIFIEDDDD to ask, he’s literally had break downs over his fear of you rejecting him

Please just confess to him yourself, I’m not sure when he’ll get the balls and confidence to do it

LORENZO BERKSHIRE

He’s the most sane out of all of them all 😭

Literally the one line from Taylor Swift, “in a world of boys he’s a gentleman” AHAAAAHHHHH

He gets a crush on you after you two are partnered for a long term project

Loves how smart and dedicated you are, it inspires him to be the same way

Sometimes he purposely acts dumb just so that you’ll help him

Always pays attention to the small details and everything you do

Spoils you ROTTEN omg

Will take you out to go shopping with him and he whips out his black card and casually drops 25k just on clothes and makeup for you

He loves the feeling of spoiling you, makes him feel like your future husband

Praises you for everything, even the bare minimum

“Woah! I like your outfit!” And you’re literally wearing the required school uniform

He wants to date you and call you his own, but he knows he’s a fuck boy deep down

Every time he’s dated a girl, he’s ended up breaking up with them because he can’t commit or just straight up cheating on them

He’s very confident that he could change and be better, but he wants to be perfect before he dares you

Because he sees you as perfect :”) and you only deserve the best

You help motivate him to become better, even though you didn’t know you did

Starts going to the gym, works harder in school, tries to be more nice to everyone

Eventually, he’ll get the guts to ask you out for the Yule ball but he’ll keep saying you’re going as “friends”

But one day you’ll overhear him and his group talking about how fat of a crush he has on you

They all tease him and call him a simp, loverboy, everything

But when he sees that you’ve been listening the entire time, he’s so reddddd

Tries to hide his face and runs away, he avoids you for a little bit

He’s so so so scared of not being good enough or even ruining his relationship with you

He’d genuinely be okay with just being your best friend for all his life whilst loving you, even though it would hurt him so badly

Please just accept this boy 🙏 tell this man he’s enough and that you love him

read more here! :D

[xyrill]

i ate an edible

so i made one piece admirals costco headcanons

have some doodles i made beforehand lolzies

bors

i feel like borsalino would obliberate a costco hot dog! they are literally $1.50 in the US! like wtf he would totally buy 5 or more, eat a few, and put some in the fridge.

he'd also buy a ton of snacks. maybe even $100 worth of dried nuts, fruits, and chips.... a junkie since i'd call him a stoner

he'd also buy ramen packs to stock; damn i feel like he would just eat ramen everyday-- restaurant ramen, home made ramen, and mf instant ramen

go to the optometrist section, try out sunglasses, but never buy them because he's attached to his yellow ass sunglasses

buy alcohol on sale

frequents costco with another admiral-- he goes by himself if he has to buy groceries

sak

sakazuki would totally fucking demolish a chicken bake. but honestly, like buy one to eat for lunch and buy a frozen pack from the freezer section of costco and reheat them for the next following lunches.

he would also sometimes buy the $5 rotisserie chicken. they have the best seasoning MMM

the karen of the admirals. complain to the manager if his rotisserie chicken is taking more than 15 MINUTES to cook

buys a pack of beer every week

he goes by himself and gets annoyed when someone asks to tag along

kuzan

kuzan? he would absolutely love to prepare dinners and buy bulk.

he'd eat up an entire potato salad.

buy fruit and fresh produce

even hit up the bakery

stock up on gift cards like a smart man

he stocks up on vitamins, probably even buys fish oil pills

fujitora

frequents the clothes section

he would dress up like a dad/uncle, buying the best flip flops/sandals

he'd always buy the 24 pack eggs or more

the very opposite of sakazuki, he'd be the most patient person with busy employees

self checkout but with the help of an employee

try out the occasional massage chairs

buy packs of melatonin gummies :)

aramaki

this fucker doesn't even have a costco card

he would sneak in with another admiral or pair up with some random person with a card to get in

he buys all the toys and cool looking comic books at the book section

he would only try samples and buy snacks

he gets a cart, not just to put his stuff in, but to have the right of way and be fast.

sengoku

would buy gift cards to restaurants -- he would definitely love olive garden

always asks an employee where stuff is

a bit impatient, especially if he's behind a slow person walking

looks at all the books

goes to the produce section just to find food for his goat :)

he buys ugly/cute stuffed animals

he'd be a fucking squishmallow collector omg...

garp

buys sweaters and clothes for koby from the clothes section

fuck, he probably loves koby more than asl >_> (probably not true)

would go to the headphones section and listen to the random songs that it plays

ACTUALLY, he would bring koby around in costco and be an absolute dad, embarrassing him with whatever chance he gets

frequents coscto with sengoku

he would go to costco with sengoku if he loses his costco card-- which is almost all the time maybe

edit: there are so many grammar mistakes oh my god HAHAHA

[shegatsby]

Love Thy Enemy

 Summary; Y/N Atreides had always been a stranger to the entire galaxy, her bed wasn’t her bed, her home wasn’t her home due to the fact that she was sent to accompany and be sisters with Irulan. She had limited access to her actual family and over the years they grew distant. She thought she would be like Reverend Mother, alone, yet powerful, and soon she would realize that there was no need of being alone when a wild creature had his eyes on her for a long time.

A/n; How i missed yu guys! Finally im free from family issues and i can continue this series. I hope you enjoy it. SMUT in the future chapters, i promise, don't forget to share your thoughts with me. xxx

TAG LIST IS OPEN! (let me know if i forgot to tag you)

Warnings; Baron being a weirdo.

Words; 3.584K

Chapter Five ''A Delicious Meal''

Feyd-Rautha Harkonenn didn’t know what to do, she was in his arms.. at least one of his long time wishes came true but he would’ve preferred a better scenario, he carried her to his king sized bed, covered in black silk, as soon as he laid her gently he called for his most trusted doctor. The man was tiny and bald, his eyes were jet black and had no whites, he had been serving Harkonnens for years. Feyd was standing a step away, watching carefully, he watched the doctor examine Y/N, Feyd’s eyes never leaving her body and to see if the doctor ever dared to touch her inappropriately. ‘’Due to change of climate and stress Lady Y/N’s body lost significant amount of vitamins, it is most likely she has been skipping meals. I’m going to give her some pills to boost her energy, she must also finish her meals.’’ He placed a container of pills on the side table and bowed to leave, when the family doctor left Feyd found himself pulling a chair to observe Y/N sleep. Their fight in his twisted mind, the thought he had was he was right till she fainted into his arms. Maybe she was… No.

He dismissed these strange thoughts. She was in his domain an she had to follow his rules and obey. ‘’Little dove..’’ he caressed her long Y/H/C hair, he had  always been enamored by her lush hair, so beautiful and vivid. Whenever he got a chance of seeing her he would observe her hair and how it bounced and rippled like the waves of Caladan, her home.. not anymore. As children, Feyd, Y/N, Irulan and sometimes Paul were left alone when adults were talking business, their nannies would be present of course but they were free to play together. Feyd-Rautha would chase her, pull her hair to annoy her. He loved to get reactions out of her whilst they grew up their interactions got limited. They had to be present at certain meetings such as balls, ceremonies etc.

His mind wandered to a distant memory…

At his 16th birthday it was Feyd’s first time at the arena, it was a Harkonnen tradition, so the important houses were invited. He had been training for years and it was his time to shine, bring fame and glory to his family and also prove a ‘’certain someone’’ that he had become a man, someone she could notice finally. When he entered the arena his animalistic lust for blood made his body electric, the black sun was at the top, making the arena look like a glowing white desert. He had his black uniform and combat boots which made him look much taller, he could hear the crowd’s cheer, they were ordered to cheer for him but still, he bathed in it.

He greeted the houses who were seated at the private chambers, he could see her

Time to impress.

He didn’t forget to activate his shield and the games began, prisoners were released from the doors to the arena, they were injected sedatives to make sure Feyd would be safe. He was there to butcher.

With every kill the white sand got covered in blood and stick to his boots, with every kill he was cheered, celebrated. At the end of the duel he was dipped in his enemies’ blood head to toe. He bowed and let the fame wash him away in ecstasy. He gained the popularity of his people and the houses that came to watch him. He was sure he was going to get marriage deals one after the other. When he lifted his head, he noticed that her seat was empty, she was gone. Why? Before the feast he was determined to find her and confront her.

He bathed very quickly, got dressed and left his chambers. He asked guards of her guest chambers and got no answers, he tried her maids and again, no answer. He was irritated, where could she be?

‘’My Lord, you’re asked by Reverend Mother.’’ A servant came to inform him, he had to put this pursuit aside for a while.

Reverend Mother was in her chambers, she travelled here with Emperor’s politicians. She was standing, her long black dress sweeping the clean floor. Her face was covered in laced veil, she waited for servants to leave them alone. ‘’Activate silence.’’ She ordered and a shield surrounded them, no one could hear them, ‘’You have fought well.’’ She began, ‘’Our order puts faith in you, young Harkonnen.’’ He didn’t interrupt her, unlike Rabban, he had wits about him. ‘’You would be a worthy match for one of our sisters We are watching you and her closely. You may be dismissed.’’ He left.

He had a feeling that sister is someone he had his eyes on her since they were children. With a smirk he roamed the halls of his fortress of black and white. He had an idea, his legs moved towards the chapel, almost no one prayed or believed in something other than violence on this planet.

The room was silent, there she was on her knees praying. Her long violet dress bunched up on her knees, he watched her pray. It made him curios, what was she praying for? He wanted to give her a reason to be on her knees but he kept his eccentric ideas to himself and keep his wide awake manhood in check. Ever since venom of being a teenager entered his body he had fun having these thoughts of her, of course he had his concubines to warm his bed and yet they weren’t enough, he had a thirst only she could quench.

Y/N rose to her feet as she finished praying, he cleared his throat to get her reaction, she turned to face him. He was standing tall, hands clasped behind his back, ‘’I have noticed your absence at my coming of age celebration Lady Y/N.’’ he began, his snake like eyes trapped her in, ‘’Is something to matter?’’ he was genuinely wondering. Her gaze was distant, he could see the work of Bene Gesserit on her, ‘’Maybe I didn’t want to see prisoners getting killed.’’ She replied coldly, ‘’But you promised to-‘’ she cut him short, ‘’I have seen eough. Good day, Na-Baron.’’ And she left the chapel, leaving him in shock… no one dared to stood up to him before and there she was with her lioness fire.

Y/N was gaining consciousness, opening her eyes slowly, the room was too quiet, her eyes travelled in the room to see him sitting on a chair, in reverse position and watching her, his hands resting on the back of the chair loosely, she was in his bed chambers. ‘’What happened?’’ she moved to rest her back on the headboard, pulling her legs towards her, ‘’Change of climate, stress and skipping meals.. you will be under surveillance. I’ve  ordered your maids to bring your belongings here, you’re going to stay with me from now on.” She could feel the heat on her face, ‘’But Harkonnen traditions say that-‘’ Feyd bolted to his feet, ‘’To hell with the traditions, your health comes first,’’ when he noticed the questioning look from her, he added ‘’you are to birth my heirs. End of discussion.’’ With the mention of heirs her blood ran cold in her veins, she had been specifically avoiding the concept ever since her fate was decided for her, it seemed Feyd was the opposite. She wondered if she could leave after birthing his heirs… her heart told her that she was  humane enough to stay and care for her offspring, she couldn’t abandon them, unlike Feyd she wasn’t a monster.

Y/N Atreides watched him take his leave, after the door closed she took advantage of being alone in his chambers, his bedroom consisted of a balcony, metal wardrobe, a skin of a bear on the floor, it made her sick. The fire place was empty since it was a warm day, her maids and servants started o carry her belongings one by one, she didn’t mind them and moved to the living room side, the room was more colorful than the bedroom, by color; black, white, dark blue and grey here and there. A long table which was made of Giedi Prime’s famous tree, Pilingitam, placed close to the large window overlooking the city, the tree’s color was lime-green and it gave a strange pop of color to the room. A basket of fresh fruit just placed by a servant girl, she looked shy, her head bowed, not making eye contact ‘’Our Na-Baron has ordered to keep fresh fruit for everyday my Lady Atreides.’’ Y/N could see the blush on the girls pale cheeks, ‘’I understand.’’ She also noticed how other servants’ behavior changed with this knowledge, Y/N deduced that they weren’t used to see their Na-Baron being ‘’thoughtful’’.

She was suspicious of the fruit basket, she picked a green grape and smelled it, it had no unusual smell, she bit the grape and it’s sweet juice immediately filled her mouth, Y/N was stunned, it was delicious, she assumed the fruit is exported from somewhere else hence Giedi Prime wasn’t known for its luscious fruit trees. She sat on the chair, turned to watch the scenery before her on the large window and ate.

‘’My Na-Baron!’’ Feyd-Rautha’s servant ran, out of breath, he was in the training grounds, sharpening his favorite blade, ‘’Lady Y/N settled perfectly and ate the fruit you sent you had sent.’’ He smiled wickedly, sowing teeth, he saw his reflection on the shiny blade which was about to be dipped in blood, he nodded to the servant and dismissed him. He focused on his training all day until his uncle Baron Vladimir Harkonnen marched in through the heavy doors, the doors smacked against the stone walls and made him turn to his uncle. ‘’What is the meaning of this?!’’ his uncle yelled, floating in the air thanks to his high tech machine, ‘’What do you mean uncle?’’ Feyd pretended like he had no idea, they were under the Giedi Prime’s black sun, the heat didn’t compare to the heat of Arrakis yet it was enough to finish his training and together they moved to a private room. ‘’I’ve heard that Atreides girl will be staying with you. Tell me,’’ he pressed to lean in, Feyd had to look up, he hated looking up at him all his life. ‘’Dear nephew, do you care for this girl?’’ he had to be careful, Feyd bought time by cleaning his sweat covered chest, his muscles attracted the Baron’s attention for a second, he had to be careful, if his uncle suspected anything she would be in danger, he loved to torment her and she was his to torment, not someone else’s. His uncle had no tolerance for ‘’caring’’ his only passion was to keep his house’s powerful stance and leave a might legacy behind.

‘’All my life I’ve fulfilled your orders uncle.’’ Feyd began, he throw the towel away, his blue eyes focused on his uncle with distaste and fire, ‘’You and witches of Bene Gesserit told me to marry the Atreides girl and that’s what I intend to do, you ask for heirs to leave our house one day and that is what I shall do.’’ He explained his voice cold and uninterested. ‘’She is only an object to use and cultivate and I, as her husband-to-be, have to keep her physical health at best, her mental health is not my interest.’’ He didn’t break his composure, looking up at his uncle and he bowed to him, to show loyalty. ‘’That’s my boy. You may rise.’’ Baron left him there, pleased.

Feyd sat on the stone bench, his sweat cooling down, he had to be extra careful when it came to his uncle, Baron Vladimir was known for his cunning mind and sinister plans. Feyd had to be able to protect his wife and children in the future and it seemed near… he thought he could manage his uncle’s plans…

Y/N Atreides didn’t do much that day, she was still tired and in shock. She didn’t want to remember his gruesome ‘’gift’’ or their fight, her main problem at the moment was Feyd’s decision of staying together… in his chambers… she found herself pacing in his bedroom, the sun was setting, leaving the landscape of industry in darkness, she could see the lamps in the city were being lit one by one, at a distance ships were landing or taking off, those were the spice ships, all over the galaxy every living being’s destiny was bound to spice… including her. The door was knocked and opened, she turned to face the servant, she assumed it was a servant because Na-Baron had no manners such as knocking on the door. The servant bowed, ‘’Dinner shall be served soon, our Lord Na-Baron is expecting her ladyship to join him.’’ She had no choice but to obey his request. ‘’Tell my maids to come and dress me.’’ Her plan was to be silent, eat and go to sleep… somewhere except his bed.

Her personal maids dressed her in black, they said she had to represent her husband-to-be’s house, she despised the color and yet when she looked at herself on the tall mirror, she looked powerful. The dress was long with long sleeves, had a nice cut on her chest, her hair was braided Atreides style, loose and fluffy, her maids left and she approached to the door of the living room.

The fire place was lit, he was standing by the window, his back turned to her, his hands clasped at his back, Y/N literally saw his ears prick up like a hellhound. He turned confidently, his posture straight and he is covered in black clothing just like her, ‘’Finally.’’ He greeted her with a victorious smile, eyes roaming over her body, she felt his blue orbits shooting at her, table was set, candles lit. Did he really made the servants light candles instead of glowglobes? She couldn’t ignore how the candles changed the mood in the room, more serene yet with a touch of expectation of something new.

He moved to the other side of the tale to move her chair for her to sit, without a word she walked and sat, as he was pushing the chair back to its place she could feel his breath on her neck, burning her, ‘’I have to admit, you look ravishing in that dress.’’ His breath lingered for few more seconds which felt eternity, she kept her silence, eyes forward, he chuckled to himself and moved to the other side of the table and sat. ‘’How is your health?’’ he casually asked, getting ready to eat the meat before him, her eyes moved to the table, she also had rare cooked meat on her plate, when she moved the meat eith her fork she could see the blood under it, it made her sick so she looked up to him, Feyd was waiting for an answer, he noticed her expression change, ‘’I feel much better.’’ She replied, Feyd began to eat like a man starved, ‘’I had my training all day,’’ she didn’t ask but he was explaining anyways, ‘’fighting makes me starve like wolves.’’ It seemed so, she was in utter shock how he can eat that rare meat… Feyd remembered his conversation earlier with his uncle and went silent.

‘’Start eating,’’ he noticed that she still didn’t touch her food, ‘’or,’’ he continued but Y/N cut him off, ‘’Or you will kill another servant to teach me a lesson?’’ she sarcastically said, still traumatized by that incident. His presence made her feel uneasy, he was the reason why she had to leave everything behind and it made her blood boil in despise. Y/N heard Feyd’s chuckle, ‘’Or I will feed you myself.’’ He finished.

A mental image flashed in her mind’s eye, thanks to Bene Gesserit mind work she could imagine more vividly than normal people, in the image Feyd was sitting next to her, very close, abnormally close and feeding her slowly, wiping her lips with his thumb and sucking it, there was a sexual undertone to this image, she pinched her skin to wake up.

‘’No, thank you.’’ Couldn’t help but wonder his idea, she began eating fruit, totally avoiding the bloody meat, her senses were high so she could smell the blood unfortunately, ‘’Is settling in over?’’ Feyd asked, he was leaning on his chair, holding a goblet of red wine, his eyes shining like diamonds under the candle lights, ‘’We are disobeying the traditions. We should unite when we get married. I do not wish to attract unwanted attention than it is.’’ Y/N was being honest, ‘’Unite,’’ he said with a wicked smile, ‘’We can unite right now on this very tableif you please, little dove.’’ He drank his wine watching her startled expression, her slightly opened pretty mouth but she recovered quickly, ‘’I am settling in just fine.’’ She ignored his comment. ‘’I wish to learn the fortress better, so that I won’t have to rely on my maids to take me to places.’’

‘’I can show you around, I am sure you will get used to your new home.’’ He finished his drink and poured another, ‘’This isn’t home.’’ Y/N said under her breath, a sudden sadness washed her body up and down like the waves of Caladan. ‘’Hm?’’ he pretended like he didn’t hear, he wanted her to say it but she surprised him, ‘’Nothing.’’

‘’You don’t like rare cooked meat I take it?’’ he was taking notes of her likes and dislikes, ‘’I like it well cooked.’’ Feyd pressed a button on the table and in seconds a servant man rushed in immediately, ‘’My wife prefers her meat well cooked. If a mistake like this ever happenes again I shall serve her the kitchen staffs’ heads instead.’’ He wasn’t even looking at the servant, he was focused on the dessert he was eating, Y/N apologized quietly to the servant man who was shaking, carrying her plate back to the kitchens to bring what Na-Baron requested.

‘’I am not your wife.’’ Y/N protested in annoyance,

‘’Not yet.’’ He replied and looked to see her intransigent eyes, so fiery it confused Feyd, did he want her to rebel against him and be dominant or did he just wanted to crush her soul to his feet?

The servant brought back her table, ‘’It looks delicious, thank you.’’ She noticed how the servant’s expression change into confusion, Y/N Atreides was slightly impacting them in a good way. The servant them alone.

‘’Do we have to have dinner together every night?’’

‘’Why?’’ he placed his fork on the metal plate, wiping his mouth with a black piece of cloth, ‘’You don’t find me pleasant to look at?’’ he teased, trying to get a reaction out of her, ‘’The table looks more pleasant.’’ She replied coldly, her hands on her lap, sitting tall and immobile, ‘’I have to make sure you finish your plate.’’ He got up from his seat coming to her, ‘’I want strong sons.’’ He added and pulled the chair next to hers. ‘’You forget, I am a Bene Gesserit witch, I choose the gender of the baby.’’ She was watching his movements, what was he doing? He got the fork and knife and cut her meat into cubes, ‘’What are you doing?’’ she looked puzzled, was her mental image becoming true?

‘’Like I have said, I want strong children and a strong mother to take care of them. Now,’’ he got a cube of meat to the fork, ‘’open wide.’’

Y/N could feel the heat rising to her face, ‘’I can eat-‘’

‘’I don’t trust you.’’ He was so forward it caught her off guard, his face held the truth, her Bene Gesserit training was yelling her in her mind, ‘’He doesn’t trust you that you can take care of yourself on your own here..’’

She was trying to find a correct path to manipulate him,

‘’Give in.’’ a voice in her head said,

And she opened wide. ‘’Little dove, see, some things are so easy when you let your guard down.’’ He was close to her, feeding her, the meat was delicious.

‘’Giedi Prime isn’t welcoming to outsiders. His voice was low and she can see he was telling the truth, he got another cube of meat when she swallowed, ‘’Good?’’ he asked as he fed her again, Y/N nodded, she realized how hungry she was, the juice of the meat running down at the corner of her mouth, Feyd wiped it with his thumb and licked it clean. Their eyes never leaving as if it is a contest, in silence she let him feed her.

‘’Good girl.’’ He praised, and watched the effect it had on her. Their eyes refused to part, she didn’t want him to think that she was afraid of him, she wanted to insert her presence to him but his aura was too strong to bare. ‘’What did you mean by Giedi Prime not being welcoming?’’ she noticed he was trying to say something without being obvious, he placed the fork on the plate, leaned back on the chair. ‘’It is easy to make enemies here, one wrong move and you lose. You’re a smart girl, you can figure it out.’’ And he stood up,

‘’Shall we sleep?’’

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[tht0nesimp]

Expectations

tw: kidnapping, pet play, this is actually half baked, punishments, shal being a dick, infantilism

A/N: this is for @high-bats-writing! Sorry this fic is probably going to be really crappy! (P.S you should totally go read the inspiration for this post < https://www.tumblr.com/high-bats-writing/746620115972440065/happy-easter-hiiii-in-the-headcanons-you-did?source=share

Out of everything you’d been tested with by him, this took the cake, it took the whole fucking bakery.

you’d handled everything he threw at you but this was simply too much, spending years trying to stay away from everything trackable was hard but knowing it was all just in vain because you were nevertheless trapped in his hands again? The knowledge of knowing your efforts weren’t worth anything in the end was devastating.

“Smile!” His cheery attitude becoming a frown when you used your—thankfully free—hands to shield your face from the camera he had in his hands

“It’s fine, I guess, we’ll have plenty of time to get a photo of you in there after all! Won’t we?” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes when he spoke, encouraging your silence as he continues “you escaped for 2 years? How long do you think I should keep you in there?”

normally you would avoid showing weakness to him, but you couldn’t stop the widening of your eyes “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done what I did” he tilted his head “You don’t have to be sorry, you showed me your true colors!” He chuckled

As he placed a dragging finger down a bar on the cage, you shuddered; quickly finding purchase under one of the plentiful blankets in the cage, one thing you couldn’t complain about was the near suffocating amount of warmth in the normally cold house—well, cold from what you remember from 2 years ago…

Alas, the blankets didn’t protect you from the hand that found your head. Petting your hair reminiscent of petting an animal after it did something silly, something stupid, but something endearing enough to make its owner remain entertained.

And you suppose that may be what he sees you as at the end of the day, a shivering animal used to biting to show affection. Used to having to weakly fight, the only real difference being that your owner in this situation had no intention of saving you

He kept his eyes focused on you, seeing your foot brush against the bowl at the bottom of the cage seeming to remind him “I told myself I’d make you beg, but we can start that tomorrow along with your reeducation. I’ll go fill that up”

he disappeared for a brief moment, before returning with the small bowl full of water, making you reluctantly remember the leaky faucet in the kitchen, wondering he’d ever fixed it like your told him to.

The smile that graced his feature when you saw him crush some form of pill into the clear surface of the water was incriminating alone, but looking at the small off-color dissolving particles in the water was enough to deter away your want to fix the aching thirst in your throat in the moment

Even as you expected some type of negative reaction from your apprehension, he just kept talking. Seemingly excited at getting the chance to act out a fantasy especially after losing you for so long.

his words only proved to spur on a waterfall of unfortunate thoughts, melancholy and upsetting, as they flowed through your mind; wanting to overflow into something more.

“Why are you drugging me?” The words came out weaker than what you might hope, almost dying on your tongue. “Not drugs, just vitamins since I don’t plan on feeding you all too much while you’re down here. Lest it’s like an animal, animals have to work for their food!” He clapped like a child at the zoo “but I don’t want you to be malnourished”

Comfort was never his strong suit, but in the moment it seemed believable enough to allow yourself to indulge in the clear liquid resting in the bowl at the bottom of—dare you say it—your cage

you took a sip of the water, diving your head down as you figured he might not have a great reaction at you trying to pick it up to drink it.

you struggled to drink a sufficient amount, settling for the small sip you were able to get from the bedazzled bowl, almost grateful you hadn’t noticed the “disobedient slut” in pink rhinestones on the front up until you pulled away due to your slight frenzy.

“You’re a natural” he muttered under his breath, getting a quick photo before his phone rang “must be troupe work! Be a good doll and stay right there for me”

you just hoped he wouldn’t be gone too long, after all, 2 years is a long time to spend alone.

Shal chuckled when he heard the slight sigh that left your chapped lips when he left the room, 2 years is a long time to spend alone, and a maddening time to spend with a monster—especially one like him.

[she-is-ovarit]

This is for all the younger gen Z women, particularly those of you within the ages of 17 to roughly 23. This is written from an American perspective, things might be a little different depending on where you're from.

I graduated high school with the unconscious assumption that certain systems will take care of me. The medical system would educate me on proper nutrition and health issues was probably my largest underlying assumption, but really I just had trust in institutions generally.

This isn't true. You are responsible for learning. As an example, I have been vegetarian since age 14. Nobody talked to me about proper nutrition, they just told me I needed to eat more protein.

I lived a decade of my life having shortness of breath, sleeping issues, clumsiness, cold hands and feet, having brain fog, extreme fatigue, heightened anxiety, etc. My period was extremely light and brown, it'd last for about 2 or so days. I'd go and talk about these problems, and telling doctors that I was vegetarian was one of the first things that came out of my mouth just with any visit because I knew at least that piece was important to communicate.

There was really no action taken over the span of about 10 years. I was told the period thing was normal, that changes for women. A sleep specialist let me know that feeling exhausted was also normal. The brain fog was probably due to anxiety. Here, try allergy medication (tbh that did help for other reasons). Then one day I just asked them to check my vitamin and mineral levels. Prior to this I didn't think you can make requests to doctors, I thought you showed up and they performed tests on what they recommended. With some reluctance from my primary care physician and some compromise because she said my insurance wouldn't cover testing things like B12 levels (I later found out from a nurse that, they would, she would have just needed to fill out extra paperwork), she did some tests.

I found out both my iron and D3 levels were low. What else could be?

I later learned pretty much all the vitamins common to be low for vegetarians were low. D3, magnesium, vitamin Bs, iron, and healthy fats. Bought some liquid vitamins (because the body only absorbs 10% of the pill supplements), began eating an avocado a day, my period became normal for the first time in nine years, and I am able to function.

Another example of how human systems won't educate you: I don't have feeling in some of my toes due to wearing incorrect sized footwear for years resulting in permanent nerve damage. I'm size 11.5 in women's, and I was relying on someone to tell me how proper footwear worked, because surely the guy in the minimum wage position working the footwear section would know.

Don't trust human systems to guide you through how certain things work. Seek specific specialists and experts when you can, and inform yourself on your own. Don't blindly trust search engines like Google, it's not like how it used to be when I was growing up and many millennial adults will tell you to "just google things" because we're used to finding actual substantive answers when we do. However, now, usually whoever pays is who makes the first page or two of search engines, it has nothing to do with what information is "most correct". Don't be afraid to request certain tests be done by doctors or certain referrals made to different specialists.

Edit: And also, I've found general practitioners are terrible when you walk in and tell them about several different symptoms at one time. They're more used to treating one symptom at a time, and they treat the symptom not the root cause. If you go in with a runny nose, general practitioners are going to throw medications at you to try and treat the runny nose, not look deeper into what's causing the runny nose. It's equivalent to if you're in a boat and it's sinking, they're bailing out water without actually fixing the hole or trying to figure out where it is, with the exception of emergency situations and even then it depends.

[gabessquishytum]

PA anon's fic about alpha student Dream stalking and impregnating omega professor Hob is so, so good! Like, it's kind of unethical, but in such a hot way? And (please consider 1K+ words of mildly controlling/manipulative fluff) Dream takes such good care of Hob during pregnancy, doesn't he? Hob's an omega and he should know some of these things, true, but he's never been pregnant all his life and he's never even conceived (lol) of it till Dream, and really, all the things he had learned as a then-younger and still-perceived-as-fertile omega have become out of date. And since he's such a busy, hardworking professor, dealing with the hormones and the pregnancy brain, Dream is the one who plunges in, arms deep, and does all the research for him. He knows exactly what the stages are, what vitamins are needed when, how to soothe Hob for pains and flares in the here and now, and how to help Hob in the longer term for the marathon that is pregnancy. Dream also entertains casual ideas about not just this child, but the next, and the next. It's not something he's brought up with Hob yet, and really they should wait to see what kind of toll this pregnancy has on Hob's older-than-usual body, but...it can't hurt to think long term. And so it begins. The very first thing is medications, one day, just popping up in neat little sets all over Hob's kitchen counter and workplace desk and lecture podium, each labelled with his name, what symptoms they're for, how much to eat, and how often. A bottle of mineral water sits beside each of the pill sets, just in case. There are a whole variety of them - for headaches, nausea, body aches, feverish flares. The whole lot of things any pregnant omega would go through. Then, vitamins. In tiny little vitamin organizers, right beside his various stashes of medication. There are so many, Hob's given up on reading the labels and understanding them. He doesn't even know what he needs, and what he's eating - he just does. *That's* how much he trusts Dream. And some of the vitamins are very necessary, and very much recommended, of course. Many things are needed for their baby, and to strengthen Hob's immune system, sleep, and digestion. Things like that. The rest of it, well, it's discretionary. And if Dream pumps Hob full of what's just slightly more than necessary... if Hob's hair and body hair and lashes are getting fuller and finer and ever more doll-like, if his skin is getting shiny and dewy, his body plump and soft, and his brain just a little more humble and pliable than what his hormones would achieve on their own...well.

Who can say it's a bad thing, when it means Hob allowing himself to be taken care of more easily? When it means less of a protest, when he comes through the door all burdened from his day, and Dream tells him to just let everything go and trust him? When it means he melts more readily into Dream, putting down the need to be self-sufficient and independent that's been conditioned into him all these years? He'll cling and whine in the doorway until Dream picks him up, bridal style, relieving his poor, swollen feet of their weight, and carries him all the way into the nest Dream's built for him, where he can eat and cuddle all night without worrying his little head about anything else. Dream's so good to him. He would never do anything to hurt him. After medications and vitamins, comes the food. Dream, who has low-key moved in by now, having not wanted to move an omega away from familiar surroundings and essentially his nest during a pregnancy, does a thorough inspection of Hob's kitchen. Look, Hob cooks, and in fact he's a great home-chef, but he's going to have different needs now. Most of what he has is fine, but Dream upgrades some of Hob's appliances, swaps out everything that's processed garbage, donates whatever he doesn't want his omega eating, and proceeds to stock the fridge up with fresh, new, nutritious whole foods. Look, the food industry is tricky. You have to be exacting about these things. That's exactly what he tells Hob, when the pregnant omega whines tearfully about wanting some of his favorite treats. It's garbage! It's ultra-refined! Dream says no at first and hands Hob an avocado with cashew butter and flax seeds. But Hob insists it's an emergency, and Dream relents in the end and stocks up on a box of Hob's favorites for times like these. Dream prepares all his meals, too. He has Hob on a very strict diet, though you know wouldn't know it from how good it tastes and even looks. Every lovingly packed lunch (Hob's stomach is too tender for a proper breakfast) is just packed with vibrant colours and flavour. And it smells so good, even from a distance! Many a comment has been made about his gorgeous lunches, and it's become a thing for a handful of students and faculty to camp by him during lunch and wait for him to reveal the meal of the day. Oohs and aahs and compliments inevitably ensue. The attention's a little too much! It's all getting rather embarrassing! Don't get him wrong, he loves everything Dream's done for him. It's so thoughtful and well-organized. But it's just that it's all so *public*, and it makes his students and colleagues have a certain view of him. He wants to insist that he'd taken good care of himself before, and he's not now some spoiled princess!

But his protest never lasts long. Nobody's judging him that way, and everyone's cooing over him and praising and celebrating his circumstances. Everyone keeps telling him that he's such a lucky, deserving, omega, and that he looks so good when he's all pampered and relaxed.

And Hob frets and frets over whether Dream's spending too much time and money and just too much on him, but always gets shushed and told that Dream's the one who's lucky. Hob just needs to sit back and enjoy it all. And enjoy it he does, secretly, even when he doesn't always get his way on some of the smaller things. He enjoys having things handled for him, so that all he needs is to do what he's told. He enjoys being told no, on some of his lesser habits. It's all for his own good. It even makes him a little hot when Dream's being strict, and treating him like a child he needs to be firm with! It just makes him so wet! Finally comes the exercise. It's a given by now that Dream will have a say over what he does during his day and how. He swaps Hob's schedule around (writing letters to the faculty head about expedient family needs) so that Hob gets late morning and early afternoon classes, the very best combination which groups his work periods together. This leaves his morning and evening hours free, which Dream promptly fills with a bevy of healthful, nourishing activities. Mornings are for light jogs, barefoot trail-walking, weight training, or yoga and stretching in the nearby park. Evenings are for strolling, spas, indulgent belly massaging, occasionally more weight training, and more, of course more, stretching. Dream intends to keep all those muscles and ligaments and tendons healthy and flexible for many more pups. All of Hob's activities are accompanied by Dream. Of course, he's there to make sure Hob gets his form right, and just in case anything happens. Many a student or teacher has caught sight of them doing yoga in the college courtyard and coo-ed at the sight, or entered the gym and run away quickly, red around the ears, at the too-intimate sight, smell and sound of a sweetly sweating omega puffing away at the weights, his alpha growling praise and encouragement into his ear. And again, this is all a little too public for Hob, but it's well within his alpha's rights to train him in a public gym. Even the doctors agree that it's doing him good. All his previously fair stats are within excellent range now.

Hob doesn't know yet, but with every passing day he's becoming healthier and plumper and ever more docile. He'll stay this way not just during the pregnancy, but for life. Dream can't get over how good he looks and how excellent things are like this, and he fully intends that Hob will stay, pupped or not, as his spoiled, behaving, beautiful omega doll.

HELL YES WE WIN AGAIN, MORE STUDENT ALPHA DREAM/PROF OMEGA HOB!!! Here is the link to PA anon's fic, in case anyone missed it <3 this is SUCH a good little continuation, I love all the small details. Dream’s incredible care and devotion to his omega. And oh, the sweet, gentle bimbofication...

Of course Hob has these moments of sharp lucidity where he wonders what the hell he's doing. He has a career that he practically sold his soul for, and he had the respect of the faculty and students! Now they treat him so differently. Like he's nothing more than a silly little pregnant omega, like he's worth nothing more than the pup in his belly! But the truth of the matter is, Hob is beginning to find his work a little too straining. He finds the usual regime of meetings and grading papers dull and straining. Why would he want to do that stuff when he could be with Dream? Shopping for the pup, or studying the parenting books, or snuggling up for a naked massage... before he knows it, Hob is looking forward to his parental leave more than anything in the world!

Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn't recognise his fecund, soft form. He's so chubby and round with the pup, his hips and chest are so much larger than before. He looks so different, and he knows that these changes are probably permanent. He's already accepted that he'll have another pup after this one, so he'll be pregnant again... there's no way he can "bounce back". The truth is that Dream seems to like him even more when he's plump and squeezing into his clothes. He says that Hob is doing such a good job for their pup. Dream is so proud of him!

And Hob is... Happy. How could he not be? His life is pleasant, and Dream takes such good care of him. Hob never has to worry about a thing. He just really hopes that he can be the omega that Dream deserves...

[drunkenlionwrites]

Random Syzoth sunning headcanons:

We all write Syzoth as very handsy and craving physical touch and human warmth since he’s cold-blooded and it’s true, but also what’s about Syzoth just getting out there in the Palace Garden to spend the day sunbathing and warming up to the needed temperature?

He just gets all the paperwork, thinks of a makeshift table and spends his working day out. Every single day.

He also fought for this right with Mileena and now everyone knows where to find him. He’s got his own spot in the garden now ahah

Syzoth, who thinks that kotatsu is the best human invention he knows of, now that someone from the Earthrealmers (probably Johnny) showed to him.

Syzoth who gets vitamin D + calcium with him if he knows he goes on a long mission, delegation on behalf of the Empress and can’t stop being in awe that those weird Earthrealm pills make him feel much more strong and healthy 🫣

[roosterbruiser]

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟐𝟎.𝟕𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄, 𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐓. 𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟏𝟓𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟖

The morning rarely comes. 

Now that you’re here, living in the after, it always feels like night. 

Some days, you feel like you’re in that tepid dreamless state between asleep and awake. You’re aware of the quickly-cooling coffee sitting on the table before you or the syringe in your hand and the patient below you or the phone ringing on the wall or Jake’s lips pressed to your temple, but you cannot get yourself to move. Every hinge on your body--your jaw and elbows and knees and ankles and wrists--is rusted over. You cannot bend. You cannot blink yourself awake. 

Other days, you just feel like you’re in the dark. Walking down the trail, waiting to happen upon Mickey and Reuben’s bodies, holding the shotgun in your sticky hands. Standing in the mess hall by yourself, doused in blood, staring at the figure with a noose around your throat. Lying in your cabin, trying to catch your breath after having a nightmare. Walking into the quiet bus barn on wobbling legs, knowing deep in your gut that Bob is going to die. Even if someone followed you with a spotlight, one that would bring heat to your cheeks and inspire sweat on your scalp, you would still feel like you’re in a room with no windows. 

Once in a while, when the moon is a thin piece of gold behind the wispy clouds and you cannot stop smelling irises, you feel alright. Not alright in the way that most people feel--not like things are going to be okay or like you’re moving forward. But alright like it’s okay to be stagnant for a while. You can be still and rust over and not bend and be in the dark.

By now, you’re familiar with the stages of grief. Dr. Messina goes over them with you during every hour-long session, which is every Monday and Friday, and asks you to tell her where you are. 

When you feel like you’re in a dreamless state and everything is muffled and your ears ring like the ovens have just exploded all over again, you say depression. That must be what it feels like. Always on the outside, watching through a glassy gaze. 

When you feel like you’re in the dark and there are no windows, you say anger--even though you don’t feel particularly angry. You feel scared--such a trivial and familiar feeling to have when you’re safe in your little house with Jake and all your second-hand furniture and the vases of honeysuckle you keep around. Angry is the closest to scared, you reckon. 

And days when you just feel like being still and seeping in all this, you say acceptance. It’s true--at least a little bit true. You accept what happened at Camp Arcadia. You talk about it. You think about it. You rub your fingers over your throat and your ears and the scars on your arm and knees. You watch the news. You read magazines. You call news stations and then hang up. This must be what it’s like to accept something so ugly. 

Today is an acceptance day. You know because you’re okay with where you are right now, sitting in this wooden chair at this thrifted table, watching cream swirl in the inky coffee in your still-steaming mug. Jake’s mug is sitting right beside yours, hot to the touch and with four heaping spoonfuls of sugar settling at the bottom. 

His pills are there beside the mug, too--fluoxetine, iron, and aspirin. He’s finally weaned himself off morphine, which was not without sleepless nights and deep-seated ache. You’ve already choked down your pill today--a single prenatal vitamin. You try not to take anything else for the sake of the little stranger, but you’ve already discussed a fluoxetine prescription with Dr. Messina when you’re not in your current state anymore. 

“When it’s over, you should try it on for size,” Dr. Messina had said, her eyebrows drawn together seriously and her glasses perched at the end of her nose. “I think it would significantly improve your quality of life.” 

Significantly improve your quality of life. You chewed on the words, stretching them over your tongue until you felt like you could blow a big, pink bubble from your lips. 

What life? You wanted to ask. But you hadn’t. 

What you had said, in her stuffy and strange office, was: “Okay. Yes, I will.”

“Things’ll look up,” Jake had promised, too. He was practically a spokesperson for the stuff. “It’s keeping me going. Well--that and you and them.”

He cupped your belly then--it wasn’t very big yet. Only just beginning to round out, a blimp beneath your scrubs, still something that sent a chill up your spine when you looked down in the shower. It was still something--still is something--you were grappling with.

“You don’t even know them,” you’d said back, blinking a few times before turning away from his touch. It wasn’t often that you found yourself doing that--but his touch on your belly, the one that was carrying the child that was not his, stung. “They could be…I don’t know. You should have more to live for than just us.” 

“I’ve got my happy pills,” Jake had told you. He wasn’t wounded that you turned away from him--he was sorry more than anything, apologetically holding your pinkie finger with his. “But you two help.”    

How trivial that felt in the moment. A little pill, you, and the little stranger. That was all that was keeping Jake going through it all. And by it all, you mean the rigorous physical therapy and the nightmares and the guilt and the healing and the grief.

Jake’s been good, though. As good as he can be, which is better than you.

Really, he’s handled everything strikingly well. Astoundingly. 

He didn’t cry like you did whenever Coyote came over for dinner a few months after it all--when he explained that he couldn’t see any way out, which was why he decided to enlist in the Navy. You had cried and that had made Javy cry. Jake responds to all of Javy’s letters, is a good sport about not knowing where his best friend is posted, and throws things in the cart at the grocery store for Javy’s next care package. 

When Nat called in the middle of the night, the very same night Jake was finally released from the hospital, in crisis and needing friends, he drove the both of you to her. He held Nat’s hand while you gently explained that what was best for her--for everyone--was to have her get help. He drove all through the night, running on gas station coffee, to get her to New Haven Presbyterian Psychiatric Hospital. He sends her chocolates every month now and often calls her father, who is lonely without her companionship. 

He was the one who sent flowers to everyone’s families--the Floyd’s, the Garcia’s, the Fitch’s, the Johnson’s. He attended the funerals despite his intense injuries, teeth grit and legs trembling as he stood by your side. You anchored him and he tried not to lean all his weight on you. 

He was the one that suggested a private funeral for Bradley, one that took place in your living room and was composed of your body and his. He ordered Chinese and bought wine from the good part of the liquor store. He didn’t fuss over your tears. He lit candles and sat on the floor beside you. He hung Bradley’s guitar on the wall in the bedroom, above your bed. 

Even the pregnancy, he has handled with nothing short of grace. Especially for a man that is not the father of the child you’re carrying--even if he is your partner in life now.

You were not surprised when you missed your August and September periods--which you attributed to trauma, stress. You were unable to leave the hospital without a camera bulb flashing in your face--unable to do anything without a coil of panic springing up inside of your gut and punching your chest hard. You were fielding phone calls from the families of the previous victims, from reporters, from your family, from doctors, from so-called psychics. 

It was easy for you to explain away. The stress, coupled with the intense panic, was what was halting your cycle. And what was making you puke and cry all the time. 

But then your breasts became sore and you cramped. That was when you realized that you’d been waiting for a period that was yet to come, explaining away symptoms that were synonymous with pregnancy. 

You knew before the doctor called with the results: you were pregnant. You were so confident in your knowledge that you told Jake before the doctor even called. 

“Are you sure?” He’d asked. He was speaking slowly, lowly--being careful with you like he always was. “Like, couldn’t it be something else?” 

“I’m a nurse,” you answered him, pinching the bridge of your nose and closing your eyes to shield them from the bright light above you. “And I just…know. Do you believe me? Or do you think I’ve gone off the deep end?” 

Jake grew up surrounded by women--his mama, his sisters, aunts, aunts of aunts, nieces, grandma’s, neighbors, godmother’s, friends, coworkers. He knew better than to argue intuition with you. 

“I believe just about every word that comes out of your mouth, darlin’. This isn’t any different,” Jake said softly, careful not to contort his face this way or that. His heart was sitting in his belly. “What do you wanna…do?” 

“I don’t know,” you’d said very seriously, very plainly. You couldn’t get your jaw to unclench. “I feel like this is the--like, this is the worst thing that could’ve happened to me.” 

He found it odd, really--that an unexpected pregnancy was the worst thing that had happened to you after everything. But just as soon as he realized just that, he understood. 

Yes, it was the worst thing that could’ve happened to you. 

If you said it, then it was true. You don’t bullshit. You don’t pussyfoot.

“I’m so sorry,” he’d whispered to you. He held onto your cheeks and looked down at you with something between pity and reverence in his glassy gaze. “We’ll make it through.” 

You were standing under the awning at a gas station, the scent of dirt and fuel and cigarette choking you as you squeezed the nozzle and leaned against the car. You were surprised by Jake’s touch, his hands soft from the soft care he received at the hospital, still scented with baby powder from physical therapy earlier that day. 

“Why are you sorry?” You asked, bottom lip suddenly wobbling as you gazed up at Jake. His face was still shades of yellow and purple from healing bruises. Little scabs and scruff made up his cheeks, his jaw. “You didn’t do this to me. You know that, right?” 

He knew already. Of course he did. The two of you had only had sex a few times since his hospital release. Once in the shower, very slowly and quietly and carefully. Again in the bedroom, faster and more desperate. A couple times in the living room late at night after the television signed off and the phone stopped ringing and dinner had been cleaned up. One time in the car in the hospital parking garage, when you cried your way through the last hour of your shift and asked Jake to pick you up early. 

The baby wasn’t his. But you were his. And to him, that meant that whatever was yours was his, too. He knew deep in his gut, as he watched your eyes fill with tears under the blinking fluorescents, that the baby was going to be his if you allowed it to be. 

“I know that,” Jake said to you. A beat passed. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed a big laugh. “And you know that I’m not going anywhere, right?” 

You did know that. On some level, somewhere in your foggy mind, you knew that already. But to hear him say it--to hear him utter it to you and really mean it--choked you up again. 

“You didn’t sign up for any of this,” you told him. “I wouldn’t blame you if you--!” 

“Neither did you,” he said. “I signed up for you, Gale. And that’s that.”

That’s that. 

You’re still staring down at your coffee when an open palm cups your jaw, a soft tummy pressing against your shoulders and neck. Jake leans down and kisses the top of your head, thumb softly stroking the curve of your jaw. 

“Christ,” you whisper, startled. The stranger jumps, too--mirroring your movements. Your permanent echo. “I didn’t even hear you coming.”

“I’m pretty stealthy with these things now,” Jake says softly, gesturing to his crutches. It’s silly--usually you can hear him coming from a mile away with those things, their plunking amplified off the wooden floors. “What, you lost in thought or something?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper to him, tipping your head back and resting against him. “Here--start over. I’ll be sweet.” 

Jake laughs softly, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 

“Morning,” he whispers, voice still ragged from sleep. “I’m supposed to be the one making you coffee, remember?” 

Smiling softly, you lean back against him. His body welcomes you warmly, arm falling around your neck and lips lingering on top of your head. His breath is warm as it fans out over your unkempt hair. 

“I couldn’t get back to sleep,” you explain, tapping your mug. “Figured I’d get a jump on the day.” 

“It’s hardly daytime,” he tells you. His hand falls down your chest until his palm falls over your bump. It’s warm, taut. “Something wrong? Another nightmare?” 

You know what he’s asking you--is there something wrong with the baby? If we were to ask if there was something wrong with you--your mood, your day, your thoughts, your pain--there would be a laundry list. 

And the nightmare--he always asks, he always cares. You don’t have the heart to tell him the truth most of the time. 

“No,” you answer, swallowing hard. You’re lying about the nightmare. You look down at his fingers spread over your nightgown--the thing hardly fits you anymore. The scars on his knuckles are beginning to turn pink--pink like the folds on your brain where memories are ingrained, pressed between tissue and against blood. Pink like the stretch marks on your belly where your skin is splitting to make more space. Strange how time seems to turn everything pink. “It’s…all alright.” 

“Xeno still cooking?” 

Biting something between a smile and a snarl, you shake your head. Xeno is short for Xenomorph. It’s what he’s been calling the stranger since he saw an elbow drag across your skin one night. 

It was dark in the bedroom and you were almost asleep as Jake stroked your hair, watching your belly absently. Shadows crossed your skin and your hair as you laid resting after a long shift, shirt pooled just below your breasts.

The movement was sudden and brash--emerging against your skin and drawing across it in the form of a dull point. For a moment, it stretched like it was trying to break through. And then it settled and your belly was just your belly again.

“Christ,” he’d hissed, partly amazed and partly terrified. “Did you feel that?” 

Without opening your eyes, you nodded. Of course you felt it. The movement immediately unsettled your stomach, watered your lash line. You feel every single movement--it is just below your skin, looming ahead of you, a constant threat. 

“Yes,” you’d simply responded. 

“It’s trying to get out,” Jake had said. “Spooky!”

Dread pooled in your belly--ice cold and deep.

“I know,” you said. 

 “Aren’t you a regular Ellen Ripley?” Jake laughed. “Aw. Just a little Xeno in there. Xeno. How’s that for a name? No one else would even know what it’s short for, I bet.”

You wanted to say that Ripley never had a Xenomorph rip out of her. You wanted to say that out of all the horrors she faced, in those silly movies, she didn’t have to do what you have to do. 

“You’re being a beast right now,” you whispered to him, face hot. “I’m trying to sleep.” 

“Oh, darlin’, I’m teasing you,” Jake said, cooming forward to kiss your forehead. He lingered there when he felt the heat of your face--all that emotion lying just beneath the surface, that stuff you hid so well. “I’m sorry. It’s just a movie, huh?” 

Horror movies, you thought, were only make-believe. And even if they weren’t, their horror was contained in minutes. One-hundred and sixteen. One-hundred and thirty-seven. Ninety-five. It ended for them--for you, though, you weren’t so sure it would ever end.

But you hated the tonal shift in Jake’s voice. You’d had a fine night--you were finally able to relax after a long day of different therapies. Guilt dripped down the back of your throat. 

“Xeno’s got a ring to it,” you whispered to him, blinking away the water in your eyes.

“You have such a way with words,” you whisper. There is one singular moment where you think about laughing about it--Xenomorph. If you weren’t so scared, you’d enjoy the name. It’s clever. “Really go out of your way to comfort me, don’t you?” 

“I do my best,” Jake says with a cool sigh.

A few more chaste kisses to your head and then Jake is reaching to hold onto the table. It’s sturdy, which is partly why you picked the thing out. You wait with baited breath as you slyly watch him, fingers tingling and ready if you see any sign of a tumble. 

And even though you’re trying to be sly about it, Jake sees you. He always does. You’re watching him below your lashes, trying to pretend like you’re not. You’re always looking out for him, hands ready to grab and knees ready to hit the floor. You’re always ready to take care of him. He thinks that’s probably what you’re made for--maybe it’s all you can do now. 

“Watch out now! He’s going for gold,” Jake says, a strangled laugh tumbling from his mouth as he falls into the seat beside you. He pulls his crutches beside him, too, and leans them against the kitchen table. “Did I win?” 

You nod, eyes earnest and kind. 

“First place,” you say. 

The expression on your face right now, with your eyes wide and your mouth slightly upturned, is the closest you get to smiling these days. Jake doesn’t push it. He drinks you in when you’re like this on one of your better days: features soft, face naked. 

“What’s on the docket today, captain?” Jake asks, scooping the pills into his palms. “Seeing the shrink today, right?” 

“Right,” you say. “It is Friday, after all. Time to go wild.” 

He nods, throwing the pills back and swallowing dryly. 

“Usual time?” He asks. 

“After your P.T.,” you say. “Like always.”

“Big day for us,” he says softly. He takes a drink from his coffee, ignores the burn on his tongue. You always make it the best for him, somehow always keep it hot. “We’re pretty crazy these days, aren’t we?” 

“Sure are,” you sigh, leaning back. You glance at the little square window above the sink and see that the morning light is beginning to filter in gray and white. “I think it’s gonna snow today.” 

“Snow in April…I love Maine,” Jake chews out bitterly, glancing over his shoulder at the window, too. “We could always head to Texas. It doesn’t snow where I’m from.” 

Jake’s brought this up a few times--bringing you home with him to Texas. Really, it’s something that he dreams about between doctor’s appointments.  

He likes to daydream you there. Lying beneath the golden sky, sprawled out on the wooden steps and closing your eyes as his mama shells peas behind you. Taking long walks around the property so Jake can stretch his legs and you can look at the quarry and the old mine shaft and the pastures. He dreams of getting back up on a horse, tucking his feet into the stirrups, and gallivanting before you as you watch with a grin. A grin.  

He’s thought about having the baby there, too. Having the baby at home like his mama had him and his sisters, staying up through the night and blotting your forehead with a wet washcloth as the cicadas sing. Sleeping in his old bedroom in a twin bed with you, stuffing a bassinet in the corner, covered in quilts older than the both of you. Taking the baby to the farmer’s market on Sunday’s, showing them off to questionless people, dotting a fingerful of honey on their toothless gums. 

“Doesn’t it always feel like summer there?” You ask him. 

He turns back to you, suddenly back in the dark kitchen with you and two cups of coffee. You’re looking back at him--grinless. 

“Yeah,” Jake says. “I guess it kinda does.”

And that is the difference between the two of you. 

Jake believes in solar power, always turning his face towards the sun. 

You don’t--not anymore.

A quietness fills the kitchen. Sometimes there is so much silence that you feel like you’re drowning in it--you don’t know how to cut through it all without flailing. But then Jake takes your hand, covers your knuckles with his palms. He squeezes your fingers. 

“Wanna take me to the corner store?” You ask, sighing. 

It’s your way of extending an olive branch. 

Jake, brows furrowed, gazes at you. 

“Sure I do,” he says. “What for?” 

Sighing, you lean forward and hold his hand properly. He’s warm. 

“I need a raspberry-filled doughnut in a bad, bad way,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “Or I might croak.”

He grins at you--a big thing that eats his whole face, stubble and scabs and all. It pleases him when you do something, say something, that detaches you from the tragedy of last summer. When you do something you would’ve done before it all happened to you. When he can see that behind all this skin and hair, you’re still you. 

“Can’t have that on my conscience,” he says. “I’ll grab your coat.”

 ♀ 

You were right about the snow.

The storm is brutal as it rages just outside the hospital walls. You’re watching the snow and sleet slam against the thick glass windows that stretch widely across the wall, watching the wind bend the dogwoods and take their budding white flowers. The sky is murky and gray, teetering on black. Even the snowflakes are fat and violent. Bad-tempered.  

It’s funny, though--you can’t hear it at all. You know, logically, that it is because of the way the hospital is built. Strong metal beams that are layered with thick concrete that could hardly be chipped with a jackhammer. You understand that it is because hospitals must withstand extreme conditions--they are a safe haven. They are a sanctuary. 

But this reaping of one of your senses--something as imperative and salient as your hearing--feels distinctly deliberate. It makes you feel like you are on the outside of something angry and inevitable. Something that is waiting for you to get brave enough to walk outside and feel it on your cheeks.

So, yes, you think. Sanctuary.

But it makes you feel like you’re back at Camp Arcadia--when it was burning down, when the oven burst, when your ears bled. You hadn’t been able to hear for a few days after the explosion--everything was muffled and quiet. The doctors carried a whiteboard with them so they could tell you that they needed to repair a sitch or check your heart rate again. 

Heat bursts through the dusty vents jutting out from the white concrete walls, drying the corners of your heavy eyes and brushing against your calves like a slutty cat. There is sweat gathering on your shins where they’re pressed against your leather boots. And the sweater you’re wearing, the one you’d had to buy last week when you realized you’d have nothing warm to fit you during bad weather, is beginning to make your pulse points itch. 

Fucking wool, you think, swallowing thickly and pressing the back of your hand against your cheeks. You’re warm alright--borderline feverish. 

But even if there was no blizzard in April and you weren’t wearing boots and fucking wool--you’d be hot in here. You’re hot all of the time now, which is what Dr. Johansen told you would happen towards the end. You’d believed him, but every other nurse on your floor, that had been in your condition at some point or another, reiterated it to you like you didn’t. 

“Just be happy that it’ll be over with before the summer!” 

That was the one you heard most frequently, echoed by incredulous mothers and nurses alike. But summertime to you now is not what summertime is to them or anyone else. The thought of July rolling around once a year for the rest of your life makes the hairs on your arms raise and straighten like they’re praising something in the sky.  

“Warm?” Dr. Messina asks, her glasses perched at the end of her nose as she leafs through last session’s notes. She peers at you, her eyelids painted a soft brown that matches her eyes and her hair, and smiles softly. Nodding, you smile weakly. “Sorry about the heat. I sent in a few maintenance requests, but I’m certain they ball them up and throw them out.” 

“It’s alright,” you tell her. You nod to your belly, which looms before you like a full moon beneath your sweater. “I’m getting…used to it. I’m sure I’m freezing Jake out, though. I keep the house nice and frigid.” 

“Nearing the finish line,” Dr. Messina says, raising her eyebrows. She notes the way that seems to make you squirm--the way you avert her gaze and sink further into the sofa, the way your fingers dig into the leather arm. “Shall we start there today? Or pick up where we left off last time?” 

“Where were we last time?” You ask her quietly. 

Sometimes when you need a reminder of when things are happening or where you’re supposed to go or what you’re supposed to be doing, the other nurses chide you. 

Pregnancy brain, they say.

You appreciate that Dr. Messina has never said that to you. 

“We were discussing the day of. When you attempted to resuscitate Mister Bradshaw.” 

Oh. Right. 

Pressing your sweaty palms together, you nod, blinking a few times under the fluorescents above you. Your eyes are too dry to be under these bright of lights. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “I did attempt to resuscitate Bradley.”

Dr. Messina adjusts herself in her big, leather chair. You’re sure she lugged the thing from home--it is ornate and perfectly-oiled. Far too charming for this white-washed tiled office in the mostly empty east wing of the hospital.

“Why did you feel that was necessary?” She asks, notebook perched on the knee of her starchy slacks. Her pen lays at the ready, only a centimeter away from the creamy paper. “Given his actions prior.” 

She means killing Paul, Bob, Reuben, and Mickey. And attempting to kill you and Jake.

Why did you try to save Bradley? 

“I didn’t save him,” you tell her. You can feel his blood on you now, coating your hands and the cuffs of your sweater. Your jaw is clenched. “Does it matter?” 

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “Yes, it matters. There’s always a why. Usually, I tell people that’s the point of therapy. The why. The how. The because.” 

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you take a deep breath. The stranger beneath your skin moves, maybe jostled by your sudden inhale. It is only a few kicks against the top of your belly before they settle again and you can finally release the breath you’re holding in. 

“I took an oath,” you tell Dr. Messina. Digging deeper into the arm of the couch, you avert your gaze from her glassy eyes and instead watch the storm continue to rage. “I will dedicate myself to devoted service for human welfare.” 

“Sure,” Dr. Messina says. “But don’t you find that a bit impersonal? He’s the father of your child.” 

Stomach turning, you hum. You don’t need a reminder of that. You know, very well and very thoroughly, that Bradley is the father of your child. You are reminded every time they move inside of you, every time Jake cups your belly, every time you have to listen to that staticky rapid heartbeat in a stark white office. You know that the father of your child is dead. He died at Camp Arcadia, in your grip, with his face turned away from you as if he was looking at someone else.

“Okay,” you say. You adjust on the sofa, clearing your throat. “I tried to save him after everything he did because I still…cared for him.” Dr. Messina writes something on her pad. You laugh dryly, gloomy and guilty. “What’s that make me?” 

“Human,” she states simply. 

She nods for you to continue. Your heart hammers. 

“I attempted to suture the lacerations on his wrists,” you tell her. And your toes are numb because she thinks--everyone thinks--the lacerations were self-inflicted. But you put them there. You cut him open. “I administered epinephrine that was prescribed to one of the campers. Then I began life saving measures. Compressions and mouth-to-mouth. The whole…the whole deal.”

“Right,” Dr. Messina says. “To no avail?” 

“He briefly gained consciousness,” you tell her. You don’t tell her that he said he was sorry--that he was begging you to stop trying to save him, that he knew he was dying before you did. “But he was delirious.”

Delirious. It feels like an insult. 

“Delirium was brought on by…?” 

“The blood loss,” you answer. 

She writes something down again on her pad. 

“And his blood--was it on you?” 

Blood was slathered on your body in layers, each one thicker than the last. You found bits of it everywhere--between your molars, underneath your toenails, flaking off your scalp--for weeks. 

“Some of it,” you answer. 

And you’re not lying--only some of it was his. 

You don’t know how you would even begin to articulate the grueling task of being thoroughly drenched in your friend’s and your lover’s blood. It’s something you can’t make yourself say, even all these months later.

“And what was that experience like for you?” 

Harrowing. 

“It was warm. It…itched when it dried.”

Dr. Messina pauses, pressing the block heel of her smart leather loafers into the ornate rug beneath her feet. 

“If you could pin a feeling to that time, what would it be?” 

“You’re asking the tough questions today,” you say softly. “What’s the occasion?” 

She narrows her eyes. 

“Am I?” She asks. “Asking tough questions, that is.” 

Looking down at the carpet, you chew on your bottom lip. The baby moves again, a bit jerkier than before. A few steady pop-pop-pop’s before they nestle again, still and quiet. You wish they would stop. It’s hard to focus when they’re squirming.

Xeno.

“I was…surviving,” you tell her, taking a steady breath. “I was hungry and thirsty, but I didn’t even know that I was. It was a kind of tired that…like, my whole body hurt, but I just couldn’t rest. Even if I’d had time to lay down, I don’t think I’d have been able to…sleep. And there was a sense of duty there for me, too, I guess.” 

“A sense of duty because…?” 

“Because I had to keep everyone alive,” you tell her. 

It sounds plain and simple because it is to you.

“Because you’re a nurse?” 

Because you said you would. Because you needed to. 

“Yes,” you answer. “Because I’m a nurse.” 

“And did you ever feel scared? Hopeless?” 

Terrified. Drained. Hopeless. 

“Yes,” you answer her again, uncrossing your legs and smoothing out your plaid skirt. “A majority of the time. But it was overshadowed by this…” 

You gesture, unable to come up with an accurate phrase. 

“Sense of duty?” Dr. Messina offers. 

Nodding, you sink further into the sofa. 

“Yes.”

“But ultimately, your life-saving efforts did not result in Mister Bradshaw living,” Dr. Messina says. It sounds like she’s reading from a newspaper--like she’s only reciting facts to a stranger. Like you did not live this. “So, then there were five deaths at Camp Arcadia. And one of them was the father of your unborn child. How does that make you feel now? Almost nine months later.”

Saying nothing, you blink at the floor a few times. 

“It makes me feel defeated,” you tell her. 

“Why?” She asks. “You did what you could.” 

Yes, you did what you could. But you slit Bradley’s wrists. You sent Reuben and Mickey down the trail. You didn’t hear Bob cry out. You pointed the gun at Paul until his very last moment. You heard Mable scream and didn’t come running. 

“Is it possible for both things to exist?” You ask her softly. 

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “But I feel the need to reiterate to you that you did what you could. In fact, according to Natasha T., Javy M., and Jacob S., you went above and beyond. They cite you as their reason for being alive.” 

“I know they do,” you tell her, sighing. You hate it when they say it--you always have. “But I don’t feel that I did anything…heroic.” 

“You cauterized a severed limb with a frying pan and extended Robert F.’s life by several days,” Dr. Messina says. “You administered emergency First Aid on two people that are still alive to tell the tale. Even you sustained injuries that required extensive repair, which you did not receive until days later when you were finally found. There were no camper casualties.” 

Yes, you’ve been told these things since it all ended. You lived these things. They happened in July at Camp Arcadia, which was the last time you saw all of your friends alive. 

You heard it on the radio, saw it on the news, read about it in the papers.

Really, you’ve relived it a hundred times over. 

Shoddy specials on cable television, interrupted by infomercials and high-speed chases. Local networks covered it extensively, all repeating what the previous one reported, recycling quotes and mispronouncing names. You’d heard, very recently, that Warner Bros. had acquired the rights to the story. Who gave them that right--and who took it away from you and everyone else--you weren’t sure.

They talked about it on the radio, stations cycling through callers from all over the United States who had precisely nothing to contribute to the story. Girls you went to elementary school with who wanted deeply to be a part of something as heinous as the Camp Arcadia Annihilation. Boys you went on one date with in high school who claimed to have always known your strength. The occasional caller who would defend Bradley on the grounds of absolutely not knowing anything at all besides he was handsome. 

The newspaper called you most frequently. At least three times a day in the very beginning--even waiting for you and the other survivors outside the hospital, stuffing their tape recorders in your bruised faces, shouting questions about axes and fear and God. You’ve flitted through a few different newspapers, not brave enough to read prose that begins with IT WAS A HOT AND DEADLY WEEK IN JULY… Mostly, you only looked at the pictures they printed. Grainy images, dressed in blotchy ink that turned the pads of your fingers gray, of camp. The flannel sheets covering the bodies, their ends singed and their iris flowers burned to dust. You standing with the other survivors when they finally found you, covered in black ash with blood leaking from your ears. 

Dr. Messina clears her throat, ducking into your field of vision. Sometimes you do this--go far away, keep quiet, don’t answer. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You finger the stuffing inside the sofa, swallowing with difficulty. “Yes. I did do that. But I feel…I feel like it’s what anyone would’ve done.”

“But not just anyone did it,” Dr. Messina says, eyes narrowed. She leans forward ever-so-slightly and purses her lips, paused. “You did.” 

Uncomfortably, you nod. 

Yes, you know you did. You remember well. You remember when you sleep. You remember when the stranger kicks. You remember when you size up in jeans. You remember every time Joni Mitchell comes on the radio. You remember every time someone orders a rare steak at a restaurant. You remember every time you smell iris flowers. You remember every morning when you wake up to Jake’s slumbering face, blonde hair swept over his narrowed eyes and lips in a perpetual grimace. You remember every single minute of every single hour of every single day. 

There is no forgetting. There is only depression as you stand on the outside of glass. There is only anger because it is the closest to fear. There is only acceptance because you sink further into the nothing, into the dark, into the cold. 

Dr. Messina knows you have no response. 

So, she glances back down at her pad and takes a deep breath, collecting herself. 

“You put flowers on the bodies,” Dr. Messina says softly. “Why?” 

“Not for occult reasons,” you say, unable to stop yourself. 

It’s what a few papers reported. 

“I wasn’t suggesting,” Dr. Messina says, pursing her lips. 

You nod, biting your lip. 

“Flowers are at every funeral,” you explain. “It felt like the right thing to do.” 

“But they were not having funerals,” she says. “They were lying dead in the canteen and on the rocks in the courtyard.”

“Maybe I wanted it to be their funerals,” you explain. Your palms are sweating. “Bradley didn’t even…get one.” 

Dr. Messina nods. 

“Yes,” she says. “Would you like to talk about that?” 

You shake your head. 

“No one would accept him,” you say, fingering your skirt now. “It’s as simple as that.” 

“That’s not very simple for you,” Dr. Messina says. “You were his friend before he did what he did. Does friend feel like an accurate description?” 

Wringing your hands together, you suck in a deep and warm breath. God, you wish you could take your sweater off. 

“Sure,” you say. You’re not lying. Above it all, below it all--you were friends. “Friends is adequate.”

“Your friend didn’t get a funeral because there was no funeral home that would accept him,” Dr. Messina says. Again, you squirm. “And there was no family to fight for him, right?” 

“I tried,” you say, brows knit. Something thick and round is sitting in your throat. “I mean, I called--I tried to get someone to do something…” 

“Right,” Dr. Messina says. “Do you feel like you got to say goodbye to him, then?”

Really, you did get to say goodbye. You got to hold him. You spoke to him. You were there when he slipped away. And that memory alone stays with you constantly. The exact weight of him in your arms. The warmth of his blood. The quiet rasps of his breaths. His broken words. The color drained from his face.

But you didn’t get to do with him what you did with the others. You did not wear a black dress and buy a bouquet of gardenias or chrysanthemums or bluebells for a torn family to hold beside a polished casket. You did not sit in oak pews and clasp your hands and pretend to pray. You did not hear Amazing Grace sung, you did not hear eulogies uttered, you did not throw a rose into a hole in the earth. 

“I mean…I…I guess I thought I had said my goodbyes,” you tell her, sniffling. “I remember thinking very clearly when I was covering his body that I--that I wouldn’t see him ever again. I tried to…say my own version of goodbye.”

I could drink a case of you, darling. And still I’d be on my feet. 

“But you did see him again,” Dr. Messina says slowly, earnestly. “In the morgue.” 

With no family to identify his body officially--not even an aunt in California or a third cousin in Arkansas--you volunteered to see him again in the morgue to officially identify him on record. 

And what struck you wasn’t that he still looked so much like himself or that he was given the same treatment as all the other bodies there despite his supposed wrongdoings. What struck you was how cold the room was--all that white tile, all the silver metal, all the crisp white sheets. What struck you was that he was alone--entirely, completely alone.

“Would you like a tissue?” The mortician had asked. “Or a moment alone with him?” 

Shaking your head, you sniffled hard and wiped at your swollen cheeks. Your ears were still ringing from the explosion.

“Is he gonna be all alone down here?” You’d responded. “Like, are there other bodies here? Or is he separate because of what…”

You couldn’t get yourself to say it: because of what he did. Because of what everyone thought he did, but didn’t really do. Not him, not Bradley, the one lying dead before you. 

The mortician looked at you the way he looked at all other hysterical woman that came in to identify brothers or husbands or boyfriends or fathers. He knew little of what happened at Camp Arcadia--just knew that you were brought here by the police. A special escort. 

“He’s dead,” he’d said. “He doesn’t get lonely.”

But being dead--laying on the slab, completely still, in that dark and cold room. It sounded like lonely business to you. Lonelier than you felt each night in the plastic chair beside Jake’s hospital bed, watching him breathe as hours flitted on and on. 

“I don’t want him to be alone,” you said to the mortician. You wiped your cheeks, straightened your shoulders. “He should be with the others.” 

The mortician, entirely unamused, just grunted a response. 

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“Maybe I don’t feel like I got to say goodbye,” you say now to Dr. Messina. “I was…I wish that the last time I saw him was at camp. When I covered him.” 

“And why’s that?” 

“Because if that had been--well, if that had been what happened, then I would’ve never known how cold the morgue is. And how…lonesome.” You feel that Dr. Messina is going to echo the mortician, just like any rational person would. So, you clear your throat and continue. “I guess I wish the last time I saw him would’ve been in any other condition. Like alive. But that’s just a…daydream.” 

Dr. Messina nods. She scribbles on her pad. 

“That’s understandable,” she says. You nod. “At camp, it would’ve been private. But not a lot has been private since then. How does that make you feel?”

“Lousy,” you say. “But I kind of always just feel…lousy.” 

“And that could also be due to your condition,” Dr. Messina says. It’s another way of her saying it’ll pass. “And on that note--how have you been coping with the media frenzy? It hasn’t seemed to die down much. Are you still struggling with the conspiracies? With the constant limelight?” 

“Like the one about occult rituals? Or the one about Bradley still being alive?” 

Sensing a certain dry humor in your tone, Dr. Messina smiles small. 

“Or that Bradley was possessed by the original killer?” She says. 

Your heart falls into the cushion of your belly. 

“Right,” you whisper weakly. “It’s all very tedious. It’s difficult to read, but…I guess it feels a bit like a new normal. I’m adapting.” 

“You’re coping is what I’m hearing,” Messina says. She crosses her legs. “And, if I may repeat myself, coping will become easier when you’re not…in your current state anymore. You can have the prescription the moment you give birth, if you’d like. If you don’t plan to breastfeed.” 

“I don’t,” you answer immediately, pennies under your tongue. The thought of giving more of your body to the thing that has stretched you to your limit makes your temple throb. “I’ll have it filled when I’m admitted.” 

“Won’t be long now,” she says. “Are you having anxiety about the birth?” 

“Doesn’t everyone?” You ask, eyes fluttering shut. “Everyone that’s young and-and stupid and unprepared, anyway.” 

“You feel unprepared?” She asks you. 

You nod, sighing. It feels like tacks on your tongue to even talk about this right now. 

“Crib’s not even set up. Car seat isn’t installed. Things are just in…boxes right now.” 

“Compartmentalized,” Dr. Messina says. “Tell me more.” 

“We haven’t even talked about a name. And all the clothing--all the…everything we have is just stuff people have given us. Nothing we asked for.” 

Dr. Messina nods, eyebrows knit. 

“No baby shower?” She asks. 

You laugh--no smiling mouth, no wrinkling of your eyes.

“I’m not exactly glowing,” you answer her, smoothing out your plaid shirt and simultaneously ridding your palms of sweat. “And besides, if people gave us more stuff it would still just stick around. In boxes, in a spare room.” 

She doesn’t say anything about that special maternal instinct that’s supposed to have happened to you by now. She doesn’t say that you’re supposed to want to prepare for the arrival. That you’ll feel the innate desire to cook and clean and prepare. You should be wanting to paint the walls a soft yellow, you should be wanting to fold a thousand bibs and burp rags, you should be wanting to sanitize bottles and stock up on diapers. 

“Tell me more about that,” she says. “Are you feeling like Jake is holding back because of the issue of paternity?” 

“No,” you answer quickly, laughing dryly. “Not at all. It isn’t…I mean, it isn’t him.” 

“Is it a matter of you being unable to be fully honest with him?” Dr. Messina asks, brows pulled together. “Like there are packed boxes in the spare room and inside of you.”

Swallowing hard, you give her a small shrug. Your tongue burns. 

“I’m not sure,” you tell her. 

She feels it when your walls go up, so she glances down at her notepad and then clears her throat. 

“You said that Jake doesn’t hold back on account of paternity at all. What is that like?”

“He tries,” you answer simply. “He’s been game from the very start. He tries. He tries--he tries very hard.” 

“Tries in what way?” 

“In every way a person can,” you breathe. 

And you’re telling the truth. When he calls his mama every week, to update her on his physical therapy and you, the conversation always turns towards the stranger. It’s when you leave the room every time, struggling to stand from your indented spot on the couch or pushing yourself out of one of the kitchen chairs. You don’t want to hear about Colic or sleep training or shaken baby syndrome. You don’t want to hear about the good stuff either--the Christening, the first words, the babbling. 

Upon occasion, he tried to talk about a few things: name, gender, school, the birth. And usually, your response is that you’re too tired to talk about any of it. It doesn’t matter if it’s noon or midnight, if it’s sunny or rainy--you’re too tired. You’re always too tired to talk about something that chokes you with fear. 

He’s even gone so far as to buy some catalogs--dog-earing the pages with cribs carved from solid oak or maple, circling indigo-colored quilted bedding, cutting out a few coupons for burp-pads or sleepers. He’ll sometimes leave them on your bedside table like some grand hint--but he always finds them neatly stacked on his bedside table when he comes back into the bedroom. It is a silent and serious gesture: no. 

Dr. Messina writes something down on her pad. 

“What are your exact anxieties about it?”

“The birth or the…?” You ask, brows furrowed. 

“Both,” she answers. 

Where to begin, you think. 

“I’m scared of…I don’t know. Everything. Like, even the little things. I’m scared of being woken up in the middle of the night. I’m scared of making school lunches every day for thirteen years,” you list, wringing your hands together. A budding magnolia flower flitters past the window like a juvenile albino butterfly. You swallow hard. “I’m scared of…I’m scared of the baby looking at me in the eyes.” 

Because if you looked into their eyes--what if you saw him? What if he saw you?

“You’re scared of the baby looking at you?” Dr. Messina asks. There is no judgment in her tone--only genuine inquiry. “Tell me more about that.” 

Truly, you don’t know what else to say given her limited amount of knowledge of what happened to you and everyone else at Camp Arcadia. 

How do you explain to her that you’re terrified of recognizing their eyes? Of seeing something in them that is void of life, of soul. Of looking into their eyes and seeing that those big, brown eyes don’t have any flecks of gold. Just monotonous darkness. 

“What if they…look like him?” You whisper. 

“Hasn’t that always been a risk?” Dr. Messina asks. 

“Of course,” you answer. “Only now, it’s getting bigger. Unavoidable.” 

She nods slowly. 

“And would it hurt Jake if he saw a resemblance to Mr. Bradshaw?” 

Humming, you swallow hard. 

“At the end of it all…they were friends, I think,” you whisper. You know that Jake is grieving Bradley, too--despite their differences, despite it all. “I think it’s fair enough to say that it would hurt me more.” 

Dr. Messina makes a sound of agreement. 

“I think all of this hurts you more,” she tells you. “You physically carry the weight of it all. And you have been since this all began. From the very start.” 

“Which is to say, I haven’t just been me,” you whisper. A beat passes and you laugh bitterly. “Christ.” 

Dr. Messina lets you simmer in your emotion for a moment. You clear your throat, look up at her. There is a wobbling about you--your lips, your lashes. She doesn’t call attention to it. 

“You just have to hang in there. As displeasing and vague as it sounds.”

Those silly cat posters come to mind when she says it: hang in there, baby!

“Easier said than done,” you tell her. Your eyes suddenly well with fat, fat tears. “I feel a bit like I can’t…I can’t even get a break at all. When I work, when I cook, when I feel even remotely happy, when I sleep, when I eat. It’s always…I’m just always coping. And I’m exhausted and I’m so preg…I’m just so tired, you know? But even sleep isn’t an option.”

Dr. Messina nods, eyebrows knit. 

“So, you’re still having the nightmares?” She asks. You nod slowly, sniffling and blinking at the light as your tears dissipate. “Is it the same still? I know you’re someone who suffers from recurring dreams.” 

“Yes, they’re all the same.” 

Leafing through her notes, Dr. Messina reads softly to herself before glancing up at you again. It’s very hot in here now. 

“So, you wake up strapped to a table and in immeasurable pain,” she reads to you. “And then you realize that you’re in labor and being prepped for a cesarean. The room is on fire and the flames are coming closer to you, but no one is responding. Everyone is going about like it’s business as usual… Do you want to continue?”

You don’t know how to tell her that you don’t want to talk about this--any of this. You don’t know how to tell her that you wish you could keep every single word, thought, feeling to yourself. Pack it deep, deep down. Compartmentalize. Have little boxes of memories lying about your head, gathering dust. 

Taking a deep, warm breath, you nod. 

“Before the operation can continue, the pain peaks and the…fetus bursts through my skin and it’s not a baby. It’s…” It’s the figure. A smaller version of it, one that was covert enough to curl up in your womb and incubate. “Something inhuman. I mean, it’s…a monster. It’s a monster. Rows of teeth and no eyelids and it’s…contorted. Not, like, deformed. But like--wrong. Just wrong.”

Dr. Messina nods along with you, watching you carefully. She can see your stunted breaths. It’s fear she sees written across your features now as you explain your nightmare--something she rarely sees you dressed in. Something people rarely see you dressed in, as she’s gathered the past nine months. 

“And then what happens?” 

Closing your eyes and chewing on your bottom lip, you press your fingers further into the couch. 

“I’m bleeding out. The fire is getting closer. The…thing crawls up my chest and comes close to my face. And I’m so scared that I can’t--I can’t breathe, I can’t move. It kisses me on the mouth.” 

Then it moves closer to you, close enough for bits of its hot drool to leak through the screen and fall onto your bare feet. 

You can’t move as it presses its face against the screen too, it’s teeth clashing against your skin. It is not a bite, no, it’s a kiss--the realization sends a shiver down your spine. It is kissing you, moving closer, its breath putrid like vomit simmering in the sun, like the inside of a corpse. You can’t move, it’s coming closer--

“I see a lot of projection in the nightmare, which is normal for someone who has gone through what you have. It’s a valid response to trauma,” Dr. Messina says. She sets her pen and pad down, leans back in her chair and appears suddenly ultra casual--like the two of you are just in a coffee shop together. “Do you see any connections to real life?”

The nightmare has become you now. A fantastic amalgamation of your trauma seeping into real life, into real sleep, into real fear.  

“The fire is obvious,” you say, sighing. “And the bleeding out…I know that it is because of Bradley. Because of what I…because of what I witnessed. Strapped down and unable to move projects…I don’t know, fear? Helplessness? It makes sense, I guess.” 

“And the fetus being a monster? Or, rather, monstrous,” Dr. Messina inquires. Your toes are numb. It’s too hot in here--you feel like flames are licking your ears. “What do you suppose that is about?” 

“I don’t know.” 

You say it because you can’t tell her that you’ve seen the figure before--always with your eyes closed and never without fear intact. You can’t tell her that it is because of your tremendous fear that it wasn’t Bradley that had sex with you--that it was Damien Gwyar, who was the figure you saw from the start of it all, coming to you in the night and eating all that delicious petrification. You cannot tell her that Bradley wasn’t really Bradley and you didn’t know that when you conceived his child and that there is no way of knowing what the offspring you’re carrying will be like. You cannot tell her that you’re afraid of being eaten from the inside out, that you’re afraid of being torn in half when giving birth, that you’re worried that the thing you’re carrying will be something you cannot love. 

Really, you cannot tell anyone this. It makes you feel hopeless. If the people that love you, the people you saved--the people who think you’re never afraid, the people who attribute you as being their sole reason for surviving--what would they have left? Already, everyone else is so fragile. Javy with his shaved head and call to orders, Phoenix with her Dixie cups full of pills and group therapy, Jake with his crutches and deep concern for you. 

It is as clear to you as springwater: you cannot tell anyone how truly hopeless you are because they would have nothing left. And nothing is more than you have now, you think. 

Dr. Messina clears her throat. 

“You’re afraid the child will be like their father, maybe?” She suggests. But you know that it is what she thinks--it is less of a suggestion to her and more of a statement. “Or that nothing beautiful can be made in the aftermath.” 

“Let’s go with that,” you say, nodding. You let your hands fall in your lap, motionless. “And the only way to get out…the only way to know…is to wait. Cope. Right?” 

“Yes. Unfortunately,” she says. “Do you still feel like you did the right thing keeping the pregnancy? Given the circumstances.” 

During one of your first sessions, you’d told her why through tears: even just the chance of having something left of Bradley was enough for you to cling onto it. 

Even now, after everything, through your pregnancy, all the fear and anger and guilt and exhaustion--you think you did the right thing. But there is that little bit of apprehension sitting at the base of your spine, paralyzing you with every minute movement. What if you didn’t do the right thing? What if you’re ushering in a monster to live on this earth? What if it tears you apart when it is born? What if you die and it lives and Jake is alone? What if--

“I don’t know,” you answer and it feels real and true. You don’t know. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe you aren’t capable of loving anything that came from your time at Camp Arcadia, save a few friends and a lover. “It’s too late for me, though. Right?” 

“Adoption is always an option,” Dr. Messina says. “I even have some pamphlets if you like. It’s never too late to change your mind.”

But the thought of it--of birthing something as evil as Damien Gwyar and unleashing them on an innocent family somewhere else in the world--makes you sick to your stomach. The sugar of your breakfast is sitting on your tongue again, mouth full of saliva. 

“I couldn’t live with myself,” you whisper. 

Then you glance at the clock and see that it is time to leave--how it has already been an hour is beyond you. 

Time is funny like that these days. It passes.

 ♀ 

“What should we do for supper?” Jake asks when the two of you walk through the front door, slamming it shut with one of his crutches before the wind can whip your cheeks any more than it already has. “Whatever you want--I’ll make it. Boss me around! Have another craving, I dare you! I’m feeling good today, baby.” 

He tosses the car keys into a ceramic bowl in the entryway and holds the small of your back as you lean against the wall, eyes half-shut. Everything about you feels heavy right now: your heart, your eyelids, your belly, your head. 

“Mmm, I dunno,” you whisper. With a slight struggle, you sit down on the carpeted steps that lead upstairs and sigh when your heavy limbs finally go slack. “Just need these boots off.”

“Need some assistance?” He asks, brow quirked. 

With a slight frown, you nod. It isn’t so easy to bend at the waist these days.

“Please,” you say.  

Jake kneels slowly, teeth grit, and you watch with bated breath--always ready to spring into action. But his knees hit the tiles and he’s still upright, which pleases the both of you. He pats his knee, grinning at you. 

“Give it to me, baby,” he says. 

You raise your feet and Jake begins to peel your boots off. He watches you as your head tips backwards, as your eyes fall shut. There are snowflakes melting in your hair still from your trek from the car to the front door. And your cheeks are bitten with cold, just like your bottom lashes and lips. There’s a crinkle between your brows where they’re knit and the arch of your throat is enough to make him ache. 

Poor bird. He knows you’re exhausted. Really, you always are. Finishing a twelve-hour shift, coming back from intense trauma therapy, carrying all the extra weight of the baby, making sure he gets to his appointments on time. 

“How was it today?” You ask him, voice quiet and sullen. Your elbows are buried in the carpet. “Anyone blow you smoke? Or try and charm you again? Or--better yet--ask for your number?”

“Just one,” he teases. “And yes, she did ask for my number. I told her to hit the road.”

“Cassanova,” you whisper. “That makes six, right?”

“I guess I’m just irresistible to the ladies,” he tells you, setting your boot beside you and carefully rubbing your naked calves. Your skin is warm--almost feverish. “Especially ones in the medical profession.” 

He folds your skirt up so it sits on your lap, your thighs bare before him. He presses a chaste kiss to your knee and then starts on your other boot. 

That expression crosses your face again--like if you were still the you from last year, you’d be smiling. It’s almost there. 

“Mmm,” you say. “And after another nurse asked for your digits, did you do any actual physical therapy? Or did you just tell ‘em you’ve got a very pregnant girl waiting for you in the car out front and watch her crumble?” 

He pulls your other boot off and kisses all the way up your shin, stopping at your knee. You used to smell like jasmine--but now you smell warmer, darker. It’s a scent that makes him think of walking into his mama’s closet, which was windowless and warm and perfumed with a sweet musk. 

“I told ‘em I’ve finally got the girl I waited all those years for and that I ain’t letting her go,” he says. “They usually run for the hills when I tell ‘em I’m gonna be a father, anyway.”

A father. 

A rock sits in your throat, obstructing your swallowing. 

“Mm,” you whisper as he rubs up your legs, pushing your skirt further up. Your head is growing foggy and heavy. “I’m tainted goods.” 

“Oh, darlin’,” Jake coos. You don’t open your eyes as he rests his chin on your knees and holds your belly in his hands. The stranger moves--always excited to feel Jake’s hands against them. Your belly turns and pennies gather beneath your tongue.  “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“You must’ve been the kid that asked for socks for Christmas,” you sigh, eyes still closed. You breathe through your nausea. “‘Cause I don’t feel like much of a prize these days.” 

Jake chews on his lip, shaking his head. 

You remain, in his opinion, the best thing on God’s green earth. 

“Seems like therapy was helpful today,” he says, only partly teasing. You open your eyes, peek at him. He’s looking at you seriously. “Was it? Helpful, I mean.” 

All you can muster for a moment is a shrug. You’re deflating by the second, ready to go to bed for the next several days. And Jake--ever-hopeful, bright-eyed Jake. 

How can you possibly infect him with your doom? 

“Sometimes I don’t see the point in re-hashing everything like that,” you tell him. He kisses your knee again, pats your belly like you’re a loyal dog. “I’m just…it just…” 

“What?” Jake prompts, earnest as ever. When you avert your gaze, attempting to look out the window at the snowstorm, he ducks into your field of vision with his brows pulled together. “You can talk to me, you know. I was there, too.” 

Really, it’s what he wants. You steeled something away from him when Camp Arcadia burned down. What you faced, what you saw, you did it alone. And he thinks--he knows, really--that you’ve been alone since then. Little parts of you, big parts of you, are stored deep beneath the surface of your skin. He wonders if that’s why you always feel so feverish; all that truth is bubbling to the surface, begging to come out, begging to breathe. 

“I know,” you tell him, eyes pouring into his. Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless. “I’m fine. Just feeling tired. I think I’m gonna lie down for a while.”

Jake deflates in real time, trying not to make it obvious. But everything he does is obvious to you--even just a little quirk in his brows, even just a momentary frown, even just a baited breath sitting heavy in his chest. 

More than anything, Jake wants you to be honest with him. He wants to know the truth about what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. And it isn’t even that you’re a liar--you’re just a withholder. 

“You know, I wish you had more faith in me,” he says carefully, voice drenched in sincerity. “I love you. I always have. You couldn’t tell me anything that would change that.”

With your brows knit and your stomach in a knot, you reach out and hold his cheeks. He shaved this morning while you brushed your teeth, leaning against the wall, carefully following the grain. You watched, hypnotized by the beauty in something so mundane. And now, as you feel the smooth skin of his cheeks, you feel it again. There is such beauty in every single thing he does--even when he just leans into your palm and watches you watch him. 

Who are you to disrupt that beauty?

“I love you,” you tell him. It’s the full truth. “I’m only tired, alright? I’ll feel better after I lie down.” 

Jake sucks in a breath--his ribs ache. But he nods, eyes flittering down to your belly.

“Let’s get you to bed, then.” 

♀

Jake is mincing garlic when the telephone rings--it’s shrill and incessant. He nearly stumbles over his own feet trying to get to it before it wakes you. 

“Hello?” He says instead of your name or his name. He’s learned his lesson with the reporters. 

“Hey, man,” Javy says on the other end of the line, voice crackley and far away--but jovial. “How’s it hanging, brother?” 

Jake smiles, his shoulders falling.

“Slightly to the left. Boy, is it good to hear your voice,” Jake sighs, a grin tugging on his lips. “How goes it, my man?”

“A little sideways sometimes, but we’re on the straight and narrow now,” Javy answers. “Got some spare time to gab with me?” 

Jake glances at the stove--his roux is going to burn. But he simply tucks the phone against his ear, walks across the kitchen as the curly cord stretches, and turns the gas off. 

“Always,” Jake answers. 

“Is Gale around?” Javy asks--he always asks. 

“Nah, she’s sleeping right now,” Jake says. 

“Shit--what time is it there?” 

Jake glances at his wrist. 

“Nah, don’t worry--it’s only about a quarter ‘til five. She’s just tired today--well, she’s kinda always tired right now But especially because she had an appointment with Dr. Messina today--you know how that goes.”

“Ah, so she saw the shrinky-dink today,” Javy says. Dr. Messina was the mandated psychotherapist all the survivors had to go to in the direct aftermath--it was something they had to do to get released from the hospital. Javy remembers her well--she was kind. “She alright?” 

Jake walks to the kitchen table and eases himself into a wooden chair, the phone still tucked between his ear and shoulder as he sets his crutches beside him. The scent of butter is sitting thickly under his nose, permeating his mustache. 

“She’s the same as she ever is,” Jake says. And before Javy can ask any more about it, Jake clears his throat. “And you? How’s it going in Wherever The Hell You Are? Don’t bullshit me either.” 

Javy laughs. Jake misses that big, broad sound. He remembers the way that it fills up whatever space it occupies--like a liquid. 

“Can’t complain,” Javy says. There’s a beat--somewhere on his end of the line, there’s a distant ruckus like men yelling or a sport’s game happening. “Well, I can, but what good’d that do us, huh?” 

“Might make you feel better to get it off your chest,” Jake offers. 

He wants--desperately so--for Javy to complain to him about where he’s stationed or his sergeant or some buck wild members of his outfit. Really, Jake wants Javy to fill all that quiet so Jake can just close his eyes, smell the butter on the stove, listen, and wait for you to wake up. He doesn’t want to talk about you or the way you can’t tell him things or the heat of your skin or the way you can’t even say the word baby. 

Javy pauses. He’s sitting in an unreasonably hot warehouse-type building right now, hunkered down by the payphones with a cup full of quarters. There’s sweat dripping down his back despite the industrial-sized fans whirring above him--he’s fairly certain they’re just churning hot air. 

“Nah,” Javy says. “The distraction is…good.” 

“Enlisting was the right choice,” Jake says. “I knew it was. Right?” 

Javy hums. 

“Yeah,” he answers. “I mean…yeah. It was. I don’t know what I’d be doing if I was on the outside. Like…I couldn’t go back to being a waiter or anything. Would’ve been so depressing. At least this way, I feel like I’m…”

Jake allows Javy to think--then realizes that Javy doesn’t know what to say. 

“You feel like you’re actually contributing,” Jake finishes for him. 

Javy sucks on the back of his teeth. 

“Not that y’all aren’t.” 

“Oh, I’m not,” Jake says, laughing softly and dryly. “It’s alright, no offense felt. I mean, once I’m right and everything I plan on being a kind of functioning member of society. Like Gale. Or Nix.” 

Neither of them say it, but they’re both thinking it--you’re really the only functioning member of society. Well, maybe Javy, too. But you’re the only one that has been strong enough to go right back to what you were doing before everything.  

“Speaking of--how’s Nix? Heard anything from her lately?” 

“Yeah,” Jake answers, nodding as if Javy can see him. “We just saw her over Easter weekend. She came out to the house and we dyed some eggs and stuff. Gorged on chocolate. We wanted her to stay the night, but…” 

But Phoenix has a hard time sleeping anywhere outside of her room. Not just because her white concrete walls make her feel boxed in--which is to say safe or contained--but because of the fat sleeping pill they give her nightly. She sleeps like a log whenever she’s wrapped up in her powder-blue sheets and paper pajamas. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink on your comfortable couch--it’s too cushioned. Too worn-in. Not sterile enough. 

The hardest part for her in places that feel comfortable--such as a home like yours with signs of life like dishes in the sink and crooked frames in the hallway and an empty cardboard cylinder on the toilet paper holder and a beat up rug in the living room--is that she can imagine Bob there. Bob sitting on the floor around your walnut coffee table, cheeks pink from a few glasses of wine and playing cards in his lazy grip. Bob washed in blue light in the kitchen as he poured himself a cup of coffee--only after he poured Phoenix one first, though. Bob just sitting on the couch, curled up beneath an afghan, watching The Price Is Right with a peculiar prickling interest. 

This is all to say that Phoenix prefers to stay in places where she knows Bob would never be--like New Haven Presbyterian Psychiatric Hospital. 

“Right,” Javy says. Another beat. Javy wipes his forehead with the bottom half of his white t-shirt before tucking it back into his service pants. “She called a couple days ago. She sounded good--well, she sounded better. She told me Curtis has been asking to visit with her.” 

Curtis Floyd is the only surviving Floyd child--which is to say that Curtis was Bob’s little brother. 

“Yeah,” Jake says, eyebrows raised. “I think he went up there last weekend.” 

“Oh,” Javy says. “Shit. How’d it go?” 

“Good, from what I can tell,” Jake answers. “Apparently he’s as good as Bob was at chess, which seems on brand. Right?” 

Javy laughs--the sound is more muffled now. Jake wonders if Javy has his hand cupping his chin, the lazy way he used to sit when he was bored at camp between activities. 

“I’m having a Hell of a time imagining Nix playing chess,” Javy says. “Now--Bob, I can see. Well, I could…Anyway. Not a big shock that it’s hereditary.” 

“That’s what I thought, too,” Jake says. He’s twirling the cord rapidly now. “M’hoping them spending time together does them both some good. He’s been taking it hard--Curtis.”

Javy sighs. 

“Yeah. I remember.” 

He’s talking about the funeral. Curtis Floyd was silent for the entirety of the service. He stood motionless beside his brother’s casket in a suit that was too short in the arms and too tight in the hips--probably because they didn’t have time to tailor him before the funeral. It had to be a quick turn-around. 

People walked up to him, like you’re supposed to do at funerals, and whispered their condolences. Curtis didn’t so much as blink--it was like he was standing somewhere else, somewhere far away from anyone and anything. 

The only time he reacted was when you made your way up to Curtis. You were holding Jake’s shoulder, wearing the same black dress you’d worn to Mickey and Paul’s service, green around the gills--which you’d attributed to trauma instead of the little stranger unknowingly growing in your womb. 

“God,” you whispered to Jake. Cold sweat dotted your hairline. “I mean--what can we even say to him?” 

Everyone dressed in black and navy and gray was shifting forward with a monotonous step like you were on a finely-oiled conveyor belt. Jake reached up and squeezed your hand, lips twisted in grief. 

“That we’re sorry,” Jake tried. 

“Well, I am sorry. I’m very sorry. But what good does that do him?” 

Jake wasn’t sure what to say. Pain was sitting heavy all over his body now--he wanted to go back home, even if he knew that meant a long and bumpy car ride home and you straining yourself to get him out of the car and into his wheelchair again. 

“Maybe it sounds nice to hear,” Jake said. The line moved forward--a uniform shuffle. “Better than some of the other shit I’m sure he’s hearing.” 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “True.” 

Then you were at the front of the line, pushing Jake forward and stepping down on the brakes before bringing your eyebrows together politely. 

“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Floyd said to you, holding her arms wide open. She was clutching a yellow hanky. “I’m sure this isn’t very--very easy for the two of you.” 

“We wouldn’t miss this,” Jake said, extending his hand for Mr. Floyd to shake firmly. Mr. Floyd held onto Jake’s one hand with both of his, his bottom lip trembling. “Bob was a good man--a good friend.” 

“He hardly even got to be a man…” Mrs. Floyd said. She was hugging you close to her, weeping softly on your shoulder. You were hugging her back rigidly, blinking back tears as you stared into the light. “I mean--he was so young. I just can’t understand, I just can’t even--!” 

Mr. Floyd put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and she paused in her ranting. 

“He was…good. Gentle. He was very gentle,” you said. 

Mrs. Floyd nodded, the tip of her nose bright red. 

“Yes, he was.” 

You turned to Curtis as Jake chatted with the Floyd’s some more, his face permanently fixed in a look of anguish. He was good at this public grief thing. You weren’t. 

Curtis was already looking at you, his eyes a bit hollower than his parents and his gaze listless and despondent. 

“Was he a good brother?” You asked him because you didn’t know what else to say or do or ask. “He seems like he would’ve been.” 

Curtis blinked at you, eyebrows pinching slightly. 

“Yeah, he was,” Curtis answered. His throat felt raw. “He used to…” 

Curtis paused for a long moment. You didn’t push him. You just stood there before him, genuinely engaged with him, waiting. 

He was going to say that Bob used to build Lego sets with him--that Bob was the one that was really good at it. He was going to say that Bob would’ve been secretly thumb-wrestling Curtis behind their parents’ backs if he was here now, trying to take Curtis’ mind off the grief. He was going to say that he used to sleep in Bob’s room on Christmas Eve every year and Bob never told him that he was too old to do that. 

He couldn’t say any of it. Words evaded him, flocking towards the sea like lost gulls. He knew, though, that you didn’t need him to say it. There was something about the way you were looking at him--he knew that you already knew. You understood. He felt like it was the first time anyone had actually seen him that day--or at all since they got that phone call a few weeks ago. 

Before you could register what was happening, Curtis’ body was slamming into yours. You stuttered something incoherent, eyes blowing wide and body rippling with the sudden weight of his embrace. He was hugging you--hugging you tight like you were someone he’d been missing forever. 

“Honey!”

“Curtis!” Mr. Floyd said, stunned. “Curtis, c’mon, son--!” 

He moved to take Curtis’ arm, but you were wrapping your arms around Curtis, accepting the embrace. You shook your head at his parents, who were embarrassed and in mourning and so tired, and just held Curtis Floyd. 

The finely-oiled conveyor belt came to a halt. 

Jake watched you for a long time as the boy who lost his only brother held you. Curtis would always be categorized this way, by this grief: the boy who lost his only brother after an unspeakable act of brutality. Even Jake felt that his category was concise, clear: the man who survived a direct attack. If he lost anything, it was the ability to walk--which he was told would return with enough effort. 

He wondered how people would categorize you--you’d lost so much, gained so little. 

Jake’s tongue is dry. He begins to twirl the curly cord of the phone around his index finger, watching it coil tighter and tighter before springing loose. 

“Poor kid. Can you imagine? I mean…I know we can imagine. But like--your older brother. Man, my older brother is my hero. If he…” Javy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what I’d do. I’d be pretty lost.” 

“I think Curtis is lost,” Jake says. “He’s visited us a couple times, too. Kid’s like a Monk.” 

“Visited you and Gale or just Gale?” 

“He mostly wanted to be around Gale, yeah,” Jake says. He twists a few of his mustache hairs and sniffles. “His ‘rents will drop him off and he just sits on the couch with Gale. Sometimes I’ll make ‘em dinner or something.” 

“Do they talk?” Javy asks. “Or is it just…like, silent?”

“I get the feeling they do when I’m not in the room,” Jake answers. He takes a breath and then shrugs. “But whenever I come in, they’re usually just watching Happy Days re-runs.” 

Javy starts to lowly sing the Happy Days theme song and Jake just laughs.

“Yeah. The irony of that isn’t entirely lost on me,” Javy sighs.

“Poor kid,” Jake says. 

Javy nods as if Jake can see him. 

“And…how about your kid?”

Jake doesn’t go cold at the mention of your child the way that you do. But he does sigh--all the air punches out of his lungs and into the space around him. 

“Still baking,” Jake answers. 

He knows he’s not gonna be let off that easily--but he doesn’t say anything else for a second.

“Gale been any more…” Javy struggles to find a word that doesn’t sound shameful. Maternal. Open. Awake. “Accepting?” 

“No,” Jake answers, sitting back in the chair. “Not really. Same as before.” 

“Just pretending like it’s not happening?” Javy asks--he asks this without malice, without judgment. Jake hums in agreement. “So, like, what’s she gonna do when she has the thing?” 

“It’s not a thing, Javy. It’s a baby,” Jake says with a heave.

“Poor word choice. Sorry! What’s she gonna do when she has the baby?” 

Jake doesn’t know what to say. He starts to pick at a hang nail. 

“I’m not sure,” he answers. 

“Do you think it’s gonna snap her out of it?” 

“Snap her out of what?” Jake asks. 

“Whatever realm she lives in now.” 

Jake doesn’t say anything for a long, hard few moments. He doesn’t know. Maybe this is what you’re going to be like forever. Maybe you shouldn’t be having this baby. Maybe he should’ve put his foot down a little bit harder. Maybe he should’ve said all this to you already.

“She’s due tomorrow,” Jake says because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Javy sighs, shaking his head. He fans himself. 

“You could be a dad tomorrow,” Javy says. “How nuts is that? Did you ever think this would happen?” 

“In all honesty, yeah, I did,” Jake says. He’s always pictured the two of you together--playing house, having a baby. “Not like this, I guess.” 

“Life’s laughable like that these days,” Javy says. “It’s what you thought it would be except…like, it’s…” 

“Off-center?” Jake prompts. 

“Yeah,” Javy confirms. “And, I don’t know--deficient.” 

“Deficient?” Jake asks. “How many points is that? Are my tax dollars going to your Scrabble habit?” 

“Up your nose with a rubber hose, man,” Javy laughs. A quiet, pregnant pause fills the air between them. He sighs. “Gale up yet?” 

He wants to talk to you--ask how you are, try and get one strangled laugh out of you. 

“No,” Jake says, peering down the dark hallway. “She’s still out.” 

Javy has a hard time imagining you as you are right now. Stretched to your limit, ghostlike in appearance with your watery gaze and exhausted smile. He remembers you as covered in blood and holding a shotgun--so far away from sleep that it seemed like something you’d never do again.. 

“Do you think that’s a sign that it’s gonna be tomorrow?” Javy asks. “Shit, I don’t know how it all works. All I know is that when my cousin had her baby, she slept for like two days before. Like a fucking--like a hibernating bear.” 

“She doesn’t seem ready,” Jake answers, which is true. “I don’t think she wants…” 

Javy can fill in the blanks. 

“What if she doesn’t ever seem ready?”

“Bleak outlook,” Jake sighs out, rubbing his eyes. “I try not to…” 

Javy pauses, collecting his thoughts. 

“Look, you’re my main man. I love you like I love my own flesh and blood--!” Javy pauses, cringing at the imagery. Jake doesn’t say anything. “And you know that I love Gale, too--shit, I really think I would’ve been dead meat without her. But this…this is serious, man. The two of you are bringing another life into the world and you haven’t even installed the car seat.” 

“How do you know I haven’t installed the car seat?” Jake asks

“Have you?” Javy deadpans. 

“No,” Jake answers. 

There’s a pause again. Javy would laugh if he could muster the strength. 

“What are you gonna do if she…?”

Another pause. He’s hoping Jake will fill in the blanks.

“If she what?” Jake asks. The question is bitter on his tongue. 

“Stays the exact same way she is now,” Javy says. “And before you flip your lid, I know you love her. I love her, too, man. But she’s not her anymore. I mean, shit--none of us are. I know that. And I know it isn’t fair that she’s being held to this…different standard, but she’s gonna have a baby in a few days. It was her choice.” 

Jake’s stomach is in knots. He closes his eyes. 

“Either way she chose, it wouldn’t have been easy,” Jake says quietly. “Put yourself in her shoes. Think about what it would be like to…”

“I know. After all the death, the destruction--life finds a way. That irony isn’t lost on me either,” Javy says. “And I know you hate that for her. But you can’t be a caretaker and a single parent.” 

“Jesus,” Jake hisses into the receiver. He’s gripping the cord hard. “She’s not--Christ, she’s not comatose. She’s depressed. Traumatized.”

“Jake, she doesn’t know how to help herself,” Javy says. “I get it. I do. I don’t know what the fuck I’m…but look, man. Something’s gotta give. Why don’t you press her a little bit? See if she’ll finally talk about a name or a crib or--something. Anything.” 

“I don’t want to push her,” Jake says, his tone whispered. “I don’t…I don’t wanna keep staying this way either, though. She makes me--she really does make me happy. Shit, she’s the girl of my dreams. Still is. Always will be.” 

Javy hums along with Jake, remembering when times were simpler. When the sun always felt good on their shoulders. When summertime felt fleeting but also everlasting in complete and utter tandem. When he could still poke fun at Jake for having that Polaroid of the two of you in his wallet. 

“You’re not pushing her,” Javy assures Jake. “You love her the most out of anyone, right? And if you don’t push her now--if you wait until the little alien is here, she might already be too far gone.” 

“Too far gone?” Jake says, chewing the words. He suppresses a gag. 

“You know what I mean,” Javy says. “Just…stuck like that.” 

“She’s not crossing her eyes,” Jake says. “She’s not…she won’t be stuck forever. We’ll make it through.” 

“Is that enough for you?” Javy asks. “Just making it through? Always just making it through?” 

“I don’t know, Jav,” Jake sighs. He doesn’t. “But I do know that it’s rounding on suppertime and I’ve gotta feed ‘er, alright? When can you call again?” 

Javy shakes his cup of quarters--he still has a decent amount left. 

“How about Monday?” 

“Works for me,” Jake says. He’s readying himself to stand, his tongue stained from this conversation. “Keep on keepin’ on, alright, man?” 

“Likewise, clydesdale.”

There’s another pause--both of them just breathing, waiting. 

Jake sniffles. 

“Give Gale my love,” Javy says. He looks down at his hands. “You’re not…shit, you’re not alone, man. You know that, right?” 

“Says the guy who left us behind for some uniforms in an undisclosed location,” Jake says, only partly joking. “You couldn’t wait to leave us in the dust, buddy.” 

“Ha-ha,” Javy says. “I think we’d be at each other’s throats if we--!” 

Another pause. Javy is still learning that there are certain phrases, ones that used to seem so normal, that make his spine curl inward like it’s going to come hurdling out of his body in a c-shape.

“Take care, man,” Jake says because he knows Javy is chastising himself silently.

Javy is trying desperately to think of a better note to end on. 

He settles on, “Be on the look-out for a stork.”

Jake smiles, cheeks tinted pink. Javy clears his throat, uncomfortable. He wipes another bead of sweat off his forehead. 

“You know I will be,” Jake answers. The thought makes him dizzy.

Javy nods.

“You know I…love you, right?” 

“Right,” Jake answers quickly. “And you know I feel the same.” 

“Yeah, I do.”

They’re dancing around a goodbye--it is a bump in the road they’re walking down, one that is inevitable. It’s always hard for them to say goodbye to another. Javy always says it’s the Midwest’s effect on the body, Jake always says it’s his Southern hospitality. But really it’s because they’ve never been good at ending things between them, at turning their backs on each other and walking different ways. It just isn’t in their nature. 

“I’ll call you if anything happens. Baby-wise, that is,” Jake says. His fingertips almost begin to tremble just at the thought. “Fair?” 

“As fair as fair gets,” Javy says. He sighs. “Talk to you later.” 

“See ya.” 

And then Jake finally hangs up the phone. He stands alone in the quiet kitchen with his hand on the receiver for a while, just listening to the snow tap on the window above the sink and the empty dial tone ring out. The roux has congealed on the stove--he’s gonna have to start over. 

It’s almost six now. Jake reckons he better get a move on.

 ♀ 

Jake walks down the hall carefully, not bothering to flick the light on. He can see in any and all dark now--or, at least, it feels that way. His crutches dig into the runner you laid out and he’s thankful that it’s dulling the noise--he doesn’t wanna wake you up. 

It’s been a couple hours since he walked with you to the bedroom and sat at the end of the bed while you stripped naked. He watched you, still and silent, as you opened drawers and closed them, as you slipped into a cold t-shirt and a new pair of panties. He watched you take your makeup off and push your hair out of your face. 

You looked like you were at the end, skin breaking where the baby has pushed you further and further--taking and taking. He watched your heavy-lidded eyes find him in the mirror, watched your brows come together.  

“What?” You’d asked. “What’s the matter?” 

He almost said nothing, baby. But then he thought about the way you withheld from him, thought about the way you hid little pieces of yourself. He thought about the way you were still going to therapy, even if it didn’t seem to untie the knots in your shoulders. 

He was worried about what was to come, he realized.  

So he was honest. 

“You’re just…beautiful,” he said. 

“So are you,” you said seriously and without missing a beat. 

Then you looked down at your own belly in the mirror, the underside of it dipping out from beneath your t-shirt. There was always a piece of you showing since your body was made up of peaks and knolls now. And, looking at yourself, you saw it, too. You were at the end. You couldn’t take much more--well, really, you couldn’t give much more. 

“Soup sound good?” 

“Sounds stellar,” you’d whispered to him. “Perfect weather for it.”

You tore your gaze from your own reflection and then turned towards him, hands fallen to your sides. Usually, when Jake saw pregnant women, they were holding their bumps. Using it as an accessory, toting it around like this season’s bag. But you--you tried not to touch it if you could avoid doing so, which was almost always. He couldn’t imagine having a part of his body that he couldn’t--or wouldn’t--touch.

Here the two of you were, somehow still alive after it all and with a little stranger so close that you could almost see them through your skin, and you were talking about the weather, about soup. 

“I love you,” Jake said suddenly, feeling desperate. 

You tilted your head to the side the way dog’s do when they hear a familiar word. 

“Yeah, I love you, too,” you said. You shifted all your weight to your right side, hip jutting out. “Is there something you wanna talk about? Because if it’s about before, then, baby I--!” 

He watched the valley of your chest rise until it was a hill and held his hand up to stop you. You were holding your breath.

“--No, no. I just felt like telling you.” 

Blinking at him, you frowned.

“Well, now I feel like an asshole,” you said softly. You stepped forward--very nearly into his arms. “I’m sorry.” 

He swiftly put his arms around you and pulled you close. Your belly grazed his throat, his chest. He wondered if the baby could feel his heartbeat, his breaths. He knew the baby could hear your heartbeat, feel your organs working and your blood rushing. He wished he could feel your life thrumming like that all the time. It would make him feel better.

“Don’t be sorry,” he told you. 

The storm is still angrily knocking on the doors and rattling windows, hiding the yellow sun away. He’d been watching it out the kitchen window as he slowly finished supper, simmering chicken broth and rolling biscuits out. 

When he reaches the bedroom door, it’s ajar and the light inside is tinted a light blue--a very cold shade of blue. Like it’s snowing inside of the bedroom. If he lets his eyes un-adjust, if he doesn’t focus too hard on anything particular, he can see the snow falling from the ceiling and over your still form. He can imagine a glass dome surrounding you, every book and glass on the nightstand suspended in water and antifreeze and glycerol. You’re here in your own little snowglobe and Jake is watching from the outside.    

“Darlin’?” Jake whispers, pushing the door open with a crutch. 

You do not respond.

He knows why as soon as he sees inside the room. You’re fast asleep on the bed, curled up on your side with your knees pulled up underneath your belly and your head bowed as if in prayer. There’s a crinkle between your brows and from where Jake is standing, he can see the goosebumps covering your skin. 

As soon as he’s beside you, listening to your deep breaths and your silent slumber, he pulls the sheets over your body, tucking them over your shoulder. If you didn’t have a belly right now, he thinks you might disappear under there--but the belly strains against the covers, ever-visible. 

Sitting on the bed, carefully tucking his crutches beside him, he rubs your arm over the sheet. You don’t stir. It isn’t often that you’re out like this--truly at rest. He knows he can’t wake you up for anything right now, especially not chicken soup. 

So, for just a while, he sits beside you and watches you sleep. Jake thinks it might be the only time you look like the you that you were before everything happened. When you’re asleep like this, curled up and quiet, it isn’t hard for him to imagine you grinning or laughing. It isn’t hard for him to imagine you springing up with a tired smile, head lulling to the side as you stretch across the pillows. 

With an open palm, he moves down your body until it rests on the curve of your belly. 

Reality has dawned on him--really, it’s been here the whole time. From the moment you told him that you knew you were pregnant at the gas station, he was serious about this all. Yes, you are going to have a baby and so is he. He loves you--he’s loved you for a long time--and it never felt unnatural for him to love the baby you’re carrying, too. He thinks that’s what this feeling is that sits so heavy in his chest when the baby kicks his palm--it’s warm and soft. Love. 

“Be good,” he whispers to the baby. He pretends not to be choked up. “I know you will be.” 

You stir--he moves his hand away. And then he begins to stand slowly, not wanting to rip you from such a peaceful slumber. He begins to walk out of the room, content to let you rest for as long as you can. He’ll just put your dinner in the stove and leave the warmer on--

Abruptly, you sit up straight on the bed. Your hair is mussed from the pillow and your face is hot and sleep is sitting on your tongue. 

Jake turns, brows knit in apology. 

“I’m sorry, I was trying to be quiet.” 

“It’s alright,” you answer him, breath caught in your throat. Your heart is beating so hard that Jake can see your pulse throbbing on your throat. “You didn’t wake me up.”

“What did?” He asks, glancing down at your belly again. He’s paused near the end of the bed, watching you. “Everything okay?” 

“Fine,” you answer, breathing out hard. You were sleeping hard--which means that you were fully immersed in the nightmare. They always feel so real. “Do you--will you…get in bed with me?” 

Jake complies immediately, setting his crutches against the closet doors before he tucks himself beneath the sheets to feel your skin. 

“I’m freezing,” you admit as you shuffle closer to his body beneath the covers. 

“Well, c’mere then,” Jake says quietly. 

He’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you as close as he can. You’re all sorts of warm besides the gooseflesh that makes up your skin. He nuzzles his nose against your temple and sighs softly. 

He shifts, pulling the quilt over the two of you, too. 

“Not a good nap?” He asks. You shake your head. “Bad dream?” He asks again. You just nod, not saying anything as you measure your breaths. “Wanna talk about it?” 

“I don’t think so,” you tell him, an ache clustering behind your eyes at the thought of detailing your nightmare out loud again today. “Thanks a million, though.”

Jake nods--which is what he always does whenever you tell him no in a nice enough way. But then he thinks about what Javy said, how serious and sad he sounded on the telephone earlier today: After all the death, the destruction--life finds a way. That irony isn’t lost on me either.

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?” He asks--his voice is so low, so quiet, that it is very nearly a whisper. 

You hear him, though. Your head is resting against his chest right now--it would be hard not to hear him. 

“It was just a dream,” you tell him. 

“I don’t just mean this time--this dream. I mean…” Jake sucks in a deep breath, blinking at the thrifted portraits on the wall as he strokes your hair carefully, softly.  But you can’t be a caretaker and a single parent. “Everything. You don’t ever wanna talk about anything that happened.”

“Yeah,” you answer. You sniffle. “Do you?” 

“Of course I want to,” Jake answers. “How else do you get past something like that?” 

“I don’t know how,” you say. 

He nods. 

“I know you don’t,” he says. 

Frowning, you look up at him. He’s ready to meet your gaze--his brows are pulled together in sympathy and his lips are frowning and there’s pink dusting his cheeks. 

“What are you doing?” You ask him. 

“I’m holding you,” he tries. 

You sit up further, away from him. Your chest makes a hollow sounding thunk when you prop yourself up. Maybe it does--or maybe you just think it does. You don’t know. 

“Stop,” you say softly, shaking your head at him. “Why are you fighting me?” 

“This isn’t a fight,” Jake says immediately. His eyes are pleading--what they want, what they need you aren’t sure. But there is a sinking rock in your gut because you feel that whatever it is--you cannot provide it. “C’mon. I’m not trying to upset you.” 

“Well, you are,” you say. A flame of despair reaches up and licks the roof of your mouth. “Can’t you see that I’m doing my best here?” 

Jake says nothing. 

A defeated scoff falls from your mouth and punctures the air around you.

Jake thinks, with an overwhelming amount of dread, that the room looks even more blue now. Colder. Darker. 

“It isn’t that I think you’re not trying your best,” Jake says, attempting to diffuse this time bomb lying a few inches away from him. You watch him without blinking. “It’s that I…well, I just wish you would talk about it.” 

“I do,” you tell him. “Twice a week. For an hour.”

“I meant with me,” he says. He takes a breath and shrugs listlessly. “I want you to talk about it with me.” 

“Why?” You demand. 

Jake scoffs now--a smaller and less aggressive noise. One that just says really? I have to spell it out for you? 

“Well, one--because I love you. And two--because I don’t even know the full story except for what other people have told me. Like, after I got out of the cabin and between the mess hall and the nurse’s cabin…I don’t know what you went through. You’ve never told me what happened to you.” 

Spine rigid, you nod.

“Good. I’m glad you don’t know,” you tell him. You sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I don’t…why would you want to know?” 

“Refer to my first point,” Jake says, his tone a bit biting. “What--you think I can’t handle it?” 

Biting the inside of your cheek, closing your molars over a piece of metallic tissue that dangles there, you think of what to say next. Jake just watches you think, watches your eyes fall over his face like you’re trying to rearrange his features with only your gaze. 

“It’s not my job to say what you can or can’t handle,” you say. Your voice is calm, quiet. Honest.

Jake’s throat burns. 

“Gale,” Jake says because he can’t think of anything else to say when he’s stunned the way he is now. His jaw hangs open, just a crack, as he watches you. Maybe he’s waiting for you to go back on your word, to try and explain what you really meant instead of what you said. But you just stare at him. “That feels…unfair of you to say.”

“Unfair?” You ask, brows knit. “What do you--I’m not insulting you, Jake. It’s not an insult to want to keep you from knowing all the shit I…endured.” 

Jake stares at you--his green eyes are the color of treetops in the sunshine. His cheeks are darker now, redder. 

“I got axed in the back so you wouldn’t be,” Jake says. He swallows hard. “I don’t know if you remember that or not. I’d do it again--every single day of my life--to keep you on God’s green earth. But you can’t even talk with me about what you’re feeling?” 

“What are you doing?” You whisper. Your heart is beating fast again, but it’s a different kind of panic than the one you nightmare induced. This is like the rapid flaps of a hummingbird’s wings--too fast to count, too fleeting to feel. “C’mon. Let’s not.” 

“No, I feel like…you know what? Let’s. Let’s talk about it. Get it all out on the table. You don’t think I’ve been through enough to understand what you went through. Is that it?” 

“I never said that,” you say softly. 

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.” 

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” you defend. 

He points at you, a bitter smile tugging on his mouth. 

“Exactly.”

A beat passes. 

Somewhere a few miles down the road, a train passes. The horn blows. The wheels tumble on the tracks. The bells ring and the lights flash as cars wait to pass. 

“It’s not a competition,” you say. You sound achingly like Dr. Messina. “Grief isn’t--what we went through isn’t a competition.” 

“Yeah. I know it’s not,” Jake says. He pauses and turns his head to the side. “Do you?” 

“If it’s not a competition, why do you want to know every detail? Why do you want me to…God, re-live that? I don’t ever wanna be back there ever again in my life.” 

“I want to understand you,” Jake says, brows drawn together. He chews on his bottom lip. “I want to…I want to know why you do the things that you do.”

Offended, you just stare at him. The stranger stretches, flexes--it is a feeling you wish to never feel again. You cannot speak until it is over, until they go still, until they settle deep inside of you. 

“Oh, because I’ve really been doing shit that’s out of pocket,” you say bitterly. “Like going to therapy and working a full-time job. Oh, and grocery shopping and going to the bank and doctor’s appointments.” 

Jake just stares at you hard. His jaw is flexed. 

“I feel like I don’t even…” He sucks in a deep breath and rubs his eyes tiredly. “I don’t feel like I even get you.”

“You don’t get me?” You ask, sniffling. “That stings.”

“Don’t take it that way,” Jake says, sitting up on his elbows now. “Of course I--I’ve always gotten you. I just don’t know, like, what you’re thinking now. What do you want? What do you know? What are you scared of? Do you ever feel sad? What do you enjoy? I look at you and your face and--there’s just nothing. I don’t know when you’re happy. I don’t know when you’re sad. I can just…feel that you aren’t feeling or you are feeling. I can’t ever, like, pinpoint you.” 

“Do you want me to just shout out what I feel all the time?” You ask, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “Because I don’t think you’d like that any more than I would.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he tries, exasperated. 

“Here--right now I’m feeling frustrated! No, not frustrated. Pissed. Pissed is the right word! I’m pissed right now, Jake. I’m pissed at everything.” 

“Well, that’s real nice,” Jake says, eyes narrowed on you. You just look back at him defiantly, arms crossed. “Good to know.”

“You’re welcome,” you say softly. 

Your voice is lethally quiet. It pushes Jake over the edge. 

“I don’t even know if you want this baby!” Jake says finally. 

An anchor has lifted and his shoulders snap back like a buoy that’s been held underneath the choppy surface. Your eyes are wide and your lips are parted and you just look at him. 

“What?” You ask. 

“Do you want it?” Jake asks, softer now. He looks down at your belly and watches as you begin to curl into yourself--protective. “Do you want this baby or are we going to…give it up?” 

“Give it up?” You repeat, ears ringing. You sit up, still staring at him. “What are you talking about right now? We haven’t ever even talked about that. You know we aren’t doing that, Jake. I--!” 

“--Maybe I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling,” Jake starts. A pain is spreading through his body--deeper than an ache and more stinging than a cut. He stares at you hard. “But I know that you aren’t excited about the baby--not like normal mother’s are.” 

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be a normal mother. You know, all things considered,” you say, tone biting. You suck in a deep breath and then scoff again. “You wanna talk about unfair? That’s a low fucking blow.”  

He looks at you sidelong, chewing his bottom lip. Guilt is nibbling on the cuffs of his shirt, the legs of his pants. He knows. He knows it isn’t fair. 

“What’s gonna happen when they’re born? What’s gonna happen when they want you to hold them? Kiss them? Love them?” Jake watches your face contort in anguish. He wishes that it didn’t feel so good to say these things, but it does. It does feel good. He loves you and he loves them. He isn’t sure where you fall in that. “How are you gonna be a mother to them if you can’t even call them a baby?” 

If he wasn’t right, you’d feel a lot angrier. If these weren’t things you’ve already thought, but never said… 

There is still anger, but it is not permeating the air around your warm face. It is just sitting still and compliant on your tongue. 

“I’ll figure it out,” you say softly. 

“How?” He asks, shrugging in defeat. “I mean, you barely make it through any time someone says pregnancy. You don’t touch your belly, you don’t--you haven’t even let me talk about names. Nothing’s ready. Someone could walk into this house and just…not even know that we’re about to have a baby.” 

“Congratulations,” you tell him. “You got me. I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“Me neither,” he says. He looks down at the sheets between the two of you, tries to measure the distance in fallen eyelashes. “We were supposed to figure it out together. But you’ve left me totally on the outside of everything.” 

“On the outside?” You repeat. “Christ, Jake. Just because I don’t walk around with my…belly hanging out of my t-shirt doesn’t mean no one is allowed to talk about it. You can be excited about it--I never stopped you from being excited about it.”

“I’m not putting the blame on you,” Jake says. He swallows hard. “I just wonder if…we’re ready for this.” 

You shake your head. 

“We aren’t,” you tell him. “But we’re gonna do it anyway. That’s what we decided.” 

“No, you decided it. And never for a second have I second-guessed it,” Jake says. You’re watching him with big, soft eyes. “I’ve been game from day one. I…Gale, I love that baby already. I’m all in. But are you?”

You don’t know what to say. There is a lump sitting perfectly in your throat. 

“Ask me that tomorrow,” you whisper. 

He says nothing, just nods. He hasn’t ripped his gaze away from the sheets. 

You’re looking at his lips, his cheeks, his chin. 

“I really, really love you,” he says. He blinks, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “I want you to be okay.” 

“I am okay,” you insist. 

You don’t know why you’re lying, but it feels natural. Like second-nature. 

He’s quiet for a moment, just thinking. Thinking about it all. 

“Do you remember when you came back into the mess hall? After Bradley…When you laid down beside me and kept saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry?” Jake finally glances up at you and you’re staring at him with your eyes wide. Blue shadows cross your features, burrow into your hair. “You had the gun.” 

“Yes,” you say, chin trembling. “I had the gun.” 

He sniffles. 

“But Bradley was dead,” he says. “You didn’t need the gun for protection.” 

“No,” you answer. A few tears stream down your cheeks. “I didn’t.” 

“And it was loaded,” Jake says. His throat is tight. “Right?” 

“Right,” you confirm. 

Neither of you say it out loud, because if you did there would be no taking it back. There would be no moving past it. If Jake hadn’t been awake, if Jake hadn’t lived--you shudder just thinking about it. 

Instead, Jake reaches forward. He thumbs away a few of your tears, ignores his own. 

“You lived because I lived,” he says. He shakes his head. “I lived because you lived. And here’s this…thing that’s you and him and me. Right? So, we can live for each other and we can live for them.” 

Carefully, he moves to cup your belly. The stranger stretches again. Always excited when Jake touches them. They must love him more already. 

“Okay,” you say. But there’s that far-away, not-home sound in your voice. “We can do that.” 

Jake sighs, coming closer to you. The amber on your skin is burning his nostrils. 

“Talk to me,” he begs. “Please.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue. His earnesty has pushed the words up, up your belly and throat and the syllables are biting the inside of your lips. You’re going to say it to him, going to let someone else in finally. 

What if it’s a monster? What if the baby looks into your eyes and you just know?

“I’m…” you begin, voice wavering. 

You and Jake feel it at the same time, his palm flush on your skin: the tightening. It’s the kind of tightening that makes your muscles quiver, that insists upon itself so fervently that it exhausts itself in the undertaking. 

The both of you are looking down--down at his hand, at your skin, at the sheets. And no one is saying anything. You’re hardly breathing. 

Something doesn’t feel right.  

The ground you’re on is suddenly crumbling out from beneath you as a certain pressure comes to a raging boil inside of your body. 

“What…?” 

“I don’t know,” you answer and your voice is tinted with pain, with panic. “I just--!”

A knife drags across your womanhood, a searing and sharp pain. Breathing out shakily, holding onto the pillows, you stare at Jake. 

“Say something,” Jake pleads.

“I don’t know, I feel--!” 

The pressure peaks--with a small sound, something between a breath and a gasp, you release the sheets. Warmth spreads between your legs. Strikingly, it feels like blood. You remember this warm and wet and slick stuff.  

“What’s going on?” He asks, alarmed. The color is draining from your face. “Darlin’?” 

“My water,” you say--your voice sounds far away. You’re staring down at your legs, which are still covered with a sheet. “It just…I think it broke.” 

“It did?” He asks before he can help himself. 

Carefully and with shaking hands, you pull the sheet back and away from your body. And yes, there it is. A wet spot staining the sheets and seeping into the mattress. It is not blood, though--it is just your water.

“Oh,” you say quietly. 

It isn’t relief that you feel. It’s something else--bigger, heavier. It is sitting on your thighs.

“It’s…it’s alright,” Jake says decidedly despite the cold sweat suddenly prickling his spine. He looks at you, at your parted mouth and wide and watery eyes, and musters a small smile. “Hey, that’s alright. It’s fine. This was…supposed to happen. It was--well, it was bound to.” 

You feel like you’ve just been shot into space--like you’re outside of this planet’s orbit, free-floating, choking. Distantly, you hear what he says. It’s alright. It’s fine. But you’re reaching for him, desperate as ever, trying to anchor yourself to something as sturdy as him. 

He scrambles to take your hands, not breaking contact with your wide-eyed gaze. Broken breaths fall from our parted lips and Jake smooths a hand over your hair. 

“Does it hurt?” He asks. 

There is a small cramp sitting down low, spreading across the underside of your belly and through your thighs. 

You nod. 

“Just a little,” you tell him. 

He nods. 

“Just breathe,” he tells you, brows knit. “Suck one in and blow it out, darlin’. You’re just fine. We’re fine.”

Again, you nod. Sucking in a deep and quivering breath, you hold it in your lungs for a moment and try to hear anything other than ringing. Your heart is hammering against your ribcage and your stomach is in knots and you feel like this is the end of everything.

He gets the distinct sense that he’s going to have to keep a very cool head right now.

“Let it out,” he says to you. Your warm breath puffs against his cheeks and throat. “Well…let’s not waste any time then. Right? Let’s go.” 

“We aren’t--I don’t have a bag,” you say. You suck in a sharp and shuddering breath. “The baby--I--we don’t have a crib.” 

“Yeah, we do,” Jake says. He watches your wide eyes fill with tears. “It’s just not--you know, set up yet.” 

“Jake,” you cry. You’re holding tight to his arm. “Jake.”

“I know,” he says. “But we’re…we’re fine. We’ve survived worse. Like, much worse. Alright?” 

It’s not alright. You say nothing. 

 ♀ 

“The baby’s heart rate is low,” one of the nurses bellows. “We’re reading seventy-five B.P.M. over here! We’ve gotta move, we’ve gotta move!”

She’s reading the tall machines that are staked beside your hospital bed, her hair pulled back and her eyes wide with alarm. Other nurses and doctors are moving all around you in a sea of white and red--talking over each other, reading charts, breaking down your bed, slipping an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose, unlocking the wheels beneath your bed. 

“I don’t have preeclampsia,” you’re muttering, hardly audible beneath your oxygen mask. You’re saying it because you know they’re going to ask. “No history of gestational diabetes either.”

Then you’re moving, not that you mind. All you’ve wanted since you got here is to be out of that hospital room where everything is pink and blue and quiet.

It’s all happening so fast. You used to roll your eyes when people said that. It happened so fast! Camp Arcadia didn’t happen fast. It happened slow--over the course of a grueling week, seeped in flannel sheets and nightmares and gravel. 

But you understand it now. This is what people mean. 

What they mean is that nothing happened for two hours. Contractions were constant, you were dilating half a centimeter per hour and the doctor was pleased with that. Nurse’s that you work with came in and out of the room, all toothy grins and big hugs. Jake kept asking if you wanted ice chips and you kept saying no. Dallas played on the shitty television mounted in the top corner of the room.

The hospital room has housed you for only a little bit over two hours now. You’ve been lying on your side, hands tucked beneath your cheeks, watching the snow fall outside as the epidural wedged between your vertebrae numbed everything below your chest. Jake has been sitting beside you in a wooden chair, stroking your hair, watching the monitors and trying to read them.  

“How’re the drugs?” Jake asked, a grin tugging on his lips. 

He was watching you, blissed out as ever, relax against the pillows as he stroked your hair. He’d been worried--privately, of course--that things would pick up and then not stop picking up. His vision of you giving birth was cushioned with panicked tears and speeding through stop lights and bloody sheets. 

But here you were, the hint of a smile tugging on your lips as you looked back at him. It was the kind of look that reminded him yes, one day you will smile again and it will touch your eyes. He knew the drugs were helping. 

“Fantastic,” you whispered to him. 

“Gonna make a habit of this?” He asked, leaning forward to set his chin on the metal rail of your bed. 

Reaching forward, you stroked his hair and hummed. 

“Having a baby out of wedlock in the hospital where I work?” You asked. He grinned. “Or drugs?” 

“Both,” he said. 

He couldn’t get enough of the easy drawl of your voice--how this was the happiest, most relaxed he’d seen you since last July. He wanted to hear you talk forever in that little hospital room, even if it was about nothing at all. 

“Can’t say I’d like to ever have another baby,” you said. 

And both of you looked at each other with your brows slightly raised, unwilling to verbalize your mutual surprise so as not to puncture the thin membrane between right then and reality.  

Baby. 

You’d called the little stranger a baby. 

“Well, that’s just fine with me,” Jake said. “You’re more than enough.” 

“Is that a cute way of saying I’m a handful?” You asked. 

He grinned again. Your chest was warm, blithe. 

“I wish you were more of a handful,” he told you. You almost laughed--it was sitting pretty in your throat. “Maybe it’d force me to get back on my feet for good.” 

“I’ll remember that,” you said. 

“You’d better,” Jake said. 

Perhaps what had relaxed you the most was how thoroughly numb you were. All of the movements inside of you were dull and distant. No kicking, no tumbling, no stretching, no turning, no rolling, no elbows, no hands, no knees, no feet, no contractions. It was just quiet in there. It was like your body was yours again. 

Finally. 

When you spiked a fever an hour after coming to the hospital, it didn’t feel alarming. Elevated body temperature is what Dr. Titus called it. It was disarming--less frightening than the word fever, which was punctuated with violent letters and evoked images from history textbooks. Lots of women developed elevated body temperatures during labor because of exertion, exhaustion. You knew that. 

“We’ll monitor it,” Dr. Titus had said as he wrote something on your chart. “But I’m confident that it will fade as your labor progresses.” 

You’d been just fine with that answer. Besides, it didn’t feel like much of anything besides heat in your cheeks and ache in your fingers. That was all. You could handle that. You’d handled much, much worse in the past.

“Great,” you’d whispered, yawning. Jake was smiling at you from his seat. “Am I allowed any jell-o, by chance?” 

Dr. Titus, who had known you since you started at the hospital, smiled at you. 

“Strawberry or lime?” He asked. “I’ll put in a good word in the kitchen.”

But then, abruptly, heat in your cheeks and an ache in your hands wasn’t all. You were having a hard time keeping your eyes open, having a hard time taking a deep breath. Monitors cried. People rushed in. Your chest felt hollow, cold. Your body was heavy. The skin on your tired muscles suddenly felt hot--too hot. 

When had that happened? 

When had you lost control of what was going on? 

Everything was fuzzy--you weren’t sure. 

“It’s alright,” another nurse tells you as she plucks the pillow from behind your head and lays you down on the mattress. “You and your baby are gonna be just fine. Can you hear me? Can you hear the sound of my voice right now?” 

You can hear her. But you can’t seem to nod. Everything is heavy. 

Jake is watching all this from behind, outside of the frenzy. He’s standing with his crutches tucked beneath his arms, tongue dry and throat aching as you are whisked away from him and this room. 

“The doctor is going to perform a c-section. Do you know what that is? It’s a cesarean. She’s going to be put all the way under. Do you understand me?” 

His heart is settled in his gut. 

“What--?” He asks, attempting to step closer to the door. The nurse sidesteps so she’s in his way again. “Why? What’s happening?” 

“The fetal heart rate dropped--probably because of the fever,” the nurse says. “You have to stay here. You’re the father, right?” 

He looks down at her, unable to hear anything besides the ringing in his ears. 

“What?” He asks. 

“You’re the father. Correct?” 

He doesn’t hesitate. 

“Yes,” he says. “Why can’t I be in there?” 

“We’ll bring both of them back when the operation is complete,” the nurse tells Jake instead of answering him. “You can see both of them then.”

“But--!” 

But then he’s alone in the hospital room and you’re gone and all the nurse’s and doctors are gone, too. It’s just him in this quiet pink and blue room, standing with his crutches, blinking at the door they rushed you out of. 

He didn’t get to say goodbye to you. He didn’t get to kiss your forehead and blink back tears and tell you that he’d see you on the other side. If something--God forbid--happened to you, the last memory of him you would have is him telling you that you’re looking a little green. That was the last thing he said to you before an alarm pierced his ears and you closed your eyes and were gone. 

Because he doesn’t know what else to do, he falls back into the wooden chair beside the bed. His heart is racing. He picks up the phone and through his blurry vision, he’s able to dial the number. 

It rings four times. 

“Who on God’s green earth is calling me this late?” His mama answers all the way from their home in Texas. Jake can imagine her in her frilly pink robe and her hair set in curlers. “This better be an emergency and I mean emergency.”

He can’t speak for a moment, choked up, trying desperately to play catch-up with what just happened. 

Just as his mama is about to slam the phone on the receiver and take her happy ass back to bed, she hears her son’s breathing. And she knows that it is his breathing--the heavy and soft way he breathes when something’s wrong. 

“Jake?” She asks, voice soft now. She squints at the clock. “Jake, honey? Is that you? What time is it there? What’s going on? Hold on, baby, let me--!” 

She scrambles, rubbing her eyes and flicking on the kitchen lights. It’s still dark outside. She can still hear him breathing on the other end. 

“Ma,” Jake finally utters. “It’s bad.”

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: SURPRISE, I HAD TO PUT IT IN TWO PARTS BECAUSE THERE ARE SO MANY WORDS :-) NEXT PART IS FINISHED, BUT I WILL BE POSTING IT LATER THIS WEEK!!!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒:

@thedroneranger

@fandom-life-12

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[22ayla19]

Headcanons with Kartein

● Firstly, Kartein is not the type of person who will quickly become attached to someone, especially if it is in a romantic way, so even if he chooses someone as a partner, it will be a person to whom he has long been attached and who is completely trusts;

● Speaking of trust. Many awakened ones need Kartein’s healing abilities, if his partner is with him only for this reason, then rest assured that the relationship will not last long;

● The partner does not necessarily share his views on the world and life; in truth, Kartein lacks something ordinary and everyday in his life. He is awakened, and one of the top 50, who was recognized as the top 10, and it is clear that his life is different from the life of an ordinary person. But taking as an example how comfortable he was with the guys from Korea, we can conclude that Kartein will be more comfortable with a partner who will show him how to live an ordinary life;

● Well, don’t forget about Kartein’s beauty parameters. After all, he is top 1 in the list of the most beautiful awakened people in the world, so when choosing a partner, he will also look at beauty. You don’t have to shine with beauty and show that you are the rebirth of Aphrodite, just take care of yourself, showing your natural beauty and so on. This is enough for Kartein, and as for me, he will also give advice on what cream to use so that the skin is smooth and the like;

● Although Kartein doesn't mind spending money on his partner financially, he would like to know that his partner is as rich as he is. Although even so, he will still spend money to please him with gifts. Kartein doesn’t really know how to show signs of attention and love through words and actions, that’s why he shows his love through gifts;

● If your partner is Kartein, rest assured that he is your personal doctor. No one will know better than him about the state of your health, since he will examine you in advance and tell you what ailments you may have, what vitamins or pills you need to take or not take. He will simply know your body inside and out. By the way, it is worth considering the fact that you should not be embarrassed if he sees you in a negligee. Believe me, he will quickly say: “What didn’t I see there?” and so this is true, since he knows all the delights of female anatomy;

● Kartein is also the type of person who loves praise and compliments. Praise his abilities or knowledge in medicine and he will simply rejoice with delight that his girlfriend praises him so much;

● As for me, Kartein is not one of those who vehemently wants to get married right away, so you will just date for a long time, maybe you will even move in with him, but for at least 3-4 years, you will just live for yourself, and then think about marriage and perhaps even children. Although children are probably the last thing on Kartein's mind, since he is clearly not ready to become a father yet.

[prismdrive]

Ignore all the angst, aughgghh. Just have had a lot of thoughts lately that i needed to get out, maybe being confiscated to my house for over two months is already getting to my head

[TW: vent, suicide, SH and trauma mentioned]

I usually don't think a lot about my trauma; As a kid i was taught trauma was a bad word, that to have it you'd have to go through something absolutely terrible and it'd categorize you as "crazy"

But what is terrible enough to cause trauma? Isn't living in a household where yelling was the norm enough? Getting beat to the point of bruising at least twice? Hiding from a shooting? Leaving my whole life behind to never return? Going through a pandemy? Getting told by my mom no man with good values would ever love me? Having to hide constantly? Fearing my life will be ruined if the person supposed to protect me found out? Feeling like i can never form true connections?

Sometimes i wonder how i can function the way i do. I can't say i function "normally" - Bottling up emotions, the panic from loud sounds, the fact that i don't trust myself around pills, the scars, the lack of connection - But it's enough for most not to worry, enough for most to barely notice. Maybe no one is close enough to notice anyways.

Isn't the fact i've considered suicide very seriously at least twice in my life enough proof? Maybe not, i wouldn't be able to get out of bed to actually do it anyways, so why worry.

I started thinking more about this after i was bought some vitamin pills. They sat on the nightstand beside my bed, to the left of my water bottle. For some reason i couldn't stop imagining it. What if i swallowed all the pills inside in one sitting? How would it feel as they ran down my throat? Would i take them with water? How long would it take until i pass out?

It was gnawing at me to the point where i had to get out and take them out of my room to get some sleep. If i had had pills sitting that close to me at my lowest point where i couldn't even stand up, would i actually have done it?

I'd say i've gotten better, i don't cry every other night anymore, i can manage to draw and shower everyday, i joke and i laugh and try to ignore the feeling of everyone hating me, but sometimes, on my worst days, my arm tingles, as if in anticipation of a new scar.

Is that enough to be considered trauma? Am i crazy enough yet?

[awakefor48hours]

You guys understand that 2 genders is just a beginner's way of understanding the human body and doesn't cover all of it.

You guys understand that the 3 states of matter is just a beginner's way of understanding all states of matter and doesn't cover all of it.

You guys understand that subtracting a smaller number from a larger number is just a beginner's way of understanding math and doesn't cover all of it.

So why can't you guys also understand that being fat doesn't always mean that you're unhealthy.

Take sumo wrestlers for an example, no one calls them unhealthy and their job is to work out/exercise, yet their whole shtick is being morbidly obese.

Fat is just stored energy. Fat is a neutral thing, not a negative thing.

"But if you have too fat, you'll die." Obviously that's true but the same can said about literally anything else. You can actually die if you drink too much water, too much air gets into your veins, etc. Too much of literally anything will kill you, not just fat.

You only believe that fat is inherently unhealthy because of capitalism. Diet culture just wants your money and by creating a world where you're seen as undesirable for having fat (something that you need to survive by the way), they can sell you diet pills, exercise routines, etc. All to get you hooked on unattainable goals.

If you actually care about someone's health, I'm telling you, all you really need are just vegetables, specifically green vegetables. You can deep fry them if you want, it doesn't matter, you really just need the vitamins from it. Green vegetables are great and you're gut bacteria will thank you for it.

[saintmeghanmarkle]

If you can't get Julia Roberts and Gwyneth Paltrow to be friends with you get a puff piece in O Magazine linking you with them via hairdresser. Plus of course praising your hair as "amazingly healthy and shiny". by u/Hermes_Blanket

If you can't get Julia Roberts and Gwyneth Paltrow to be friends with you, get a puff piece in O Magazine linking you with them via hairdresser. Plus, of course, praising your hair as "amazingly healthy and shiny". Healthy hair is so important to Madame! Because we all know her hair is all-natural!Oh, and P.S. There is no such thing as an over-the-counter supplement you can take that will make your hair grow faster, thicker, or in increased quantities. This has been scientifically established. Come on, do you think there would be ANY bald men at all if this were true? These are overpriced vitamin pills and snake oil. This woman also tells you that Rogaine (which actually does have some effect on hair growth) will turn your hair green.Archived version of article: https://ift.tt/FJyfomn version: https://ift.tt/eQCjn5i post link: https://ift.tt/2EZejSM author: Hermes_Blanket submitted: November 14, 2024 at 07:50PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[pupmkincake2000]

Longpost.

Another unpopular opinion: I think when Hank dies, Connor will follow. And I don’t think that this is somehow bad or wrong.

People are used to thinking that androids can function for many years, but this is not true, in fact, androids are only more difficult to kill, but they are no less fragile than humans. Humans have a kind of natural regeneration, thanks to the food and vitamins they consume, our wounds tend to heal and illnesses are cured. Androids will probably have viruses, and in order to update their skin or replace a damaged organ or limb, they will have to invest quite a bit of money, because pills and medical treatment are clearly not as expensive as actual cyber prosthetics. I want to say that androids were not created to be immortal or invulnerable, they were not created with the goal of “functioning as long as possible.” First of all, they are equipment and merchandise, which is replaced with new ones each year, old models disappear and new ones appear, this is how the economy in real world works.

Connor, for example, was functional for about a few months, and if we have a “bad ending” Connor is replaced literally immediately. Doesn't it look like a waste of money? If only CL never planned him to function longer. So why ctreating spare parts for his model? Old models of any equipment will not be produced when new ones begin to be produced. And parts for old equipment are almost impossible/impossible to find. That is, in fact, androids will not even be able to buy/get and replace outdated parts for themselves, because it wouldn't be even possible to find those parts.

By my calculations, Connor will “live” about 20 or 15 years. Perhaps even less. Perhaps Hank will be the one to outlive him. Even Markus has about five or ten years left to live unless androids find a way to transfer consciousness to another body. And we saw only Connor having and using such abilities and he transferred his consciousness to the very same model. And after the revolution there were no more Connors left. I don't think that the body and processor of a regular android can handle Connor's "consciousness". Markus was and is able to live longer probably because he was created by Kamski, and there is a possibility that after the good ending, Markus will think of asking his creator for help (I am sure Kamski will not refuse. Let me remind you I don’t consider him a villain, I think him as a completely good person who only watches how his creations, his children, change the world).

And I think this prospect will not make androids feel sad. If you think about it this way, they are capable of processing information millions of times faster than the human brain (so it is not surprising that their mechanical brains wear out so quickly).

I mean, the fact that androids live less does not mean that they are unhappy or that they lose a lot by living such a "short" life. I mean, their brain is capable of obtaining any information, absorbing and applying any knowledge that a human would have to learn throughout their life. Perhaps over time, technology will advance even more and, in search of relatively longer life, humans start helping androids to improve their bodies. Perhaps androids and humans start cooperating much earlier (considering that technologies as nanorobots capable of extending human's life already exist), but still, I believe that Connor will not want to live without Hank.

You can say as much as you want that this is cruel, but I believe that androids fall in love once and for life (and that human/android couples will actually be a very rare occurrence) and if they choose a human as a companion, they will be aware of the risks immediately and approach the choice of a partner with full responsibility (considering that when choosing they will not be guided by hormones, which they do not have, not by lust, because sex does not matter to them and not by looks. They will choose a person to love according to some of their unique tastes and needs. Therefore, if some android decides to be with a human as forever partner, it may be even a human over 50 or even over 70. I think sucha a choice won't surprise anyone except humans themselves. It seems to me that androids will never choose a bad person as a partner, simply because they are not able to make wrong choices the way humans are).

Someone can also say that Connor is new to this life but doesn't this mean every android is? I think androids will not have such a need as gaining life experience the way humans do.

Connor has chosen Hank. We saw this with our own eyes, so I believe that he made his choice consciously and won't ever change it. He'll have some happy years with Hank, and that's more than enough. After all, it’s not the number of years that matters, but how he spends them with his loved one.

I think Connor will discuss this with Hank beforehand, and most likely, if Hank, as other people often headcanon, says that he would like Connor to move on after his death, Connor refuses. But most of all, I believe that they will discuss this as soon as they start living as a couple, or maybe even sooner, and Hank will respect Connor’s choice. They will just decide that they are together as long as time has in store for them. Androids are not humans, they are not fixated on looks or sex, if they fall in love with a person, then the main thing for them will be to spend as many happy moments with this person as possible, such partnerships will ultimately be the strongest, happiest and most real.

I mean, age matters not in android/human couples, I am sure. And to be honest, for some reason it seems to me that androids (if they choose a human to be their mate) would most likely choose an older person, most likely over forty (and I can even discuss this topic, but this is not what we’re talking about now). So to sum up, I think Connor has a right to follow Hank if Hank dies, just as Hank has a right to follow Connor if Connor stops functioning. It isn't wrong.

Still, I'm sure Hank and Connor will spend these years happily, madly in love with each other, and when the time comes for one of them to pass, the other will immediately follow. You can't live with half a heart, you can't live with half a soul. I think they understood this from the very beginning.