#cause on the one hand the resuscitation thing would be easier but on the other STSC being the worst baby sitter ever would be funny..

[dragoncarrion]

For my nae nae ass warrior cats tfp au idk whether to make it like shockwave somehow resuscitates the predacons (here lynxes) from some bones with fucked up starclan magic or whatever the fuck OR just have them straight up kidnap them as idiot babies.. hmmm

[moonknightly]

Could Feel You Surrounding Me : Santiago “Pope” Garcia x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Excerpt: “Thinking about the aftermath almost felt like giving yourself false hope. You didn’t want to think about the future until you knew for certain that Santi was in the clear.”

Warnings: Uhh mentions of injury, blood, cursing. That’s it I think? This one has a happy ending fellas!

The first emotion you experience is shock. It’s unfathomable, how someone you love and care for so deeply, with every inch of your being, could be at the forefront of a situation you thought only existed in dramatized TV shows — under harsh lights, covered in bandages that turn from white to red and only do so much to hide the cuts and the bruises that mark their skin. Attached to various tubes, drains, and IV lines. So many different wires.

The sight is near unbearable, and it doesn’t get any easier, no matter how many hours or even days pass by in a blur of fast-moving staff wearing stethoscopes and scrubs. And everytime you close your eyes, you tell yourself that once you open them again, you’ll finally be used to it. You tell yourself it’s not gonna hurt as bad this time, but it’s even harder than it was before.

And the sounds. God, the sounds. The unfamiliar, almost haunting beeps and buzzes that start to become a comfort because they serve as the only reminder that they’re still there. The excruciating and traumatic cries of a family’s hearts breaking from down the hall mixed with rare periods of somber silence. The rapid-fire exchange of incomprehensible medical terminology, so many different medications and diagnoses and explanations that you just can’t wrap your head around.

It starts with the shock, because while you knew that this reality existed outside of those damned TV shows, and while you were aware of the possibility of having to live it yourself, given his line of work, you never thought you would actually have to face seeing Santi lying in the ICU like this.

Because he promised. Each and every single time he went out on a mission, he promised you that he’d come home to you, safe and sound and in one piece. And Santiago never broke his promises. Not a damn one.

But it had been a freak accident, and he hadn’t even been on a mission, and that was probably what freaked you out the most. The new realization that it could happen at any given moment, at any given time in any given circumstance.

All of the sleepless nights spent in your empty bed, praying to any divine being that would listen, worrying over his safety and just wishing him home, and he’d managed to land himself in this position during a boy’s trip into the mountains for a little leisurely camping.

They’d been rock climbing, something they were all five well-trained in, but the rope had been settled against a rock with a rather sharp edge, and the constant pulling of his weight had cut straight through it. It was a fall that he was lucky to survive. The paramedics who arrived on scene hadn’t expected to find him alive, and definitely hadn’t expected him to come back once he needed to be resuscitated.

His neglect to check the ridge was something that seemed so out of character for both him and the other boys. No detail was ever overlooked. It was hard for you to believe that he hadn’t noticed how sharp the edge of the rock had been, but you also knew Santi — he never would have thought it would happen to him

There were several things the nurses told you that you didn’t quite understand, and honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to ask them to clarify, or put it into words that actually made sense. As ignorant as it was, you almost didn’t want to understand. You didn’t want to focus on all of his injuries and the no doubt long recovery ahead until he opened those big brown eyes of his that you so adored and kept them open.

Thinking about the aftermath almost felt like giving yourself false hope. You didn’t want to think about the future until you knew for certain that Santi was in the clear.

What you did understand was that he had several broken ribs, some injuries to his spinal cord, and a moderate traumatic brain injury amongst other things blunt force trauma to his abdomen and chest caused. He’d needed a blood transfusion down in the ER, and he was on so many different medications, you couldn’t keep up.

They’d sedated him after a mild seizure, keeping him in a medically induced coma for the first two days before waking him again. He hadn’t been able to stay awake for long though, and while your eyes had briefly met, you don’t think he really registered who you were or what was going on.

It was day four now, and he was breathing on his own. He was waking up unprompted more and more, usually to vomit, but would fall back asleep after only a minute or two. Sometimes he would glance towards you as if to make sure that someone was still with him, sometimes he would only blink at the ceiling. He’d move, but only if a nurse asked him to touch his nose or wiggle his toes, and he hadn’t said a word.

But neither had you. Each time he looked at you, you could only stare back, blinking away your tears until you were sure he was asleep again. Only then would you let yourself cry, and fuck, did you cry. You were sure you had cried more in the last four days than you ever had before.

Only one person was allowed in the room at a time, and the only time you left his side was to let one of the boys visit. Frankie usually sat with you in the cafeteria while the other three took their turns, trying to get you to eat something, but he’d convinced you to use the time that day to run home and get a shower in, and grab yourself some clothes and other things you’d need since it was apparent you wouldn’t be leaving. He knew no one other than Santiago could convince you to stay the night in your own home rather than in the recliner by his bedside.

Frankie also knew that as brave as Pope was, he’d want you next to him through it all. He’d be heartbroken if he woke up and you weren’t there.

You’d be just as torn up over it.

A nurse checked on him every hour, and it was this particular nurse’s last round before shift change. You liked her. Her name was Casey, and she was always so gentle with him. It was obvious that she actually cared about her patients, not just for them, and you appreciated it to no end, words failing every time you tried to properly thank her. You knew the comfort was something he needed, something you were still too scared to give him. You were afraid to touch him, so terrified that you’d hurt him or cause him even an ounce of discomfort. You hadn’t even touched his hand.

But, it was something you needed to get over. You both needed it.

You watched as she worked around him, checking to make sure everything was still in place, double checking it even after she was sure nothing had wiggled its way loose. She peeked over her shoulder towards you. “The doctors are bringing in an occupational therapist tomorrow.”

“For what?” you asked, shifting in your chair, eyes flickering between her and Santi.

“We’re hoping to keep him awake long enough to get him to write a few things down. See if communicating that way is a possibility. And if not that, maybe we can get him to point at a chart with different letters to spell things out.”

You shifted again. “Is he ready for that?”

“The doctors seem to think so. The longer he stays awake, the better we can gauge where he’s at cognitively.”

You stayed silent at that, your stomach flipping as another bout of fear moved through you.

Casey seemed to know exactly where your head was at though, and she stopped momentarily to reach back and set a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“He’s expected to make a full recovery sweetheart. I’m not the type to believe in miracles and things like that, but given what he’s already pulled himself through, he’s one lucky man.”

You smiled gently, putting your hand over hers, but a frown quickly worked its way back onto your face. “I’m just scared he doesn’t recognize me. Every time he looks at me, it’s almost like he’s looking through me.”

“And does that make you love him any less?”

You were taken aback by her words, completely shocked. But you immediately shook your head, eyebrows furrowing. “Of course not.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because it’s not his fault.” Your answer was again immediate. “Because he just went through some shit and it’s not his fault at all. I vowed to love him for better or for worse, and that wasn’t a promise either of us took lightly.”

“Exactly,” she shrugged, pointing to him. “Because that’s still your husband. He’s still your Santiago. There’s just a few kinks to work out, and even if those kinks did become permanent, you’d still love him, right?.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

You knew she was right. You knew that even if he didn’t recognize you at first, the doctors were near positive that he would eventually. And even if he didn’t, and he had to relearn you completely, it’d be worth it. Because at least he was still alive, still breathing. You still had him.

“Thank you.”

Casey smiled, smiling and squeezing your shoulder gently before turning her attention back to Santiago.

Once she was finished, she turned towards you again, tilting her head to the side. “You know, he could really use a bath. And I think he’d appreciate it if you were the one to do it instead of me.”

The smirk on her face was entirely noticeable, and you knew exactly what she was doing, but you still nodded your head, suddenly craving the physical contact, that connection.

“Great,” she hummed, leaving the room to grab the supplies you would need in order to give him a sponge bath.

She returned a moment letter with a cloth, some soap and deodorant, and a basin of water, instructing you to stay clear of any bandages, and to not worry about his hair. If he woke up, you could try to wash his back, but otherwise she didn’t want you to worry about that either. You nodded your head, listening intently even though it was all pretty straightforward. She turned off the bed alarm, showing you which button to press once you got up again, and left the room.

Once Casey was gone, you took a moment to just stare at him, even though you hadn’t truly looked at anything else in the last four days. He looked better than he had when you first saw him, really. He had some color back in his cheeks, and the lines on his forehead had smoothed out. He looked almost peaceful.

You sighed gently, giving yourself one final push before stepping forward, carefully peeling the blanket and the sheet away from his body.

Should you try to wake him? Or would it be better for you to just go for it? You decided on the latter, thinking it would be better if he woke up on his own accord. If he stayed asleep, then it was obvious his body needed it.

“Hey, sweet boy,” you whispered as you sat down on the edge of the bed, pushing a few sweat soaked curls away from his forehead. “I’d ask how you’re doing but that seems a little redundant right now.”

You chuckled to yourself, shaking your head as you reached for the cloth, wetting it and applying a little bit of soap. You started on his arms, staying away from his IV and the bandage near his elbow. Your touch was gentle, slow, but the feeling of his skin under your fingertips after not feeling it for days set both your body and soul ablaze, chest so full of love and something else that you couldn’t quite place. Relief, maybe? You didn’t know.

“The boys have been in and out,” you continued, even though he couldn’t hear you. You just wanted to talk to him. “Frankie told me you woke up for a second the last time he was in here. He cried a little bit, but he’s never gonna admit it.”

You hesitated, moving to untie the hospital gown as much as you could, pulling it down just enough to reveal his chest, being extremely careful not to accidentally disconnect a wire for the heart monitor. You started on his upper arms.

“The boys feel like shit. They all think there was something they could’ve done to prevent it, even though everyone knows it was just a stupid accident. Benny’s taking it really hard.”

You brought your free hand to his lower stomach, your fingertips tracing random shapes and patterns into his skin as you moved the cloth over his right shoulder, your eyes glued to your movements.

“I miss you so much,” you sighed, shaking your head slowly. “I mean, I know you’re right fucking here, but you know what I mean. I miss your hugs, your kisses. Your voice. Those beautiful, beautiful eyes of yours.”

The tears started before you even had a chance to realize. You could feel them trailing down your cheeks, falling onto the sheets below.

“I just really need you to be okay, you hear me baby? I need you.”

Your voice cracked, and you felt yourself begin to shake, the sobs moving through your body with relentless force. You made yourself stay quiet though, not wanting to scare a nurse or a family down the hall, or even Santi himself.

Nothing had ever been so hard. This entire experience had been more than difficult, but as you sat there, thinking about how things could have gone in an entirely different direction, and how you could have walked away a widow instead of a wife, you realized exactly how true Casey’s words had been. Santi really was lucky, and so were you.

And if this was hard for you, you couldn’t even begin to imagine how hard it would be for him once he was fully conscious again, and able to make sense of everything that he’d been through. The doctors were still unsure of just how far his brain injury ran, but they were sure there were things that would take time to come back to him — like his ability to speak, possibly his ability to walk. They predicted that he’d have migraines for months. Light sensitivity, some dizziness and confusion that could last just as long. Fatigue, general weakness. Pain. His recovery was going to be hell, and there you were, having sat by his bedside for four days feeling sorry for yourself.

How could you have been so selfish? In a time where your husband needed you most?

You felt selfish even crying, but you couldn’t stop. The tears just kept pouring, and the hole in your chest grew and grew as you continued to spiral deeper and deeper into your thoughts.

You were only pulled from them when you felt a set of knuckles gently brush against your cheek, and for a moment, you thought one of the boys had managed to sneak their way in, or maybe it was even Casey coming to check in one last time before heading home for the night.

The last thing you expected to see when you blinked your eyes open was a familiar pair of warm brown ones staring right back at you.

Brown eyes full of recognition and worry.

You gasped, not able to stop the sound before it left your lips, but you did refrain from throwing your arms around him, knowing the action would probably hurt him or knock something loose. Instead, you reached up, taking his hand and intertwining your fingers with his.  

“Santi?”

He blinked a couple of times, looking as if he wanted to say something in response, but he could only frown, and you knew him well enough to notice that his inability to speak was already frustrating him.

But you almost took that as a good thing, because it showed that he remembered waking up before, and how he hadn’t been able to speak any of those times either. The fact that he remembered was good, right?

And he might not have been able to verbally speak, but there were still so many things he could say without words. You felt him squeeze your hand, three times — a silent “I love you”, something he had started doing not long after saying it to you for the first time.

“I love you too, baby. I love you so much.”

He pulled on your hand, trying to bring you closer to him, and you started to shake your head, still worried about hurting him.

“Santi, no-”

This time he gently smacked your hand, effectively silencing you as he pointed to his shoulder, and you knew what he was trying to tell you — you wouldn’t hurt him if you were only lying against his shoulder.

He knew exactly what you were thinking without you needing to speak, too.

And you couldn’t deny him, not when he was looking at you with those puppy dog eyes he knew would get him anything he wanted.

You tossed the washcloth back into the water, and pulled his gown back up, redoing the ties before scooting further up the bed. You made sure that everything was out of the way before leaning back against him, keeping your eyes trained on his face the entire time. Only when he didn’t flinch did you finally relax.

And you both simply laid there, staring at one another, letting your eyes do all of the talking. Neither of you looked away, not even once. Not until Santi’s eyes started to close again, his exhaustion taking over once more. You kissed the corner of his mouth, and you watched as his lips twitched upwards into a small smile before he gave into unconsciousness.

He’d managed to stay awake for over half an hour this go around, and for twenty minutes the next time he woke up, and another twenty after that.

And when morning came and Casey walked into the room for the first round of her shift, all she could do was smile.

Santiago was awake again, and you were the one asleep, lightly snoring from your place on his shoulder, looking so completely at peace.

And he was looking at you like he was the luckiest man alive.

[a-clockwork-justice]

How the SQUIP put Jeremy in the hospital - a breakdown by a second-year Biomed student (super long and very medical - apologies in advance. TL;DR at the end)

(TW: medical, burns, electric shocks, brief abuse/punishment)

(Cross-posted from Reddit)

After my last post about how long Jeremy and Rich's recovery time would've been to recover based on how long it would've taken for Jake's legs to heal*, I got to thinking about how exactly the SQUIP could've hospitalised Jeremy and possibly the others. (If you're a fan of Game Theory/Film Theory, this level of thought might seem familiar to you. Yes, this is what I'm putting my university education towards).

Firstly, it's doubtful the rest of the SQUIPped cast was in the hospital for as long as Jeremy, if at all. People apparently thought that it was either all part of the play (according to Michael) or that they'd all taken ecstasy (according to Chloe). If we go with the ecstasy angle because they would've had to have noticed the ambulances, they probably just assumed that Jeremy had taken more and/or had a worse reaction to it than the others, especially since he was the one acting the most erratically. Doesn't wholly explain why he was down and out for so long, but I don't need to explain that because, as we know, that's not what happened.

What did happen? Short answer - electrocution, similar to being struck by lightning. Long answer below the cut:

We know that the SQUIP regularly punished Jeremy by shocking him, the worst of which was enough to cause a seizure when it was first activated. Also, given the sound effects at the end of The Play when the SQUIPs were deactivated, it's easy to guess electrical shocks. The part about Jeremy having a worse reaction to said shocks than the others still makes sense - with the SQUIP regularly taking control over his nerves, those nerves would have more memory of being stimulated a certain way. Okay, I'll try and put this simply - it's the same reason for muscle memory, that phenomenon where your body remembers how to do something without you consciously thinking about it. It's because those nerves have been fired off in that way so many times that they're stimulated faster and easier. Similar principles apply for regular memory or, in this case, Jeremy and his SQUIP - the SQUIP had gotten so good at using electricity to stimulate Jeremy's nerves that those nerves now had lower thresholds to that stimulus, therefore eliciting a more pronounced response.

However, when the SQUIP was deactivated, those shocks were now non-specific, most likely stimulating almost all of Jeremy's nerves at once, as well as probably inducing substantial damage to other organs. For a point of comparison, I looked up the effects of getting struck by lightning. Lightning strikes may be a bit harsher than the SQUIP, but it still works for this analysis.

When I first saw the famous "Jared Kleinman discovers the perils of smoking drugs" (I'm sorry, I just love that name), I suspected electrical burns when he wakes up in the hospital, tries to sit up and immediately responds with several "Ow" s and has to lie down again. Whatever physical pain the SQUIP had previously caused him, it was always pretty transient, so for him to still be incapacitated to that degree indicated longer-term damage. This turned out to be pretty accurate as lightning strikes can cause deep thermal burns, particularly the tissue near bones as the bones are the most resistant to electricity. That explains why moving would hurt. The same can be said for muscle tissue, or any other soft tissues within the body.

I also theorised that the electrical shocks could've sent Jeremy's heart into fibrillation, giving them a valid reason to keep him in the hospital for that long (keep in mind, they likely thought it was due to ecstasy). I'd heard that this can happen when being shocked by a live circuit, and it applies to lightning strikes too - it can very easily send a person into cardiac arrest. Strikes can also cause a stroke or brain haemorrhage, but, again, the SQUIP's shocks probably aren't as powerful as that. We do know that it gave Jeremy a headache (the reasons for which are probably obvious enough that I don't need to explain them) from the way he asks Michael to be quiet when he's explaining everything to him.

The good news is that Jeremy is young and otherwise healthy, meaning that with quick CPR, he would've been kept alive long enough for the ambulance to arrive and take him to hospital. I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume that a small public school like Middleborough didn't have a defibrillator on hand, but I don't think Jeremy's body needed more electricity at that point.

Also, bear in mind that if this is all true, it also happened to Rich while he was in the hospital with already pretty severe burns, but at least he was already in the best place to be resuscitated and further treated.

One thing that I can't give an answer to is whether this would've kept Jeremy unconscious/in the hospital for the two months I'd suggested. A more likely explanation is that they put him in a medically induced coma to give his body time to heal. Depends on the extent of the damage.

TL;DR: The SQUIP did more damage to Jeremy's body upon its deactivation than the others' (apart from Rich's) because it had forged a stronger connection with Jeremy's nerves and organs. These damages are due to electric shocks that caused electrical burns around his bones and muscles and, potentially, cardiac arrest. It would've been more than enough to land him in the hospital for quite a while.

*I’ve also since been informed that Jake's casts/crutches in VIMH vary between productions. This does make a difference in terms of timescale implications since I stated that for Jake to be recovered by the time he saw Jeremy again, it had to have been at least two months. However, I was going off of the Broadway production since that was what I was watching when it occurred to me.

[whisker-biscuit]

In the Name of Science: Chapter 1

Fandom: Sonic Movie (2020)

Rating: T for unethical experimentation, implied violence and gore, and implied torture

Summary: Tom and Maddie didn’t make it in time to rescue Sonic from Robotnik. Hopefully it’s not too late to save him now. Unfortunately, hope is hard to come by in the labs of the mad doctor himself.

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

Dr. Ivo Robotnik, M.D. Log 1 

Preliminary report: Subject is 3’3”, 14.1 lbs., male. Age and maturity unknown. Vaguely resembles four-toed hedgehog from outward appearance and obvious anatomy. Fur and quill are primarily cobalt blue, with chest and stomach fur light coral peach. Blood sample taken, analysis tbc. Note: internal anatomy to be examined at later date, due to blunt trauma and related injuries.

At 23:30 MST during transportation, subject’s heart ceased regular palpitations. Resuscitation was administered and subject was revived successfully. No other heart or organ irregularities occurred, and subject was transferred to personal laboratory at 1:56 MST for examination. About to conduct preliminary quill count and inspection at time of report.

Subject has yet to regain consciousness since initial containment.

End log

…….

Sonic comes to on a metal table, his face smashed against cold steel and his limbs stretched above and below him, cuffed together. He groans as the aches and pains from the fight with Eggman catches up all at once, and his body’s current position certainly isn’t helping. The hedgehog rubs his cheek against the metal, using the cold to try and ground himself so he can figure out how bad his situation is.

He doesn’t remember much beyond trying to escape at the top of the pyramid. There was heat at his back, and then everything hurt even more than it does now. So that must mean….

Something starts touching his quills. He stiffens.

“H-Hey, who’s there? What do you want?”

There’s no response, and whatever is messing with his quills moves down to their base, meeting fur and skin. Sonic gasps as the same freezing sensation from the table runs along his back. A weird high-pitched whirring fills the air as it goes along. Oh, it’s a robot doing that.

He struggles to turn his head to get a better look at this thing, but he can’t move more than a few inches. The robot continues to probe at his quills, seemingly oblivious to his response, and no matter how Sonic tries to twist and turn, nothing changes at all.

After what feels like an eternity, the robot pulls away and makes a sudden loud clicking sound. It startles the hedgehog into a jolt that he immediately regrets. His body protests, loudly.

“Quill count: 5933.”

“What?” He asks through gritted teeth, waiting for the pounding pain to go away.

The robot doesn’t reply, but then it starts poking at his fur again. Two fingers – are they fingers? Sonic hopes they’re fingers – find a longer quill and pinch at its base. He realizes what’s going to happen right before it does.

“Don’t-!”

It pulls. He sucks in a breath, closing his eyes as the quill is ripped out of his back. He’s no stranger to this sensation, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay with it happening. The robot finds another quill. Sonic flinches and rubs his cheek against the cold.

“Quill count: 5928,” the unfeeling thing announces to nothing once it’s done. It withdraws from the hedgehog who is currently trying to stay calm, holding the stolen quills and moving to some place Sonic still can’t see.

Tired, hurting, and now conflicted between angry and panicked, the teen decides to take a risk.

“Hey Eggman, I know you can hear me! Come out where I can see you! I know you’re scared of people who can kick your butt, but this is ridiculous!”

He yells it out with as much bravado as he can manage, and later he’ll say he was pretty proud of himself for keeping his voice steady. Then he listens, and waits.

For a long while he stays alone in that room, with only the robot doing whatever it’s doing to his quills. But eventually there’s the whoosh of an automatic door opening somewhere behind his left side. Sonic turns his head that way just in time for a long black coat to take up his entire view.

“Finally awake, I see.” The man says, and it’s hard to tell whether he’s pleased or annoyed by this fact. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly 8 hours.”

Sonic’s eyes trail up slowly, meeting the maniacally-gleeful face of his captor. He swallows, and it takes a few moments to find his voice again.

“D-Dang, that long? Must have been quite the beauty rest. How about you let me go so I can look myself in the mirror and tell you if it worked?”

“Just as chatty and full of hot air as your moronic human guardian. I should have expected that, which I did. Nothing ever gets past me, little alien.” 

The hedgehog falters. For a single second. “Oh yeah? Better get used to failure then, Eggman. I’ve gotten past you so many times already that I’ve lost count.”

Robotnik takes hold of his ear and twists. Sonic’s mouth clamps shut to keep the whine under his tongue, but he never takes his wide eyes off the scientist.

“Here’s how it’s going to go, hedgehog – which is what you most closely resemble in physical structure and biology, despite the incredibly irrational discrepancies.” 

He leans in to speak directly against the teen’s caught ear. 

“I’m going to do whatever I want to you, however I want, whenever I want, and the only words I want coming out of your mouth unless stated otherwise are ‘yes Doctor,’ ‘no Doctor,’ or ‘thank you Doctor.’ Do you understand?”

Sonic takes slow, shallowed breaths as he listens, and he steels himself before offering a nickname he’s only heard Donut Lord say twice ever.

“Sure thing, Dr. Douche.”

The hand on his ear pulls so hard that he thinks it’s going to come off. He chokes back a watery whimper when Robotnik forces his head up off the table.

“Pain receptors and nerve endings appear to be fully functional, although I can’t say the same for your auditory processing.”

“Ow, ow ow…” The teen’s hands clench into fists as his head is held back and kept there. He doesn’t dare close his eyes, watching Robotnik like he might rip his ear off entirely the moment he stops staring.

Finally, the man releases him, and Sonic’s head hits the table with a thunk. He winces at the painful contact to his chin. 

“Ow-uh, easy on the face! We can’t all look this good naturally, c’mon.”

The doctor stands up straight without acknowledging him. “Agent Stone.”

“Yes, Doctor?”

The hedgehog is startled by the assistant’s voice coming somewhere behind Robotnik; he had no idea the guy was even there.

“Set up my recording equipment pronto. Now that the subject is awake and responding in a…semi-intelligent manner, I do believe it’s time to get information firsthand.”

“Of course sir, right away.” Agent Stone’s voice is already fading as he leaves the room. The sound of equipment being shuffled starts up distantly.

Robotnik’s gloved hand returns to Sonic’s head and he flinches, but this time the touch is light and almost examining. He rubs his thumb and forefinger on either side of the teen’s ear, then trails down to run along the fur on top of his head. Sonic realizes with no small amount of disgust that he’s being petted, like what Tom does with Ozzie.

“Hey, quit it, I’m not a dog!” He tries to pull his head away to no avail.

“Those are the first scientifically correct words you’ve said thus far,” the scientist says quietly. “Although it’s such a low bar. Honestly, I thought that hick cop babysitter of yours was the least sapient lifeform on this planet until you opened your mouth for the first time.”

Sonic bristles. “Don’t talk about him like that. You don’t know anything.”

“Ah, I suppose you’re right. I shouldn’t pigeonhole you in the same category as that knuckle-dragger. You are so much more remarkable than that. A peak product of evolution. Well…physically, at least, but it isn’t so difficult to train animals.”

The hand hasn’t stopped petting him. Sonic feels a sick pit in his stomach, and it’s not just from the betraying urge to lean into the touch.

“If you think I’m going to roll over and do what you want, you’re wrong. I’ll get out of here somehow and then you’re going to regret it.”

“That’s the spirit I like to see! Makes the end result so much more satisfying when I’ve broken it.” Robotnik tilts his head to meet the teen’s anxious glare head-on. Then he half turns away to call out. “Stone! Are you finished yet, or do we need to set aside another eternity?”

“All set and ready to go, sir!” Comes the response from the other room. “The holding pen is prepped and secure as well!”

“Excellent, finally. It’s so hard to find decent human help these days.” 

He presses a few buttons on his left glove. A pair of floating egg-like robots appear and connect to Sonic’s restraints, releasing him from the table and lifting him up between them. The hedgehog tries futilely to kick out or make them drop him. Robotnik leads the way towards the other room, not giving his captive a second glance.

“Now the time for pointless chit-chat is over! Time for proper scientific observation!”

All Sonic can do is struggle as he’s carried away.

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

A/N: I thought Robotnik would be really hard to characterize, but I'm having an easier time with him than expected. Maybe it's cause Sonic is the one fighting me at every turn heh. Also, remember how in the movie Sonic supposedly stopped breathing and then got revived from his powers and friendship? Yeah, me too :)

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!

Prologue

Chapter 2

[rocksandrobots]

Of Rocks and Robots Ch. 12 -Mistakes

Varian ran around the lab checking the various wires and components of his machine. Satisfied that everything was in order, he then went over to the computer monitor to type in the coordinates and turn his portal device on. 

This was the first real test of the device and he was nervous: nervous that it wouldn't work and nervous that it would. He still had mixed feelings about leaving and for once he was glad to have the lab to himself right now as his friends would have made departing harder to do.  

His eyes scanned the screen as rows upon rows of equations popped up. The computer was supposed to make the math easier and help with the accuracy of the portal, but he wasn’t an expert in software and was still getting used to using such machines. He had to have Hiro’s help in programming the thing and attaching it to the portal he had built. He would have been more comfortable having Hiro on hand for this part of the test, but the other boy was away at his job interning for Keri Tech so Varian had to make do. 

He typed in a few more commands into the computer and then turned to the dashboard that he had built with its more familiar dials and buttons. He flipped a switch and the portal began to roar to life. 

“It’s working!” Varian exuberantly yelled to no one in particular, but his excitement quickly turned to fear when he saw where the portal had opened up to.    

Instead of the lush green fields of Corona the portal showcased the bottom of a seabed. For a few precarious moments Varian could make out the shapes of fish swimming about and sparking sunlight filtering through the waves, but no sooner had what happened registered in his mind did the water start gushing out in torrents. 

He was pushed back against the wall as a blast of seawater assailed against his body. He struggled to fight his way back to the console. He needed to shut the portal off before the whole city was flooded. He gasped for air as salt water made its way into his mouth and his nose. He could barely stand against the force of the stream and the water hit him directly in the face. He couldn’t even see where he was going as the water assaulted his eyes as well. He pressed on and held out his hands groping for the dashboard in front of him, all the while sputtering and gulping down more of the seawater. 

Finally, he found hold of the console and held on for dear life as the force of the water began to sweep his legs out from under him. As darkness began to crowd around the edges of his consciousness, he took one free hand and began to blindly move it across the dashboard turning every dial and knob he could find. He couldn’t breathe, every time he tried to catch a breath of air his lungs filled with water instead. After what seemed like an eternity his hand finally found the off switch and the torrent of water began to subside.  

Varian didn’t get a chance to celebrate his victory though. No sooner did he see the now dormant portal machine then did his vision begin to whirl as the room started to spin. He was falling, but he didn’t feel the impact as his lifeless body slumped to the ground. 

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

The first thing Varian noticed as he regained consciousness was pain; an intense searing pain in his chest as he coughed up seawater. His lungs and throat burned as he drew air back in and he felt like he might throw up. He rolled on to his side as he spit out even more water and that was when he first opened his eyes and saw a fish flopping next to his head. He bolted upright in surprise but his body protested this sudden movement with more pain. A firm but gentle hand landed upon his chest and carefully pushed him back down into a lying position. 

“It is alright.” He heard the robot, Baymax, say. “Please, lie back down. You are not ready to move yet.” 

Varian felt the cold shallow water hit his back as he sank back to the ground. He was still struggling for air and unable to focus on anything clearly. He saw one of Baymax’s snow white hands move towards his face and felt a soft mask being cupped over his mouth and nose. 

“Just relax and breathe.” Baymax soothed. 

Varian tried to follow these instructions as he felt cold air being pumped through the mask. His eyes darted about, but he couldn’t see much without tilting his head. Which he tried to do but the mask prevented him from turning fully. He saw evidence of the previous flooding; large puddles of seawater, clumps of seaweed strewn about, and various washed up sea life that were dotted here and there, some of which were still alive and moving around. 

He groaned at the mess he would now have to clean up; hopefully before anyone else found out he had made it in the first place. 

He focused his eyes back on Baymax who still hovered over him, gazing intently with its coal black ‘eyes’. Varian guessed the robot was in the middle of doing bodily scans in order to monitor his condition. 

“How...Where did you come from?” Was all Varian could think to say, his voice sounding muffled under the mask. His mind was still fuzzy on what exactly had happened. He remembered the portal opening and fighting the waves to turn it off, but not much else after that.   

“I was in the robotics lab next door recharging when my sensors picked up the commotion coming from here. When I arrived I found you unconscious on the floor and had to perform CPR.” 

Up till now, Varian had always found Baymax’s lilting voice unnatural and unnerving to listen to, but as the robot recounted how it saved his life, Varian now thought its voice the most beautiful sound in the world. Someone had come to help him. True, the robot was programmed to do just that, help people, but that didn’t stop the wave of gratitude that washed over him. 

Finally, satisfied that Varian could breathe on his own, Baymax removed the ventilation mask and helped Varian to sit up. That was when professor Granville burst through the door. 

So much for cleaning up before anyone found out, he thought, his heart sinking to the floor. 

Granville looked about wided eyed, taking in the scene. She spotted Varian sitting on the floor next to Baymax and rushed to his side. 

“Are you alright?” She asked gravely, checking him over for any signs of harm or injury. “What happened?” 

Varian was briefly reminded of the times his dad would do the same whenever he had messed up before;  desperately looking him over, asking about his well being, before heaving out a weary sigh of disappointment when Varian had to admit to causing the latest explosion or fire. 

He swallowed hard before answering, “It..it was the portal. I must’ve set the coordinates wrong. I’m.. I’m sorry.”  

His voice cracked at that last apology and he looked like he was about to cry. Granville looked to Baymax for clarification.      

“I had to perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation, but he should be alright now.” Baymax informed her. “However, if you would like I can still call emergency services.” 

Garnville sighed and finally relaxed. “No Baymax, that won’t be necessary. If you say the boy will be alright then I’ll trust your judgement.”  

Tadashi had built the robot well and Granville had trusted it with the safety of her students numerous times before. Plus the less situations where Varian would have to procure official documents the better. 

She stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and continued,”I’ll call maintenance over to come clean up. Mr. Quirinson...”

“Y...yes ma'am?” 

“Meet me in my office once you feel well enough to walk.” 

Varian bowed his head. 

“Yes ma’am.” he softly replied and with that Granville turned around and left. 

Varian felt his stomach churn. He hadn’t even been at school for a week and now he was sure he was going to be kicked out. What other student had ever flooded the science lab? He was a disaster and now the most important person in the university knew it.    

Varian held his head in his hands in despair. 

“You appear to be distressed.” Baymax said. “Perhaps you would like to talk about it.” 

“Talk about it?” Varian asked incredulously. “Talk about what?! That I messed up my chances of getting an education? That I’m going to have to find a new way of getting back home? That I may never see my father again?” He heaved a broken sob before continuing. “Hey, how about the fact that I’m a failure and a dangerous screw-up and now everyone here is going to know it too!” 

Baymax didn’t answer any of these questions. He only held out his arms and asked, “Would you like a hug?” 

Varian balked at the robot, “No I don’t wanna a hug,” he whined and then got up and started to walk away. But he soon stopped in his tracks, let out a whimper, and then turned right back around and ran into the robot's arms anyways. He broke down and cried. It was the first time he had allowed himself to cry in front of someone, even if that ‘someone’ was just a machine and therefore couldn’t really judge you. 

“There, There.” Baymax soothed and patted Varian softly on the head. “Nothing is as bad as it seems. Often we let our imaginations run away with us. Why do you fear being seen as a ‘screw-up’?” 

“Because...” Varian bemoaned and snuggled his face into the robot’s soft pillowy chest, not completing that thought. It all seemed so obvious to him and he didn’t expect a machine to get it. 

“Everyone makes mistakes.” Baymax concluded. 

“Yeah? Well, no one quite makes mistakes like I do.” Varian bitterly replied and finally broke away from the hug. 

The robot titled its head, unsure what Varian meant. 

Varian sighed dramatically and shook his head. “I better just go get this over with,” he said in defeat and with that he turned around and headed out the door, leaving Baymax still standing in the flooded lab to contemplate what the moody teenager had told him. 

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

"You… you wanted to see me, Professor Granville?" Varian timidly poked his head around the door to her office. 

"Yes, please come in." Granville replied. She was sitting at her desk watching the feedback from the security cameras in the lab. They showed a video of the portal opening up and water spilling out over and over again on loop. Varian felt disheartened. He hadn't been planning on 'lying' per say, but he had begun to hope that he could spin the story in a more favorable direction. However,there was no point in doing so now. There was his incompetence up on display for all the world to see and she knew what he had done.

He sat down in the chair opposite her desk and waited dutifully for her to reprimand him. 

"So what exactly went wrong Mr. Quirinson?" She asked as she replayed the footage again for him. 

"I got the device to work, but I accidentally opened a portal to the bottom of the ocean." He explained. "I think either the coordinates were off or maybe I had just managed to open a spatial rift instead of an inter-dimensional one."

Granville's expression was unreadable and Varian couldn't tell if she was accepting of his excuse or not. 

"And what did you learn from this experience?" She continued.

“Uhh... that it’ll be harder to reconnect the two worlds than I initially thought?” He answered, confused by her line of questioning. 

“And?” Granville raised a single eyebrow but her face remained emotionless besides that. Varian could only stare at her blankly. He didn’t know what answer she was looking for. 

After a moment of silence Garnville tried to nudge him in the right direction. “Are there any certain safety precautions that you may have overlooked that could prevent accidents like this from happening in the future?” She clarified.

Varian could only numbly shrug. He couldn’t think of anything that he could have done differently off hand, and it wasn’t like wearing his goggles would have stopped him from drowning. 

When he failed to give her an answer, Granville let out a weary sigh and continued, “I should have done this sooner, but it looks like I have no choice now...”

Here it came, the moment he had been dreading. Varian closed his eyes tight and braced himself for the eventual rejection. 

“...then to give you your own laboratory.” She finished. 

Varian opened his eyes in surprise. He couldn’t have heard that right. He looked back at Granville who now had a pen in her hand and was looking over a folder. 

“It looks like the physics building has a few open.” She said to no one in particular as she scanned the papers before her.  “Of course it’ll need to have a separate office with a viewing wind-- ah ha, there’s one.” She flashed a wide grin as she apparently found what she had been looking for and proceeded to write something down next to it. 

“My… my own lab?” Varian asked bewildered. “Don’t you usually give those out to students who do something extraordinary, like become top of their class or invent something amazing?” 

Granville looked back up at him, “Yes.” She plainly stated as if Varian somehow met those requirements. 

“What’s amazing about nearly flooding the whole school?” Varian incredulously asked. 

Granville tilted her head a little. “You don’t think building a working spatial portal in a week is exceptional?” 

“But it didn’t work?” He wailed. “Not like it was supposed to, anyways. I failed and ruined the communal lab while doing it. I thought you were bringing me here to expel me for screwing up not to reward me.” 

“Mr. Quirinson, failure is the main way in which we learn. If I expelled every person who made a mistake while working in a lab there wouldn’t be a single student left in the whole school.” Granville gently chided.”Everyone makes mistakes; in fact some of the best scientific discoveries were made through accidents in a lab.”

“Yeah, well I bet none of those involved blowing up your whole village either.” He said bitterly under his breath, now completely lost. Surely the professor was just taking pity upon him, the same she had done for Hiro.  

The remark about his village being destroyed did not go unnoticed by Granville, but she filed it away along with the other clues of his past that she had gleaned from him in the last couple of weeks rather than press the matter. Instead she heaved a sigh, stood up, and walked around to where he sat. She knelt down to his level and placed a hand upon his shoulder, bringing him out of his brooding reflection. 

“Look, as headmaster of the school, it is my job to make sure that all of my students are kept safe. I hadn’t anticipated you successfully building your machine so quickly and I failed to provide you with the proper equipment and space in order for you to conduct your experiments out of harm's way. That was my mistake, and I am learning from it and correcting it. Your new lab will have a separate room attached so that you can turn the portal on and off from behind a protective glass thereby avoiding incidents like the one today.”

Varian searched Professor Granville’s eyes, unsure of what to make of her words. No adult had ever admitted fault to him before; let alone taken responsibility for an accident that he had caused. Usually when he messed up he was expected to clean up and then avoid working on whatever it was that had caused the fire, explosion, or in this case flood. There was a small part of him that knew his dad would like nothing more than for him to give up alchemy altogether. Yet, here was an authority figure who was not only encouraging him to continue but actively telling him that there was no shame in failing. 

Granville gave him a small but warm smile and Varian couldn’t help but return it. After the moment passed, she stood back up and spoke again in her usual administrative tone, ‘Now the new lab will be made ready for you to move into later this week. You’ll have to disassemble your device and reassemble it there, is that possible?”   

Varian nodded his head yes. 

“Good. Now in the meantime, I believe there are some maintenance personnel who could use a hand in mopping up the communal laboratory.” She hinted. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Varian agreed and then made to leave, however he was stopped at the door by Granville’s voice. 

“Oh and Mr. Quirinson, keep up the excellent work.” She gave him another smile and Varian suddenly felt ten feet tall as he walked back to the lab. 

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

Maintenance had already cleared away the seaweed and other debris once he had made his way back to the room. Baymax had also managed to save a few of the fish and other sea creatures and placed them in a makeshift tank full of saltwater. For Varian’s part though, he had to mop the entire floor to help get rid of all the water. He was just finishing up when all of his friends arrived. 

“What happened here?” Wasabi asked, taking note of the mop in Varian’s hand. 

“And why does it smell like dead fish?” Gogo added as she scrunched up her nose in distaste.       

“I may have accidentally flooded the whole lab while working on the portal.” Varian admitted sheepishly. 

“Oof,” Hiro winced, “What did Professor Ganville say when she found out?’

“Well, she, she... uh, gave me my own lab.” Varian stammered unsure how to explain how those two things connected. “She said I needed a new workspace to conduct experiments in since I got the portal working.” 

“Really?!” Fred said excitedly, “Duuude, I never knew someone who got awarded their own lab in their first semester. Well except for Tadashi and Hiro that is.” 

“No, just Tadashi,” Hiro quietly corrected, then turned back to Varian and gave him a small smile. “Congratulations man, you earned it.”

“Oooh we should celebrate!” Honey Lemon exclaimed. 

 “Way ahead of you Honey Lemon,” Fred jumped in, pulling out a case from his backpack and holding up. “I brought the next story of Professor What for us to watch, The Delaks! In it the Professor meets his worst enemy, a race of evil slimy aliens encas--”

“Yeah, yeah, just put it on already.” Gogo interrupted.     

With that Fred pulled out the rest of the contents of his backpack and set up a DVD player and projector so that they could all watch the show together. 

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

As the heroes watched the faded black and white video, a figure stood just out of sight within the hallway and proceeded to peer at them instead. Said figure kicked away a forgotten starfish that the clean up crew had missed in disdain. It would appear the boy had already figured out how to build a spatial portal. That meant time was starting to run out; plans would have to be accelerated soon lest the window of opportunity was missed completely.

[lemonjoonah]

Grim Love: Echo

Word Count: 3K+ Rating: M Genre: Reaper AU, Drama Warnings: Major Character Death(s), Violence Pairings: Reaper!Jungkook x Reader x Seokjin Inspirations:  LOVE YOURSELF Highlight Reel, SAVE ME, Guardian: The Lonely and Great God (AKA Goblin)

Summary - Every time I reach for you, every time I touch your hand, I am forced back to the beginning. Why can’t I save you from this endless cycle? Why can’t I save you from this pain?

The Grim Love series is a Reaper AU, featuring each of the members as Grim Reapers. Echo is Jungkook’s story…

A/N - This is the third instalment in the series. Even though they are individual short stories that can be read alone, I highly recommend reading all of them and in order as there is a natural progression to the information and overall plot (that’s right it’s all going to connect…). You might notice a few similarities between Taehyung’s and Jungkook’s stories but it is fully intended as part of the collective story line. Please pay attention to the warnings. These stories take a lot out of me emotionally to write, if you are easily triggered do not read it! 

...

POV Jungkook

“This is our kindness, sending you.”

“I think you could do better.” I mutter back to my elders as I step across the void to the world of the living. If they have such power why can’t they do more? With every death they assign all I see is pain. The pain of the souls that leave and those that stay and mourn. If they really want to help, they should take away the agony, take away the guilt. That would be true kindness.

...

30th, Aug

I find you waiting patiently as a train crosses in front of us. A bag rests on your shoulder that’s bursting at the seams with what appears to be clothes and books. The weight of the sack must be heavy as you fail to notice when one of your belongings slips out. A red notebook falls from its place and hits the pavement. I stop beside it for a moment wondering if you will see it, but you proceed despite leaving that part of you behind. I hate the fact that I am unable to inform of the loss, I can only staying by your side until I can guide you on.

Your commute is not much further, entering a hospital I have been sent to many times. All though this will be a first, following someone who works there rather than a patient. We are surrounded by my kind, I cannot communicate with them while in this realm, but I can still feel their slight presence in the shadows of their assigned souls.

As I wait for you to change into scrubs, I ponder as to what might be your end. You, a young doctor, you don’t appear sick in anyway and any other natural causes would be unlikely at your age. Possibly an accident? It will likely be sudden. I wish that the elders would just tell us what to expect, if they know the timeline surely they know the cause too.

Your morning rounds consist of you checking on your long term patients. You consult one of the nurses before entering the third room of the day.

“How is he responding to the new dosage?”

“Unfortunately no improvement, he’s still unresponsive and on the respirator.”

You double check the chart at the foot of his bed with a sigh, “I can’t increase the prescription, he’s already at the highest dose.”

I can tell this patient of yours has little time left. The presence of his reaper is so strong that I doubt he will even last the hour.

Thirty minutes later you are called back to that room for a code blue. Your patient is in need of resuscitation, but I already know that the attempt is futile. The soul has already left with it’s guide. It’s not coming back no matter how hard you try.

After calling time of death you retreat to your locker room in defeat, hanging your head as you stalk away. This is the guilt that I hate, when those who are left behind feel responsible despite the fact that it is not their fault. There was nothing that could have been done, it was just his time. You rummage through your bag looking for something, pulling out all of its contents to find what you need. You stare at the now empty sack with a confused look, while muttering to yourself, “I know I put it in here.”

You must be looking for the journal that you had dropped on your walk over.

“If you want to give her kindness let me tell her where it is.” I whisper to myself, I know the elders aren’t listening, but it still makes me feel better to point out the faults in the limitations they have placed on us.

I can not talk to you. I can’t touch you until you’ve reached your end. Only the things that draw you to your demise are within my grasp. How fucked up is that? They will only let us touch what hurts you the most.

You give up on your search checking the display on your phone to see a text from an unknown source.

...I found a red notebook with your name and number inside. Is it by chance yours?...

I watch as your face lights up with relief.

...Yes! Thank you so much for finding it. I’m at work right now can I meet you somewhere tonight to pick it up?...

...

At the end of your shift you head to a cafe you both agreed upon. He sends you a selfie along with his name, Kim Seokjin. Telling you to look for his handsome face. I scoff at his attempt to flirt, but you giggle and smile.

Before we even reach the cafe I can see him waiting for you across the street. Holding not only your notebook but a bouquet of flowers. I find myself confused by his forwardness as he has yet to even meet you.

You wave at him before crossing in a hurry.

It turns out I was right. Your end is sudden. I didn’t even see the truck coming before you stepped in front. The horn and the screech of brakes do nothing to prevent your death.

It’s my purpose now to take your hand and guide you on. I have done it so many times before, trying to explain to a fearful soul who I am and what has taken place, but you, you are different. Sadness and longing consumes your expression as your eyes fall on mine. “Jungkook?”

It’s at that moment that I feel myself being torn away, as if I have been summoned back to my elders only the pull is far stronger. But I have yet to take your hand... the hand of someone who is wide eyed and calling out to me in pain.

...

30th, Aug (2nd Attempt)

I find myself back at the train tracks with you... but how? It’s as if the day hasn’t even happened, even though I can still hear the echo of your voice calling my name. I stare at your face trying to remember, trying to recall the past that you must share with me, but all I can see is your last day. The day in which we are now reliving.

The elders say they take away our memories when we start our roles. They say that it will make our job easier but I don’t believe them, not when there are others who still remember us, not when I can’t understand how you know my name.   

The red notebook of yours falls once again, and again you fail to notice. Your day proceeds just the same as before. Visiting your patients, while losing one in the process. It’s when you check your phone after your futile search that I notice the first difference, the location he has sent you to meet at, it’s not the same as the time before. This one is on the other side of town, despite the long trek you agree, clearly desperate to retrieve your belonging.

But as you step on the bus to go to the meeting spot, it becomes apparent that you will never make it off. Just like at the hospital, the surrounding souls are shadowed by my kind. When the bus collides with a barrier I reach out to you. I am able to take your hand this time but as you speak my name once again I am ripped away.

...

30th, Aug (3rd Attempt)

“What the fuck is happening?” I question staring at the train that crosses in front of us. Something is clearly wrong. “Care to enlighten me, oh kind elders?” I shout to the sky. “This is our kindness, sending you.” I repeat in a mocking tone. “An explanation would be great.” I make an attempt to return to the void to question them but find my path blocked, your hold on me is too tight, tying me to this world so that I can not leave. You are so close to death that to travel back without your soul is impossible.

This time Kim Seokjin doesn’t message you. You remain in the dark regarding the location of your missing notebook.

One of your coworkers enters the locker room staring at your belongings you have strewn about the floor in your search.

You look up at them sheepishly, “You haven’t by chance see that red journal of mine have you?”

“Are you still using that? Honey that’s not how you should coupe. Writing them down won’t bring them back.”

“I know that! It just helps... it helps me to let them go.”

Is that what you use it for? To record the names of those who you lost under your care? I call out with the intent to shame once again. “Do you see? DO YOU SEE NOW?! She shouldn’t feel bad for this. She shouldn’t carry the weight of your fucking choices.”

On your walk back from work you comb the streets looking for your lost possession.  You’re so absorbed in your search that you fail to notice a presence following you. A man that has been eyeing the bag on your shoulder with envy.

He grabs for the strap and makes an attempt to cut it with a knife to free it from your shoulder. You twist around in confusion, causing the blade to instead finds its place in you. The assailant runs off dropping the knife as he goes. You fall to the ground hand pressing on the wound in your abdomen.

Your face slowly turns white as you struggle to breath. I can’t stand to see you in this much pain, when all I can do is wait. Wait until you can take my hand, wait until I can finally take you away with me.

No one comes for you, no one finds you before you speak the name that pulls me back.

“Jungkook?” .

.

.

30th, Aug (10th Attempt)

“NO! I refuse to keep doing this. This is not kindness this is torment! She doesn’t deserve this. How many more times does she have to die before you’re content?” The train finally crosses and you proceed. “So help me god, if that journal drops one more...” I listen to the dull thunk of the pages on the pavement, seething as I glance down to it.

“How do you not notice that?” I start yelling at you, scolding upon deaf ears in anger, uncertain of what else to do. “Turn around and go pick it up!”

But of course you don’t, it would be a miracle if you could hear me, if you would just listen to me I could save you from so much pain.

...

When your patient dies in front of you once again I only become exasperated as you try to save him, “Stop worrying about him and try looking after yourself.”

The text from Seokjin this time is him offering to bring the journal to you. Informing you that he will wait downstairs in the lobby. If you can posses that journal maybe this cycle can end, is that what this is all about? The only constant each time is your determination to get that damn thing back.  

You never reach him, you never get the chance to retrieve your belonging. You slip on the fourth floor staircase and fall, hitting your head as you go down. I make it far enough to hold you in my arms this time. I need to know, I must know how you remember me. Your touch seem so familiar. Hearing your voice speak my name echoes throughout the gaps inside me, as if it should hit a memory and unlock a part of me that remains hidden. But it only sends me back, back to those fucking train tracks.

.

.

.

30th, Aug (30th Attempt)

I am tired of watching you die, of seeing you in pain. The only thing that brings me refuge now is hearing you whisper my name.

This time you ended up staying at a hotel after a night of drinking with your friends, too intoxicated to make it back home. When smoke begins to pour in through the vents of your room you are too far gone to notice. You lay deep within your slumber as the room fills with toxic fumes and the flames creep under your door.

“Please wake up, please don’t let this happen again.” I begin to sob wishing I had the power to pull you from this bed.

You begin to mutter and toss in your sleep, “Jungkook... I’m sorry I lost it. Please don’t leave... don’t leave me...”

You are simply dreaming, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to reach you. “Wake up, you have to get up. I won’t leave you but... I can’t save you. I don’t know how.”

The next time you say my name you’ve already passed, and I am pushed  away once again.

.

.

.

30th, Aug (50th Attempt)

So much pain...

.

.

.

30th, Aug (75th Attempt)

Why can’t I take you with me...

.

.

.

30th, Aug (100th Attempt)

Why can’t I save you from this...

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

30th, Aug (411th Attempt)

No matter how many times you die I am always the first thing you see. My name always comes from you lips before anything else.

As the journal falls I stay by it’s side. I will come back to you in time, I promise, but I have to find out how to end this. How I can free you from this echo of an end, my only lead is to follow what you’ve been searching for. With the hopes that it will bring you to your final peace.

...

Just as in days past Kim Seokjin finds the journal, but he doesn’t immediately open it as I thought he would. Instead I must follow him back to his apartment as he carries your possession in his hand.

He opens the curtains of his window to shed light on a wall filled with fresh sharpie marks. To anyone else they would just seem like the writings of a mad man, random words crammed onto the dull paint of the room, but to me the tell a dark story in two words or less. Truck, bus, thief, hospital staircase, hotel fire and so many more...

I stare at the display in shock and horror, every circle in the web he has drawn is a death you’ve endured. As read each one I can feel myself reliving the experience in my head. How? How does he know all of this? How does he know what I have witnessed, what you have suffered?

Each of your deaths seems to branch off from a choice that he has made, when he has texted you, when he hasn’t, where he has agreed to meet you, where he has encouraged your friends to take you.

Seokjin sits on his bed staring at the wall as he opens the journal of yours to the beginning. And there on the very first line I see my name written by your hand. Echoing back to my end.

...

The walls which surround me are bleak and sterile, the steady beeping of the monitor mocks me as if it’s counting down the limited time I have left. The only good moments within this hospital room are the frequent visits from you. You check in with me often despite not being my doctor, our prior friendship preventing you from taking the role as my primary physician.

“How are you feeling today Jungkook?”

“I’m fine.”

“Any pain?”

“You already have enough patients to stress over, please don’t worry about me too.”

“You know I will always worry about you, even if I’m not your doctor, even if you say not to. But something's wrong, what is it? Tell me.”

“Could you do me a favour first?”

...

I wait patiently for your return, knowing that I’ll have to explain myself once you do. It almost saddens me to see you back so quickly with a bag in hand. It would have been nice if you could have remained in blissful ignorance for a little longer.

“Like this?”

You hand me a red notebook that I asked you to purchase.

“Yes, perfect.”

I take it before giving it right back to you with a sly grin. “For you.”

“What for?” You chuckle.

“For your relief. I want you to write everything that causes you pain everything that weighs down on you in here, you need to let it all go. Starting with my name...”

“Jungkook?”

Tears begin to flood your eyes as I take your hand and try to explain. “My test results came back today. The new medication, it’s not working like they hoped.”

I told my doctor not to say anything to you, that I wanted to be the one to tell you. I knew you would blame yourself if they did and I couldn’t bear the thought of it. We have been friends for so long... You always tell me of the things that worry you, of the guilt that wracks you. I won’t be there to help you through those times, to give you the release that you need from the pressures weighing on you. If I can’t be here for you, I want to at least give you something, something that might help save you from the pain...

...

This journal was my last gift, and here he holds it like it’s his key to you.

In anger I try to take it from his grasp, I am unable to touch the book but I manage to make contact with his hand, forcing the notebook to fall to the floor.

He looks down in confusion trying to explain the phenomenon that is me.

I can only touch the things that are hurting you, the things that lead you to your end... This man, Kim Seokjin is he the reason you are going through such agony? I look to the wall once again. Is he the reason you are forced to die over and over? With every death a result of his actions...

He bends over to pick up the red journal and faintly whispers, “I have to go back to the beginning, that’s the closest I’ve come so far.”

With that choice he sends you the same text that I remember from the first day following you. Asking you to meet him outside a cafe.

...

As you are about to run across the street he tells you to wait, crossing himself instead. I have to choose, will I let you die again or prevent him from reaching you?

Seokjin is fully aware of the truck that is heading down the street, waiting to the side until it will pass him by. But even if it does, I know that this loop will not stop, not until I can destroy the cause of your death. I can’t do this anymore I can’t watch you die again.

He has forced you relive so much pain, so much guilt.  He is within my grasp, he is within my realm, he is within my right to end.

My contact with him is short but serves its purpose. The tires squeal and the horn blares, but not for you. He can’t hurt you now, not when I will lead him away.

This is my kindness, taking him... to save you.

...

A/N: I’m so sorry for that end, but I promise it’s not the end of Seokjin’s story. Lots of easter eggs in here, but if you are curious as to why I set the date at Aug. 30th, I suggest rewatching the Highlight Reel.

[morphituu]

Milagro

Chapter 2: At Last

Ch. 1 - 

A long yawn interrupted his reading of the paper in hand, and he tightened his broad body, pressing as deep as possible into the passenger seat. The briefing was bland as usual, same thing every week. A compiled stack of papers that amounted to possible sightings of Bright’s or wand activity, their locations, dates, descriptions he had to skim over in case anything seemed familiar. It was mind numbing, but if it kept him out of the hole for the incident years ago with Tikka, he’d bear it. His mind might collapse in on itself in the process though.

Activity seemed to have kicked up around the outskirts of LA, but there was nothing to be alarmed about if the paperwork was any say indication of it. If there had been, Nick would’ve been sat in a cramped office with MTF, answering the same questions he’d memorized perfectly in order from all the years of interrogations.

He chuffed silently, rolling a peppercorn from his pasta he’d taken for lunch between his canines.

The last few pages were always dedicated to Tikka and the grave importance of her being apprehended, but still, nothing sparked his interest or alerted him, not even the paragraph where there was a supposed sighting in San Diego. He just couldn’t believe she’d wander back to LA after what happened.

Nick folded the papers and stuffed them in the glove compartment. Everything there he’d heard that morning, anyways.

Instead he scrolled through his phone as he took hearty bites of the pasta, mindlessly looking through Facebook videos and news articles- same shit, different day. Nick rarely liked anything on Instagram; he’d only gotten it so Callie could tag him in the long stream of photos she posted, detailing their everyday life and sometimes the more private aspects. Cautious he was about staring down at his lover in some of the revealing photos while working. Popping a boner was dangerous on the job.

He opened another app, observing where they were that day and grinned before flashing over to message Callie.

Its the size of an apple today

The drivers side door yanked open and another officer climbed in, slamming the door behind himself.

“Chill out,” Nick mumbled, taking another bite but leaving the fork between his teeth, reading her reply.

Really cause i feel like i have an eggplant in me

He smirked. Stick my eggplant in you if you want

“They act like I’m fucking contagious or something,” the younger Orc spat, and Nick snorted.

“Get used to it,”

“No respect- not even for a cop,” he went on, unwrapping his sandwich hotly.

“You’re telling me stuff I already know, kid,” Nick exhaled, stifling a chuckle when Callie responded, Only if you bring me home more cheeeese

“When did they stop harassing you?” the rookie asked, looking at Nick with worried brows. Nick’s head leaned back against the headrest, running his tongue over his filed tusks as he thought it over, but in the end, grinning again.

“When you joined,” Nick smiled sarcastically and his young partner looked down to his sandwich dispondantly. “It gets easier when they get used to you,”

“Or when another Orc joins and carries the burden…” Sergey mumbled, taking a bite of his sandwich. Nick nodded indifferently. Sergey was quite young compared to when Nick finally made it into the Academy and onto being an officer, but he had a good heart despite being a little skittish and hot headed at times. His tusks had been filed like Nick’s, but he’d been blooded young- something about resuscitating a toddler at a pool, ah, he couldn’t remember. Not like he could gloat about his own blooding. Either way, it meant most Orcs didn’t chastise him like they had Nick, which in turn made their jobs a little easier.

“It’s bullshit,” Sergey chuffed.

"You wanted to join- that’s on you. What’s bullshit is Heig making us work the afternoon before the banquet,” Nick reasoned, returning to the message.

Im getting a costco bag this time. Does pucca need food?

“You’re going?” Sergey asked, a cheekful of sub.

“We have to go,”

“Oh fuck- Dura is going to kill me. I told her we didn’t have to go,” he griped, holding his head.

“Anytime the LAPD is doing something expect to have to go,”

His phone vibrated in his hand again. Nah she’s good. Im off at 4 today

Nick finished the last bite of his food before replying, Okay. Dont forget to take your vitamin

“You’re taking Callie?” Sergey asked, looking over to Nick yawning again and sliding down his seat as he stretched as best he could in the cramped space.

“Wouldn’t go without her,” he told him, his phone face down on his chest.

“Gonna tell people tonight?” the young Orc piped, his ears twitching when Nick side eyed him. Nosey little asshole.

“Not like we could hide it. If anyone says anything to her I might throw a table,” Nick grumbled.

“Even if, it’s none of their business. People delve into others shit for their daily dose of drama and then don’t want to assume any of the responsibility afterwards. Like humans abandoning babies,” Sergey rattled, his accent coming forth a little.

Nick had turned his shoulders in his seat, looking at him a little aghast. “Such depth- is that why Dura puts up with you?”

“It is because I’m the darkest hue of grey she’s ever seen.” he flaunted, earning a scoff from Nick. It was true- Sergey was a very muted color compared to most Orcs that were painted in swirls of green or blue tones.

Nick’s shoulder radio sounded, and the two listened for the call to the accident. Sergey took a couple more heaving bites of his sandwich as Nick responded, instructing him to turn on the lights before siren until they’d pulled onto the street.

↠

His day closed around 2, uneventful, and he liked it that way. Coming home pissed off wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when Callie willingly offered herself up as a sexual ragdoll for him to blow off steam, but being in more delicate condition meant having to withhold some of the roughness she adored. He was left with time to head to Costco before he had to pick her up, which by this time on a Friday, would be packed, and her method of dealing with rude shoppers who bumped into her uncaringly was… hostile, to say the least.

Nick grinned to himself as he palmed the wheel to park the truck. Already so protective.

He wandered aimlessly, up and down the aisles, grabbing this and that, knowing he was forgetting something that he’d only remember once home; it happened every time. He grabbed the massive bag of shredded cheese and moved on with his cart, snatching samples as he passed the small stands. As always, he stopped to look over the books, mostly for himself, but kept an eye out for a new Stephen King novel- yep, there it was. Now Callie would have something to do during her appointments that seemed to drag on and on for hours. But another one caught his eye and he picked it up.

Multi-race Baby Names: 1000+ Choices for Your Little Surprise

Nick scoffed. “Surprise?” he said under his breath. 1000, huh? That was also placed in the cart and purchased.

The drive to the bank was decent. In that neighborhood, people drove angrily, like they were the only ones that mattered on the road. It resulted in him flashing his badge at a particular asshole who kept trying to shove his way in front of Nick when the lanes merged. Nick couldn’t help but laugh a little sarcastically. Years in, and he was over being prim and proper just so people wouldn’t mind the Orc cop.

He parked the truck in front, pulling out his phone to tell her he was waiting.

He thumbed through the book he got for himself, reading the preface as he snacked from a monstrous box of crackers he’d bought; Sci-fi was becoming a new favorite of his.

A soft, carrying whistle caught his attention and he looked up, smiling at the pretty face that tuned the two-note whistle as she walked to the truck, her growing belly poking out from between the smartly pressed jacket she wore over her dress suit.

“Hey baby,” Nick said as she struggled to hoist herself up into the truck, tossing her bag to the floorboard along with her folder packed with paperwork, grunting when she curled over her stomach. “How was work?”

“I’m on the verge of firing Isabel. I’ve never met someone so fucking lazy and sorry for themselves, ugh! And she always attacks people for being more committed than her? She tried to get on me for being branch manager and I was this close-” she basically mashed her thumb and index together, “This close to knocking her on her ass,” she leaned over to give him a quick kiss.

“Don't forget you’re preg-”

“I didn’t work my ass off to feel bad that she can’t manage to make it in 3 of the 6 days she works-” she angrily tied her hair up. “Fuck that,” she yanked the seatbelt over her stomach, arching her back to better settle in the seat and slipping an ankle under her thigh once kicking off a heel. “And I need maternity clothes. I can’t keep squeezing into these shirts,” she huffed, letting her head bounce back against the seat with a hard exhale. “Fuck I’m winded,”

“Little thing getting too big already?” he asked affectionately, backing out of the spot.

“Your dad was right when he said you’d make big babies,” she smirked.

“We could skip the banquet and go shopping,” he tried, flashing a devious grin but only receiving an unamused glare in return.

“I didn’t spend all that money on a dress to let it go to waste. You can’t weasel your way out of the suit,”

“I hate suits,” he grumbled, his hand instinctively moving to her stomach when he pulled up to a busy road he had to turn onto.

“Mhm. Did you get the cheese?”

“And a few other things,” he motioned to the box in the backseat. Her legs bounced in excitement at the newest Stephen King, but she passed it to look over the baby names, also pulling a cheese stick from her purse as she flipped through the pages.

“We should also make a list of names we won’t use,” she commented dryly, and he snorted.

“Like?”

“Bog- Bogdub?” she pronounced slowly, her nose scrunching. “I like Lorn though. Shat? Shat is a name?” she exclaimed.

“Really old name,” he palmed the wheel as they pulled into a drive-thru across the street, lowering his window. “What’ya want?”

“You’re getting takeout?” her brows drew in together.

“There’s only gonna be snacks and drinks at the thing,”

“Oh, okay, eehhmm… 2 five-layered burritos with guac and crema,” she said through the corner of her mouth.

“Better not have fish in it,”

“It’s a Taco Bell, mensito.” she ribbed, his flat look making her giggle.

They drove home with pleasant conversation drifting between them, his hand remaining on her stomach and his thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the baby that had caused an unexpected bout of nausea that morning, but had subsided in time for her to order her favorite item on the menu.

Once home, he carried their bags and Costco purchases in one hand and kept his other arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly against his side to plant firm kisses on her temple, Callie pushing half-heartedly against his chest as she laughed against his affections. Pucca was already barking inside, jumping at eye level excitedly once the door had opened.

Both of them took the time to smother her with kisses and silly questions about how her day was, the chubby pitbull wiggling side to side to keep up with the lightning speed of her wagging tail as her parents showered her with love.

Callie only bothered enough to take off her jacket and unbutton her shirt once sat at the table, far too eager to dig into her meal with Pucca’s chin rested on her thigh; she gave her little scraps, baby talking endlessly to the pretty eyed pitbull. Nick had started sitting at an angle in his seat beside her, making room on his lap for her restless feet so she didn’t fidget uncomfortably.

“What time is the thing tonight?”

“Six,” Nick barely got out. She had a brilliant habit of asking him something whenever his mouth was full.

She twisted her wrist to look at her watch. “Doesn’t leave much time to get ready,”

“Don’t rush. As long as we show up it’s fine,”

The final bite of her food washed down her throat with her drink, standing to ball her wrappers and toss them.

“I’m gonna shower real quick.” she called from the kitchen, speed walking as she pulled her dress shirt down her arms, Pucca at her heels.

“Mhm,” unconsciously he hummed around his food, pushing some around with his fork when his eyes flickered up in realization. He sat straight with his neck extended, listening intently from the table; the shower curtain rings scraping across the pole, the water springing from the shower head. Nick started to cover his food and gather his trash, his eyes remaining trained on the entrance to the hallway.

By the time it was all shoved crudely into the takeout bag, he was on his feet, and had heard the shower curtain open and close again.

There was no reason to, but he still tiptoed down the hall as he pulled his shirt forward from his shoulder blades, pushing his face into the cracked door so it opened a little more.

Thinking of how the water streamed down her naked body only provoked his eagerness, which in turn made him a little clumsy in his impatience to push his pants and briefs down and yank his socks off.

“Nick?” she called loudly from the other side of the curtain, and he took the opportunity to poke his head in.

“Yeah?”

She spun with a short screech, her hands hidden in her bubbly, lathered hair.

“What’re you doing?” she started to grin, scratching her scalp as he stepped into the narrow shower, now even more of a tighter fit with a wide shouldered Orc before her.

“I needed a shower too,” he said against her neck, partially squatting to wrap his arms around her middle, her distended stomach right below his pecs. He tried to hide his flinch when the searing water ran over his scalp, and she laughed at the way he tensed and grunted.

He flinched from under it, wincing as he spit some from his mouth. “S’like fire,”

“Only way to get clean,” she smirked, bending back under the water to shake her fingers between her soaked tresses, the raining shampoo following the curves and dips of her body.

Nick felt his eyes heavy, as well as his breathing when he watched how her honey-golden skin shone from the miniscule light coming in. He was already salivating, inhaling deeply to find her scent, but there was too much steam and the smell of her fragrant shampoo around them.

The soft brush of his touch across her nipples shot goosebumps down her sides, her eyes opening to find his burning ambers as he stepped into her space. His thumbs rolling and swiping stirred a soft sigh from Callie and her arms fell around his shoulders loosely when he leaned down to adorn her wet skin with kisses and soft bites, his hands catching the curve of her back when she craned backwards.

His tongue was hotter than the water running over them, his nipping, sharp teeth a pleasant shock every now and then, either around a nipple or biting along the soft sides of her breasts.

“No point in a shower if you’re gonna be dirty,” she murmured when he fisted his hand in her hair after standing straight, a hard kiss to follow.

“Dirty is better than filthy,” he growled, and she smiled when he gripped her bare ass.

“Says you,”

He eyed her, wanting nothing more than to sink his teeth into her again, but also fuck her until she was blind. Her soft touch grazing up his hardened dick made him grunt, his eyes fluttering when she pumped him.

“Mhm,” she kissed into his jaw, then down his neck, finally resting back on her heels when she reached his chest. “You like it dirty, don’t you?” she questioned seductively, un-needing of an answer; she knew.

Nick shuddered in anticipation as she kissed down his chiseled belly, her hands dragging down his ass and thighs. A soft kiss at his inner hip started a hard tremble in his legs; that was his pressure point she only sometimes took advantage of. Finally she gazed up at him as she took his hard member into her hands, finding his desperate eyes.

It always left his mind a pile of useless muscle when she did this. He’d before questioned inwardly how she’d become so good at the way she took his dick to the back of her throat and rotated her hands so perfectly along his shaft at the same time, but by the time the question arose in him this time, he was already bracing himself against the shower wall, his hips rocking into her hot mouth.

And she encouraged it. She’d pull on his hips when he slowed, her attentive touch winding up his clenching stomach, her eyes keeping his when she’d let him fall from her hot mouth onto her chin- fuck, that thin string of spit made him whimper- before letting him rock back in, his direction the only guide back between her lips.

Nick pressed his face into his arm, exhaling harshly when she squeezed along his shaft. Forget the hot water running down his back, or the drops waterfalling over his shoulders- all he could focus on was the soft scrape of her teeth and the way her tongue shaped to his girth perfectly.

“Fuck, Callie,” he ground out, fighting with every shread of restraint left not to pin her arms above her head and fuck her face.

“Feeling filthy?” she teased, her tongue gliding up along the underside of his dick.

Nick shivered.

She gasped as he lifted her from under her arms in a flash, holding her face to kiss her harshly.

His rigid cock was rested against her stomach, and already her hands were around him again, stroking up to his head where her thumb could swipe over the tip and move the thick beads of precum around.

“Stop,” he breathed heavily, again squatting before her, but to pull up from under her ass until her legs wrapped around him.

Her stomach hadn’t grown big enough to stop this… yet.

A wavering moan fell from him when he merely brushed against her cunt while carefully hooking his arms under her knees, his palms flat against the tile wall.

She was open, and ready, and he didn’t need to smell her to know she’d been prepared for this since he first stepped into the shower. He could see it in the feral glint of her caramel pools, and her mouth hung open, her full lips begging to be kissed.

But Nick liked to take his time.

Despite her pleas, he pushed in agonizingly slow, always groaning loudly for that first slide in.

She kissed him with abandon, her blunt nails pinching every so often as he loved her from tip to base, the deep pumps leaving her limp in his hold.

“Apurate,” she sighed, her tongue lapping against his teasingly. She tasted like the water dripping down their faces, her lips still soft as he stole a few slow pecks.

“Shut your big mouth,” he played, hissing when she bit down on his bottom lip. He snapped his hips forward once, a gasp falling from her wide smile.

“You like my big mouth,”

“Yeah when it’s around my big dick,”

“Oo, getting cocky?” she asked, clinging to him when he fired into her. Callie’s head fell back, her body thrusting up and down against the wall as he fucked her, gazing down at her bouncing breasts. She cursed, and cried, her toes curling on either side of him.

“Keep saying cock,” he groused, kissing her turned jaw.

“Then fuck me harder with that big cock,” she simpered, watching one of his hairless brows rise before her repositioned his feet and fucked her without restraint.

Immediately she locked up, under an assault she couldn’t flee from, but squirming from this would be foolish when he so perfectly caressed her hidden treasure, turning her words to clustered cries and sending her eyes rolling back into her skull.

“Yes-” she choked, heavy hands holding his face. “Fuck me, fuck me just like that,” she near laughed, smiling widely as the bliss started its slow build-up.

He kissed her sparingly, unwanting of those delicious moans to be smothered, stifling his own so he could hear clearly the way she begged in his name. It sounded like a holy prayer, the way it rolled off her tongue; it made him feel like he was the one to be worthy of worship.

“Baby-,” he panted, dropping his face to her neck when his groin area started to tighten. “Baby I’m gonna cum,”

“Not yet,” she begged, “Just a lil’ longer,”

But he continued, entranced completely.

“Nick,” she breathed, and he had enough power in him to stop from thrusting back in, his head hidden inside her smooth pussy. No way he could stay like this for long. He was teetering on the brink, wanting so badly to throw himself over that brilliant edge.

“Rub your clit,” he ordered, and watched, and moaned, fighting the burning urge to fuck her again as she rubbed her swollen clit rapidly.

“Do you like it?” she asked, but his head didn’t lift as he nodded, daring a slow, single pump as she carried on. His arms shook from the power of his hands pressing into the shower wall.

“Do you still wanna fuck me?” she whispered, grinning at the desperation in his face.

“Don’t do that,” he whined, daring another slow pump, pressing tight enough into her that she moved up the wall.

“Fuck me then,” she moaned, her breath fluttering. Nick recognized that. “Fuck me,”

He obeyed, a loud, shuddering moan coming forth as he shifted back into that steady rhythm again.

“You’re gonna make me cum baby,” her voice was peaking, her head hanging forward as the once flawless flicks of her wrist became erratic, and then her hand pulled back altogether. ”Oh there, oh there-”

There was a long moment of her eyes pinched shut and jaw hung before she let go of her long symphony of moans, her hips circling as much as possible as the euphoria stretched across her shaking form.

It only took a few pulses of her pussy around him to finally have him falling into that pool of ecstasy, pressed balls deep into her quivering cunt as he drained in her, thick shots of semen pulsing from his dick again and again.

Where once the water splashing down them had been forgotten, it was now preventing her from holding around his shoulders comfortably, and he at last looked at her, bumping her nose a few times as they both struggled to even their breathing.

“We need to bathe in holy water after that,” she cracked, and he snorted, placing a few good kisses on her cheek before carefully letting her down. It was almost comical the way he popped from her, grunting quietly when his still shrinking dick felt vulnerable without her warmth around him.

“Now I’m too lazy to finish,” she sighed, a hand over her tightened stomach and the other reaching to pump conditioner in her palm, uncaring of the aftermath leaking down the insides of her thighs.

“So I guess you washing my back is out of the question?” he pouted.

“Only if you wash me first,” she played, her long hair held up in a wet pile atop her head.

Callie hadn’t actually expected him to, but when he squeezed a tiny mountains worth of her silky body wash into his palm, she turned, already turning to jelly in his hold as he massaged it all along her body. Across her menacing crow tattoo that adorned her shoulder blades, and down her toned arms to her hands that he cupped in his, wrapping them around herself when he circled her.

She turned her cheek into his kiss, relishing in his sturdy chest against her back and his protective hands holding either side of her stomach.

Now he could smell her- even above the body wash. There was Callie’s vanilla, and the savory essence of pregnancy that reminded him of her blood he’d savored when he first bit her, and now there was him, seasoning her like the final pinch to a perfect dish.

She was all of them- a tailor made perfume just for him.

One hand lingered over her stomach where the other moved around her, holding close what he owed his happiness to. But alarming pride also coarsed through him. Seeing her grow with pregnancy made him animalistic, almost; there was nothing like seeing evidence of what he’d done with his mate literally show before him like that.

“I did this,” he declared softly, fingertips pressing mindfully into her round belly. “I put a baby in you,”

She reached back to hold his opposite cheek, planting a few lingering kisses on the one closest to her. “That’s your baby.”

Pulling on the tux and making sure everything was tucked and buttoned neatly had been easy up to this point. The YouTube tutorial was doing little to help his fat fingers loop and pull the tie into anything that could actually pass as a tie, and he slipped it from around his neck angrily, the fitted fabric of the black tux around his shoulders already bothering him.

“Fuckin’... piece of shit,” he hissed under his breath. “Fuck this,”

He stalked towards their room, pushing Pucca down when she jumped at his thigh. “If you get fur on this your mom will kill me.” She still wagged her butt, whining after him as he walked down the hall. That’s when it hit him; fucking lint rollers! He stomped the rest of the way to the room, pissed at his own inability to remember his entire purchase list when going to the store.

“Can you help me with… this,” he trailed off, rendered speechless.

The carnelian red material of the sheer gown flowed down her body softly like the calm running of water, changing shape only over her stomach that bulged beneath it. It pooled elegantly around her feet, and the thin straps of the shoulder and low cut back showed off the art adorning her body, especially the dark, menacing crow across her shoulder blades. She looked at him curiously as he detailed her long hair pulled into a loose twist, some locks falling around her face and neck, just a glimpse of the silver earrings dangling and the small stars beside her brow ridge.

“How do I look?” she asked, tentatively, her thigh and knee poking from the high cut of the dress.

His mouth opened to utter everything; gorgeous, beautiful, perfect, astounding- but he was left with nothing but his hand on his chest, unable to take his eyes from his ecstatically beautiful lover.

“Lat're ij goddeukuk,” he uttered, finally, but not knowing what he’d said, she looked back to the mirror, her hands running down the curve of her belly and cupping underneath.

“Think people can tell?” she asked.

He grinned, proudly. “People can tell,”

That’s my baby.

She nodded, turning to grab his tie and loop it around his collar. “I’m nervous,” she said softly, her thin fingers manipulating the material expertly.

“You both look beautiful,” he said, and she grinned, her eyes still on the tie. “So good that I can’t imagine how you’d look in a wedding dress,”

“I’m not-”

“Getting married pregnant, I know,” he griped, a little sourly.

Her hands moved to hold his face, stood on her toes and craning her neck for a kiss until he leaned the rest of the way down. He exhaled, holding her sides as her thumbs smoothed his chiseled cheekbones, her kisses soothing away what little disappointment sat on his heart.

“You will one day?” he asked huskily, enveloping her mouth for a deeper caress as his fingers curled into the sheer material of the dress.

“Calista Jakoby is too good of a name to pass up. And that police pension.” she grinned, yelping when he smacked her ass.

With the tie braided artfully and her heels slipped on as she steadied herself against him, she grabbed her clutch and phone as he grabbed the keys, planting a few kisses on Pucca’s head before closing the door behind them.

She half jogged to the truck when the cold of the night pricked her exposed skin, and this time he helped her into her seat, making sure her dress didn’t catch in the door. The heater was cranked once inside, noting the goosebumps already rising on her arms and again they rode with his hand over her stomach.

“Rosie is salty she wasn’t invited,” Callie grinned, flashing the long rants worth of messages from her sister.

“Paramedics aren’t as cool,”

“Oh you’re gonna get on her about that again?”

“If she keeps mocking about seeing me at that doughnut shop, which I was at for you,”

“To be fair that was too good of a joke to pass up on.” Callie simpered, laughing when he squeezed her knee.

Valet took his truck when they arrived, surprisingly complimentary of the LAPD, and Callie kept her clutch against her stomach when Nick offered his elbow, walking up the dazzling stairs carpeted in rich red and stunning gold linings. He felt a little out of place being at such an upper class location but Callie fit right in, like she should’ve always attended sparkling events such as this.

They passed a few familiar officers chatting in the marble lobby, and she almost forgot to keep her chin lifted confidently as they took double takes at her obvious condition.

“That makes me feel like a walking attraction,” she intoned.

“Don’t be so full of yourself, they were obviously looking at me.” he corrected, evoking a giggle.

They boarded the elevator, both looking around at the exquisite space that looked like it belonged in New York amongst the ultra rich, not LA.

She turned, finding one of the walls to be a mirror, and took her phone from her clutch.

“C’mere,” she called, and he stood behind her, posing against her back as she beamed in the photo. There were silly ones; of him holding her up as she craned back, pretending to bite her neck, and there were raunchier ones of her ass pressed into his hips he couldn’t help but laugh at.

“That ones for Instagram.” she chimed, depositing her phone back in her clutch as they made it to the upper floor.

The music boomed through the wide hall they walked through to enter the banquet room, the tables lining the walls littered with fellow officers and their wives or husbands, some with kids dressed elegantly. All had a look to dish to Callie, who was in the small handful of other woman wearing something besides the normal neutral colored gowns, but then they saw the stomach, and their conversations shifted. Nick hadn’t told anyone at work beside Sergey and Ward, so this was the night the news was breaking: the Orc finally knocked her up.

They stood at the entrance, overlooking all the tables and people, the dance floor a little sparse besides Nick’s captain dancing poorly with his band of merry men. She scoffed.

“I’m already over this.” Nick stated, fixing the cuff around his wrist.

“Jakoby!”

They turned to find Sergey walking up to them, a wide smile and also in a fitted tux with his girlfriend close behind.

“Hey kid,” Nick nodded in his direction, greeting Dura quickly.

“Miss Callie, my favorite human,” Sergey said in a silly manner, a little smitten as he hugged her tightly.

“Hi sweetie- hi Dura!” Callie said excitedly, hugging the lean female Orc behind him that was cloaked in a strapless, deep green gown with diamond embroidery beneath the bust and equally dazzling hoops hanging off her pointed ears.

“Oh my god you’re finally showing!” Dura whined lovingly, holding Callie’s sides after she hugged her. “Any kicks yet? This lug won’t tell me anything,” she jabbed her thumb in Sergey’s direction, but he only rolled his ochre eyes.

He wouldn’t let me say a word to anyone,” Sergey directed the blame to Nick.

“Yeah cause that was so difficult for you,” Nick grumbled.

“Y’all Fogteeth need to stop congregating in public like this,” Ward piped in, walking up from behind Nick before giving him the handshake. Their interaction wasn’t as constant since Nick had finished his first year, but they made it a point to still meet up for lunches or when Ward needed help in his yard. “How ya doin’ mamas?” he moved to hug Callie, placing a kiss on her cheek.

“Ahh, depends on the day,” she grinned, leaning sideways. “Hi Sherri,” she flashed a dazzling smile, effectively warding off Daryl’s salty wife who didn’t look half bad in her royal blue dress. Hair was a little tacky along with those ridiculous nails, though.

“My goodness, look at this,” Daryl held her sides, patting a couple times. “How long ‘til he gets to meet his uncle?”

“Got about 5 more months,” Nick said, loosening his tie. Callie pulled his hands down, mumbling to stop messing with his suit.

“You know I still don’t understand how you were able to keep quiet about this but I can’t get him to shut up about fuckin’ veggies- just in my ear, all day when we have routes together,” Ward teased, the girls laughing as Nick chuffed loudly.

“You never shut up about your dead ass lawn…” Nick mumbled.

“Cause that shit you suggested still ain’t doing shit-”

“I’ve told you a hundred times-”

“I want a snack,” Callie butted in before they started bickering endlessly.

“Me too- come, tell me all about the little faushnu.” Dura said affectionately, the girls arms linking as they walked back to the tables loaded with sweets.

“Congrats, brother,” Ward clapped Nick on the back, making the Orc somewhat bashful.

“Yeah yeah, thanks.”

“Hey, did you get that briefing from Heig this morning?” He questioned, bumping Nick’s arm.

“For everyone?” Sergey butted in, listening curiously.

“Yeah- is there really another wand floating around?” Nick asked lowly, and Sergey’s eyes widened.

“A wand!?” Sergey exclaimed, and Nick hit his chest with the back of his hand. The young Orcs face tightened, his filed tusks showing momentarily from behind his angry pout.

“Do we really have to get involved in that shit again?”

“I don’t see why we would. What happened was one thing and this is another. I don’t want none of that shit in my business.” Ward explained, head shaking as he searched for Sherri.

“What shit?” Sergey tried again, but the other officers dropped it, leaving the rookie fuming.

A few hours in, and most of the men had removed their jackets and rolled up their sleeves, leaving Nick to follow suit promptly. Any longer and he would’ve lost his mind under the restricting fabric. Heig was alongside a few other deputies, all lined up across the stage as the mayor spoke highly of the LAPD, his shadowed eyes only aiding to a sense of lies alongside his smile.

Most watched, but a lot mingled amongst themselves still, uncaring of the announcements that could’ve been done at the station instead of this whole thing.

“Theadora,” Callie tried, scooping ice cream into her tiny spoon. Nick scrunched his nose.

“Elizabeth?” but now Callie shook her head.

“Why do we only ever suggest girl names?”

“I feel like I’d only make girls,” Nick shrugged, sipping his rum and coke. “Most of the firstborn in my family are girls,”

“Mm, maybe. What about Guillermo?”

“Wasn’t that Rosie’s…?”

She shook her head. “Benecio,”

“Ahh. Anyways- something I can pronounce please,”

That unnecessary part of the banquet ended in low applause, but Heig looked like he’d been handed the key to the city, standing under the hot lights and sweating like a hooker in church.

“He didn’t even get a medal or anything,” Nick commented dryly, and Callie looked at him with a knowing smile.

“Like you got? For being the biggest and baddest?” she asked, and he nodded, confidently.

“Damn right. That’s why that shits framed.” he wiggled his brows, smirking when she chuckled with the spoon between her teeth.

The men dispersed from the stage, the dance floor filling again with tipsy couples only embarrassing themselves as they flaunted their supposed dance skills.

Nick’s arm hung off the back of her chair, his fingers tracing designs on her arm when she leaned against him, whispering little nothings and the occasional joke as the minutes ticked by in their own little world. Ward ambled around, butting in and then wandering off again and again until Sherri kept him close, and the same went for Sergey. He was already tipsy by the time he flopped back into a chair beside Nick, asking where Dura was even though she’d been following him around for the past hour.

The seats started to fill up when the music slowed, sending most of the more lively attendees away to the drinks.

“Are you gonna ask me to dance?” Callie asked softly, and he looked down at her, his brow cocking.

“You’re gonna make me go out there?” he asked, and she smiled, nodding. He considered arguing, but he also knew how much she’d missed dancing since instructed by doctors to take it easy. With a defeated sigh, he rose, holding out his hand to help her stand and smooth down her dress. Nick lead her through the tables, thankful that a slower song had started lulling through the speakers; he didn’t have any skills to get down like she was capable of. But after years of watching Callie during recitals and performances, and gazing at her as she spun slow circles in their kitchen only to be dragged over, he knew enough.

With their hands held up, he spun her slowly, bringing forth a dazzling smile as he drew her in. The way he so tenderly ran his hands down her arms to her lower back made her sigh, her own inching up his chest as they fell into a steady, smooth swaying. His forehead bumped hers, catching her molten eyes that sparkled under the lights around them.

“You’ve been practicing?” She asked softly, her thumbs stroking his neck when her hands slid higher over his shoulders.

“Shuffling in a circle isn’t that hard,”

“Say that to my broken toes,” she teased, and he growled at her, only stirring another smile. “I’m joking. You’ve only broken one of my toes,”

“Keep it up and I’ll pass you to someone else,” he smirked, arm moving around her shoulder when she slipped hers around his waist. Callie beamed when he started to purr with their cheeks touching, the soft strokes against her shoulder blade from his wide, rough palm sending shivers down her sides.

“You’d never,”

“Don’t tempt me,”

Their shape was a little funny- her stomach prevented her from pressing flat against him like normal, but it still made him grin, just barely, to himself.

It was like they were dancing with their baby, softly lulling it like Callie talked about doing when she could hold it in her arms.

“If I can hold it in my arms,” she pouted, wiping the gel from her stomach after an ultrasound.

Nick frowned. “Why would you say that?”

“Cause this is the fourth time I’ve been pregnant, and I haven’t been able to name or hold any of them.” she told him, silencing any further rebuttle. No matter how grim that was, her words were valid.

His arms drew tighter, giving her a light squeeze. Every pregnancy, she was more disconnected than the last, afraid to become attached. He was already head over heels excited, but he had been the other times, too. It saddened him to see her pass by onesies and various other baby items when they’d go to stores, telling him, ‘we can wait a little longer’.

Let’s see if this one makes it, is what she really meant.

“Do you know how many times I had to stop myself from grabbing a glass of champagne tonight?” she said into his chest, shaking him from darker thoughts.

“If my kid comes out with an ear on their forehead I’m gonna punch you in the throat,” he grumbled, and grunted when she poked his sides.

“I want a day to get drunk after I deliver,” she looked up at him. “I miss our nights at Loco’s,”

“We still have fun without getting drunk,” he mouthed against her jaw, keeping his arms secured around her when she giggled and wiggled.

“We’ll have mommy and daddy days,” she decided, tucking her head back under his chin. He blinked a few times.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard something like that out loud,” he confessed softly, a little flushed. “Never thought of myself as a daddy over just being a parent,”

“You’re my big Orc daddy,”

He scoffed stubbornly, squeezing her. “Shut up,”

The slow song only lasted that one turn. People started calling for upbeat music again and Callie pulled Nick away from the dance floor, mentioning that she didn’t want to risk getting kicked in the gut when one of the white boys inevitably tried to breakdance.

So they all huddled to a table; Ward with Sherri- although she could care less at a table full of Orcs- and Sergey with Dura, all of them teasing and talking and booming with laughter when the drinks came and went quickly, the men throwing them back and some more when Sergey pulled a fat flask from his tux. Nick became quite the chatty cat when he got to drinking, pointing this way and that, speaking of things he normally kept bottled after shitty days or telling Ward in particular how much he liked his mustache.

When the men started slurring and Sergey nearly tripped over an entire chair after saying he didn’t see the entire said chair, the woman gathered their stumbling men, sneaking out of the banquet despite Heig moving to the stage again to make more announcements, drunkenly that was.

At valet, Callie directed Nick to the passenger side, pushing his big body up until she could close the door quickly. Off with her heels and she could drive, again blasting the heater when the harsh chill of the night stung her skin.

“Nick c’mon,” Callie laughed, a hand against his chest to steady his towering form that one arm around his back couldn’t do alone.

“You could’a left me in the truck,” he mumbled, walking, but when he swayed here and there, it was like trying to catch a falling tree.

A string of giggles tumbled from her lips as he mouthed the back of her neck, kissing across her shoulder with his hands against the door and his body shielding hers as she struggled to find the house key, her shoulder drawing into her cheeks every time he tried to get one of her ears.

They both lurched forwards when she managed the door finally, but Nick still had good enough reactions even drunk and caught himself, then her before they both went crashing to the floor. A moment of shock, and then he was laughing, air forcing out between his pursed lips.

“Go, go to bed,” she instructed, letting him wobble his way towards the back of the house, but stopping to give Pucca hugs and kisses. “Go lay down before you fall,” she instructed as she tossed her heels aside. Ugh, much better. She even wiggled her toes into the carpet a bit.

“You go lay down before you-” he mimicked, standing suddenly, walking with determination into the kitchen, throwing open the pantry door with more force than meant. “Found them,” he mumbled with heavy eyes, cradling his bag of Takis as he bumped into the kitchen entrance before heading back on his original path.

She had lock up duty that night- closing windows, double checking doors, arming the alarm system that Nick had had installed a couple years back.

Upon entering the room, she found him with the open bag still in his inner arm, struggling to kick off his shoes and not fall flat on his face with Pucca walking circles around him.

“Get,” she waved Pucca away, then pushed against his chest to get him onto the bed, losing a few Takis along the way. “Stay there,”

“Are you trying to get me in bed?” he asked coyly, lifting his feet as she pulled his shoes off.

“I already have you there- Nick!” she smiled, exclaiming as he kept stealing kisses along her collarbone when she tried to unbutton his shirt.

“You’re so pretty,”

“Hush and stay still,” she ordered, somehow getting his dress shirt off before smacking his thigh to make him turn a little.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he stated matter of factly while pointing to himself with eyes clouded by booze, chewing loudly on the chips.

“That so?” she went along, pulling his slacks down his legs and stepping back as he violently kicked them off across the room.

“Yeah, cause I,” he pointed to his own chest again, “Put that in you,” his finger landed back at her belly.

“Proud of yourself, ain’t ya?” she smiled, pulling her earrings off.

He nodded, a smug smile plastered across his face that only made her eyes roll in amusement. But his amusement puddles when he watched her start to carefully hang his suit up, pressing down small creases.

“Just throw it in the laundry,” he mumbled, glaring hatefully at the handsome suit.

Callie turned, the temper of her eyes dangerous. “Hell no. I picked and paid for this suit- it’s gonna be treated like a member of this household,”

Nick scoffed. “S’not that nice,”

She looked at him blandly. “Wanna pay me back the $300 for it then?”

“Pay you back with some lovin’, c’mere,” he made grabby hands at her, but his reach was smacked away, an exaggerated pout following.

The dress was pulled up from her feet as she padded to the bathroom, eager to take off the make-up she’d painstakingly put on. At least swirling the makeup remover around was enjoyable- she’d often drag the mascara around her eyes to resemble the joker, cackling quietly to herself before rinsing it off. A quick wash, some moisturizer and her eye cream she couldn’t live without later, and she was finally done, but stopped halfway down the hallway to turn back.

Should pee now before I get up and run into something.

Doing that with the dress was a damn chore. Coming back out again, she glanced at the sticky note on the spare room they still needed to clean out and prepare. The corners of her lips kicked up in a smirk.

N + C = baby, the sticky note said. Nick had first stuck the note to a onesie he’d bought the day she’d made it past her first trimester, and despite the teasing nature of the words across the onesie, she couldn’t part with the attached note. It had been on the door since, and realistically, she didn’t think she’d ever be ready to take it down; there had been times she considered framing it. Even after recalling that beaming, cocky smile he gave when presenting the ‘Of course I’m cute, have you seen my dad?’ onesie.

Nick chewed noisily, still sprawled across the bed and offering a hand to pull the zipper of the dress down the soft curve of her spine. Callie swatted at his hand when he pinched her butt, his eyes a little hungrier for something besides Takis when a waft of her scent hit him after the dress fell into a red puddle around her feet and left her only in red lace panties that barely contained the ass she’d gained.

If he thought fucking his scent into her was something that made his ego skyrocket, sticking a baby in her and carrying that child heightened it everyday, boosting his pride to an otherworldly level. On top of the bite that adorned her breast, this would solidify them as mates for life, more than marriage ever would. That being said, it still fascinated Nick that of everyone she could’ve chosen, she loved him, an Orc, and chose to breed with him regardless that they’d have a halfling. She wanted his child.

Nick was lost in admiration before he could realize that she’d been watching him as she rubbed cocoa butter into her stomach, her brows curved in scrutiny. He looked like he was on the verge of crying… but he could just be tremendously sleepy after downing his weight in alcohol.

Her hair fell loose around her shoulders after pulling a loose tank top on, turning with hands upon her hips. “You look sad,”

“I’m in awe,” he elaborated artfully, his hand spinning and a chip between his lips.

“Awe?” her brows perked up, watching him struggle to sit up and reach for her.

“I need t’talk to ‘em,” he murmured, pulling her by the hips.

“About?” She grinned, leaning back into her hands when he pushed her shirt up.

“It’s private,” he mumbled, and she snorted.

“Listen,” he said close to her distended stomach. “You are the greatest- and I mean greatest when I say it in the presence of a literal goddess,” he paused to gaze up sleepily, but she looked away, pink dusting her cheeks. “You, tiny me, are the best thing I’ve ever done,” he proclaimed softer, his wide hand over her protectively. “You made me realize how badly I wanted to be a father,”

Sentiment stirred her heart, listening to Nick declare such love to their unborn child with his forehead rested against her stomach.

“I love you,” he murmured, a kiss lingering on her stomach before he pulled her shirt back down. “I love you,”

Soft strokes from her hands across his head turned his face up to her, and she grinned, holding his cheeks when he stood to kiss her; he tasted like vodka and fire.

“I told you this one would stick,” he said against her mouth.

“Don’t get a big head now,”

“I’m just sayin’, third time's the charm,” he simpered, and she followed him into bed.

Just as Callie had finished propping numerous pillows around herself and grabbing the Firestick, Pucca came bounding up the bed, walking all over Nick in attempts to lay between them.

“Braav-” Nick cursed, pushing her away, but she was still smiley and wiggly, rolling to lather Callie’s face in kisses. “We have to train her to stop that,”

“She just feels left out,” Callie baby talked, smooshing and swirling Pucca’s wide head between her hands as the panting dog moved closer. “My big baby,”

“Not gonna be th’baby anymore,”

“But she’s always gonna be my first! Aren’t you? Aren’t you preciosa? Mi hermosa bebe?” Callie gushed, Pucca’s head twisting back and forth and her floppy ears perked forward.

Nick finally settled, Takis in one hand and phone in the other when he stopped to watch her smother the dog, kisses upon kisses to her furry head, wondering how enamoured she would be with their baby in her arms.

“We can start buying more stuff now y’know,” he carefully suggested.

Callie shrugged, resting her jaw in hand when she perched on her side. The knuckles of his hand rubbed her stomach, peeping from beneath her shirt. “I suppose,”

“You know you’re allowed to enjoy your pregnancy,”

“It’s not that,” half her face scrunched. “I do- I really do. I even try to remind myself when I’m puking that I’d rather be dealing with that than… empty. But I feel like if I become 100% invested it’s all gonna be taken away again,” she explained with a reserved tone.

“Not this time. You’re so far along now,”

“I’m still worried. I always worry.” she said with her eyes keeping his, a hidden fear showing through in her jittering foot.

He didn’t know what to say. There would be no vanquishing the worry until she had it cradled in her arms and against her chest. Nick could offer little words of reassurance. He didn’t know what it was like being afraid of your own body that could betray you after giving life.

“I like Leonardo,” he stated instead, and although her mouth opened to protest, a sense of appeasement filled her, flipping the name again and again in her mind.

“That’s a strong contender,”

“Or Jonaq,”

“Started strong and ended lame.” Her lips flattened into a straight line, and he smacked her hip.

Pucca’s head popped up from behind Callie, a soft growl rumbling, but her tail was wagging fiercely, her pretty eyes trained on Nick.

“Oh what’re gonna do? Huh? You big useless thing?” Nick challenged, sitting up to press his nose to Pucca’s as she continued to growl.

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

“Okay, let’s take a look here,” the ultrasound technician chimed, dragging the probe across her jellied stomach that was just starting to swell outwards. Nick had lost his mind the first time they noticed it. He spent at least 10 minutes taking pictures, even ones where he knelt beside her before the mirror with his cheek against it, smiling proudly.

The screen displayed the fuzzy black and white mess of shapes and blurs, Callie’s head not having yet rested against the examination table as Nick leaned in closer from her other side.

“Got the butt first this time,” the technician chuckled.

When the small definition of a foot and leg came in suddenly, he tensed, the picture moving up past ribs to a clear profile, softening Callie’s tense expression.

The little head bobbed back, along with small arms and legs that fidgeted in the misshapen oval that would be it’s home for the next 28 weeks.

“It’s moving,” Callie grinned, Nick’s head tilting to watch it wiggle around. “I can’t feel anything,”

“Probably won’t till after about 15 weeks,” she told her kindly, her fingers flying over the keyboard of the machine as she measured and took screenshots.

You’re inside me, Callie thought affectionately, her adoration for the black and white fuzz shaping her baby growing every passing second she saw the tiny arms curl close to its face, or a little leg kick outwards.

“Do you wanna know the sex?”

Nick and Callie looked at one another, but he shook his head. “We’re okay with waiting. So far,”

“Do we get pictures?” Callie asked eagerly, wiping down her stomach once the exam had ended.

“Better yet- here’s an entire album.” The technician smiled, handing over a long stream of printed photos displaying profiles, butts, and overall shapes.

“I can’t tell who’s nose it has,” Callie squinted, holding the scan at arms length after pushing her glasses up.

“It's still too squishy,” Nick chuckled.

“Yeah. Should we get one of those 4D ones done?” she asked, and he pulled in his shoulders while parking in his parents' driveway.

“I wanna wait ‘til it’s born to see it. I don’t want something in my head of what I was told it’d look like,” he explained, grabbing the scans so he could look them over again. “Look at those little arms,” he groaned lovingly.

“I guess,” she said, looking them over again when handed back. “I think it has my nose,”

“Maybe it’ll have my elbows.”

She snorted, folding them diligently to place gently back in her purse as they exited the truck.

Dinara was there to answer with warmer hugs for Callie now than Nick, her hands falling to her small stomach as she berated her with questions about her health; how she was feeling, was she tired, had she eaten yet.

Oleg always had open arms ready, almost picking small Callie up off her feet in a hug and holding her face affectionately as he smiled down at her with warm, golden eyes. “You glow like my Dinara did when she was pregnant with Nick.” he’d say.

Nick was bossed around by his mom as she ordered Callie to sit down and put her feet up, directing her son to pour his lover tea. He handed it off sourly, winking at Callie.

His mother and Callie could sit and talk for hours, most of which was gossip from two completely different lifestyles, added in the normal day to day life and shit at work. Nick and Oleg watched TV, bickering over their rival teams before any steady chit chat could find it’s way in until the food finished cooking and they all moved to the table.

She would deny it at first, but when Dinara slopped seconds and thirds onto Callie’s plate, she never pushed it away.

“You give my grandbaby all the food they can eat.” she’d order earnestly, the spiced rice and veggies piled high on Callie’s plate and too good to resist.

“Speaking of,” Nick said around a full cheek. “She hit 12 weeks a couple days ago,”

Dinara gasped, her fork falling into her roasted potatoes. “You did!?”

Nick retrieved the scans from her purse, but they were snatched from his hands by Oleg before he even sat at the table again, which were in turn snatched by Dinara who barely gave him any lean to look at them as she did, blubbering words of amazement.

“Oh I’m so relieved- I’ve bought so many things I’ve wanted to give to you but didn’t want to anger you!” Dinara sobbed, the scans against her chest even with Oleg trying to pry them from her hands. “Oh, beautiful baby,”

“We can start crib shopping now,” Nick said, holding Callie’s thigh, but she only shrugged indifferently, still smiling as she watched Dinara.

“Onesies first?”

The hesitation was still there, even though they’d made it over that mark. But he nodded, and smiled, leaning over to kiss her head before returning to answer the questions his parents laid on them.

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

Oh oh oh here we go 🖤 don't she look the cutest with that bump! and Nick in a suit Y U U U U M

translations: -"apurate": hurry up -"lat're ij goddeukuk": you're a goddess -"faushnu": baby -"braav": brat

[hookaroo]

Vocivore, Ltd. (38 of 45?)

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, @courtorderedcake, @facesiousbutton82 <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE and HERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

Present (Friday, continued)...

Emma couldn't hold back her tears as she crouched before the mutilated form of her husband. He'd been stabbed in the chest and through the hand, and his right shoulder hung grotesquely out of place. Blood caked his face and pooled in livid swellings from a recent beating. Red droplets dripped sluggishly off the tip of his nose and splattered, barely visible, onto the rust-tinged burlap on his torso. A haphazard mess of surgical staples did little to contain bone-deep lacerations on either side of his ankle. And a line of slowly oozing punctures trailed their way up both inner thighs until disappearing beneath the sackcloth smock.

She decided to take it as a good sign that everything still seemed to be actively bleeding. Killian did not appear to be moving at all; at first, Emma could not even see any sign of breaths. But as she reached out to seek a carotid pulse, she noticed a slight and labored rise and fall of his chest. Her relief caused a catch in her throat. He was alive... for the moment.

Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and weighed down by the responsibility of keeping him alive until help arrived, Emma fumbled for the phone concealed in her pocket. If ever there was a time for magical healing… Once again, she strained to feel the tingle of light where her power dwelt, a reflex she’d already indulged several times since the Vocivore’s defeat. As before: nothing.

Well, no use bemoaning something she couldn't change. Her free hand automatically came to rest on Killian's arm, above the ring and stake, over an unraveling bandage. She was both heartened and dismayed when Killian flinched away from her touch with a whine.

"Killian, hey," she soothed. "It's just me." She hit the button to call EMS, then put her phone on speaker. "You're gonna be okay."

She kept a careful watch on her husband while explaining to the dispatcher what was needed: essentially every ambulance and emergency vehicle in the United Realms. As sheriff, she knew they would take her seriously, as well as listen to any special request. So while she did her best to direct them to the scene, she also suggested that they contact David, who knew exactly the route they should take.

In the midst of rattling off her father’s contact info, while also absently holding pressure against as many of the puncture wounds as she could simultaneously reach, Emma felt Killian begin to stir. He shuddered as he tried to drag his eyes open.

“Try and hold still,” urged Emma.

“Swan,” he whispered, wincing.

His recognition of her brought tears to her eyes once more. Another good sign. “I'm here, babe. Just hold on; we’re going to get you all fixed up.”

He shook his head, breathing faster now, trying and failing to reach up and push her away with his stump. “You have to... go…” he groaned. “The monster…”

A flash of extreme pain crossed his face, and the words fizzled out, evaporating into frantic gasps for air.

Emma felt her own breath catch at his obvious distress. “Shhhhh, Killian, shhh... calm down. The monster’s dead; it can't hurt you anymore.”

Every muscle in her husband's body stood taut as he fought for air.

“He's having trouble breathing,” she reported to the person on the other end of the line, as calmly as she could. She listened to the instructions but her attention was riveted on Killian. At long last, he managed to quell the panic and slow the gasping.

“D-dead?” he wheezed, sounding as if he couldn't even define the word.

“Yep.” She used her shirt sleeve to carefully blot some blood that was trickling into one of his eyes.

Killian finally managed to focus on Emma's face for the first time, and though he still had an alarmingly dazed look in his eyes, he immediately fixated on a small cut on her forehead.

“You're hurt.”

He looked as if he were about to raise his left arm despite the blade embedded in his chest. Emma held him down.

“Good to know your keen observational skills are still intact.” She rolled her eyes as he continued staring up at her in concern. “I'm fine. And you're ridiculous.”

He gritted his way through another wave of intense pain and seemed to forget that she was even there. It was then that she noticed how much he was shivering; whether it was from the practically nothing he was wearing, or from shock, she didn't know. How was she supposed to lay him flat and elevate his feet with his hand pinned to the frickin’ altar? More importantly, if he stopped breathing, how would she perform effective CPR in this position?

She pushed aside the thought that, with the paramedics at least 30 minutes away, any efforts at resuscitation would likely be futile.

Emma glanced back at Jones, who was gingerly unwinding the costume bandage from his wrist. He wouldn’t be able to provide much assistance, whatever she decided to do.

She felt Killian squirming under her hands and turned her attention back. He groaned and then, as if reading her thoughts, he hissed,

"Please, love... get me free of this... bloody thing..."

His fingers twitched in feeble emphasis. Emma bit her lip, reluctant. "I don't know, Killian... that may not be such a good idea."

"Please," he said again, eyes screwed shut against the pain. "It'll have to happen... eventually. And I think... it may make it... easier to breathe."

"It will hurt a lot less after you've had some morphine," she pointed out. But if it really did help him to breathe better...

"Please, Emma," Killian grunted. "Just do it."

The dispatcher on the phone asked for an update, and Emma explained the situation while she set squeamishness aside and studied the impaling blade. She had no way of knowing how long it actually was, or how much of it was embedded in the wood. Approximately three inches of sharp steel were sandwiched between the dagger's handle and Killian's palm. The heel of his hand and the underside of his forearm glistened with blood all the way down to the elbow. Pulling the dagger free would be inadvisable if she wanted to keep that trickle of blood from becoming a stream. The dispatcher concurred, advising that they wait, if possible. But Emma didn't know how bad the stab wound to his chest was; he could even have a punctured lung on that side, so relieving the tension on the other side may well be the difference between life and death for him.

As she was agonizing over the decision, she sensed movement behind her, and when she glanced back, it was to see Jones staggering up the steps toward them. He was breathing hard, looked pale and sweaty, but didn't stop until he reached the top. Grimacing, he knelt, landing hard next to his doppelganger, whose eyes snapped open as he cringed away. Expecting an attack. Emma squeezed his wrist in reassurance.

"Ahoy there, mate," said Jones softly. He faked a scowl and added, "You know, I haven't forgotten to be miffed at the pair of you and this insane plot of yours."

Gratified by the hint of a pained smile on Killian's lips, Jones turned to address Emma. "Suppose I should offer my help anyway."

Emma eyed him critically. The Ace bandage was now wrapped haphazardly around his injured shoulder, loosely covering the patch of blood spreading on the sackcloth over the bullet wound. She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you're up to it?"

Jones only gave a small, unconvincing twitch of his lips. Emma took her hands away from her husband's injuries long enough to grip the ends of the Ace bandage, which were merely tucked under one another. She gave a sharp tug to tighten it and tied a more secure knot, hissing,

“What the hell happened back there?”

“Not a clue.” Jones closed his eyes in a brief concession to the momentary increase in pain, then nodded his thanks.

The dispatcher on the phone crackled an update in ETA: 20 minutes, give or take. A long time, in which anything could happen. Most of which would be bad.

Emma gave a sigh of resignation. Then she squared her shoulders.

"Think you can help stabilize his hand?" she murmured, and Jones' gaze flicked to the afflicted limb.

"Yeah, of course."

Emma shuffled around to the other side of her husband's legs, closer to the impaling dagger. With a stifled grunt, Jones made room for her. Killian watched, motionless apart from his short, gasping breaths. Forcing herself to turn away from the pain in his eyes, Emma reached for the dagger's handle. Behind her, the detective gently wrapped his hand around Killian's wrist.

In response to the hissed intake of air to her right, Emma caressed Killian's cheek. "You sure?"

Her husband's eyes betrayed just as much fear and reluctance as anguish, but he managed a shaky nod. Emma tightened her grip on the dagger. "On three, then. One..." She heard Killian gasp a preparatory breath, saw him squeeze his eyes shut. "Two..."

On impulse, ignoring the blood and sweat staining his face, Emma initiated a furious kiss, at the same time yanking with all her strength on the trapped blade. The unexpected touch of intimacy worked as a distraction for approximately half a second, as a dazed Killian attempted to reciprocate. But then he was pulling away, howling his agony against her cheek. Emma cursed and braced her free hand against the altar as leverage; long seconds later, the dagger popped free of the wood, inevitably jerking inside Killian's hand despite efforts to keep it still. Though a smear of crimson revealed where a short length of steel had slid free, enough remained within his flesh to hopefully stem the worst of the bleeding.

"It's done; it's out," Emma breathed, reaching for his head and cradling him against her shoulder. She nodded at Jones and, moving in slow tandem, they lowered the impaled limb to rest awkwardly on the floor beside him, the dagger’s handle mere inches from his hip. And Killian's muffled groans were sweet music, proving his continued existence, his ability to draw enough breath to express his pain.

Even from her strange angle, even through the stained sackcloth, Emma could see the wrong position of his shoulder joint. She cringed and stroked the back of Killian's head. Then she gently pulled away, asking,

"Any better?"

Killian rested his head back against the altar and squinted up at her, nodding once but not wasting the energy to speak.

"Not touching that shoulder. Sorry." She spared a glance at Jones, who had sat back and was now massaging his chest despite the length of metal still burrowed into his arm. He grimaced agreement with her decision; even if either of them had the expertise to pop the joint back into place, it had been long enough for swelling and tightening of the tendons and ligaments to make an attempt not worth it.

"Do you want to lie down?"

At first, it looked as if Killian were considering the suggestion. Theoretically, lying him flat could be advisable for multiple reasons, and might make it easier for him to relax, but Emma wanted to leave the choice up to him. In the end, whether he thought he would find it harder to breathe, wanted to avoid the pain of changing positions, or feared the possibility that once he lay down, he may never get up again, Killian answered with a feeble shake of his head.

Emma peeled her jacket off and rolled it into a tight bundle, which she carefully slid behind Killian's head as a makeshift pillow. Her proximity allowed her a better view of the bulky new collar and its set of screws which, up until now, she'd been hoping weren't actually drilled into his neck. That explained at least some of that morning’s screams. Emma scowled, feeling sick; she'd granted that villain far too easy of a death.   

Killian didn't look any more comfortable, but grimaced his gratitude at her before suddenly catching sight of the slumped monster corpse in the distance. He seemed to grow somehow even more pale, warily watching the Vocivore for any sign of movement.

“It's dead?”

Emma rested a reassuring hand on his shin, inadvertently leaving a bloody handprint on a relatively unscathed portion of skin. Killian's eyes were locked on his tormentor, as if his vigilance were the only thing keeping it subdued.

“Shot it myself,” she growled. “So unless the damn thing can regenerate its ugly, pervert brain, we’re finally done with it.”

As she said this, she realized it may not have been the most comforting thing for Killian to hear: they still had a lot to learn about the creature, and the possibility, however slight, of the Vocivore coming back to life gave her a momentary chill. She could only imagine how it made Killian feel.

“Listen,” she said, “Jones and I both have our weapons and will keep an eye on it. But I don't think we need to worry about it.”

“And those slaves over there?” added Jones, his voice only slightly stronger than Killian's had been. “They're lost. Directionless. The first sign of renewed purpose, we’ll know to be on the alert.”

Emma stole a glance in the direction the detective was looking and saw the slaves, some of whom had been holding her captive just moments before, hunched on their knees, faces in hands. One or two lay stretched out flat, silent and still.

"He's right. Leave the guard duty to us; you just focus on hanging in there until the medics come."

Emma did not like the bleak hopelessness with which he reacted to her statement; she knew he was doubting his odds of surviving that long. But he rested his head back and soon had his eyes closed, either deciding to put his trust in her words, or simply too weary to do otherwise.

She tried to remain quiet as she reached across his body for the loose end of the bandage around his left wrist. It appeared to be the same one supplied by Storybrooke General; if its sole purpose was still to cover the wrist ring, it would be of better use staunching some of the oozing injuries on his legs.

“Killian?” she asked, some time later. “How far is Z's and would you be able to tell me how to get there?”

Her husband didn't respond.

“Babe?” A gentle finger on his cheek elicited no response, but he did pull away slightly when she got too near an inflamed abrasion by his eye. His breaths were shallow and quick but regular, and he seemed somehow balanced enough even without much supporting him upright. She was torn between staying to monitor his condition and heading off to see what she could find in the way of first aid supplies.

Watching through half-lidded eyes, Jones reluctantly sat up straighter, rousing himself from a pain-driven daze to offer,

“I'll keep an eye on him, Emma. Go do what you need to do.”

The detective was hardly in a fit state to offer that kind of service; Emma wouldn't have been surprised to watch him be the next one to pass out. But, grunting, Jones got to his knees and made his way to Emma’s side, dutifully nudging her hand away so he could take over the task of applying pressure. With a stubbornness so much like her own Killian, he even went so far as to use the scarred remnants of his left wrist to cover an additional wound, yielding nothing to the anguish that surely wracked his shoulder with the effort. Emma flashed him look of exasperation before clambering to her feet.

“Five minutes,” she promised, then jogged her way out into the desolate afternoon light.

*****

His Master loomed overhead. Large and menacing. A claw was embedded in his shoulder, another in his hand, severing tendons, removing sensation and function from each remaining finger. Killian whimpered, shifting under questing tentacles pressed hard into burning thighs. Emma, the rescue... all a wonderful, horrible hallucination. How much longer would his suffering drag on?

Tentacles dug deeper, and Killian thrashed with all of his remaining strength. He knew his Master demanded obedience, but he couldn't do it. Not again.

A startlingly good impression of his own voice floated down from above. "Hey, easy! Easy there, mate; it's only me."

Nearly hyperventilating now despite unprecedented agony in his chest, Killian continued to struggle; opening his eyes seemed a monumental task and he would only see that hideous face staring down at him anyway. He had no idea what his Master was up to, or how the creature had managed to mimic his voice, but it hardly mattered.

"Killian, mate; I promise I'm not trying to hurt you. I swear. In truth, I intend to wait until you're fully recovered. And then... well, after that, all bets are off. You bloody wanker."

Those words sounded nothing like any his Master had ever said before. Perhaps he was hallucinating this as well? Killian groaned quietly, then peeled his eyes open.

Detective Jones sat beside Killian's knee, holding pressure on some of the punctures to his inner thigh. The man looked utterly spent, had a blood soaked bandage wrapped carelessly around a shoulder, and wore a grim expression, but his eyes were soft. Upon locking gazes with Killian, the detective flashed a wan smile.

"That's it. See? Nothing to fear now."

Killian remained unconvinced that it wasn't a dream. He scanned the desecrated church, feeling dazed and slightly drunk; his eyes would not follow a steady path and he couldn't make sense of everything he was seeing. He winced and tried to relieve some of the strain on his shoulder, to no avail.

"If you're looking for Emma, she's just stepped out for a bit," Jones told him. "In search of bandages and a blanket."

"Emma..." croaked Killian.

"She'll be back soon," soothed the detective, hiding a wince himself as he shifted his weight. "And not much longer until other help arrives as well."

Killian brought his focus back on the face identical to his own, blinking heavy eyelids and fighting massive disorientation. "How...?"

Jones gave a wry grin. "Your Swan confessed. I know everything now. You great bloody git. You know your in-laws are going to murder you as well?"

"Can't murder... a corpse... mate..."

"No, no... you're not getting out of it that easily." Jones checked that his hand was still covering the wound before continuing. "You're obligated to stay alive; otherwise, who will we exact our vengeance upon?"

Killian's eyes fluttered closed against his will. "The Crocodile... it was his gadget... made this possible."

Jones laughed once. "Okay, I'm not averse to that idea... but as I understand it, he’s only one third of the responsible party."

Killian could not keep up the conversation. He was in too much anguish and found his concentration slipping. Jones seemed to sense this and fell silent, but after a moment of quiet, he murmured,

"I understand, mate. I do. And I can't say I would have done anything differently, given the opportunity you had."

Killian made an attempt at a grateful smile. But a sudden stab of pain took his breath away, stifling any chance at a reply. Through the gasping breaths that followed, he thought he heard the scrape of the off-kilter door being dragged open, but it could have been his imagination, as well.

It wasn't. Killian heard footsteps, urgent and self-assured, scuffling along the well-worn paving stones of the sanctuary in a manner very distinct from the ominous clicking he had grown accustomed to fearing. From an impossibly great distance, the garbled voice of his beloved called out,

"How's he doing?"

"Still with us," reported Jones, similarly remote. "I was just telling him how much trouble the pair of you are in."

Killian shuddered at the arrival of another being; it was so deeply ingrained that even the fuzzy outline of Emma's calmly worried face could not overcome the instinct. Her gentle touch on his knee sent a shock of pain and fear sizzling down to his toes. He hissed, then stammered an apology. Emma ignored the reaction. She had in her grip a ragged brown blanket, which she unfurled and gently spread over his lower body.

"Almost," she promised in a whisper. Unrolling other scraps of fabric intended as temporary bandages, she added, "I'm pretty sure I heard sirens out there. This is almost over."

Even in his near-stupor, Killian somehow made sense of the words. He exhaled once, closed his eyes, and began to silently weep.

[latinerph]

One Day At a Time Sentence Starters (1x07)

*feel free to change pronouns, locations, etc *cw for depression, alcoholism

“Give me back my yearbook!” “Your [event] is around the corner, and we need to pick a boy to be your escort!” “You don’t understand social media.” “All you need to do is find a boy and twat at him!” “She has to pick an escort by today! Or we will not have enough time to prepare.” “We still need to pick the other 14 members of the court.” “We have to choreograph the dances. We have to pick the weakest dancers and put them in the back and put a curtain in front of them.” “[name] smells like a Dorito that died in a poll of Axe body spray!” “That’s cold, [name], ice cold.” “There’s a street fair downstairs. Beer, food, this [pulls out a light up sword]” “Did you buy that?” “I won it. After spending 40 bucks at the ring toss.” “Can I keep this up here for safe-keeping.” “She’s my white whale. My bigfoot.” “That seems like a bad plan.” “Are you there? Say something!” “My snack game was way off! They barely touched my black olive tapenade!” “Maybe next time pick a food a kid might want to eat.” “Maybe next time, don’t hand out masks with my face on them! Handsome, but creepy.” “Your daughter is so dramatic!” “The last part isn’t impressive. But still, it is a war wound!” “Can we have some money for the fair?” “It’s ok. We can watch the other kids have fun.” “Something went terribly wrong in your adult diaper?” “It’s athliesurewear.” “The good news is, after months of planning, the members of my college band have finally put aside our differences, and we’re reuniting to play at the fair this afternoon!” “My band, Full Sail, plays yacht rock.” “Yacht rock is like easy listening music, but even easier to listen to. It’s cool but not too cool. Soulful but not too soulful.” “I’m excited, but not too excited.” “So you’re paying them?” “These guys were like family. I used to show up unannounced and hang out with them for hours and hours and hours.” “We were setting up for the show and our keytarist threw a decorative anchor at me.” “Ok, I’m sorry you’re hurt, but it sounds like I just missed the best part of your show.” “You know I always love a good street fair and since you took a half day off of work, I figured, maybe I should, too. YOLO.” “It’s called stage sparkle Can you please just get it out?” “Thanks for inviting me to the fair. You don’t think [name] suspects that we went together?” “She wouldn’t think that. It’d be ridiculous.” “You were so wonderful to me at my birthday party. And I would just be very happy if we could continue whatever this is.” “Can I make you a coffee?” “This yacht rock band is about to be recorded by a pirate. The sexy kind. Not the kind that steals music.” “Sometimes you have to poke the bear.” “Come on, [name] pick up....Maybe you’re peeing. That’s ok, I have to pee, but I’m gonna hold it! Pick up the damn phone, [name]!” “No, I think they accidentally transferred you to an empty office.....well, it’s not empty now ‘cause I’m standing here talking to you.” “Fax it? You mean e-mail it?” “Well, if I had a time machine, I don’t think I’d go back in time and fax things. I’d buy a lotto ticket.” “Ok, I think the market down the street has a fax machine next to the off-brand candy bars. After the day I’ve had I deserve a Slickers.” “Did you take down a bag and a half of cheetos?” “Only thing worse than being in a group chat, is not being in a group chat.” “Do you have advice for feeling like a weirdo in your family?” “What are you doing here? Why are you spying on me?” “I’m not even going to ask about the sword.” “Mom is going to kill you. I mean quite literally she is going to kill you. Resuscitate you, kill you again, and then ground your lifeless body!” “Did you....hear what I was saying while you were back there?” “You can’t say anything to anyone. It’s not that I’m embarrassed, I’m just not sure.” “I promise, I won’t say anything. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like you’d be in trouble. I mean, who cares, right?” “I got roughed up pushing through the crowd on the way to the market.” “Wait, let me warm up my voice before the show. Boooooo! Ok I’m ready!” “If I don’t catch the 4:30 bus, I have to take the 4:45...so....” “I’ve been trying to get in contact with you for a month, you can’t take five minutes to help me out?” “I don’t get why it’s so hard to make a simple appointment.”

[embee06]

what’s on your mind?

-Few days ago i was trying to sleep after a long day (not really) at hospital.. and suddenly it came back, the image of that girl; that young patient, I saw in emergency few months back. idk why the fading image of her face crossed my mind at that very moment. I felt sad, depressed,anxious! Few months back i had my rotation in medical ER , ER OPD precisely that day ( i think) - Night ER (that i always found much more difficult than day ER.) Anyway after several hours of back-breaking OPD , i went to the red zone (aka where we treat the most critical patients - red zone also has two doctors room where we never rest; cause no time at all)  So i went there to fetch some water probably , as i was coming back my PG asked me to check the ionotrops of a patient, her sats etc. I went to her , hoping to find some elderly patient lying there - but it was girl , a really young girl. She was on ambu (  sort of artificial ventilation which is done manually until a mechanical ventilator is available , which is rarely a chance in govt hospital ), CVP passed , two i/v lines passed. blood on the neck, blood on the clothes due to bleeding from cannula sites.. Her head was cocked to one side , eyes half closed, shirt torn from one side which was done intentionally to pass CVP line. She was hardly 13 or 14 years old girl with down syndrome . She had nail polish on her hands and feet , which was chipped .. i had to set drop rate of her ionotropic support. For the first time it felt like the most difficult thing , like earth was slipping beneath my feet, like the sky was crashing down upon me. Her mother’s face, the desperateness , the ultimate face of helplessness when you cant do anything for your pieces of flesh. World was  becoming blur , i couldnt focus , i couldnt stop looking at the chipped nailpolish , head cocked like a helpless fish caught in someone’s net, at verge of dying; Tears were welling up in my eyes , i think they saw it too; her family . so i did quickly what i was supposed to do and left the red zone.She had acute kidney injury , i dont remember the cause.. Her Blood pressure wasnt building up. she stopped breathing , was resuscitated and put on artificial ventilation with ionotropic support .  I couldnt help thinking how life catches us in middle of something , something so ordinary. for me that something/ordinary was her nailpolish, that chipped nailpolish. she certaintly didnt know when applying that nailpolish that she’d be fighting for her life and that very nailpolish would be on her hands and feet , though chipped.. that maroon nailpolish. why cant i forget that thing. I never went to red zone again that night. I knew i would break down in front of everyone. i just didnt want it to be that way. Although I kept praying , praying that we get to arrange a  vent for her, praying that she gets well soon, praying that she gets to apply a new nailpolish soon. In the morning we were able to find a bed in ICU for her, hence the ventilator. I was relieved . Though i wasnt able to know her whereabouts after that. I almost forget about her amidst of Busy ERs and hundreds of other patients i had to deal with. But then I remembered her again, few days back. , every detail. Why  didnt I ask anyone in ICU that what became of her. I could have done that. The next morning i told my friend this, I told her i was hoping that she survived and went back to her home, she must have looked at her nailpolish , now more chipped than ever.. But i dont know really. i had this flickering hope only. She said she can ask someone if i can provide some information regarding the possible date of admission or a name . But i didnt know the name and i didnt want to guess the date. I guess i never really wanted to know. It seemed to me in... my imagination , that she did survive and went home to her family... Her mother had tears of gratitude in her eyes, she looked happy, relieved .. We did play some role in saving her life, Prayers played the most... But  i dont really know. i guess its easier this way.. Benefit of the doubt.. -If you were asked what your first ever memory is , what would you say, would you be really able to recall your first memory. Nothing before it.. everything before it is a pure blackness, a life lost.. for most people remembering first ever memory is like remembering a dream. you cant recall the start of it.. you just rememberer that somehow you were in a middle of it. But i do remember , i remember my first ever memory . I was probably two years old at most. I was lying down in a bed , a feeder in my mouth.. I was looking at my mom through half opened door. she was washing the floor. a wiper in her hand , and my elder sister had a smaller wiper in her hand (she was 4y/o).. like the one you buy for bathroom etc. it was on old house, house we rented almost 21 years back.. such a mediocre thing to remember, but i remember it anyway ... sort of feel proud to have remembered it at all .. the starting point ( for me at least ).. -Weather was so good a few days back. almost felt like winter is on its way. I went to terrace at night and enjoyed the cold wind on my face. the air had peculiar smell of bbq in it, flickering lights far away taking shape of bokeh when you quint your eyes (i always do that :p) that always makes me happy and nostalgic , reassuring ,like everything is going to be okay , eventually.. idk why though... and ALSO I LOVE WINTERS AND NIGHT WALKS in cold weather that stings your face !!! 

[lxdyred]

Remember me (Pt.4)

Requests: Open!

A/N: English is not my maternal language, sorry if this has any grammatical errors.

Summary: Bucky and Y/N have a very close friendship. Both are part of the Avengers. He has a girlfriend and is going to take the big step. She instead, suffers a serious accident that changes everything.

Characters: Avengers, Bucky, Fem!Reader, OFC (Reader parents, brother...)

Genre: Drama, family, angst, romance, hurt/comfort.

Warnings: Curse/Swearing, car accident, SMUT! (A little bit).

Two days later.

Two days had passed since Y/N's accident, and there were still no changes in her condition.

Her situation was still critical, but not as critical as when she was resuscitated, and at least it had not been necessary to resuscitate her again.

On the other hand, Bucky would go to the hospital every night to be by her side, never leaving her.

"Sergeant Barnes, it's time for you to leave. You've been here all night. You need rest. Go home and come back in the afternoon." A nurse said to him, Bucky rubbed his eyes.

"No, I'm fine." he replied politely but at the same time with a tired tone.

"Your body doesn't say the same thing. Go, she's in good hands."

"Maybe you're right... But who will stay with her?" he asked as he looked at the nurse.

"I'll stay with her." Jeff said, showing up from behind.

Bucky looked at Jeff, meditated for a moment and sighed.

"All right, but if there are changes please let me know." he asked as he got up.

He posed a kiss on his friend's forehead and left.

"Goodbye and thank you." He snapped as he stepped out of the room, leaving a bewildered Jeff behind, because of  the scene he had just seen.

Bucky kissing Y/N's forehead.

Barnes was on his way home to meet Molly, who was probably still asleep.

He snuck into the room they shared, trying not to wake up his fiancée.

He took off his shoes and dropped into bed carefully. He turned to find Molly's back and what he did was hug her, she seemed to be unaware. Shortly after, Bucky was asleep too.

It was ten o'clock in the morning and the Seargent woke up heavy.

He looked the place where Molly used to sleep and saw that she was gone. He felt the sheets and they were cold.

"She's been awake for a while." he thought.

Then he smelled the morning coffee, which used to make his bruntte fiancée, and so he got up to go for his well-deserved cup of coffee.

"Good morning." Bucky said as he entered the kitchen, but received no answer. "Molly?"

"I'm here!" she replied from the terrace. "Good morning!" she posed a loud kiss on Bucky's lips.

"You look very active today. What are you doing here on the terrace? Aren't you cold?"

"Not at all!" the girl exclaimed energetically. "Well, as summer approaches and the weather is good, I just wanted to enjoy the tranquility of the morning with a relaxing cup of coffee and a good book."

"Sounds good, may I keep you company?"

"Of course, please, my love."

The sergeant sat on the bench next to Molly and she rested her head on his shoulder.

"I have a feeling. Today will be a good day." Molly sighed.

"I wish." Bucky said with a small smirk.

Bucky was calmly in the shower, soaping his head, when he felt the shower curtain run out and someone came in.

"Mind if I join?" asked Molly, as she hugged Bucky from the back.

"Go ahead." Bucky said, turning to face her face.

"Let me help you." Molly started massaging Bucky's head, causing him to froth up his head.

Bucky bent down given the difference in height between the two of them. She loved it, when one of them both took the initiative from time to time, in this case she did, and that fascinated him.

When Molly finished clearing Buck's head, they both stayed for a brief moment looking at each other's eyes. Then Bucky hugged her at the waist, getting closer to her and began kissing her sweetly and passionately. Molly, on the other hand, hugged him by the neck, and then started kissing his shoulder and going down to his chest. Bucky stroked his fiancée's wet back, as he was gummed by the kisses he received.

He wore one of his hands to the long hair of his fiancée and gently pulled her to reveal the skin of her neck, which began to pose a delicate and subtle mixture of kisses, lickes and bites, until reaching the breasts.

Molly moaned and clung to the sergeant's back, scratching it and causing the soldier to moan even more.

They paused for a brief moment, then Bucky took Molly by the thighs, so that she would be left with her legs curled over his waist.

And like a porn film, he leaned her against the shower wall to make it easier to access into her.

Once the pleasant shower was over, Bucky went out with the towel twisted around his waist and headed for the kitchen.

He took a glass and filled it with ice and water. He drank it in one, as he looked out the kitchen window and thought about his friend's condition and how much he missed her.

She sighed and took a hand to his head to comb his hair with his fingers.

Suddenly the phone rang.

He watched Molly talk and nod, and without knowing why, it gave him a shiver.

"Honey..." whispered Molly.

"What happened?" Bucky asked anxiously.

"My love... Y/N... has... she just... woken up. She'll be all right." said Molly with a big smile as she walked towards him, to hug her man.

It was really gonna be a good day.

@cookiesex115  @seargantbcky

Wanna be tagged??

[bigyack-com]

A Doctor’s Diary: The Overnight Shift in the E.R.

My choices as a doctor in the emergency room are up or out. Up, for the very sick. I stabilize things that are broken, infected or infarcted, until those patients can be whisked upstairs for their definitive surgeries or stents in the hospital. Out, for everyone else. I stitch up the simple cuts, reassure those with benign viruses, prescribe Tylenol and send home.Up or out is what the E.R. was designed for. Up or out is what it’s good at. Emergency rooms are meant to have open capacity in case of a major emergency, be it a train crash, a natural disaster or a school shooting, and we are constantly clearing any beds we can in pursuit of this goal.The problem is, traffic through the emergency room has been growing at twice the rate projected by United States population growth and has been for almost 20 straight years, despite the passage of the Affordable Care Act, and through both economic booms and recessions. Americans visit the E.R. more than 140 million times a year — 43 visits for every 100 Americans — which is more than they visit every other type of doctor’s office in the hospital combined.The demand is such that new E.R.s are already too small by the time they are built. Emergency rooms respond like overbooked restaurants during a chaotic dinner rush, with doctors pressed to turn stretchers the way waiters hurriedly turn tables. The frantic pace leaves little time for deliberating over the diagnosis or for counseling patients. Up, out.Private exams on stretchers in hallways, patients languishing without attention for hours, nurses stretched to the breaking point; all of it has become business as usual. I think about this on nights like tonight, when I start my shift inheriting 16 patients in the waiting room. I think about what I will learn that these people need, and about what I will fail to provide.Image

10 p.m.

Work starts simply enough. Twenty-two-year-old was drunk and drove into a tree, now has a sore elbow. The X-rays are normal and he is sober enough to walk: discharge home with girlfriend. Woman with a migraine holding a towel over her eyes and a crumpled blue emesis bag in her right hand, for when she vomits. I start the standard “migraine cocktail” of IV drugs and turn off the lights in her room. I will wait until she feels better, then discharge her, too.More. A woman six weeks pregnant with cramps and vaginal bleeding; I check whether her miscarriage is inevitable. A drug overdose, likely a suicide attempt; I clear for psychiatric care. Homeless man with foot pain, back pain and a cough, but here mostly because it’s too cold outside. I hand him a sandwich.Then an ambulance crew rolls a gaunt man with one leg toward me on a stretcher. The paramedics hand over a thick packet of paperwork from his nursing home and walk away. I read the label: Jean-Luc. Age: 38.Jean-Luc doesn’t have a typical amputation stump. His left hip is also missing. According to his file, 10 months ago an aggressive strain of bacteria attacked his thigh and quickly began to liquefy his flesh. Antibiotics would not work fast enough; the only way to stop the bacteria’s spread was to cut out the infected parts.The paperwork tells me nothing about who Jean-Luc was 10 months ago. All I know is that those few hours of surgery rendered him dependent on nurses for most things he used to do himself.I leaf through Jean-Luc’s packet and find a scribbled nursing note. Someone was concerned that his urine looked different the past few days, and this morning he spiked a fever. Did he have a urinary tract infection? Jean-Luc’s belly is tender over his bladder, and his urine looks cloudy and smells pungent. I send some samples to the lab.

1:18 a.m.

You get little hints about the quality of nursing homes from the patients they send us. If a patient’s hair is combed and his clothes are neatly pressed, the nursing home is probably decently staffed. Most impressive is healthy skin. The skin of a bed-bound patient is paper thin; keeping it intact, like the unbroken film on a French pudding, requires a herculean effort.Jean-Luc’s skin had not been so fortunate. He had a bed sore; it was less than an inch wide, but I could probe an instrument through it to the bone. Once such holes form, doctors don’t really know how to coax the skin to heal itself. Creams, high levels of oxygen, even maggots — nothing works reliably. This is going to be a problem, I think to myself.Forty minutes later, the lab results come back positive for a urinary tract infection. I start Jean-Luc on antibiotics. The E.R.’s role is considered completed at this point. Up, not out. The waiting room is busy; I should admit Jean-Luc to the hospital for IV antibiotics and free up his stretcher.I look over from my desk. Jean-Luc is polite and not a complainer, but I can tell he is depressed. A month ago the nursing home put a catheter through his penis and into his bladder, presumably because emptying a bag is easier to schedule into a shift than running over every time he rings a call bell asking for help, and safer than letting him sit in his own urine, which would further break down his skin.But for bacteria, that plastic tube is a boulevard into the body. He would be better protected by a condom catheter, which catches urine the way a condom catches semen. I start to mull this over when a nurse calls me: “Gina, Bed 5 is vomiting and says she needs more pain meds.”

2:28 a.m.

Cynthia, in Bed 5, recently completed a round of chemotherapy. She tells me her pain and nausea have been unbearable, just as they were two weeks ago, when she was here after her previous treatment. I examine her, check her labs to make sure there isn’t another reason she is dry-heaving and type in a request for a hospital bed.Cynthia is on a state-of-the-art cancer therapy, available only at a few of the top centers in the world. It is also expensive, experimental and extraordinarily taxing on her body. The discussion with her oncologist must have been difficult: the possibility of improvement weighed against the risk that the treatment could cause her to spend most of her remaining days in hospitals, hooked up to IV drugs.For the E.R. visit, Cynthia will be charged more than $1,000 plus about $600 in professional fees for the few minutes of critical thinking I expended on her. That is the thriftiest part of this arrangement: Her admission stay for several days in the hospital will be billed at about $10,000.To the hospital’s finance department, each case like Cynthia’s is another base hit, a fuss-free bill to collect from the insurance company requiring minimal work from E.R. personnel. But to what extent will this hospital stay prevent Cynthia from returning in two weeks, when she is again due for chemotherapy?Maybe a different regimen of cancer drugs would sit better with Cynthia. But finding it involves trial and error and is seen as work that doesn’t have to be done — work that could get the oncologist in trouble for rocking the boat, that exposes the hospital to liability. A plan focused on keeping Cynthia out of the hospital would require more frequent check-ins at her home, which the hospital isn’t set up to do. We are choosing the path of least resistance for us, even though it is the path of last resort for her.One in five people who stay in American hospitals are on the same morbid merry-go-round as Cynthia and Jean-Luc and will wind up back in the E.R. within one month of leaving. We tell ourselves the E.R. is meant only to stabilize patients, that someone else will handle the rest. But the problems I punt in the E.R. are also punted by the hospital’s doctors upstairs and by primary care doctors outside. No matter where I send patients, these gaping holes in care fester, like bed sores tunneling to bone.So I wait in the E.R. for the same patients to return even sicker and even more dependent on the hospital. I’m thinking about this when an overhead speaker calls me to the resuscitation room for a “Level 1,” the highest level of urgency in the E.R. I hang up on Cynthia’s oncologist and head to the north side of the department.

4:12 a.m.

A young woman is gasping loudly through the oxygen mask that paramedics put over her face, screaming, crying and thrashing all at once. She swats at the nurses trying to hold her arm down to place an IV, and at the technicians cutting her clothes off with shears. Her sweat prevents the electrical leads we try to attach to her chest from sticking.This is routine for us. Many things can make a patient acutely agitated: pain, drugs, rapid blood loss or a shortage of air. Until we know the cause, we carry on even when patients resist. With little explanation, we surround them on all sides, pin them down and undress them, placing probes and leads while we get our bearings.Someone tries to calm the young woman down while I scroll through her electronic chart. Mariah is 23. She has severe asthma and has been to the E.R. many times. She has bipolar disorder. The last time she was in the hospital proper, two months ago, she left abruptly once her breathing stabilized, before we could send her home with an inhaler and a steroid regimen for her asthma.As far back as I look in her records, I find no visit with a primary care doctor. Like many patients in the E.R., especially younger ones, she doesn’t see any other doctors regularly. In effect we have been her primary doctors, although we didn’t know it and didn’t do much primary care.I close the screen and look back at her. She is now on the monitor, the beeping display of her heartbeats and respirations scrolling along in green and red like a stock ticker at the bottom of the evening news. The numbers are terrible. She isn’t resisting us anymore, and her breathing has slowed. Mariah is starting to look confused.We had achieved a sense of control, but it evaporates in an instant. Everyone starts moving quickly, jumpily, trying to suppress the sinking feeling that this is not like the other asthma flares we see, that this person is too sick for us to save. We focus on our roles. I’m worried she will stop breathing, so I come to the head of the bed and tell her we’re going to sedate her and put her on a ventilator.Through the breathing tube and the IVs, we give everything we have already given, again: albuterol, epinephrine, magnesium, helium, antibiotics, lidocaine. Nothing is working; her lungs remain stiff and in spasm. Her heart slows, then stops. We start chest compressions and push more medications. We probe her heart and lungs with the ultrasound, trying to find something we can reverse. Nothing.I look at the senior doctor in the room. He knows I’m asking if there is anything else we can do, and he shakes his head. We record the time of death.

5:47 a.m.

There is a silent pause in the room. Before it passes, the unit secretary hands me the packet of paperwork for the deceased.A death certificate differs from other medical records. It presents not one lone diagnosis field but four nested together, each line asking for the proximal cause of the line above. In the first line I write the diagnosis: cardiac arrest. I consider why her heart stopped, and in line 2 — “CAUSED BY” — fill in: respiratory failure. Line 3, CAUSED BY: severe asthma exacerbation. I am ashamed, but I know the cause of this as well. In line 4 I write, CAUSED BY: no medications at home to control her asthma.This is the first patient all shift for whom the modern E.R. and I have acknowledged the root cause of illness. Our failure was not today but a few weeks ago, when she was last in the E.R. and we didn’t find a way to get her asthma inhalers to her at home. Maybe we assumed the medical team upstairs would handle it; maybe that team expected a primary care doctor would do so. Now our failure is the bottom line in black ink, pressed into the carbon-copy pages that will accompany Mariah’s body to the morgue.Should the emergency room treat only emergencies? More than 80 percent of our patients arrive without sirens blazing, by walking in or after parking their cars with the valet out front. A rash that won’t stop itching, a lower back that won’t stop aching, a child who won’t stop vomiting. If their problems aren’t in our manual of emergency conditions, we say they are misusing the E.R. and try to dispense of them as quickly as we can. But here they are, having waited six hours to see me, asking for help. What to do for them?I click a few perfunctory buttons in their charts. I say there’s nothing life-threatening going on as I hand them boilerplate discharge paperwork to sign. Someone calls me to see my next patient. I send them back to their families, jobs and responsibilities equipped with little more than these unceremonious goodbyes.Almost one in 10 — 8.2 percent — of these discharged E.R. patients return to an E.R. within three days. What I leave unaddressed — persistent pain, nagging uncertainty about a diagnosis, a social dilemma — tends to stay that way, begetting yet another visit. An E.R.’s success is measured by how fast it sees these patients, not by whether it breaks these cycles.The waiting room is empty now. I review the labs on an elderly man in Bed 3, enter the admission details for Cynthia and Jean-Luc, check that the woman with the migraine feels better and print her paperwork, and look at my watch: 7:00. My shift is over.

7:01 a.m.

Although the E.R. was built to quickly get the sick “up” into the hospital, it has exposed, better than anywhere else, what patients lack while “out” in their otherwise private lives. Patients like Cynthia and Jean-Luc will survive devastating diseases under our care “up” in the hospital, but we send them “out” unable to sustain their precarious conditions without us. Patients like Mariah make their needs clear in the E.R., but we are too busy to meet them, and by the time they come back it’s often too late.From 2012 to 2014 the federal government, recognizing that neither up nor out was solving the problem for a growing group of patients, financed an experiment at the University of Colorado. The typical E.R. has surgeons on-call to treat patients with broken bones; following that model, the E.R. in Colorado set up a team on-call for patients with broken homes.Disadvantaged patients who kept returning to the E.R. were matched to social workers, health coaches and doctors who visited them where they lived and kept in touch for several months. By staying involved after the E.R. visits and not letting details fall through the cracks, the team reduced these patients’ need to revisit the hospital by 30 percent compared with the need of those in a control group.The E.R. at Yale, where I work, addressed a different group in need. Elderly patients who came to the E.R. after a fall were offered a follow-up at home. There, they were screened for risk factors that might lead to another fall, such as loose rugs, medications that increased their risk of balance problems, or lack of necessary equipment or support at home. Over the next month, those who received such visits called 911 about half as often as similar patients who did not participate in the program.Programs like these are not considered the E.R.’s core business, so they often rely on grants — and they end if funding dries up. Of the slim resources that E.R.s do set aside to address patients’ barriers outside the hospital, most are put toward hiring social workers and care managers. But these employees, stymied by mountains of paperwork and unrealistic patient loads, never get outside the hospital to see their patients, either. The programs at Colorado and Yale succeeded by framing the E.R.’s resources differently. They recognized that the E.R. staff could identify problems that were destined to arise after discharge — and empowered those employees to help. Both programs orchestrated follow-ups outside the E.R; those teams worked on the day-to-day problems at home that go unaddressed in hospitals and clinics and can cause catastrophes.As I zip up my bag, I head to Jean-Luc’s room to talk to him about urinary catheters. But when I arrive I find only our custodian with a mop, pulling the crumpled sheets and throwing out the extra tubes of blood. Up or out; Jean Luc is already up. His fate is out of my hands now, and I worry that he won’t keep his spirits up, that his bed sore will never heal.Only a few minutes have passed, and the waiting room has filled up again. A man with a nosebleed has arrived. A nurse hands him a nasal-compression clip and a basin to spit in. He and his wife look around, wondering how long they will have to wait. By now, Jean-Luc’s bed is freshly made. For this couple, his quick move upstairs was a blessing. It means that, on my way out, I can tell them that they will be called back soon. A room just freed up. Read the full article

[onceuponamirror]

the winged beast [6/12]

Fandom: Riverdale

Ships: Betty x Jughead, Archie x Veronica (background)

Chapters: 6/12

Summary:

This is how the world ends, she thinks. Not with a bang but with a motorcycle.

[serpent!au] [read on Ao3 from the beginning] [2] [3] [4] [5] [character design]

Betty, at least, was able to rule out Jason on Saturday morning, when she, without much delicacy, had asked Polly if she’d heard from Jason. Polly said she had; apparently he’d been drunk texting her all night and by breakfast, he’d sent an equal amount of flustered apologies. Her sister had said this all with pursed lips, and Betty filed away the reaction for later.

It’d been a huge relief; if it wasn’t Jason, it wasn’t her fault. Still, it was a reassurance she felt at odds with, given that just because Jason was okay, didn’t mean someone else was.

But she doesn’t have to wait long to find out; the news breaks on Saturday night.

When no one had heard from Moose Mason for 24 hours, Reggie Mantle had apparently confirmed it with the football team; he himself had tried resuscitating Moose until the paramedics arrived. Betty found out through Kevin, who already knew, but waited until it was publicly on twitter that Moose had been hurt before passing the news.

“I mean, I saw him like half an hour before,” Kevin says on the phone that night, his voice shaky. “I think he might’ve been trying to get me to have a threesome? Like? He was being so weird and out of it. I should’ve known something was up. I was so shocked that I just walked away but what if that was the last…” Kevin sucks in a gulp of air and trails off.

“It’s definitely not your fault, Kev,” Betty says softly, though she thinks about how stressed she’d been about Jason a few hours before and knows words probably mean nothing to Kevin right now. “There was no way you could’ve known.”

“Speaking of…none of us are supposed to know about this, by the way,” he adds, after a minute. His voice is stiff, and Betty can tell he’s probably still beating himself up. “My dad wants to wait for an official press conference. But he told me this morning. It’s…really bad, Betty.”

“Bad how?” Betty rolls over on her bed to grab her diary. She feels a sting of guilt with herself for jumping into journalist mode, but decides the truth is more important than tact. She raises her pencil to the paper.

Kevin pauses, choosing his words. When he speaks, his voice is very small. “He died, Betty. On the way to the hospital.”

She feels all the air leave her lungs and drops her pencil. “He…what? Died? I thought he was just…sick, or something. What happened? How?”

“My dad wouldn’t tell me, but I don’t think it was…uh, natural causes,” Kevin says. “Crap, I hear him coming. I gotta go, Betty. I’ll see you Monday. And don’t tell anyone,” he adds, and then the line is dead.

He died. Kevin’s words echo, almost mockingly. Moose Mason? Dead? It wasn’t as if she knew Moose particularly well, but she’s also known him her entire life. His entire life, she thinks with a sickening crunch to her stomach.

Betty closes her eyes and tries to retrace the moments at the base of the stairs. Joaquin running down the hall, someone yelling that Moose wasn’t breathing, Veronica and Archie arriving, the paramedics upstairs and shouting symptoms…they’d said something, a word she’d heard before. Some kind of medical term, maybe?

She exhales slowly, and when it finally feels like her lungs have nothing left in them, she blinks up at the ceiling. It doesn’t seem real. She saw him in class yesterday; she’d helped him spell the word scholastic. She feels sick; it’s one thing to abstractly investigate accidents and deaths on the other side of town, and it’s another to know someone taken by it.

Nibbling on her lip, she reaches over for her phone. She pulls Jughead up in her contacts and stares at the last conversation they’d had on Friday before the party.

Alright, I just watched 10 Things I Hate About You. It was so predictable!

That means you liked it :)

Does not

You like predictable

Can we keep the psychoanalysis off the table for once thank you very much

But then, a few minutes later, he’d sent:

I guess I see the appeal though

Betty stares at the exchange. Jughead does like predictability, despite whatever devil-may-care image he’s spent however long finely crafting. He may claim to be a cinema buff and a lover of creative integrity, but almost all of his favorite films have the exact same plot trajectory:

Character enters the mystery, then a reluctant partnership, a death or two halfway through to raise the stakes, followed by a big twist, followed by an ending that is somehow as satisfying as it is bittersweet.

She blinks back to the ceiling. If her life were a film, would last night have been the twist, or was the arc so obvious it couldn’t have been? Was this all foreshadowed by her obsession with finding the truth about the south side? Was this the moment that raised the stakes?

Or was a boy just dead?

The thought brings her soundly back into the moment. Her fingers hover over the keyboard of her phone, reading and rereading Jughead’s last text.

What she really wants to say is Hey, so what the fuck but that feels both too heavy and too joking somehow. Plus she’s not sure he’s ever heard her swear in the first place and the shock alone might distract him from the fact that she’s being serious.

But what would she say? Ask him what the hell Joaquin was doing fleeing the scene of what ended up being a death? That would feel accusatory and she doesn’t want to indict Jughead or even Joaquin of anything. After all Jughead opened up about people from the south side being stereotyped, and she just drops the blame on him or his friends without waiting for the full story?

No, she won’t insult Jughead by insinuating that.

So she settles on I have your leather jacket. She’s never seen him without it; she likes to imagine he has a closet full of them, like some cartoon character with only one outfit, but given the well-loved scuffing on this one, she doubts it. Anyway, she figures it’ll be easier to talk about this in person than try to navigate via text.

Do you want me to bring it to you? Meet at Pop’s?

About an hour later, and she still hadn’t gotten a response.

Or I’ll just bring it to school on Monday, whatever’s easiest.

Still nothing, and reluctantly Betty puts her phone aside to get ready for bed. Is he mad at her? Did she do something wrong? After her panic attack in the bushes of the Mantle mansion, the rest of the night had continued in such a haze that she barely remembers driving everyone home, but she tries to rack her brain for something she might’ve said to Jughead to upset him.

He’d tried to tell her something and she had shut him down, expecting it’d been the long-time-coming talk about boundaries and feelings. But Jughead doesn't seem like a guy who enjoys confrontation, and Betty would think he’d be relieved at dodging the “I have a girlfriend” talk.

Betty wonders if she should just be direct and ask him point blank if he knows anything. She remembers the terror on Joaquin’s face and Sabrina cursing madly down the stairs, but Jughead had seemed just as confused as she had been.

So why was he ignoring her?

She gets under the covers and pulls them tight up against her chin. There’s murmuring downstairs and the creak of her parents moving around, and Betty stares at the stick-on-stars on her ceiling and remembers tracing the constellations in the stars outside the party. She’d felt so happy then, if just for a fleeting moment.

She closes her eyes and thinks about Moose Mason.

.

.

.

Sunday drags on with glacial pace; this means two things. One, that no one else yet knows that Moose Mason, lovable high school linebacker, everyone’s All-American buddy, is dead.

Two, that her mother doesn’t know.

Part of her appreciates the day as the quiet before the storm, because once word reaches her classmates and especially once it reaches her mother and the town paper, it’s going to be hell. The north side of Riverdale has thus far happily kept horse-blinders on, but to lose one of their own is surely going to break the dam, especially if Moose didn't die naturally. 

Naloxone.

She sits upright in bed. The word comes to her in a flash, in a blinding memory of chaos and screams. “He’s hypoxic! Pupils dilated! Ready the naloxone!” The paramedic shouted, and Betty blinks. She hasn’t heard that word before, she’s read it.

She picks up her laptop and types it into the search bar. Naloxone, she reads, is the drug administered to people who have overdosed; it’s especially useful for those who OD on fentanyl because it’s so easy to over do.

Moose overdosed, she thinks, her mouth falling open. She clam shells her laptop shut and lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. On fentanyl? Moose Mason?

Fentanyl is not a drug typically found at the keggers of rich kids; it’s rough, and gritty. Cocaine, she could see. Prescription drugs, definitely. But her research has taught her fentanyl is typically cut into heroin, if anything, and that gives Betty pause, but she's not sure if it's her own unconscious prejudice about what an overdose should “look like” or if is this genuinely suspicious. 

She picks up her pencil and diary, her thoughts swirling. But after about ten minutes, Betty realizes she has just been staring at a blank page the whole time, and decides she’s not going to get anywhere with writing out her thoughts today, so she puts it aside and crawls over to her window perch.

Archie is sitting in his chair at his own window, spinning left and right as he juggles a worn-looking football between his hands. He looks up when Betty settles into her own seat, and moves to open his window. She does the same.

“How are you doing?” He asks, settling on his elbows.

With a pang of guilt, Betty realizes she’s been kind of neglectful of her friendship with Archie lately in lieu of time with the newspaper and, if she’s being honest with herself, with Jughead. But Archie has been equally busy with football and music and neither of them have made much of an effort lately. Betty makes a mental note to set aside some time for him.

“I’m okay,” Betty lies, forcing a light smile. “Thinking about Friday night though.”

“Me too,” Archie says, looking forlorn. “I keep trying to go through the people I saw at the party and the last time I saw them.” He pauses. “Who do you think it was?”

Betty bites her lip. Kevin had told her not to say anything and given the radio silence from Veronica too, she assumes he hasn’t told anyone but her. And she loves Archie, and while he’s decent at keeping secrets on his own, the minute someone presses him on it, he caves. He can’t lie to save his skin and telling him is too risky.

“I don’t know,” she says quietly, deciding not to pass the buck, “but I have a really bad feeling about this, Archie. Like it’s only going to get worse.”

Archie nods. “I feel it too. But I don’t…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just…this weird heaviness, like it’s in the air or something. Does that make sense?”

It makes more sense than Archie probably realizes. Betty tucks her chin down and nods, glancing across the room to her wardrobe, where Jughead’s jacket is currently hidden, tucked away like some dark, living, breathing secret. She exhales, long and slow, and meets Archie’s gaze one last time. 

These violent delights have violent ends, she thinks.

.

.

.

Betty wakes earlier than normal on Monday morning; truthfully, her sleep was fitful and tossing, so it’s not too difficult to roll out of bed at 5 A.M. and dress for an early run. She slips out of the house and heads out into a jog around the block. She’s exhausted, but her heart hasn’t stopped hammering since Friday, and the anxiety masquerading as adrenaline pushes her steps into long, lean strides.

She pounds into the cement, hoping to chase a burn that will soothe her churning thoughts, but after about 40 minutes, she realizes she can’t literally outrun her feelings, and she heads back home.

Her mother is bustling about in the kitchen when she returns. Alice looks up when she hears Betty approaching. “You’re up early,” she says, in the pleased voice she always uses when she’s impressed with Betty pushing herself. “Get a good run in?”

“Yeah,” Betty says, still breathing heavily. “I’m gonna go shower.”

Her mother nods and returns to her morning mantra of preparing pancakes and coffee. Betty watches her mother work for a moment, almost robotically, like some kind of pre-Feminine Mystique housewife going through the motions.

As she's heading up the stairs, Betty hears the phone ring, followed by her mother answering it quietly. It's a little early for a phone call, Betty thinks, but dismisses it once she's out of earshot. 

After her shower, Betty forgoes breakfast and heads straight to school; she wants to get there early, before anyone else, to get some work done on the paper, because she has a feeling that the day is going to be nothing short of a tempest once school starts. The police won’t be able to contain this secret much longer.

When she arrives at the Blue & Gold, she checks her phone again, but there’s still nothing from Jughead. Sighing, she hangs his leather jacket on the coat rack. It’d barely fit in her backpack this morning, and practically weighed as much as her old cat, but there was no way she was gonna let her mother see her sneaking out the door with a big black leather jacket in hand.

Betty sighs and settles down in front of her laptop. She doesn’t really know what she’s looking for, and technically this is just her own theory, but something still feels very suspicious about the combination of an all-star football player and a dangerous drug like fentanyl. She spends the next hour or two reading up about rise in overdoses across the country—there apparently is no shortage of small town horror stories much like their own.

Riverdale isn’t special, she realizes, and then feels naïve for not looking at this as indicative of a larger, national problem. Still, there's not much that reassures her about the conflicting depictions of fentanyl use and the image of Moose Mason. 

After she’s read so many articles that her eyes start to cross, she slams her laptop shut and puts her forehead in her hands. She hears people mulling about outside the room; students have started arriving like a gathering flock of scavenging birds, circling ominously over a wounded animal.

Betty sighs, and decides to use the remaining minutes before the first bell to get a few things out of her locker. When she returns, there’s someone standing in front of the corkboard, and she has a brief moment of relief where she thinks it might be Jughead.

It’s not.

Agent Drew looks over his shoulder at her, his face serious, before glancing once more to the wall of clippings and index cards with theories. His eyes linger on the center card for FENTANYL.

He traces his eyes around the room, moving slowly, and reaches the collection of Nancy Drew novels stacked on a shelf. He runs his fingers over them contemplatively.

“You like Nancy Drew?” He asks with a small smile. Betty returns it awkwardly and nods, her mind still playing catch up with the fact that there’s an FBI agent in her newspaper office. “Me too. I always used to get teased for reading the Nancy books instead of the Hardy Boys, but, well, I liked her best.”

“Because of your last name?” Betty asks, without really thinking first.

“Sort of the other way around,” he says evasively, clearing his throat and straightening. “Anyway. Miss Cooper, when we last spoke, you mentioned a few things I would like to follow up on. Would you mind answering a few more questions for me? We don’t have to go to the station; we can do this right here.”

The first bell tolls between them, but neither move.

“I know my rights, sir,” she says, raising her chin in the air, in an act that looks more defiant than she feels. “You can’t question me without a parent.”

He smiles, and runs a smoothing hand over his already crisp suit jacket. In the warm yellow light of the Blue & Gold office, Agent Drew looks a lot younger and friendlier than he had on Friday night. “Miss Cooper—may I call you Elizabeth?”

“I go by Betty,” she says, in a shaky exhale.

“Betty, then. You’re not under arrest, or even in any trouble. This isn’t a custodial setting and we can stop at any time. If there were charges being laid, of course we would have a parent or a guardian present, but I just have a few qualifying questions.”

She shifts from one foot to another. He looks at her, eyebrows creasing. “Gauging from the generous collection of mystery novels and the set up on that corkboard, I get the sense that you’re someone looking for the truth. Well, I am too. That’s why I’m here.”

She considers him. She thinks about what Jughead would say if he were here; probably warn her about not trusting authority figures or something with a casual conspiracy theory about capitalist police states.

But Jughead isn’t here, and has been ignoring her for days now. Why should she care what he’d say? She stares at the coat rack where she’d hung his leather jacket this morning, thinking he’d want it back today.

“If you would like anyone here with you, you are more than welcome to it, and I’ll happily wait,” he adds, with a small smile.

“No, it’s okay,” she says hesitantly. Despite a growing wariness of law enforcement ever since Jughead entered her life, there is something trustworthy about Agent Drew. He doesn’t seem any less business-like, but in the light of day, he has almost a paternal air to him, despite the fact that he can’t be more than in his late 20s.

Agent Drew crosses the room to the door, which he closes gently. Betty takes her usual seat, and he slips into the one across from her; the place where Jughead usually sits. She’d been upset that he’d skipped school again today, but now she’s desperately hoping he doesn’t change his mind and stays away.

He hauls a heavy-looking briefcase onto the desk, and begins sorting through it. He pulls out a manila folder and that familiar little black notebook, and aligns them together so that they’re perfectly straight and parallel.

He opens up the folder and clears his throat. “As this information will be released to the public shortly, if not already, I should tell you that Mr. Marmaduke Mason, otherwise known as Moose, passed away in the early hours of Saturday morning.”

He glances up at Betty, watching her carefully for her reaction, so Betty feigns shock, her mouth falling open. She’s not sure she convinces him, because he narrows his eyes before moving on.

“This morning I received the toxicology report from the autopsy of Mr. Mason,” he says, and Betty feels a shiver at the word autopsy. “And, along with a few other things, there was a fair amount of the opioid known as fentanyl in his system. Now that I’m seeing your…er, corkboard, I’m wondering if you have anything you’d like to share with me in that regard. What made you suspect the overdoses on the south side were linked to fentanyl? As far as I know, that wasn’t published anywhere.”

“My friend Jughead suggested it,” Betty says cautiously. “He works with me on the school paper.”

“Ah,” Agent Drew sighs, opening up his little notebook and flipping through it. “Right, right. Mr. Jones. I ran the names that you gave me, and unfortunately, it poses a bit of a dilemma.”

Betty bristles. He reaches back into his briefcase and withdraws an identical envelope. He scans his eyes over the papers briefly and begins to read.

“Joaquin DeSantos, the one who you said placed the first 911 call, has been arrested on multiple accounts of vandalism over the years. Sabrina Spellman has been in so many fights it’s amazing she’s still upright. And your friend Jughead Jones was once held in juvenile court for trying to burn down his elementary school.”

He puts the folder down and crosses his arms over it. “All three are known Southside Serpents. I’m afraid that doesn’t bode well, given I’ve learned they fled the scene shortly after Mr. Mason was found and that Mr. DeSantos was seen leaning over Mr. Mason by a witness.”

He looks up at Betty, and she’s surprised to see he looks more resigned than anything.

Known Serpent, she thinks. All three are known Southside Serpents, she hears Agent Drew’s voice echoing. Trying to burn down his elementary school.

That couldn’t be right. Why hadn’t Jughead told her? How could he have kept that from her? Did he think she’d care? Judge him?

She feels hurt—beyond hurt, maybe—but she doesn't have time to unpack that. She tries to keep her attention on Agent Drew. Her nails breach the skin of her palms in an attempt at focusing.

“That might all be true, sir, but I don’t think it’s them or the Serpents who are selling the fentanyl. I think they’ve been getting targeted for refusing to. There have been a lot of motorcycle accidents and people being run off the road, and bricks going through windows, and—”

“Betty, please,” Agent Drew says calmly. “I’m not accusing the Southside Serpents of anything. To be frank with you, I know that the local police department here would very much like it to be that simple. It’d be a neat little bow to tie everything together and would get the mayor’s office off their backs. I’m a bit of an unpopular guy right now for suggesting otherwise, but I agree with you in that there seems to be a pattern here.”

He sighs, and busies himself with readjusting his files. “But I’ve gotten very off topic. Betty, the reason I actually wanted to speak with you today is because of your friend Veronica Lodge.”

Betty blinks. She pauses, not sure she’s heard him right. “What?”

“Betty, are you aware that Veronica’s father is currently awaiting trial in a federal penitentiary?” He asks, pen poised over the notebook once more.

“I mean…yeah, but for like, tax evasion, right? It’s not like he was arrested for murder.”

Agent Drew smiles, but it’s more of a grimace than anything. “That would be Al Capone. Though that’s not too far off base,” he adds, more to himself. He immediately looks frustrated with himself, and sighs, straightening. “Betty, has Veronica ever mentioned anything about her father to you?”

It’s one thing to help Agent Drew with the investigation into Moose’s death, and it’s another to start pointing fingers at her friends. She opens her mouth to tell him just that, but doesn’t get a chance to, because the door flies open with such a force that both of them jump in their seats.

“Elizabeth, stop talking,” someone says, and Betty looks up to see her mother storming across the room. She throws her purse down on a desk, her face red with rage. “Who the hell do you think you are, questioning my daughter without a parent or a lawyer in the room?”

“Mom, what the hell?”

Agent Drew bolts upright from his chair. “Ma’am, please, I just had a few questions for your daughter regarding my investigation. It’s perfectly within legal realms. I assure you she is in no trouble; I informed her that she had the option of awaiting guardianship—”

“I’d like to see some credentials,” Alice snaps. “And get your name, so that I can report it to your supervisor immediately.”

“Of course,” Agent Drew says, and quickly retrieves his identification badge. “Special Agent Charles Drew with the FBI.”

Alice stares at Agent Drew for a long, hard moment, her expression odd and pinched.

“Mom, how did you even know he was here?” Betty asks, and it’s as if a spell was broken. Alice inhales and turns to her daughter.

“I happened to have a meeting with Principal Weatherbee today regarding Homecoming. He mentioned to me that the FBI were on the grounds conducting interviews and, well, I saw you two through the door window.”

Betty knows her mother well enough to read between the lines; that means her mother pressed Weatherbee into a corner for information and then she immediately went stalking off for a scoop.

Alice turns to Agent Drew with appraising eyes. “What exactly is the nature of your investigation?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Cooper, I’m afraid I can’t speak to the details of an ongoing case, however, beyond the fact that I’m now the primary investigator into Mr. Mason’s death this weekend.”

The revelation that a student died doesn't seem to shock Alice particularly, which means she must've learned about it this morning.

Betty looks at her. Her mother seems stuck between a rock and a hard place, perhaps warring with her instinct to needle for information and her desire to shelter her daughter from it. “And just how long has the FBI been involved here?” She asks, squinting at him.

“Details of the case will be made public after it’s closed, or until otherwise seen fit,” Agent Drew says, almost robotically. “Mrs. Cooper, I’ve done my research into this town, and I am aware that you and your husband run the town’s local newspaper, so unfortunately, you’ll have to wait for an official press conference to get your questions in.”

His lips twitch, just barely, and Betty realizes that actually might’ve been a joke.

“Fine,” Alice sniffs. “Now, if you have any more questions for my daughter, you can contact our lawyer. You’re done here.”

Agent Drew doesn’t seem particularly surprised that this is the conclusion of a helicopter parent storming into his interview. He gives her one last studying look before packing up his briefcase. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, and slips away.

Alice turns her eyes on Betty. “What was he asking you about?” She asks sharply. “I heard him mention Veronica Lodge’s name. I told you what I think of that girl. She’s not your friend.”

“Stop it!” Betty shouts. “You don’t even know her! Why are you so obsessed with this…witch-hunt with her and her family, when you should be talking about what’s really going on in this town?”

Alice crosses her arms and looks over at the corkboard. “What’s really going on in this town? You mean your flirtation with the high school newspaper? Elizabeth, please. Those gangbangers don’t care about you or any of us; why would you care about them? They made their bed and they’ll sleep in it as far as I’m concerned.”

Betty stares at her mother with horror. “Why are you like this?” She asks after a moment. “I mean, god Mom, what did they ever do to you?”

Alice just presses her lips together and looks back at the corkboard, her eyebrows creasing.

“People like you treat them like second-class citizens but they’re just as much part of Riverdale as we are. Just because they don’t fit into your Stepford fantasy doesn’t mean they aren’t,” Betty says, raising her chin into the air.

Her mother scoffs, though she looks noticeably ruffled. “Betty, this is hardly so Shakespearean. We’re not Capulets and Montagues. I’m perfectly sure there are some good people on the south side, but the fact of the matter is, I can say with certainty that a lot of them are gangbanging drug dealers. You of all people should know that by now, after what happened on Friday night, but you’ll see tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Betty repeats. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“Your father and I are running a story about this boy’s death and the little Serpent that was seen standing over his body,” Alice says, staring out the window. She glances back at Betty sharply. “Or is that not what happened?”

“That—that’s you twisting it!” Betty sputters. “We don’t have all the facts, we have no idea what happened or how Moose got the drugs. You know, Jughead said—”

“Jug-head? Who is Jug-head?”

Betty realizes her mistake immediately. “He’s…he works with me on the school paper.”

“What an unusual name,” her mother muses suspiciously. “Hard to think there’s more than one Jughead in this town. Would he be the same Jughead Jones of south-side-proper that Reggie Mantle listed as being at the party?”

“He had nothing to do with what happened to Moose,” Betty says quickly. “He was with me all night.”

Alice hums; she has the same expression that Betty makes when she’s filing something away for later. Then she sighs, her whole posture deflating a little.

“Betty, you do remember that Reggie Mantle’s father owns half the share of the Register, correct? And then there’s party thrown by his son, apparently unbeknownst to them, and it ends in a boy’s death. Needless to say, it doesn’t look good for an upstanding family to have an overdose under their roof.”

“But...”

“Do you realize the kind of pressure Mr. Mantle is putting on us to write about the culprits who dealt the drugs or brought them onto his property?” Alice snaps, looking suddenly very tired. 

“But that doesn’t mean you should just start scapegoating the easiest target—”

Her mother turns to her, arms crossed. Her icy resolve seems to be melting a bit as she straightens.

“Betty, you wanted us to start talking about overdoses and drugs, and now we are. You wanted us to talk about the south side, and now we are. You don’t always get what you want the way you want it,” she says, and Betty is surprised to find the softness there, nestled in between a thoughtful frown.

Alice turns her attention back to the window. She almost looks sad now. “There are things I never wanted for you, honey, but I had to learn my lesson about Pandora’s box the hard way. And it seems you do too.”

.

.

.

[emetoandotherthings]

Some Qs for Leyton and Alba (because I feel I ignore them a bit) How did they meet? Relationship expectations? Shared values? What accomplishments do they most admire in the other? How can they tell how the other feels? How do they react in times when they can't cheer the other up? How do they show affection? What topics are the most painful to each character? Have they ever lied to each other?

Soooo.... I’m gonna answer them in list cause hopefully it’ll be easier to read! (ps. I forget about Leyton and Alba too cause Leyton’s emetophobic so I actually feel bad when I torture him..)

How did they meet? - Through Jude! Alba’s doing teacher training with Jude, and Leyton was in Jude’s halls. Jude invited Alba over to a gathering in halls, and she met Leyton there! Relationship expectations? - I think Leyton would like it to be serious, he is totally and utterly in love with Alba, but she’s a bit more reluctant - Alba’s a free spirit, she doesn’t like being tied down. Shared values? - Both of them put their heart and soul into everything they do, but that means different things. For Leyton it’s working super hard and getting a good job and then being able to provide for a family, for Alba it’s about being in the moment and following where her heart takes her. But they appreciate the dedication in one another.What accomplishments do they most admire in the other? - When Alba left school she upped and travelled around the world, she lived hand-to-mouth and worked really hard and enjoyed every experience offered to her and Leyton loves that about her! Alba didn’t realise how hard Leyton had it growing up, and the fact that he’s worked so hard and poured his heart into looking after his family, she’s so proud of how far he’s come. How can they tell how the other feels? - Leyton struggles with this actually, he’s not good at non-verbal cues and so quite often needs to have things said explicitly. Alba’s the intuitive type, she just seems to know...How do they react in times when they can’t cheer the other up? - Alba can cheer Leyton up in a second, he doesn’t really get down for long, he panics though and she tends to hug/physically touch him to ground him. Leyton is a romantic - when he realises that Alba is upset/sad, etc, he tends to go out of his way to make her feel special - cooks for her, buys her flowers, that sort of thing.How do they show affection? - Kind of see above? They’re quite romantic the pair of them - they do the grand gestures, but they also just like being together, holding hands, that sort of thing.What topics are the most painful to each character? - Alba had a trauma in Thailand when one of the other English girls she’d met while backpacking drowned, Alba was with her and tried to resuscitate her and it didn’t work (this wasn’t long before she came back to the UK), so that’s really sensitive to her. Leyton, this might be obvious, but it’s his emetophobia - he just totally freaks and has panic attacks about it, and avoids certain things/foods/etc because of it. Have they ever lied to one another? - Not really... minor white lies, yes, but nothing dramatic!

[mysterious-foxes]

Abortion

Let's get this straight. First of all, New York didn't legalize just any abortion up to term. Only medical reasons after 24 weeks. Stop creating a social media outrage from this false narrative. The old law said that even medical abortions were illegal. So if a mother wanted to live, she had to leave the state. This law also protects abortions if Roe vs Wade gets overturned. And yes, there are valid medical reasons for both the fetus and the mother that would require an abortion after 24 weeks. If you don't believe me, please enjoy this non biased article.

https://bit.ly/2vsJvFF

"I think abortion for medical reasons is okay, but anything else is simply murder!" Well, maybe you should learn some grammar before you start calling something a word that it is very much not. Murder: "the unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another." Abortion is not illegal, therefore not murder. Killing an organism? Yes. Murder? No. You can't change the defintion of a word just because of how you feel.

"I think aborting due to rape is okay, but other than that, it's not!" Why? This is the argument that makes the least sense to me. If it's all about saving babies, then why are the ones not conceived from rape more important than the ones that are?

Abortion for any reason is okay. It's a choice for the woman to make. Men, you can have an opinion. If you helped create the embryo/fetus, you can give the woman your opinion. But you don't have to carry the baby and give birth, so you don't get to make the decision.

"Life begins at conception." Actually, life begins before conception. Both the sperm and the egg are alive, when the egg is fertilized and becomes an embryo, it does not create new life. So if you think that it's bad to abort, then it's bad to ejaculate because you're killing millions of lives. It's bad to have a period because you're miscarrying each month. So when does life actually begin? It's something that's continuous. But it's not until 24 weeks that the fetus has any sentient. Around 24 weeks is when it will gain consciousness and awareness. Is something that's not sentient really a life? If it is and it's a terrible thing, then killing plants is just as bad.

"Why does murdering a pregnant woman count as a double homicide, but abortion doesn't count as murdering?" There is a thing called bodily autonomy. That means if anyone else has to have consent to use my body to help them. I don't have to give my kidney to my mom, even if I'm the only match and she'll die without it. A dead person doesn't have to give any viable part of them to save someone else. Why should corpses get more rights than women? If I cause a car crash and now someone that was involved needs a blood transfusion and the hospital doesn't have enough of their type on hand and I'm the only match, I don't have to give them my blood, even though I caused it. I don't have to let a fetus use my uterus as an incubator (and that's even if you believe that it's a separate entity from conception). Now if someone murders a pregnant woman, they are killing mom and fetus. It's not the woman's decision at that point. It would be as if someone is holding onto a ledge for their life. If I don't do anything and let them fall, it's an accident. If I go to help and someone else pushes me off causing the other to fall too, then they just killed two people. "I can't kill someone just for entering my house." No, you can't. But you can kick them out of your house whether it kills them or not. Just like I can kick a fetus out of my body whether it kills it or not.

"Women just want to sleep around and not use protection. They're just reckless and irresponsible because they don't want to be inconvenienced!" First, stop slut shaming. Why are men heroes if they sleep around and women sluts when they do it? It's not just on the women to use protection. Second, no contraceptive is 100% effective. 51% of abortions happen because contraceptives failed. More than half of the people out there did try to use protection and be responsible. Then you have to take in rape and medical reasons and anything else that isn't due to not using protection. Very few people use abortion as their birth control.

"Just don't have sex if you don't want to get pregnant." Sex is a very natural thing and it's so much more than just procreation. If it's not more than that to you, then you're doing it wrong. I've attached two articles, one scientific and one religious as to why it's more. Plus, when a woman orgasms, there is no way she can get anyone pregnant. The clitorus was created solely for pleasure.

https://bit.ly/2CIATLF

https://bit.ly/2FPhUmy

"Abortion is inhumane and very painful for the fetus!" 91% of abortions happen by week 13. The fetus cannot feel pain until week 20. It doesn't have that part of the brain developed to recognize pain. And after 20 weeks, they give the fetus anesthesia or stop its heart to kill it before doing a D&C or other surgical abortions. Most abortions are done with a pill that induces a miscarriage. How is that inhumane?

"Adoption is always an option!" Please tell that to the 100,000 kids in foster care that are waiting to be adopted. Or better yet, adopt them or help get them all adopted and then we can talk about adoption always being an option. Oh, babies are easier to adopt? You mean that there are a bunch if unwanted kids because parents only want newborns? So in other words we should create a bunch of babies so we can make sure those children never get adopted? Yeah, that totally makes sense.

"A heartbeat means life." Does it? We take people off of life support all the time due to being brain dead, but they have a heart beat. When someone goes through cardiac arrest, we try to resuscitate them and often succeed because their brain is still working they can recover from their heart stopping. They can't recover from their brain dying. So brain activity is the real determination of life.

Abortion is an extremely hard decision and it's for the pregnant woman to make and only her. If you don't believe abortion is okay due to religious reasons, that's your views. But you don't get to decide for anyone else. Just like you don't get to force your religion on anyone else. You don't have to be okay with abortion for yourself to let others decide for themselves. That's why it's called pro CHOICE. Everyone gets to decide for themselves. And let's get this straight. Your morals are not everyone's morals. Everyone has different views on things, let them decide what is best for them.

-End rant

[beforethefilm]

Limp.

I need someone. I need someone so bad. It’s so empty without someone to lighten all the anchors in me. No, need is not enough. Is there a word for the desperate, languished, wish to cling to someone the way a limpet does to a rock. The way you cannot pry it apart with great force. The way it grasps for the dearest of life else a wave or some sticky, salty, hungering fingers may pry it away from its parched thirst of a rock, its very backbone, its disease. Would they make it a fresh illness to need something, some inanimate or living, screaming, burdened thing, with such strength that you could only die without it? “BuuutaKk” Is that the sound of a heart tearing, tumbling, brittle bits climbing apart, on the silence of a lovers death bed? So cold, so very, very cold to brush. An icicle which once spoke blooming, flowering, holding words, with the breath of a second; done up, undone, done up, undone, done up, undone, undone, undone, undone. A pretty bow tied to your royal vessels. Have they known the hail thrumping its way along the walls of your aorta? The terrible ashen clouds that just hang above every invisible flick of the hand, which cannot offer anything but a death, a loom if you consider it, on the bottom of your tongue of a mind, too often, without your single source of love, that bleeds in poetry and a found and corseted lyric. Please will HIM. him. him, saw through those anchors. Let them tumble down to drown out the hardships, the uncounted, everyday tears, to lay in burned salt bath after bath, with claw feet; your manmade, emotionless monster beneath. Your words lacking the taste of resuscitation. Your whiteboard face penned with the mistaken felt, which is a stain on your own person done up tight, undone, done up tight, undone, done up tight, tight, tighter, a sailors knot what dearest irony, don’t slip. The risk of a child falling from their bike too much for your stale, lied to mind to endure. So the wheels can never turn. Never. Not ever. Not once. Not again. No life. No freedom. No escape. Stay put. Where you are. Just there. Stay. You cannot pedal. 

Let me. Please. Please. Please.           No. You will fall.        

They pusheNo. You will fall.    

How will I learnYou will never. Your will is wrong. You are incapable.      

It hurts more this wayNo. Stay there for all your life. All your life. All your life.      ....    Die with this feeling. The Only Way. 

That I know. 

Help me

Who will help me

Help

verb

1. make it easier

When have you ever? 

But who is the delusional one, within the poisons you planted?

You, the cause of my attempts. You, created this hell for many, many people. You, became another abuser. You, are sick. How will your terminology and books and job titles and income help you with your buried emotion and absent empathy now?

What will you do when it 

all

comes

crashing

down 

on 

you

?

Will you ever know what it is to be imprisoned/ drugged/ scrutinised/ analysed/ examined/ torn apart for your beliefs and a past of abuse and fear? 

Dab.

Just don’t crack when they stick that needle in.

The prick. Pain. Pain. Pain.

Broken skin.

(Another is coming soon). 

How are you?

(If you knew, what would you do)?

(I know for certain you’d lock me up).

You, the blind, have found no other way.

... 

A little blood. 

Stick a plaster over it. 

I’m good thank you.

Just one kind word.

Just one.

Just one.

Gathers sterilised expression.

My heart falls further than the earth.

See you next time.  

Oh enveloping pain, you prevail. Will the letter ever be addressed to another? Blame shifting like chess pieces square to square. 

Would that make it right?

...

But justice. But justice. But justice. But justice. 

Is not in my outstretched hands.