#i always feel like my depression medication is just a routine thing i take at this point bc ive taken it for so long

[pop-punklouis]

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[imagine-darksiders]

Transformers Prime: Optimus + Reader. Chapter 1.

So, I read @lovinglonerhybrid 's post here. And it absolutely had me in a chokehold, so this is based off that premise. I'm in the UK so please excuse my ignorance of American states lmao.

So, there is a part 2 to this, but I'm going away for 4 days and wanted to get some of it posted before then.

You've broken down fifteen miles short of Jasper's city limits in the dead of night. Deciding to hike in to town, you feel the earth rumble beneath you, and over the horizon, something enormous approaches...

Chapter 1: 9352 words.

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It’s a rare and covetous thing, to find even a single moment of peace in the midst of an intergalactic war.

The gap from one of those precious moments to the next seems to grow wider and wider every time, until their frequency is so negligible, it becomes hard to recognise them for what they are anymore.

For everything Earth could have offered Optimus Prime, he hadn’t been expecting it to relinquish the gift of peace so willingly. But he’s glad – more than glad – to accept them when they come, even if he’s only stealing glimpses of tranquillity on the sand-swept road leading out of Jasper.

Low-beam headlights lazily trace over the faded tarmac ahead of Optimus’s tyres as he trundles along Highway 49, one of only two roads that surround the small, sleepy city of Jasper. It’s a very routine patrol, one he obligingly excused Bumblebee from taking after his poor scout all but begged Optimus to give it to someone else, beeping out promises that he’ll take double shift tomorrow night, if need be.

All this on the back of Miko announcing another of her ‘slumber parties’ at the base, much to Ratchet’s noisy chagrin and Optimus’s private amusement. And, of course, when Bumblebee found out that Rafael would be staying the night too… Well…

‘You’re too indulging,’ their old medic had admonished from his workstation, the broad expanse of his back turned to the Prime, ‘He ought to learn he can’t always have his way.’

But it was a harmless indulgence, and Prime was more than happy to take over the patrol in this instance.

Besides, he had an arguably selfish reason for doing so.

If he’d admitted as much out loud, Ratchet would have scoffed and sent a pulse of chiding dismissal crashing into Optimus’s EM field. ‘You don’t have a selfish component in your body,’ he might say.

But this… Optimus muses, gazing skyward as he trundles down the highway in vehicle mode, letting the crisp, night air slide through his grill and cool his powerful engine… This is the appeal of a solo patrol.

Every now and then, there are times when the Decepticon activity goes quiet, Fowler has nothing to report, and Optimus can almost pretend that he’s just another Cybertronian enjoying a long, quiet drive through the Mojave wilderness. And while he remains ever vigilant, keeping every sensor poised outwardly in a constant surveillance of his surroundings, the old bot still permits at least one sense to wander.

Somehow, it’s always his sight.

Oftentimes he catches himself doing it. Other times, on nights that are quiet and still and clear like this one, there’s a wire-deep longing that overrides his logic gates, and the Prime won’t notice that he isn’t keeping his processor and his optics on the dusty road ahead of him. He’s too busy stealing long, pensive looks at the stars above him, scattered like a-hundred-billion souls sprawling across a curtain of crushed velvet.

It’s out there… somewhere… riding a lonely orbit on the furthest reaches of the galaxy’s Centaurus arm.

Cybertron.

Home.

Their first home, he amends gently, depressing his accelerator to speed up when he realises he’s starting to crawl. Earth is as much their home now as Cybertron ever was.

Sagging on his suspension with a low hiss, Optimus drags his hidden optics back to the road ahead, and all at once, he nearly lurches to a halt, his exhaust pipes sputtering out a hollow sound to betray his surprise.

There, parked several feet from the road a few hundred yards ahead of him, is a vehicle.

Prime’s senses sharpen to a startling focus.

Pumping his brakes, he slows down again, and the roar of his engine fades to a fluctuating hum.

A Decepticon…?

He doesn’t feel anything trying to breach his EM field, nor does he pick up on any resistance when his scanners hone in on the vehicle – ‘Ford. F250. A Pickup truck.’ Year….? Optimus’s focus narrows to a pinprick… ‘Eighty-seven.’

It’s red - a faded, dusky red like some of the sun-baked sandstone at Red Rock Canyon. As Prime’s massive form rumbles on through the night, looming closer and closer to the mysterious truck, his lights reflect off something situated above its rear bumper, the presence of which quells his flaring codes and eases his rigid frame.

A number plate.

Thick, black numbers and letters stand out against the white rectangle, though it isn’t the sequence that alleviates Optimus’s suspicion, it’s their mere presence.

No Decepticon he knows would ever suffer the ‘indignity’ of having a human number plate stapled to their bumpers.

Primus, even the Autobots have foregone the accessory after Fowler gave up trying to keep Bumblebee from losing his, Ratchet from ‘misplacing’ his, and Bulkhead from bending his irreparably whenever he transformed. Optimus had given it a go, for a time… mainly because he was growing worried that their overworked liaison would quite simply combust if he had to intercept one more phone call from ‘concerned civilians’ who were reporting a semi-truck driving through Jasper without its registration.

The Prime’s number plate came to its own crumpled end when he sat down on his berth one evening without removing it first.

One genuine, slightly sheepish apology to a very fed-up liaison later, and Optimus was informed that he and his team no longer needed to wear the plates.

So, the presence of one on this truck is a good sign. It’s less likely to transform and cause an incident.

That does, however, open up an entirely new avenue for concern to creep in.

A crash, perhaps?

Several dark skid marks indicate that it must have veered off the road after a hard, panicked brake.

He can’t pick up any biological signatures either. Even when he casts a wider net, all his sensors catch are the heat signatures of a few tiny, Earthen mammals scurrying about over the sand before they dart into various rock formations when he rolls by. But just because he isn’t picking up the presence of a living human, it doesn’t negate the possibility of a human being inside…

Frame suddenly taut, Optimus trundles to a cautious halt on the road alongside the truck, his engine idling like some great, murmuring beast in the quiet of the desert.

A throaty hum seems to escape his smokestacks as he peers down at the smaller truck, contemplative… considering… Then finally, relieved. There doesn’t appear to be anyone inside, judging by what his headlights illuminate through the cab windows.

What is it doing out here?

It definitely wasn’t here yesterday when he made the drive into Jasper. It isn’t a vehicle he recognises either, and he’s been doubly vigilant of late regarding all the civilian cars, bikes, trucks, vans, and even agricultural vehicles in and around the town.

Privately, he’s been compiling a catalogue of them all, for his own reference.

If there’s a threat to his human charges lurking about in their hometown, Optimus needs to know about it. A Decepticon disguised as a civilian vehicle would be an effective method of infiltration.

Casting one more, cursory ping out into the night to check that he’s definitely alone, he at last begins to unfurl himself into his bipedal mode. Metal plating slides away from his grill, pulling back and rolling along the body of the semi as he rises onto newly revealed pedes. The mechanical whines, whirrs and buzzes are terribly loud and alien amongst the desert’s natural ambiance, but soon enough, the air falls still once again, and a monolithic Cybertronian stands in the place where a Peterbilt used to be.

Soft, cerulean light spills over the abandoned truck as Optimus settles his optics upon it, easing his enormous frame down into a crouch and draping one arm across his knee with a ‘clunk.’

At first glance, he hadn’t noticed anything especially odd about the truck save for its unexpected presence. Leaning sideways, he casts an optic over the front bumper and finds nothing out of place, no damage to indicate a crash, no broken headlights or crushed bonnet.

It’s the same story with the truck’s bed. Only when Optimus hauls himself upright and treads carefully around it to inspect the other side does he notices the glaring problem.

The whole vehicle is canting onto its offside front tyre, a tyre that sports a rather sizeable puncture, considering how flat it is. And from the looks of it, this one was only ever meant to be used as a temporary spare. A quick glance into the truck’s bed reveals what he assumes must be the original tyre, flat as well, with the silver head of a nail jutting from the centre tread block.

Optimus clicks his glossa softly for the owner’s run of bad luck.

Right away, he sends a ping to his team, advising them to be wary of stray nails along this stretch…

He receives several pings in return. Immediately comes Bumblebee’s frustration, buzzed over the airwaves like a sulking sparkling who’s been told his toy was broken. Given the Scout’s inclination to race at top speed all over these roads, Optimus doesn’t doubt he’s just vexed at the shuddersome notion of having to slow down.

Arcee and Bulkhead respond in kind as their leader absently moves his attention to something strange obscuring part of driver’s window, letting their concern wash over his field.

‘Popped a tyre, Boss?’ Bulkhead’s message hits his comm, informal and probing, but with the warmth of care behind it.

Optimus is quick to send a pulse of reassurance back through their shared channel. He’s fine. If one little nail was all it took to take a Prime out of commission, they’d all be in serious, serious trouble.

The channels go quiet after Arcee and Ratchet send their short, concise responses, and once again, Optimus is alone on the road, peering down at a small sheet of paper that’s been taped to the inside of the truck’s front window.

Gradually, he furrows his optical ridges until they almost click together into one, solid line, the apertures inside each optic whirring and shrinking as he reads the words scribbled on the paper.

He recalls the first time he encountered the languages of Earth as they were written. The looping letters, graceful and elegant, chasing one another across the front of the letter Agent Fowler gave him as part of an unofficial welcome to the United States.

Optimus had held the paper so delicately between two of his digits, blinking down at the dark ink soaked into repurposed cellulose fibre. It was beautiful.

When he remarked as such, Fowler made a noncommittal comment that you could tell a lot about humans from their handwriting.

Optimus would sometimes find himself glancing over the children’s homework when they left their books out unattended on the table in their recreational area.

Jack’s neat and sensible cursive. Miko’s chaotic, glittery script that rose and fell and ventured outside the lines because she was usually paying more attention to her music than the words she wrote in her textbook. And Rafael, of course, with his quick, almost frantic stokes of the pen as he tried to scribble his thoughts down as fast as his brain could make them, only to end up losing his confidence halfway through a sentence, doubled back, drew a single line through the words, and started again on a fresh page.

This handwriting though… written in blue, splotchy ink and stuck with a piece of scotch tape to the truck’s window, makes Fowler’s words ring true in Optimus’s processor.

He can tell a lot about the human who wrote it.

‘Please don’t steal/break into my truck,’ it reads. The word ‘please’ has been underlined several times. ‘Not worth much, it’s all I’ve got. Tyre is flat, spare tyre too, so can’t get far anyway. Walking to town to find help bcos phone died and I don’t have a charger. Be back soon. Thanks.’

The ink has run in several places and rendered some of the letters illegible, as if water has been dropped on them from above.

Optimus isn’t naïve. He’s seen the children cry, more times than he can bear.

Then underneath all that, in much smaller writing stuffed underneath the first message like an afterthought they forgot to leave enough space for…

‘P.s, if the truck is still here in 3 days, assume I’m dead.’

With a sudden groan of his metal frame, Optimus braces a servo on his knee and hurriedly pushes himself to his pedes once again, helm swivelling sideways to stare down the length of the road.

The truck’s nose is pointed in the direction of Jasper, but the town itself is still about a fifteen-mile drive…

Surely they wouldn’t make the journey on foot…

But if the note is any indication, then…

His processor flashes again to the children; Miko in particular, and the alarming disregard she has for her own safety. The boys are guilty of that as well, though to a lesser degree.

Suddenly, there’s a very high likelihood that there might be a human wondering through the vast Mojave, alone. Worse still, Bumblebee had reported just last week that there’s been an increase in Decepticon patrols in the area around Jasper. No doubt Megatron has been ramping up his efforts to locate the Autobot base. Their growing presence in the vicinity of town makes these roads particularly treacherous…

Optimus ex-vents roughly, more troubled than frustrated.

Blue optics narrow at the road ahead, and once again, the peace of the desert night is filled by the sounds of living metal collapsing back in on itself.

A powerful engine roars to life. Somewhere nearby, a startled jackrabbit darts beneath the safety of a sagebrush, hiding herself amongst its silvery leaves.

Unblinking, her wild eyes stare after the great, thrumming beast as it moves on down the road.

—————-

You’ve had a lot of ideas in your life.

Some good. Some bad. Some that have paid off, but most that have gone nowhere at all.

Perhaps you were growing tired of going nowhere…

What else would have possessed you to up and move all the way to the middle of Nevada state on the back of a job offer that came from a man your uncle purported to know?

‘Oh yeah, Terry? Did a job with him a few years back for some cattle baron out in the sticks. ‘Course, Terry always wanted his own dairy… Want me to tell him you’re lookin’ for work?’

Turns out, Terry did end up getting that dairy he always wanted. And as it happened, he was looking for a farm hand.

Does it count as nepotism if you’re fairly sure your uncle had only met your future employer once?

Beyond a certain point, you simply couldn’t care less.

A job is a job, even if it is out here in the desert near a town you’d never heard of a month ago.

Dust-caked trainers trudge to a weary halt in front of a large, green road sign.

The moon, thankfully, hangs fat and luminous in the cloudless sky. So at least you don’t need a torch to see, not now that your eyes have had time to adjust the darkness cloaked over the desert.

With your run of bad luck, you half assumed the heavens would have opened by now and given the Mojave a nice, little dose of rain.

“Well,” you mutter aloud to yourself, peering up at the green sign with a grimace, “Could be worse…”

‘Jasper – 10 miles,’ reads like a slap to the face.

Still… It’s better than the fifteen miles.

You must have walked at least five already, dragging your legs behind you like extra baggage that doesn’t want to cooperate.

It has to be beyond midnight now. Well beyond, you suppose.

You’ve been walking for the better part of two hours, slow and sluggish and exhausted. The journey getting to Nevada had been tiring enough, then as soon as you crossed state lines, your tyre caught a puncture going over a particularly nasty pothole that had snuck up on you.

After an hour spent in the blazing sun jacking up the truck and changing to the spare, you set off again for another several hours of travel. Then, twenty miles out of Jasper, just as you dared to celebrate being home-free, the unthinkable had happened.

Who hits a pothole and drives over a nail in the same, damn day? Apparently, the same person who forgot to buy a charger adaptor for the truck.

No charger? No phone.

No phone…? No calling for help…

Your chest expands and deflates with a bone-tired sigh, turning your gaze back onto the long, dark road ahead of you. Tears sting at the inside of your eyelids, and for a moment, you consider letting them fall, if only to ease some of the pressure building up behind your temples. But crying hysterically about the unfairness of the world hadn’t un-punctured your spare tyre, so why would it help the situation now.

“Come on,” you coax yourself, hauling one leg out in front of the other. Rinse. Repeat. “Not far now.”

Just a few more hours…

The going is slow, tough, draining. Even the dark shapes of rocks start to look enticing as you pass them, letting your eyes slide over to them as you wonder just how safe it would be to fall asleep in the desert by the side of a road.

Ever since you broke down a few hours ago, you haven’t seen one, single vehicle out here.

‘Which,’ you hum, pursing your lips and tipping your head back to peer up at the bleary sky far above you, ‘Isn’t so bad…’

The stars are numerous, and startlingly clear out in the wilderness. The moon as well seems brighter here, unobscured by clouds. She makes for a quiet companion on your journey towards Jasper, her starry brethren endlessly stretching out to each corner of the horizon.

Suddenly, you feel very small. A hopeless traveller trying to find port in a sea of sand and rock.

Swallowing roughly, you hike your tattered rucksack high onto your shoulder and tear your gaze from the stars.

It’s quiet out here, save for the rustle of sage bushes disturbed by the warm breeze, and the skittering of rocks as night-time animals go about their hunts.

Perhaps that natural silence is why the sudden introduction of an entirely new sound unnerves you so much.

You jerk to a halt, ears straining to hear something approaching from the distance. Underneath the thin, worn soles of your shoes, you start to feel it; the road thrumming with gentle vibrations, growing stronger every second.

Lighting quick, you whirl around to face the way you’d come, hands flying up to grip anxiously at the straps of your rucksack.

You’d have thought you’d be excited to see those headlights rise up above the horizon line. At last! A stroke of luck! A potential ride! Potential help.

Instead, it’s as though the sudden appearance of two, dazzling lights blooming into view as they crest over the hill finally jar some sense back into your dizzy head.

The haze of fatigue lifts slightly, pushed away by little bursts of adrenaline as your brain fights to wake you up to an unconscious threat.

You’re alone out here. Defenceless, phoneless. You don’t know the area. Nobody knows you’ve broken down… You try so hard to think the best of people, but now that you’ve had one doubt, a hundred others start to scurry around in your brain, demanding attention.

You can see the vehicle, or their lights at least, but you doubt they can see you yet, this far down the road. You wonder what it is. Car? Truck?

… Alien spacecraft? Despite yourself, you let out a snort at that. Isn’t that infamous military base supposed to be in Nevada? The one hiding alien activity?

Right. Sure.

Despite your scepticism however, a thrill of fear rushes down the length of your spine as if to say, ‘Oh? But are you sure sure?’

 Gulping audibly, you take a few steps sideways off the road, stealing a glance at a cluster of large rocks that sit conveniently just several yards to your rear.

You have a decision to make.

Maybe you’ve been alone on the road for too long, and isolation has bred a paranoia in you that’s so deeply rooted, you can’t shift it at a moment’s notice. If the sun was out, perhaps you’d be less apprehensive, but the night, no matter where you are, makes everything seem so much more… treacherous. It hides things. People, motivations, monsters.

And though it pains you to do so, you swiftly decide to err on the side of personal safety.

The vehicle is closer now, and your blood trembles as the roar of a loud, formidable engine thunders over the tarmac. Yet you’re still certain it isn’t close enough to have caught you in its high-beams.

On sluggish legs, you haul yourself about and make a clumsy dash for the rocks, clenching a fist around one strap of the rucksack and using your other hand to grab the closest rock and swing yourself behind it. Dropping to your backside, you flatten your spine against the cool, solid surface, eyes wide, heart beating hard against the cage of ribs keeping it from leaping up into your throat.

‘Coward,’ a voice in the back of your head scoffs, sounding suspiciously like your father. You shake it loose. Now is not the time to be bothered by old ghosts.

The thundering engine draws nearer, rumbling in your chest as it seems to creep towards your hiding spot at a pace even a glacier would be impressed by.

Around the corner of the rock, you can finally see the glow of its headlights smoothing over the tarmac, illuminating the sand and brush all around you. Hurriedly, you tuck your toes right into the shadow cast by your rock, keeping a breath held hostage behind clenched teeth.

“Come on… Come on,” you urge it frustratedly, aware that every second you spend not moving is another second towards sunrise. If you’re not on the dairy ready for work by then…

The vehicle rolls to a stop.

It stops.

The temptation to let out a frustrated scream is only held in check by your tongue getting stuck to the roof of bone-dry mouth.

They saw you. They must have seen you. There’s no way they could have known you were here otherwise.

Idiot!

Wasting time on the decision has only taken it right out of your hands in the end.

A bead of sweat escapes your hairline and rolls down the side of your face, following the curve of your cheek. Should you run? Keep hiding? Did they stop by coincidence? If they meant no harm, they’d have seen you hide and kept on driving, wouldn’t they? Stopping is suspicious. It conveys a desire to engage.

And then something really strange happens.

“Excuse me?”

And… Well, you’re… not entirely proud of the choked gasp that jumps out of you, nor the way you flinch as if you’d been struck.

When did they – He? It’s a low voice, deeper than anything you’ve heard in a long while, full of bass but soft like distant brontide.

When did he get out of the vehicle? You didn’t hear a door open, nor close.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks again.

“I’ve frightened you…” Despite how gentle the timbre is, his voice is loud, like he’s speaking all around you, not just behind you. “I apologise,” the stranger continues, “That is the last thing I meant to do.”

What the Hell is he talking about?

There’s a long, unpleasant stretch of time until he speaks again.

“Was that your… Ford?” he asks, like he’s testing the word on his tongue, “Up the road?”

Shit. You’re starting to regret leaving that note. He must have read it and knew someone would be walking into town, alone and vulnerable.

The vehicle's powerful engine is still idling, strong and steady, buzzing along the ground and up through the soles of your feet.

It goes against your nature to ignore someone when they’re talking to you, but there’s still a part of you clinging to the hope that he’ll just give up and move on if you don’t respond or show yourself. Perhaps he’ll think you were just a figment of an overtired imagination…

Of course, instead, he persists. “Please.”

Jesus, he almost squeezes the word out, oozing dejection.

“You have nothing to fear from me… I’m a friend.”

A friend indeed. You huff quietly to yourself. You don’t even know him. He doesn’t know you. He’s trying to coax you out of hiding after watching you flee from his vehicle. Hardly the foundation for a good friendship. Still, you have to wonder why he doesn’t just come around the rock to stand over you if he’s so keen.

After another few seconds of stubborn silence on your part, the voice speaks again.

“Will you at least step back from the rock?”

What?

“There are scorpions on it, and I fear you’ll get-“

You don’t think you’ve moved so fast in quite some time. One moment you’re pressing yourself to the rock, and the next, you’re scrabbling to your feet with gusto, lurching away from your prior hiding space and spinning around, skin already crawling.

Sure enough, a pair of giant scorpions are scuttling around on the flat top, their tails held aloft, proud and large in the moonlight.

“-Hurt,” the stranger finishes.

Snatching your head up, you find yourself staring right into the vehicle’s headlights, and you instantly grunt with discomfort, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the light.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, the vehicle’s engine skips, and the lights suddenly dim, plunging you into almost darkness save for the dim glow of residual light. “Forgive me. Is that better?”

“Much. Thanks,” you respond automatically, only to turn rigid once you realise you’ve spoken aloud.

Well. He’s already seen you. No point pretending you can’t talk either…

Again, the stranger’s vehicle makes an odd noise, it’s engine hums gently, and as you lower your arm to seek out the man you’ve just opened a line of conversation with, you finally see what you’d been hiding from.

A monstrous Peterbilt sits squarely across the width of the road, entirely alien in the barren, rocky landscape. Smokestacks on either side of its cab reach towards the sky, glinting silver in the moonlight. It looks red under the meagre glow, with lighter panelling on the main body and dark, blue accents on the wheel trims and storage compartment. The grill is, in a word, massive, standing taller than you are, sporting a logo you don’t recognise on the front.

All in all, it’s a hell of a truck. Powerful, you imagine. Expensive too.

You try not to let your mouth hang ajar.

“Where-” Your voice cracks, still dry. “Ahem…! Where are you?”

Glancing around, your hackles start to rise. You can’t see the speaker anywhere. Which is why you let out an embarrassingly shrill yelp when his voice rumbles directly from the semi.

“I’m right here,” he assures you, polite enough not to show his amusement whilst you flap your mouth open and closed.

No, you shake your head. No, that is too weird. “What, are there like… speakers on the outside of your truck or something?”

There’s the tiniest of pauses, followed by a simple, concise, “There are.”

Oh. Well, then. That answers that burning question.

“Okay? So, um… Can I… help you?” you ask awkwardly, screwing one side of your face up.

The man seems to hesitate, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air between you before he replies, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Somehow, your expression twists even further south, and you begin casting your eyes over the semi, squinting through its dark windshield to try and catch a glimpse of what’s on the other side.

“I saw your truck on the side of the road,” the unseen man continues, “I feared you might have been hurt in a crash, so, I stopped to check that you weren’t still inside the vehicle. Then I found your note.”

He falls silent, and the air is dominated once again by the purring of his semi’s engine.

“Okay?” you prompt, still unsure of his motivations.

“It said you need help.”

He trails off, waiting. You’re promptly struck by the idea that he’s trying to guide you to some conclusion he hasn’t yet revealed. Finally, just as you start to grow restless, he forges ahead, “These roads can be hazardous for a lone hu-“

Suddenly, the truck’s engine revs, drowning out his voice for a second and sending you leaping backwards, startled.

“- A lone traveller…” he clears his throat just after the roar of its exhaust cuts out. Then, “Ah, If I may be so bold...”

All of a sudden, the passenger side door unlatches and swings open, and you’re presented with a clear invitation into the darkened cab. “May I offer you a ride into town?”

You wonder if he can see you turn stiff at his suggestion. Your body all but pleads on hands and knees for you to accept. What’s the worst that could happen, after all?

Well. You’ve watched several documentaries and movies that give you a pretty good indication of what ‘the Worst’ entails, thank you very much. You don’t like that he’s inviting you into his truck without showing his face to you yet. You’d like to gauge the person you’re speaking to. Get a bead on him. Is he big? Strong? Tall? Could you overpower him if it came down to it? Does he look like he’s hiding a weapon on him?

All these questions only serve to dry the moisture in your throat.

“I… That’s… very kind of you,” you admit, wringing your hands together as you take a small step away from the semi, “But I’m sure it’ll be okay, it isn’t that far.”

“At an average speed of three miles per hour, you will reach the outskirts of town in just under three and a half hours.”

You blink, caught off guard. ‘And they said we’d never need to use equations after we graduated.’

“Maths guy, huh?” you cock a hip, laying a hand across it and shooting the truck’s windshield a tentative smile, “Maybe I walk at four miles an hour.”

“Two and a half then,” he quips back just as smoothly, the door to his semi still hanging open. When he continues, you can’t help but notice that the cadence of his baritone voice rumbling through the speakers has turned to something a little more sombre, quieter, like he’s trying to impress upon you the gravity of a situation you don’t yet know about. “But time and distance aside, I do not wish to leave you to walk into Jasper by yourself, particularly at this time of night.”

He speaks like he’s been to elocution lessons. Every word seems to be carefully selected, every vowel and consonant articulate and refined.

It’s disarming. He’s disarming. But you’re still not convinced.

“Listen… Thank you, again. But…” It feels rude, like you’re committing some kind of faux pas in turning your back on the semi, yet you can’t shake the nagging voice at the back of your head, telling you that there’s something not quite right about the man in the truck. Not bad, just… off.

“It’s a kind offer,” you tell him again lamely, turning on your heel. And so, you recommence your weary march for Jasper, tossing one last sentiment over your shoulder, “But I’m sure I can make it on my own. Take care, okay?”

You almost expect him to argue, but all you can hear is the now familiar drone of the semi’s almighty engine. For several paces, you can feel a pair of eyes watching you, scrutinising and pensive, if a little baffled by your short yet polite dismissal.

When you make it another ten feet, heaving your tired legs after you over the tarmac, your ears perk up to the sound of an engine revving.

Smokestacks chugging, the massive truck pulls out of its standstill, unseen behind you.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you keep your gaze fixed to the ground ahead and raise a hand, flapping it about in an apologetic farewell as you meander further off the road and onto the sand, giving him plenty of space to get past.

You start to frown when you make it twenty paces without being overtaken by the truck.

That frown only grows deeper when the engine keeps churring away behind you, rubber tyres crunching tiny particles of sand under their treads as it crawls along in your wake.

Is he…?

Tearing your eyes off the toes of your shoes, you send a fleeting glance over your shoulder, surprised – but not much – to find the nose of the Peterbilt creeping slowly along in your peripheral vision, keeping pace with you.

Your frown eases back, and you quirk a brow at him instead, calmly asking, “What are you doing?”

And just as easily, the voice returns, “If you will not allow me to drive you, I will happily escort you to your destination.”

You can’t help yourself.

“Ha! ‘Escort.’” The snicker jumps out of you faster than you can raise your hands to press your fingertips against an unbidden grin. “Sorry,” you immediately try to amend, “You just sounded so serious.”

“… I… am serious?”

Letting your hand flop back to your side, you give your head a shake, still grinning. You really do meet all sorts on the road.

“Regardless, I’m sure you have far better things to be doing with your time.”

How the truck matches your walking speed without his engine faltering or sputtering, you’ll never know.

A strange noise gurgles from its exhaust, almost perfectly reminiscent of a troubled hum.

“On the contrary,” the driver responds, pulling forwards a little until only the grill overtakes you, and for a moment, you worry he’s about to drive across your path, “There is nothing at the moment that concerns me more than getting you safely where you need to go.”

Huh. Of all the genuine, stubborn…

“Look.” Your shoes scuff up a cloud of sand as you draw to an abrupt and decisive halt, turning bodily towards the truck. Hands splayed on your hips, you glare at the windscreen, aiming approximately for the driver. A second later, he must have hit the brakes because the semi lurches to a stop as well, hissing noisily.

Still, he doesn’t step out.

“You seem like a nice guy,” you start, trying to keep your chin raised and your tone stern. You fail, of course. Your voice cracks nervously, but at least you try. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you finally elect to stop beating around the bush and just address the elephant in the room – or desert, as it were.

“But I don’t make it a habit to get into random trucks with strangers.” You make it a point not to directly accuse him of having ulterior motives, but you hope you’ve at least driven home your main concern. At best, he’ll grow offended that you’d think him capable of such a thing and – hopefully – move on. At worst… Well. You brace yourself for that, teeth grit so tightly, your jaw starts to ache as you flick your eyes over towards the truck’s driver-side door, waiting.

The truck in question does something odd then. It… sinks? At least you think it does, lowering on its axles by a few inches like the wheels have just deflated. It’s difficult to tell in the dim moonlight though, and it’s over so quickly, you can’t be sure you saw anything at all that wasn’t just a trick of the desert.

How long have you been awake?

You’re busy calculating the hours you were driving when the stranger’s voice is kicked out over the speakers again.

“You assume I mean you harm…” he utters.

And just like that, the stern, rigid scowl is instantly wiped off your face.

He sounds…

…sad.

Not offended. Not angered by your thinly-veiled implication.

Just sad. Dispirited, even. As if it’s only just occurred to him that you might have perceived him as a threat.

It’s almost painful when the pair of you dissolve into an uncomfortable silence that lasts for several beats of your rapid-fire heart.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, your brows drift apart whilst you try to think of something to say. Trouble is, you’re afraid that speaking again will only make things worse.

You have no idea what’s going through his head. What if his dejected tone is followed by something worse?

“I’m sorry,” you backtrack, pressing your lips together and chiding yourself for faltering, “It’s nothing personal, just… I-I should probably get going before I fall asleep standing up.” You give a stilted laugh, but it soon turns into an awkward sound made at the back of your throat, lips pulled over your teeth in a grimace.

Dipping your head, you swallow thickly and grip the straps of your rucksack again. But just as you make to turn away, the semi’s wheels abruptly twist towards you. It’s ever so slight, just enough that the truck rolls a few paces in your direction before it stops again, its grill pointed straight at you.

With an audible gulp, you go to take another step back, staring at the metal in anticipation. Your retreat is soon halted by the mellow rumble of his voice.

“I understand your hesitation. And I know that the word of a stranger may not hold much weight,” he begins slowly. The Peterbilt inches forwards again. “But I can assure you, you have nothing to fear from me…”

Shifting on your feet, you let go of your bag and clutch instead at your elbows, brows tipped up indecisively. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that. He also speaks with a candour you’ve never encountered outside of a film or a storybook. Frank and forthright in a way you’ve never been privy to. Is that why you’re hesitating? Is that why he seems ‘off?’ Because his level of sincerity doesn’t have a place in your world?

Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time by yourself, it’s turned you distrustful. Maybe you’re just getting cynical. Looking back on your journey here, you realise that only other person who you’ve spoken to was a disinterested server who took your order at a drive-thru… That was four days ago. How long before that did you listen to someone who wasn’t the people on your truck’s radio?

Why is it so suspicious that this trucker wants to help? Hell, you’d be concerned as well if you saw some poor bastard hiking alone through the desert at night without a friend in the world.

Christ, you need some perspective.

The driver must see the conflict painted like a brand across your expression.

“Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated entirely remotely?” he pipes up.

You blink once. Then again to wake yourself up a little more, pulled from your inner turmoil. “What?”

“This vehicle,” he tells you, “It is an unmanned vehicle.”

Curiosity overtakes suspicion faster than you can uncross your arms and stare at the grill dumbly, face opening up in surprise. “Wait. You mean it’s one of those self-driving things?”

“In a sense.” The semi’s engine rumbles softly, and the not-driver adds, “I am what you might call… the safety driver.”

Now that is curious.

You don’t even realise you’ve taken a step closer. “Really? But I thought that sort of tech was still in testing?”

“It is,” he replies, “We are, however, attempting to advance to field-tests, to see if these vehicles can autonomously haul freight in areas with sparser populations, to minimise the risk of collision.”

“Hence why you’re driving it out here in the middle of the night,” you realise aloud, raising an inquisitive brow at the windscreen, “So you’re really not in there? You’re driving it from somewhere else?”

“Would you care to see for yourself?” he asks kindly.

Your wide eyes flit to the passenger door when it eases open once again, though this time, it seems far less foreboding than before.

Tugging a loose piece of skin between your teeth, you give the silver steps leading to the door a scrutinising glance.

That does reassure you…

Slowly, still at least a little wary, you coax your legs to move, and they begrudgingly carry you onto the road. You approach the semi-truck with all the caution of a doe crossing an open meadow.

As you venture closer, its engine kicks up a notch, emitting a steady, gentle purr as if the vehicle itself is pleased with your acquiescence.

Suddenly, as you move along to the open door, you’re dazzled by a light flickering on inside the cab, bathing what you can see from this angle in a calm, golden hue.

From down here, it looks… just like an ordinary interior.

And lo and behold, as you stand on your tiptoes to see in, you find the driver’s seat is eerily devoid of its occupant.

You let out a breath that emerges shakier than you would have liked it to.

“Wow,” you laugh, impressed.

Maybe just a quick peek…

A vast chunk of apprehension breaks away from your chest and vanishes into the ether as you shuffle towards the steps, raising an arm and stretching your fingers across the space to the grab handle that sits invitingly just beside the open door.

This side of the truck is bathed in silver moonlight, and it’s only now that you’re this close that you happen to notice something you hadn’t before.

You almost wince when you spot them.

Although shiny and speckled with only the lightest dusting of desert sand, the metal panelling on the semi is covered in signs of wear and tear.

Enough to give you pause, at least.

For a moment, you’re taken aback, turning bodily away from the open door and cocking your head at the myriad of scratches that criss-cross their way up towards the semi’s roof.

All the paint in the world couldn’t hide some of those shallow nicks and lines that have been scraped out of the metal. In any case, something big must have scuffed it. Perhaps another driver in their own Peterbilt? Or perhaps it’s all damage sustained in testing the vehicle’s automated capabilities.

Clicking your tongue, you absently raise a hand to stroke your fingertips gingerly along the length of a particularly prominent scratch by the door.

“Oh dear,” you tut softly at the side of the truck, “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Without warning, the engine that had been buzzing so gently suddenly ramps up and starts to vibrate firmly beneath your fingers, so strong you can even feel it judder the ground through the soles of your feet.

Recoiling like you’ve been zapped, you whip your head around to peer through the open door, half expecting the driver to admonish you for touching his vehicle.

As swiftly as it started however, the thrumming engine dies down, and the truck returns to its soft, benign idling. “My apologies,” comes that gentle voice again through the speakers, “Just an overactive combustion chamber.”

“Is it... safe to ride in?” you retort, giving the back of the truck a sidelong glance.

“You will find very few vehicles safer than this one,” he tells you patiently, “I will not allow any harm to befall you, as I would not allow it to befall any of my passengers.”

Your shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Befall,” you parrot, fighting a smile, “I love the way you talk.”

“… You do?” His speakers buzz with a pleasant hum.

Fingers flexing anxiously, you reach out once again and slide them around the grab handle beside the door, finding that it’s unexpectedly warm under your palm.

“So, I just… get in?” you ask, only to cringe immediately, realising you probably sound like a fool who’s forgotten how to get into a truck.

Before you can rebuke yourself harshly though, the absent stranger offers his response. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, no,” you rush out, placing one foot on the first, silver step and hoisting yourself up off the ground, bringing yourself level with the cab’s seats.

Your eyes grow wide with wonder as you take in the interior.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, suddenly hesitant to pull yourself up those last few feet.

“Is there something wrong?”

“It’s just… It’s so clean!”

Laid out before you is a perfectly ordinary truck cabin. Soft, grey leather covers the seats, with the same dark colouration on the roof, doors and most of the glovebox, interspersed by a rich, black steering wheel. The soft light, you discover, is emitted by multiple strips of blue neon LEDs that the driver must have fitted underneath the radio dials and dashboard, casting the truck’s interior in a cool, soothing glow.

But most astonishingly, for as much as you search, you can’t spot a single thing out of place. It’s absolutely immaculate. There isn’t one receipt stuffed in the door pockets, no traces of sand or gravel dirtying the footwells, no loose change tossed into the centre console…

Dumbfounded, you glance into the back, but all you find it a dark, grey panel and a shelf set back into the semi’s rear wall, meant for use as a bed, you surmise. It’s empty, unsurprisingly. Not a blanket or a pillow in sight.

Finally, your suspicions are put to rest. This truck doesn’t look lived in at all. He really is operating it remotely.

“God, it looks brand new in here,” you marvel aloud, suddenly hyper-conscious of the abysmal state of your old pickup. The scratches on this semi’s exterior play briefly on your mind but you brush your musings aside, too fatigued to consider the contradictions of a worn exterior but an immaculate interior.

Instead, you feel a frown crease the skin between your brows.

It really is immaculate in here…

Glancing down, you scowl disdainfully at your filthy shoes, the tank-top that’s stained irreparably by dropped food and greasy finger-smears, and trousers that are tattered and worn at their hems.

“Is everything all right?” the ‘driver’ asks again. His voice must emerge from the speakers on each door, low and warm, filling up the cabin.

“My shoes are dirty,” you admit out loud, your grip on the handle turning slack until you sink a few inches back to the first step, “I’m dirty. I-I don’t want to get sand and crap all over your truck.”

“I don’t mind.”

Spoken with more consideration than you’ve heard in a long, long time.

You pause at once, brows tipping up in the centre of your forehead.

A deep inhale through your nose brings with it the unobtrusive scent of leather, with the faintest undertone of adhesive sealers, giving the interior that ‘new truck smell’ that so many drivers try to replicate artificially.

Comparatively, it’s been several days since you passed a rest stop that had showering facilities. Those that did asked for a hefty charge. You’d glanced down at the handful of coppers in your centre console and decided you could go without. Now, you’re starting to regret that decision. Every now and then, whenever you raised your arms to stretch or flip the visor down in your pickup, you’d catch an unpleasant whiff of yourself wafting out from under your light, cotton shirt.

Embarrassed as you are to confess that you’ve been severely neglecting your personal hygiene, you swallow past a lump in your throat and croak, “I… haven’t exactly washed for a couple of days… I wouldn’t want to make your truck smell…”

And in a tone so kind it threatens to brings a tear to your eye, the stranger answers consolingly, “I think your scent is perfectly fine.”

It’s so damnably genuine, you can’t even find it in yourself to point out that he isn’t here to smell you, so his point is moot.

“I…” One more cop-out strikes you. “I don’t have any money,” you murmur truthfully, ashamed, “I can’t pay you for the fuel, or-“

“-I ask for nothing in return but your company,” is all he says, cutting you off as gently as his profound voice will allow.

And just like that, you’re out of viable excuses. Or perhaps your body has noticed the comfortable seats right in front of it and you don’t have enough fight left in you to deny it a sit down. Besides, any reasons you come up with to dip are likely to be met with a counterpoint.

Even so, you can’t help but hesitate for one more question, hand clasping and unclasping around the grab handle. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m not going to get you in trouble or anything am I?”

The next sound that hums through his speakers is so soft and rich, you think it’s the truck’s engine playing up again, at least until the stranger cuts the noise off by saying, “You do not look like trouble to me.”

If he only knew.

The sound prior, you realise, was a chuckle, the first one you’ve heard out of him yet. Something in the measure of it settles the last of your nerves, only slightly, just long enough to have you throwing caution to the wind. With a final heave, you pull yourself the rest of the way inside, sliding gingerly into the comfortable passenger seat. You never notice how the metal below your foot shifts microscopically, lifting you closer to the cab.

It takes a lot of restraint not to let your eyes drift closed, nor to slump backwards into the wondrously giving material on your spine.

Instead, you sit stiffly with your rucksack keeping you upright, legs pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. If you make any kind of mess in here, you’ll be mortified.

After a moment, you remember to close the door, but just as you turn and peel a hand off your thigh, you jolt, staring agog at the door as it swings slowly shut with a dull ‘click.’ All of its own accord.

“Full remote access,” the voice pipes up as the engine below you roars to life, and then you’re moving, and all you can do is stare through the window at the desert drifting by whilst trying to ignore the uninvited ache in your chest.

“Seatbelt.”

His gentle prompt spurs you to reach over and grab the fabric near your shoulder, tugging it across your body and fumbling a little to slot it into place. Suddenly, you feel an invisible pull on the belt, and the metal buckle finds its way into the socket on your next pass.

‘Must be magnetic,’ you muse distractedly.

“Are you comfortable?”

Blinking back the moisture in your eyes, you turn to glance at the empty driver’s seat. It’s bizarre, and more than a little unsettling to see the steering wheel turn itself around as the truck pulls back onto the road, driven by unseen hands.

When you don’t immediately respond to his query, the man continues just as patiently as before. “If it is too cold, I can turn up the heater. Or… perhaps you are too warm…” He hums to himself, thoughtful. “You have been exerting yourself.”

You instantly become aware of the light sheen of sweat that hasn’t quite dried on your forehead. Puckering your face up into a solemn smile, you shake your head and at last respond. “Not to worry. It’s very comfortable in here.”

What follows is a poignant moment of hesitation before the voice speaks again. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but… You do not seem comfortable…”

The open-ended statement fades into silence, and you’re left casting nervous glances around the cabin again. “How do you-?” you start, tugging your shirt further down your arms, “Can you see me? Like… in here?”

Again, there’s a pause, barely longer than a second, yet long enough for you to notice it.

“Cameras,” comes his measured response, “Both external and internal. They’re how I spotted you on the road.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even considered that… Of course.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you reach up and begin to paw uselessly at your dishevelled hair, humming though a thin-lipped smile. “I must look a sight,” you half joke.

“You look tired…” he replies diplomatically, and there’s nothing in it for you to be offended by.

Rubbing a thumb over the wrinkle slowly carving a home between your brows, you heave a dreary sigh. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I can only imagine… And… Where does it culminate, if I may?”

“Terry’s Dairy?” you offer, “Uh, it’s this little farm just on the outskirts of Jasper.”

The truck beneath you gives a reverberating thrum. “I know the pastures, but I’m afraid you will find they lay beyond the ‘outskirts’ of the city.”

Letting out a groan, you knock your head back against the seat behind you, staring bleakly up at the ceiling. “Of course… How far?”

“Only a few miles, to the East of Jasper. We’re coming in from the Northwest highway. I can get you there in twenty-five minutes.”

“Twenty- Oh, no, no. You really don’t have to do that,” you protest, shifting in the seat to frown at the empty driver’s seat in lieu of anywhere else to look, “Just drop me off in town and I’ll walk the rest. You’re already going out of your way for a stranger.”

“I am dropping you off at your destination and not a mile before,” he tells you steadily.

His uncompromising tone brooks no argument.

You stare at the spot a person should be for several, long moments, debating how much you could push an argument. He’s already coaxed you into his truck, his powers of persuasion are rather good. What chance do you have, sleep-deprived as you are?

Conceding sullenly, yet appreciatively, you let your back touch the seat, settling into it a little less hesitantly. “You won’t be taking no for an answer, I assume?”

He only lapses into a stubborn silence, an answer in and of itself.

That quiet is broken, however, when you suddenly let out all the air from your lungs, a smile growing across the width of your face as the breath escapes your nostrils in a sigh. “Thank you for this… Really. You’re saving me a lot of grief.”

The blue neons on his dashboard seem to flare a bit brighter for all of a second before they dim again. “I am glad to be of service,” he replies warmly.

“Oh my god,” you blurt without warning, leaning forwards in the seat and staring through the windscreen with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry, you’re being so nice and I’m so rude – I never asked your name.”

“Nor did I yours,” he points out, “You may call me Op-“

Suddenly, a burst of static buzzes through the radio. You shoot it a funny look.

“Optimus,” the stranger admits over the static with a hesitance you pick up on right away, drawing your gaze from the dash, “My name is Optimus.”

“Optimus?” you repeat incredulously, a small smile quirking at the edges of your mouth, “Wow… You must have had creative parents.”

“I appreciate that it might seem… an unusual name…”

“It is,” you agree pleasantly, “I like it. Makes you sound cool. Unique. My parents just stuck me with Y/n.”

At once, Optimus echoes your name, and you’re jarred by the sound of it coming from someone else’s lips, reverberating around the truck. It’s been a while since anyone used it.

“Y/n,” he says again in his velvety timbre, “It’s a fine name. I like yours too.”

[andhumanslovedstories]

hi! i'm gonna overshare a little bit but i'm doing my nursing prereqs right now and i'm really worried. i'm kind of really mentally ill and i've been worrying recently if nursing is worth it. i want to help people and it sounds so interesting and i love medical stuff but i don't want to get burnt out with the stress and long hours. someone told me that nursing is a lot like being a restaurant server, and i don't want to go to school and get a degree and a career that's literally just serving again. is it satisfying? is it rewarding? is it soul-killing? i'm scared

hi there! I'll overshare in return! I'm just coming off three months of disability for burnout (which for me is just depression but with a name you can use in the workplace). My job didn't cause my depression, but it certainly exacerbated it. The hours, the stress, the constant exposure to people suffering and the limits on your ability to do something about it, all those suck and they can break your brain. (On the other hand, I've been majorly depressed while working at an ice cream parlor where the walk-in freezer was for smoking weed. You can be depressed anywhere.)

And it is a hard job! Harder in some parts of the field than others. Different places have different nursing cultures, different laws, different staffing, etc. Where I work, there's good protection and advocacy for nursing. That's not true everywhere.

With all that said--I really like nursing. I get to do work that I know contributes good to the world. I get to solve very practical problems. I meet people I would never otherwise meet. I have the opportunity every shift to do something that I am proud of. And a lot of times, I find it fun! It's fun to brainstorm how to make someone who's been puking all night feel better. It's fun to see your efforts rewarded, even in small ways. It's fun to stop something before it becomes an emergency. It's fun bustling around, juggling a dozen different things. It's not ALWAYS fun. But for me, the work is not just meaningful but also enjoyable.

That's how I knew I had bad burnout btw. Even when things went well and I did work I was proud of, every shift was such a fucking slog.

If you are interested in the basic work of nursing (managing the human response to illness and promoting health), then there's a million and one jobs you can do with a nursing degree. They cater to different traits. I've discovered I really like precepting new nurses, I like working on the floor with its routine and concrete goals, and I like symptom management. I don't like critical care or the emergency department or working on stuff that isn't patient care, like paperwork and charge nursing. I like novelty but not chaos. I like independence but not being left entirely to my own devices. I like that I physically cannot take any of my work home. I do not like being on committees. So for me, right now at this point in my life, I like being a basic med-surg night shift float pool nurse. I would be absolutely miserable as a neuro ICU critical care day shift nurse. I would be bored to death being an inpatient rehab night nurse. Being a nurse manager would probably make me suicidal again.

If you find the basic work interesting and rewarding, you can tailor it to your taste. (I can't recommend floor nursing enough for the adhd havers amongst us.)

and last thing, regarding mental illness: I think a lot of nurses (and ppl in healthcare in general) struggle with mental illness way more than they think they do. Someone who knows they have depression and works to manage it will likely be more resilient than someone endlessly pushing through their fatigue and misery. Probably a better nurse, too. I take meds, go to therapy, get sleep, push myself to eat, take sick days, protect my limited energy, do physical activity--I'm a gym girlie now!!--because I'm treating a disease I know that I have. Just knowing that there's something up with your brain and doing something about it puts you way ahead like half of the people who work the emergency department.

[chaifootsteps]

saw someone point out something I should have realized before

stans keep excusing Stolas ignoring Blitzo's boundaries/protests as him having 'poor social skills'

but why does he have poor social skills? how is it even possible? he's a royal demon with legions at his disposal and a palace full of guards & servants

he doesn't like parties but he still goes to them and presumably his royal duties (what little there are of them) consist mostly of going places and talking to people

how is it possible he has bad social skills when a key tenant of being royal usually involves training specifically around interacting with other people??

this is probably, like most things, the result of Viv's lousy worldbuilding. we're two seasons deep and it's impossible to tell what being a Goetia actually means on the day to day.

the impression the show gives is that Stolas grew up alone (for no reason, how does this benefit the Goetia family to isolate one of their princes this much?) and would spend most days alone were it not for his daughter still living with him. what his routine even is day to day is unclear, he doesn't seem to have any consistent duties that take up his time so he just lounges around reading or doing basically what he feels like

the most we ever get to see of his duties is the harvest moon festival (which is only once a year) and him doing some kind of paperwork in the Look my way MV.

Viv probably wanted to make him look lonely and friendless but she's just made him look like a lazy layabout who's bad with people for no real reason and doesn't bother using his power or opportunities to improve himself even though there's nothing stopping him (seriously, he whines about being alone but can't bring himself to leave the house and meet people? even when the show is totally inconsistent about whether his being royalty even matters for interacting with others from episode to episode? and if it's as a result of his depression which he's medicating for, how did he keep finding the energy and motivation to harass Blitz into sleeping with him?)

I know I bring him up more than I should, but this is yet another point in Instagram Stolas's corner. The guy communicated like you'd expect a royal to have been meticulously trained to communicate, always polite and very precise. Series Stolas's day job, from what we've seen, has consisted of paperwork, attending the Harvest Moon Festival, and insulting his subjects.

A better writer would explore the fact that Stolas, despite thinking of himself as kind and lonely and tragically friendless, drives away potential friends with his callousness and insensitivity towards their feelings...and Stella, despite being an deeply embittered person, attends parties and tea parties, and is always shown to be surrounded by friends.

[bluedalahorse]

posting fic snippets out of a desperate need to feel something (that isn’t stress)

There are more real things to be stressed about, and then there are also things to be personally stressed about, like the camping trip I will be away chaperoning from Wednesday to Friday. I do not particularly love to be away from home or disruptions to my routine.

I had hoped to finish the fanfic I was working on before I left, because then I could just avoid my email inbox and my AO3 account and not constantly refresh to see if anyone decided to read my fic. But! That did not happen. It probably won’t happen because I still have the last scene to finish and those always take me too long.

I still want to share a little bit of fic though, so I think I’ll post some of the raw unedited text from today’s work. Nothing wrong with that, right?

Anyway have some post-university pre-second-chance-saraugust, I guess.

Usually driving home—or in this case, driving back to the temporary apartment she’s renting this week—is a way for Sara to decompress after long days on set. She can put on music or an audiobook, or call Simon and Felice. Sara wants nothing more than to recap the last ten hours to one of them, just so they can reassure her she isn’t overreacting. But Simon and Wilhelm are catching up with Rosh and Ayub over pizza and boardgames, and tonight is one of the nights Felice works late in her food truck.

Mamma? Things are better with Mamma lately, but she’d still tell Sara to not read too much into the directors’ and writers’ decisions. Pappa might understand better, if he’s sober, but Sara doesn’t want to reach out unless she’s certain he is.

What is she thinking? It’s not like she can go too far into the behind-the-scenes details of Age of Liberty, anyway, since the production team made her sign an NDA, and that means no venting.

When Sara returns to her temporary rental, the kitchen lights are too bright. They’re the same lights as yesterday, so she must be overstimulated. She flicks them off and on a few times trying to decide if she can stand them, before she finally lets the square yellow light of the microwave faintly illuminate the room instead. Then, Sara scrolls through her phone as the starchy, comforting smell of pasta fills the air.

Instagram provides the usual array of photographic distractions: the girls’ football team Rosh coaches, the award-winning hibiscus cake from Felice’s dessert menu, the too many ads for hair care products and earplugs and soft clothing and tropey novels. That’s mixed in with occasional news articles about climate change, as well as infographics from other neurodivergent influencers with bullet points about masking or proprioception or social scripts. Sara lets the images blur before her eyes and the letters in usernames turn into meaningless shapes, until a familiar expression—one that habitually holds back grief—causes her thumb to finally stop swiping.

It’s the official instagram of the Crown Prince of Sweden. August’s most recent post shows him working at a desk, head bowed over a neat stack of papers. He’s gripping a pen and wearing glasses, but he isn’t writing on the paper. The glasses are new and make him look serious. To his left is a tablet-sharped therapy light. That’s even newer, and it washes August’s face in a muted silver glow. Sara wonders if anyone will recognize the light’s true purpose.

Then she reads the caption: As the hours of daylight grow shorter, many Swedes show increased symptoms of depression. Don’t forget to spend time outdoors, and reach out to your medical provider if you are experiencing persistent low moods or feelings of hopelessness. Take care.

The microwave beeps as Sara reaches the last two words of the post. She puts her phone away as she extracts her pasta and sits down at the table to eat. After an initial few bites, her mind fills up with questions. Is the post meant to be a simple public health message? Or is there a more personal meaning behind it?

She shouldn’t be ruminating this much when August is her ex, and for good reasons, but after a long day—one where Sara’s surroundings had her thinking about August anyway—can she really help it?

After Sara moves her empty pasta bowl to the sink, she returns to her phone. The photo has disappeared from her feed when she opens the app again, which doesn’t surprise her. When Sara navigates over to the Crown Prince’s official account, however, the photo isn’t there either.

Someone had it deleted. Probably some social media manager who works for the royal court.

The palace loves it when you promote sympathetic causes, Wilhelm once told Sara. As long as the sympathetic cause you promote has no connection to you whatsoever.

[ange1sang]

a little to the left

2.6k words, gallavich + brief appearance from liam

; canon compliant/post season 11, domestic gallavich, hurt/comfort, trauma, dissociation, vomiting, gentle mickey milkovich

Most days Ian doesn't notice them. The blanks, the disconnect in his mind, the gaps in his memory like potholes in a road filled with oil slick and rainwater. They've been there since his late adolescence, weaving their way into his consciousness and embedding themselves into the membranes that separate his brain from his skull, so that he's used to them. He doesn't have to notice them, not when he can get by just fine without acknowledging them. But that's only on most days. 

Some days the blanks are deep and pitch black, tripping him up or even swallowing him whole. His mind becomes a black hole, everything in disarray and stretched, twisted, deformed until it's all unrecognisable. His childhood is a jumble of scenes from a movie watched on a drunken night, parts of it covered with lumpy, expired Wite-Out and others blotted with blood, smeared and dirty. The confusion makes his head pound and bile rise in his throat. For the longest time he didn't connect the two things. He's been having depressive episodes since he was seventeen, always accompanied by aches and nausea, and it was easy to lump the blanks and gaps in with everything else the depression brought on.

But he's older now, taking medication and watching his routine so that the depression rarely rears its ugly head anymore, yet the days of darkness, confusion and agony persist. They come when he least expects them, when he has a day full of errands to run with his brother or a day he's promised to spend babysitting his niece or nephew. He goes through the motions the way he's taught himself to do on even the hardest days, but it feels like wading through raw sewage in nothing but his boxers, grime and filth splattered against his thighs and clinging to the inside of his nose. He barely survives it, throwing up everything he eats, sometimes before he can reach a toilet bowl, and crawling into his bed deaf to the worried murmurs of his husband. 

It takes him years of survival, white-knuckled and tense-jawed, before it begins to make even a little sense to him. 

"Hey, Ian."

Liam's voice pulls Ian's attention from the comedy rerun he and a sleepy Mickey are watching on the TV. He looks to where his youngest brother is sitting at their kitchen table, school laptop illuminating his face and an old, chewed-up pen in his hand. 

"What's up?" Ian asks, lifting a hand to run his fingers through Mickey's hair. His husband grunts softly, pressing his face down against Ian's shoulder. Liam takes a breath, hesitating before he speaks again.

"You know the club you worked at?" he asks. Ian feels Mickey tense against him, and has to stroke his thumb against his forehead to keep him from cussing at the kid.

"Yeah, what about it?" Ian asks, trying to keep his voice lighthearted. "You aren't thinking of getting a job there, are you?"

"No," Liam says quickly, grimacing at the suggestion. Ian feels something in his chest relax. "I'm writing a paper on CSA for my psych class - you think it'd be okay if I interview you? Interviews get us extra points."

"CSA?" Ian asks, raising an eyebrow. Liam hesitates again, looking sheepish and guilty all of a sudden. 

"Childhood sexual assault," he clarifies after mulling it over for a long minute. The second the words leave his mouth Mickey lifts his head from Ian's shoulder and glares at the teen.

"Write a paper on those fuckin' drooling dogs or something, man," he says, which would be funny if it weren't for how his jaw clenches once the words have left his mouth. "Leave your family outta that shit, we got enough people lookin' at us like social experiments already."

"Right," Liam mumbles, but his eyes don't move from Ian, who feels his face stiffening like concrete. "Okay, sorry."

"Nah, it's fine," Ian whispers, his voice barely audible even though he tried to speak normally. He turns his head away from his brother, back to the TV. The blue light of the screen suddenly takes on a purple tinge, spotlights moving against the inside of Ian's eyelids and illuminating dark, dirty floors soiled with bodily fluids and pills that had been crushed beneath someone's shoe. His veins throb in his arms, skin suddenly too tight for his flesh, like he's waking up with a bad hangover, dry-mouthed and disoriented.

"Ian."

He feels his lips forming a frown on his face but they don't belong to him, invisible fingers pulling down the corners of his lips to turn him into a sad mime. Mickey's hand, warm and rough cups his cheek. He blinks and the dirty floor disappears, replaced with worried blue eyes and dark, furrowed brows.

"Hey. Baby."

"I'm fine," his reply comes, automatic and without thought, before he even thinks the words. Clearly, this does nothing to soothe Mickey, eyes darting around Ian's face. His thumb rubs Ian's temple, stroking the vein that feels like it's about to burst. "I'm... I'm fine."

Mickey draws in a sharp breath, looking like he's ready to scold him, but he doesn't say anything. He shoots Liam a brief but withering look, before leaning in to kiss Ian's forehead. 

"Okay," he mumbles, and slumps back against the sofa, but not without guiding Ian's head to rest against his shoulder. 

Ian's chest is tight and aching, but he's fine. He's totally fine.

When he wakes up the next morning it's to Mickey yelling from the kitchen.

"Ian! You want coffee?"

He stiffens in their bed, his husband's voice sounding foreign. 

"Ian?"

No, it isn't his husband's voice. It's the name. Ian. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to recall the last time he heard that name, but all his mind can offer are broken, fragmented memories of strangers whispering Curtis or Clayton or Benjamin in his ear, their breath hot against his skin. The familiarity of the names is soothing and torturous all at once, and before he knows what's happening his stomach is squeezing, pushing. He sits up but barely manages to lift his head from his pillow before a stream of weak, beige-green liquid pours from his mouth, puddling on the sheets and dripping down his chin. He stares at the pool of vomit, gears moving in his head like he's looking at an old friend. 

"Hey, man, you want coffee or-"

Mickey's voice stops just as abruptly as his movements, the man standing in the bedroom doorway like a statue. Ian turns his head to look at him, the small movement dizzying, and feels that same squeeze in his stomach. This time he has the foresight to move his hands, catching the little mouthful of hot, caustic stomach acid in his palms. 

"Ian, c'mon, don't do that," Mickey whispers, approaching slowly and taking hold of Ian's wrists. He allows himself to be manoeuvred, watching as the vomit sloshes from his palms and lands on the bed sheets. The name on Mickey's lips makes Ian's skin prickle, and he curls into himself. He's too big for it to really work, but he must have been small enough once. Must have been small enough to fold into himself like an ashen baby bird, all skin and bone and ruffled feathers. He tries to curl into himself further, trying to remember where the instinct comes from, but all he sees is a bottomless pit. Panic curls around his throat like barbed wire. "Come on, you gotta wash your hands. I can help you."

"No, I..." Ian mumbles, his own voice startling him. He stares down at his palms, feeling fabric against his skin. Expensive fabric, yarn woven into fine cotton with 2% spandex, fabric he's never been able to afford, not even on his wedding day, but that he must have touched at some point. Blearily, he looks at Mickey, meets his worried gaze through thick tears that refuse to pour down his cheeks even as he blinks over and over. His breath catches in his throat. "I don't feel right."

"That's okay. I got you," Mickey reassures him. Lips press against his forehead in a sweet kiss. "Come on, babe. It's okay."

Mickey takes his hands, not recoiling or frowning when the still-warm vomit touches his skin. He smiles, soft, small, scared, and helps the redhead stand up. 

"You're fine. I got you," he repeats, and kisses the dense patch of freckles on Ian's shoulder. The touch is familiar, and this time the familiarity is comforting without also being nauseating. He holds on tight to Mickey until their hands are under the running water of their bathroom tap, and as soon as their palms are separated he finds himself leaning into the other man, curling up again, trying to make himself smaller. He can feel Mickey watching him, gauging his condition, taking in his expressions and reaction to every little touch. "You're okay, Ia- baby."

Ian looks up, looks at Mickey's wet lashes when he bites back the name on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't understand why or how, but Mickey always knows what to say and, more importantly, he always knows what not to say. He drags in a deep breath that doesn't really reach his lungs and drops his head so he can hide his face against Mickey's shoulder. Hiding. Even if he can't seem to think of much right now, he knows he's good at hiding.

"Sorry I threw up," he mumbles into Mickey's shoulder, which makes his husband chuckle.

"I've seen you puke before, man," Mickey says. "That fuckin' sushi Debbie made us all eat last year? Playing drinking games with Sandy?"

Ian recognises the memories like the face of a quiet classmate in a yearbook - he can place them in the right environment, but can't picture them doing anything, not even opening their mouth to say 'present' for attendance. He winces, the effort of  trying to pull forth images he knows are there making him dizzy.

"C'mon," Mickey whispers, turning off the tap. "Let's get some breakfast in you. Pepto Bismol with your meds maybe."

"Wait," Ian pleads, not ready to open his eyes and face the world yet. Not when he can't remember his place in it. Again, Mickey takes it in his stride. He pulls Ian into a hug that's firm enough to ground him and gentle enough to remind him that Mickey loves him. The reminder is enough to ease the jelly feeling in his joints just a little, Mickey's thumb moving back and forth against his shoulder blade like it's all he's ever wanted to do, and Ian takes a deep breath. The just-woke-up smell on Mickey, a smell that he knows he's always loved, even if he's never been sure why.

"I love you, man," Mickey murmurs sincerely. Ian relaxes just a little more.

"I love you too."

The day goes by slowly, every bit of it like pulling teeth. He downs his medication and food Mickey gives him even though his stomach twists nervously with each swallow. They watch cartoons on the sofa and Mickey smokes through a pack of cigarettes before dinner, his eyes flicking back and forth between Ian and the TV so often that he must not be getting any of what's on the screen. The vigilance is comforting, a reminder that he really is sitting on their sofa and not just dreaming up the four walls around him, so he doesn't mention it to Mickey. 

By the late afternoon he's falling asleep, tired just from keeping his eyes open and his food down. He lays his head on Mickey's lap, nose pressed into his husband's thigh and shuts his eyes when fingers immediately find their way to his hair, running through his curls and brushing stray hairs from his forehead. 

"You wanna head to the clinic tomorrow, check your meds?" he asks.

"Maybe," is all Ian can muster the energy to say. Mickey hums, thumb rubbing his brow bone.

There's a long pause, long enough that Ian almost falls asleep, before Mickey speaks up again.

"You did good, Ian."

Ian. The name finally sounds familiar again. No bile rises at the sound of it and there's no ache in his chest as he tries to place it. Relief washes over him, icy and overwhelming, and pulls him under. 

The next day he wakes feeling disoriented but not nauseous. His head is on Mickey's chest, his heartbeat steady and reliable where it thumps against his cheek. He takes a deep breath in and lifts a hand to trace a fingertip along the tattoo of his name on his husband's skin, his heart fluttering the same way it used to when they were kids and Mickey would show up at the corner store looking for him. His body feels like his own again, every organ, capillary and freckle back in its rightful place. 

He makes coffee while Mickey sleeps in. He knows after a day like yesterday that Mickey must've been up half the night, watching him sleep as though his next breath might not come, and feels a little guilty at the thought. When he carries two mugs of coffee back to the bedroom and a pack of Oreos pinched between his teeth, Mickey is waiting for him, a smile on his lips.

"Morning, mister," he grumbles, voice sleep-rough in a way that makes Ian giddy. Ian drops the Oreos on the bed and leans in for a kiss, hungry for Mickey's touch more than anything else.

"Good morning," he replies, handing Mickey his mug and settling in next to him.

"You feelin' okay? Wanna hit the clinic after breakfast?" Mickey asks cautiously, watching Ian's expression for any telltale signs that he's hiding something.

"Nah, I'm... I'm okay," Ian mumbles, shrugging. "I don't know what was up yesterday, it was like everything was a few inches to the left or something. I couldn't remember shit."

He looks at Mickey and smiles at the crease between his worried brows. 

"I'm okay now, Mick. Seriously."

Mickey grunts, frowning in a way that lets Ian know he's sorting his thoughts into words that make sense. They're halfway through their coffee before he's ready to speak, but Ian doesn't mind the waiting. He doesn't mind much when it comes to Mickey these days, at least not as much as he claims to.

"Y'know, Svetlana had days like that," he says, slow and unsure. "She'd get pukey and shit, couldn't hold a conversation... It was weird, 'cause she was always so fuckin' headstrong y'know? Seein' you like that..."– Mickey pauses, reaches out to cup Ian's cheek for a moment and rubs his thumb over the freckles on his temple. –"Maybe you should see a shrink, talk about the stuff that happened at the club."

Something clicks in Ian's head at the mention of Svetlana, all of the blanks, disconnects and gaps in his mind making a little more sense now.

"Yeah. Maybe," he sighs, and turns his head to press a kiss to Mickey's palm. "Thanks for not freaking out."

"Anytime," Mickey says with a small, worried smile. Just a couple of years ago Ian would've felt guilty for being the cause of his worry, but he understands it now. They're husbands. They're always going to worry about each other. 

"I love you," he tells Mickey, which earns him one of those shiny-eyed smiles he adores with all his heart. 

"Love you too, Red."

Maybe tomorrow he'll book himself an appointment at the clinic. Today though, all he wants to do is make up for the time he lost yesterday.

[sitp-recs]

15 21 fics where Draco takes care of Harry

Happy Weekend folks! The last reclist for this self-indulgent HBD Harry celebration week brings the trope we all love and deserve: Harry being taken care of! Let 👏🏻 that 👏🏻 boy 👏🏻 be happy! I’m really soft for this trope because it delivers delicious character development and emotional payoff. Harry deserves all the nice things and I love seeing Draco willing to provide it, whether in the form of physical comfort, protection, shelter, medical care or just good old diq. I wanted to follow the previous lists format but ended up with 20 fics which means I left a bunch out (my first draft had around 30 🤡). As usual I tried to include both classics and hidden gems, and especially some that aren’t in the other lists. Enjoy!

Ceremonials by @jackvbriefs (NR, 4k)

“What are you doing here?” Harry said. This Malfoy blinked up at him, then lifted the bottle of tequila. “I’m teaching you how to make a drink.”

Is This Love? By @phdmama (E, 4k)

Draco wouldn’t call himself a tender man. He fights the forces of evil for a living, trying his best to pay penance for the evil he’s done. He’s fought and killed in the name of duty, and when he’s not on duty, he tends either to play hard or retreat alone. He doesn’t lean on anyone, and he knows he’s not the first person anyone goes to when they need care. Comfort. That all changes tonight.

It Never Occurred to Me That I Would Fall in Love With a Frenchman by lamerezouille (T, 6k)

Harry kisses Draco in a public place. All hell breaks loose.

Unseen by astolat (M, 11k)

When he wasn’t wearing it, he got jumpy, always waiting for someone to come at him wanting something—and now they did it even more urgently, if they ever saw him, because most of the time, nobody did.

Nice Things by aideomai (M, 22k)

The first thing that happened was Theodore Nott came back from France.

Lusimeles by spqr (E, 23k)

“You’re not special, Potter,” Kingsley informs him, not looking up from his work. “But I’ve already done Occlumency training!” Harry splutters, indignant. “And it’s Malfoy.”

just tell me when it’s alright by M0stlyVoid (E, 23k)

Harry’s been fighting tooth and nail for any bit of normalcy he can get his hands on. He’s sick of feeling like something’s wrong with him, tired of feeling different. He thinks he’s finally gotten to the root of it, and has settled into a routine that makes him happy. Naturally, that’s when Draco Malfoy walks back into his life and upends it once again. Has Harry bitten off more than he can chew with his former rival?

The Green Vial by @eidheann (E, 31k)

After months of seeing Harry Potter walk into his Apothecary disappointed and hopeless, Draco offers to carry the baby that Harry can't. Now he's just got to hide the fact that he's been half in love with Harry for years.

Expecto Patronum by @writcraft (E, 35k)

Harry Potter is the most sought after celebrity in wizarding Britain. His every movement is scrutinised, his relationships questioned and his photographs plastered over every paper. Harry's used to everyone thinking he’s a hero and has had plenty of time to learn how to keep his biggest secrets hidden from the press. As Draco Malfoy negotiates his feelings for the wizarding world's brightest star, he becomes increasingly attached to Harry and unravels the secrets he keeps hidden from the rest of the world.

(Un)wanted by @aibidil (E, 36k)

Ginny's pregnant, then she's not and Harry's single. Harry, again with no family, doesn't know what to do with this turn of events, or how to find a new life—post-war, post-Ginny, post-abortion—in which he belongs. He doesn't expect that life to include dancing to the Backstreet Boys with Hermione and Draco Malfoy. A story of finding belonging in the unexpected.

Breathe In (and Feel No Hurt) by Constance1 (T, 38k)

A tale of love, loss, and of finding hope again. Or the story of how Draco turned into a house-cat in order to secretly bother a depressed Harry Potter until he was no longer feeling sorry for himself.

Chocolate and Pastry by agentmoppet, anemonen (E, 50k)

When Pansy bets Draco that there is no chance he and Harry could carry out a genuine romantic relationship, he and Harry form a plan. But as their fake relationship progresses, Draco sees a side of Harry he never expected. Harry is struggling with something, pushing it far down inside him where he doesn't have to acknowledge its existence. Draco starts to worry, and then he starts to care, and then... horribly... he starts to fall in love.

Sweeten to Taste by @saintgarbanzo and @babooshkart (E, 51k)

It starts with Draco's buckwheat crepes with honeyed oranges. Or maybe it starts with his porridge with toasted walnuts and homemade apple butter. Or perhaps it starts with the cinnamon buns Draco made from scratch with mascarpone icing. Harry just knows he's hungry for more.

Meet Me at Midnight by @the-starryknight (T, 57k)

Harry was beginning to wonder if he’d ever make anything again when Malfoy stormed through the door of Harry’s furniture shop. Now Harry’s got an impossible Ministry commission to finish, and even less energy than ever to deal with his elusive muse. That is, until he stumbles upon the surreal and beautiful world of a mysterious fae creature…

I Am Not Who I Became by mab_di (E, 93k)

Draco left England after the trials and has travelled the world meeting wizards and Muggles from different cultures and with vastly different relationships to magic, each other, and the natural world. Now he's a fisherman in Finland on commercial vessels. Harry has been struggling since the war and has become a recluse while trying to write his autobiography.

A Thousand Beautiful Things by geoviki (M, 100k)

Draco Malfoy struggles with changed fortunes, shifted alliances, an ugly war, and an unusual spell, with the help of a concerned professor, an insightful house-elf, and an unexpected Gryffindor friend.

Far From The Tree by aideomai (E, 112k)

The arrival of Harry Potter’s children—snapped back in time, the children themselves guessed, twenty or so years—was the most interesting thing to happen at Hogwarts for years.

A Sword Laid Aside by @korlaena (E, 128k)

When Draco’s cover is blown during a deep undercover operation and the Ministry is compromised, Ron takes Draco to the only safe place he can think of—Potter. Hiding out with a taciturn Harry Potter, who has been missing from the Wizarding World for almost two decades after a shocking fall from grace, is nothing like Draco thought it would be.

Any Instrument by @dictacontrion (E, 131k)

Draco Malfoy wouldn't go back to England for anything less than an exceptional case. Being asked to figure out why Harry Potter can't control his magic might be exceptional enough to qualify.

By the Grace by lettered (T, 140k)

Harry is an Auror instructor. Malfoy wants to be an Auror.

Twist of Fate by Oakstone730 (T, 300k)

Draco asks Harry to help him beat the Imperius curse during 4th year. The lessons turn into more than either expected. A story of redemption and forgiveness.

[rogersideup]

Nice to be Kneaded

Chapter 15

Everything will be Okay

series masterlist

Previous part: Cinnamon Roll Next Part: Crawl Home to You

Word Count: 6,979

Warnings: My blog is 18+ only. All minors or blogs without an age in bio will be blocked. Minors DNI. Mentions of medical equipment, loss, abuse, PTSD, anxiety and depression.

"This is the worst thing I've ever done" Steve complained, puffing out short winded breaths as he worked at the table opposite you.

He decided he wanted to learn how to bake bread after watching you do it so many times. The patiences and techniques behind the art intrigued him, and there was no one better to learn from than you, the best of the best.

You laughed as you watched him struggle to knead the dough on the floured counter facing yours. His cheeks were turning pink and his dough was still shaggy and lumpy, he was completely envious of yours already becoming smooth and bouncy. "Don't look at mine, it's unfair to you. I have experience, comparison is going to kill all your confidence."

"My arms hurt" Steve emphasized.

"Your arms pulled an in-flight helicopter into the top of a building, and single handedly ended World War II. I'm pretty sure they can handle an artisan loaf, Baby." You smiled.

"How long have we been kneading?" He puffed out.

You peaked at the clock, "mmmm, 3 minutes."

"How long do we need to do this?"

"Usually 10"

"Okay, well, you must have arms of steel because this is impossible."

"I believe in you!" You encouraged him. "Use the heels of your palms, push the dough out then pull it back. You can even go diagonally, side to side."

"You're not even out of breath?" He noted in disbelief. "I feel like I'm asthmatic again."

"Do you need an inhaler? I'm sure I can find you one" A giggle slipped past your lips.

"You're a super soldier." Steve stated, his arms coming to a stand still to take a break. "There's no way someone can just do this."

"Here, let's swap. I got a good start on this one so it'll be easier for you." You said walking over to his side of the table, and taking over his dough while he moved over to yours.

"See, much easier. Now I'm a bread master!" He exclaimed, working with your dough that was already almost completely smooth rather than his shaggy mess.

"I knew you could do it! Great job, Stevie" You smiled.

"Thank you, thank you." He accepted your compliment.

A comfortable silence fell between you two as the sound of music filled your ears, you were obviously very concentrated on fixing the monstrosity of a dough pile Steve had left you.

It was sticking to every square inch of your hands, yet also incredibly crumbly and dry. You had no idea how he even went about creating such a substance, but you sure as hell were going to make it work, and you definitely weren't going to say anything about it.

He knew it wasn't correct, it was written all over your face but that made him happy. Watching you try to work with the crumbly goo with furrowed eyebrows and a smile that you tried to hold back warmed his heart, you were always so kind and encouraging.

"So..." Steve broke the silence.

"So?" You acknowledged.

"I was thinking."

"Oh gosh, that's scary..." You joked.

"Our anniversary passed not too long ago..." He mentioned, causing you to look up at him with a fond look on your face.

"That was six months ago" You pointed out, unsure if not too long was the proper description of how much time had actually passed.

Once all of the scary bumps that came along with establishing a new relationship were smoothed out, unlike the dough beneath your hands, your relationship with Steve was so smooth it glided by effortlessly and fast.

The concept of time since the blip in general felt quite odd, it felt like five years had passed by in the blink of an eye, yet the way of living with only half the population was so normal and routine now you couldn't imagine a time in which you lived a normal life before the blip.

That's exactly how you felt about your time with Steve as well. He moved in permanently next door, then before you knew it his lease was up and he moved in to your house. The spaces that were once yours were now yours and Steve's.

Four and a half years deep into your official relationship with the man and you couldn't even remember a time in which his easel wasn't always displaying a half completed work of art in the corner of the living room and there wasn't a Captain America suit tucked away in the very back of the closet, hiding away in a garment bag.

The two of you created the simple, care free life of your dreams. One in which the biggest struggle you faced on the daily basis was keeping the bakery stocked despite the ever growing crowds, and missing Steve whenever he was away on business to the compound in New York.

"So our anniversary is coming up!"'He enthused.

You laughed at his change of words, "only six months away!"

"Can you believe that four and a half years ago I waltzed in here for a cookie, and that simple choice single handedly changed both of our lives?" He questioned.

"Wow, kneading bread makes you so philosophical." You noted. "What a great choice you made, just goes to show that cookies really are the better part of life."

"You're the better part of my life, sunflower." He purposely cheesed causing you to look back up at him once more.

"How sweet" You acknowledged. "If my hands weren't covered in dough I'd reach up and boop your nose."

He laughed while he continued kneading your loaf that he was definitely going to claim as his now. "Maybe we could spend our half-anniversary in New York?"

Steve was going through a phase in which you could've never ever predicted, he hated going up to the compound now. He dreaded work trips, he hated how cold his room in the compound always seemed to feel, he despised all the memories that came to mind when he walked around.

From what you could understand through multiple conversations about this, he just didn't like being away from you. Being away from you when the blip happened and having no control over your arrest traumatized him in a way he would never admit, but in a way you could see in his eyes every time he had to leave town.

Regardless of what it was that made him resent the compound so much, you knew that it was a whole lot easier for him when you tagged along. So now he found a lot of creative reasons to try and drag you to New York.

Each reason was more creative than the last, and you said yes every single time he asked. At this point in your relationship, you were pretty sure you've spent over four months time in New York and it was starting to feel like a second home.

"You know you don't really need a reason to get me to New York right?" You smiled. "I'd love to spend our half anniversary with you, and I'll go with you to wherever you need to go."

"But coming up with a reason is half the fun" Steve admitted.

"Is this fun?" You questioned, motioning to the dough in your hands.

"This is exhausting!" He answered honestly, earning a laugh from you.

"You know what I love about going to the compound with you?"

"That Nat is there?" He questioned.

"That I get to learn about all the cool things you do for once. It's like going to the Avengers bakery and kneading the Captain America loaf!" You explained. "But yeah, I do love seeing Nat."

Steve giggled at your analogy, loving every second of watching your skillful hands try their absolute hardest to make his faulty dough pile work. "I'm always worried that you might be bored whenever I drag you with me."

"Bored?!" You emphasized. "My love, I'm a civilian in the Avengers compound. There's absolutely nothing boring about that."

"Okay, so next week you'll come with me?" He asked just to make sure.

"Of course" you reassured.

"Woohoo!" He shook his shoulders and hips in a little happy dance, hands sill focused on the dough. "Best day ever!"

You laughed at his response, "if this is the best day ever, then I think we should get out more."

"Okay, now is your chance to be honest with me." Steve prompted. "Does that dough lump have any potential at all of becoming anything close to a loaf of bread?"

"You know I love you very, very much?" You smiled, batting your eyelashes.

"Of course I do." Steve giggled.

"We're gonna have to squish this." You told him honestly. "But the bright side is that you're doing so well kneading that loaf, it'll be the prettiest, glutinous loaf to ever come out of this kitchen!"

"You said that so nicely, I'm not even upset about it" Steve shrugged, prompting you to smile.

You walked over to him and rocked up on your tippy toes before smacking a kiss to his cheek. "You're wonderful, we'll try again soon."

Before you knew it, you were right back in New York, smack dap in the compound. Whenever you were here you completely understood that Steve was here to work, so you never expected him to keep you entertained by any means. So you always brought your laptop and took care of business from the comfort of his room or the living room depending on what him and Nat were up to that day.

And 100% of the times you stepped foot into the Avengers home, whoever was lingering around always asked for you to bake them something, and you were always happy to say yes.

This particular night, Nat requested a chocolate chip cheesecake. After going to the store to get everything you needed, making all the parts and popping it in the oven, you started to do the dishes.

Muscular forearms wrapped around your stomach from behind, and the front of Steve's body warmly pressed against your back.

"How's it going, baby?" He questioned.

"Good, almost done in here." You responded while enjoying every second of his embrace. "How are you? Sleepy?"

"So tired." He confirmed. "I have a few hours of work left to get ready for the support group tomorrow but I think Nat is wrapping up for the night. You'll be okay?"

"Of course, I still have to input payroll and enter the supply delivery invoice for the bakery so I have plenty to do." You grinned, wiping your hands off so you could turn around to face him. When you did, you couldn't help but to admire him. His hair, his cute outfit, the fond yet tired look in his eyes. Reaching up, you squeezed his shoulders to try and relax his tense posture as his hands made their way to your hips. "You're so beautiful."

His cheeks turned pink before dropping his head onto your shoulder. "You're beautiful-er."

"Why does it have to be a competition? Just accept your handsomeness and move on" You giggled at his shyness, even after four and a half years together.

"Becauseeeee" he complained. "I'm lucky to have you, and I'm so happy you're here. Then, you're always really nice to me and all the people here that I love and I just can't even process how sweet you are."

You smiled before you both mutually leaned in for a kiss. "I promise you that I feel like the lucky one."

"Impossible." He shook his head in denial with his cheeks stilly adorably rosy. "Thank you for baking for us."

"Anytime, you know I love it."

Steve nodded in agreement. "I'll see you in a few hours?"

"I'll be here." You gave his shoulders another good squeeze. "We'll get those pretty eyes of yours some good rest."

By the time Steve finished up work and made his way back to the living quarters, it was already way past the bedtime he subconsciously made for himself to keep up with living with a baker. 10 at night felt like he had pulled an all nighter, and it seems as though that's how you felt as well considering he found you and Nat asleep on the couch.

Empty plates on the coffee table with Oreo crumbs being the only evidence of the cheesecake you made hours prior, and a movie that Steve had never even heard of playing on the TV provided the only source of light in the big space.

You and Nat had obviously gotten close and comfortable with each other, the shared blanket across your laps and your head plunked over onto Nat's shoulder with her head on top of yours made Steve smile and feel endlessly happy.

As much as you loved Nat, Steve knew Nat needed every drop of love and friendship you could give her. You both knew she was struggling ever since the blip, she spent every waking moment trying to monitor the world and find a solution. Steve didn't even know she was capable of settling down enough for even just a few hours to be able to fall asleep while watching a movie in the first place. You weren't just his sunflower, but everyone's who was lucky enough to earn your love.

Though he hated to break up the adorable scene in front of him, he was just as tired as the two of you evidently were and knew he should get you to bed.

He started by waking up Nat considering you were stuck beneath her. She was a light sleeper so it didn't take more than gently shaking her arm to wake her up, and she came to her senses quickly enough to immediately recognize what Steve was about to do.

"Good morning." Nat grinned, not lifting her head from the top of yours.

"Morning." Steve smiled. "Any chance I could get my girl back so I can send you two off to bed?"

"No. She's mine now." Nat denied. "Shes so cute and cuddly like a little puppy."

"You can have her back in the morning, but if she doesn't get some real sleep she gets a little grumpy." Steve bargained.

"Fine, but she's mine tomorrow. We're gonna go run some errands and grab lunch together."

"That sounds great, you could use a few hours away from this place." Steve encouraged.

"Just for that comment, I'm staying home." Nat joked.

"I will literally pay for both of you to go get your nails done if that means you'll get some fresh, non recirculated air." Steve sassed.

"A manicure and I get to take your girl out? Sign me up." She continued joking.

"The only conditions are that you go get some sleep and let me have nighttime custody of her so that she can get some sleep too."

"You're such a dad." She stated while carefully nudging your head off of her shoulder, then slowly standing up when she had successfully moved you off of her.

"Can I get you anything before you head off to bed?" Steve checked in.

"No, I'm okay. Thank you." She approached him and squeezed his shoulder before he just pulled her in for a hug anyways. "Goodnight, Rogers."

"Night, Romanoff." He reciprocated before letting go and she walked off into her room.

Now, he had you. His precious little lump on the couch. The dishes on the coffee table could be taken care of in the morning, and the TV would auto shut off in an hour or two. So he picked you up and held you tightly in his arms, and you immediately snuggled into neck.

He could tell you woke up at some point considering you started leaving little kisses to his exposed skin before he made it to his room. You were already in your pajamas ready to go, so he gently laid your down on the bed before he changed into some pajama shorts and brushed his teeth before laying down next to you.

Surprisingly, you were still awake and quick to pull the blankets over the two of you as you settled into each other. Appreciating the warmth of his soft bare skin, you laid your head on his chest and wrapped your arm tightly around his stomach, hand resting on the side of his rib cage.

You placed a little kiss to his collar bone before propping yourself up a bit on your arm to spark up a conversation you needed to get off your mind before you could truly get some restful sleep.

"How was the rest of your day, honey?" You questioned as one of his hands slipped up the back of your crewneck, the other drew little circles onto your hip.

"It was okay, pretty routine." He responded softly. "How's Nat doing?"

"That poor girl needs to get a life away from all of this." You sighed.

"I know" Steve nodded in agreement. "It's really hard to take a step back when you feel directly responsible, but it's not healthy. I've been encouraging her to get out more but she doesn't listen."

"I invited her to stay with us in Greenwood in a few weeks, hopefully she takes me up on that." You moved your hand up to his chest.

"That would be really fun." Steve grinned. "Did you have fun tonight?"

"Mhm, I mostly worked the whole time though." You admitted. "I actually wanted to talk to you about something before we sleep."

"What's going on?" He asked, you could tell he was paying a little closer attention now.

"So I ran some numbers on profit and what not, and just for shits and giggles I reached out to my lender and contractor to see if this was even a possibility when I had the idea but now that it's looking very possible, I wanted to see how you felt about this..."

"About what?" He raised an eyebrow in anticipation.

"What would you think about me opening a second location of the bakery?" You asked.

His face immediately lit up in a big smile. "Darling, that's incredible! You should absolutely do it if you feel comfortable enough."

"I do feel really good about it." You confirmed. His happy response made your heart soar. When you first opened Nice to be Kneaded, your last partner ridiculed you every single day. He thought the idea of owning a business would simply be too much of a challenge for you. He told you that you'd never succeed, that it would go under and cause debts for the rest of your life. Though you were at a point in your relationship with Steve where you never doubted his ability to be a kind person, his kindness still made you happy every single day. "The reason I really wanted to ask you is because I was advised the best location to break ground in would be New York."

His big smile grew even wider, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with adorable smile lines. "Are you for real?"

"Yeah" you giggled at his response.

"That makes me so happy!" He pouted his lip and furrowed his eyebrows. "I'm so proud of you."

"So I take it that you think this is a good idea?" The smile never left your face.

"I think it's the best idea you've ever had." He exaggerated.

"Then I guess I'll give it the green light first thing tomorrow morning." You settled the issue then settled back into his body.

The two of you talked for a little while about what life would look like with another bakery in New York. Both of you traveled back and forth so often now that dividing your time between two places was already second nature. He even pitched getting the two of you an apartment somewhere between the city and the compound so you both felt more at home when away from Greenwood. Though you loved the idea, you encouraged him to let all these thoughts settle for a day or two until you had a better idea on the logistics of this new endeavor. Besides, it was already late and you were both tired, there was nothing you could even arrange until the morning.

Though you felt settled and completely relaxed snuggled up to him, you played with his hair and tried to get him to relax too. You could feel his tension, but it was normal. No matter how exhausted he was, if he was at the compound his mind was busy and never quite turned off. His thoughts shifted from the happy thoughts of a future where the two of you hopped from bakery to bakery, big city Avenging to a small town simple life to something that had nothing to do with the sweet girl in bed giving him the most delightful cuddles he could've ever wanted.

You knew he was enjoying spending time with you even if his mind was up in the clouds, his hand that never stopped drawing shapes into your back told you that loud and clear.

"What are you thinking about, love?" You asked.

He let out a sigh and his eyes never left the ceiling, then his lips pressed into a straight line, then a forced grin and he finally looked at you. "What do we do if we can't find a way to undo what Thanos did?"

"What do we do," You motioned to the two of you "or what do the Avengers do?"

"Both. Either." He said, desperate to hear the right answer he couldn't find.

"Well I think both have the same answer." You shrugged. "Acceptance, then moving on."

He gave you the most adorable stink eye you've ever seen, so cute you had to hold back a giggle. "Why does everyone say that?"

"You preach it every time you hold a support group, no?" You questioned.

"That's different."

"How so?"

"Civilians aren't responsible for what happened, they deserve to live their lives exactly how they would if this never happened." He explained.

Whenever he spoke about the situation, you could feel a genuine pain in your chest. His feelings about the snap were like a rollercoaster. Some days, he could see the benefits, he could almost understand why Thanos did what he did. He could go about his day with acceptance, go to sleep with the intention of continuing to rebuild tomorrow. Then sometimes he'd wake up that next morning feeling the weight of every blipped person on his shoulders. As if he was the one who decided this needed to happen. That weight seemed to double every time he was in New York.

So with an ache in your heart, you tried to put a bandage over his. "Right now are you looking for the truth, or are you looking for reassurance?"

He groaned at your level-headedness, before shoving his face into your neck. "I'm looking for anything or anyone to just tell me it's going to be okay."

Understanding now that he needed reassurance instead of actual logical advice, you caressed the back of his head with your hand and used your other arm to hold him safe and sound against you. "Of course it's going to be okay, sweet boy.

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be so... grim, I just- I have to be strong all day every day for everyone else and sometimes you're the only one who can be strong for me." He admitted.

You kissed the top of his head a few times before providing the words he probably really needed to hear. "Life was okay yesterday, and the day before that, and it'll continue being okay tomorrow, and every day after that just like it has been for the past five years. Nobody blames you for what happened, and all of you guys deserve to move on too, not just civilians. The ground is still under your feet, the sky is still above your head and I'll never leave your side. The sun and moon are still taking turns, so I'm pretty confident when I say that everything is fine."

"That was great" Steve mumbled into your neck.

"Yeah? You feel any better?" You questioned with a smile.

"Mhm, I'm gonna use that in the support group tomorrow."

You smiled, though he couldn't see it before squeezing the back of his neck. "I love you, you're not going to bring back half the population from bed."

"I love you too, should I get up?"

"Go to sleep" You whispered directly into his ear, earning his sweet laugh that you loved so much.

"You first, traitor." Steve said playfully.

"Traitor?! Why am I a traitor?" You asked, feigning offense.

"You we're cuddling Natasha and not me." Steve fake cried.

You laughed before stating "Excuse me?! You've kissed Nat before, so I don't want to hear anything about my cuddles, sir!"

"Ugh?!" Steve was immediately taken back. "She kissed me and it was for a mission! Don't even start with that!"

You couldn't help but continue laughing at how flustered that statement made him. "Poor, Stevie! Your cheeks are so pink."

"I miss 10 seconds ago when you didn't bring that up." He pouted, a smile prevailing past his attempts to pretend like this conversation wasn't funny. "It was a life or death escape situation and we've never done anything romantic since then, okay?"

"I'm not bothered, baby" You continued smiling while prying his hands away from covering his face. "Were your bothered by our cuddles?"

"No, not at all." He denied. "I actually thought it was really adorable, I was just joking."

"And I think it's really cute that you and Nat shared a smooch" You pinched his cheek between two fingers.

"She implied that I was a bad kisser, by the way." Steve giggled. "So, neither of us enjoyed that experience."

You laughed at the confession before cooing, "awww poor, Stevie. Did that hurt your pride?"

"It wasn't a fair assessment, I wasn't ready for it." He defended himself.

"Exactly, you're a great kisser." You smoothed over the review that obviously stuck around with him for a while. "I know from experience!"

"Thanks, Baby. I appreciate your input on the matter." He gave your hip a nice squeeze.

"I'll be sure to talk to Nat about it in the morning to try and sway her opinions on it ." You joked.

"Absolutely do not do that" His eyebrows raised in horror.

You laughed once more before cupping his face and laying a long one on him. "I would never."

"Good, cause I think the sleepiness has taken over the both of our brains and made us a little crazy." He smiled.

You rested your head back onto its rightful spot on his shoulder, your hand rested over his heart and his free hand that wasn't on your back lovingly wrapped around your wrist. "Are you going to be able to shut your brain off long enough to fall asleep?"

"Of course" He appeased your worries about him. "I always sleep well when you're with me. You're like a little sleeping pill, the second you fall asleep on me, you put me to sleep too."

"Cheese ball" You poked fun at him with a content smile as you closed your eyes and wrapped the blankets tighter around the both of you.

"I might be cheesy, but I always will be. And I'm proud of it!" He agreed.

"I love it so much." You admitted. "And I love you so much."

"I love you too." He kissed the top of your head. "Goodnight, Sunflower."

"Sweet dreams, Stevie."

Not even two whole minutes of silence and attempts at sleeping went by before Steve gasped.

"Wait... are you asleep?" He asked, using his hands to dramatically shake you. "Wake up! This is important!"

"I'm awake, I'm awake!" You alerted his urgency. "Jeez dude, you're scrambling my brain."

"Oh good! You're awake!" He said. You didn't have to see his face to know he was wearing a big sarcastic smile. Steve's favorite hobby was definitely being a little shit.

"What a blessing." You mumbled.

"I forgot to ask you out on a date tomorrow night!" He enthused.

"Sorry dude, I think we're better just as friends." You carried on the tradition of your favorite inside joke.

"Sooooooo... should I cancel the engagement ring?" He quipped.

Recently the two of you were talking about getting married a lot, and if there was two things you both agreed on it's that a marriage was definitely in the books for the two of you soon, and that being engaged should never be truly be a surprise. Sure, time and place of the proposal as a surprise was the fun part, but both of you setting clear intentions and a well timed future that flowed at a comfortable pace for the two of you was important.

"A date sounds great!" You overly enthused.

"Great! I made dinner reservations without asking first so I'm glad you said yes."

"Risky business, Rogers." You smiled.

"Okay now go to sleep." He giggled.

"You first..." You poked his chest with very low effort.

When the morning came, you were up and out way before Steve was to start your morning with Nat. She wanted to get back to the compound before a planned call with affiliates of the Avengers, so the two of you snuck out before most of the compound was awake. Much like most mornings when you woke up before Steve, you covered him up with the blankets nice and snug, kissed him goodbye, and wished him a great day.

A nice long walk and chat followed by coffee, breakfast, and a nice relaxing manicure had Nat feeling brand new.

You dropped her off at the compound then left again to meet up with a friend of yours that lived pretty close by. While catching up on each others lives for a few hours, Steve called you.

Figuring he didn't realize you were busy, you denied the call to clue him in to text you instead. You often times did this if he needed to get through to you at work. But this time, your sunflower necklace lit up four times, a number that didn't have a code attached, then your phone rang again.

Figuring it was probably important, you excused yourself and quickly picked up the call.

"Hi, baby." You spoke timidly into the phone.

"Hi, I'm sorry to interrupt I know you're busy." He sighed. You could tell by his tone that his brain was fried.

"No worries, is everything okay?" You questioned.

"Remember Scott Lang? Ant-Man?" He asked.

"Yeah, yeah I do." You nodded though he couldn't see you. "He was blipped right?"

"You see, that's the weird part." Steve puffed out a confused chuckle. "He's at the compound. He just... showed up."

"What?!" You said louder than you probably should, earning weird looks from strangers around you.

"Yeah, he was stuck in the quantum realm and now he's here, and we think-" He started but cut himself off to think about how he was going to phrase this without worrying you.

But the pause was deafening. "You think what?"

"I think you should make your way back here whenever you're done with your friend so we can talk about it more."

"That sounds so scary" You admitted.

"No, everything is fine. I promise." He reassured you.

"Should I come home right now?"

"No, baby, it's okay" He tried to calm you down once again. "Nothing to be anxious about. I just think we need to visit Tony and get a few other ducks in a line and I want to make sure I can get you someplace safe before we start looking into this more."

"So you guys found some good hope?" You asked, this time with a smile knowing that's exactly what Steve needed.

"A lot of hope and possibly the craziest pipe dream of all time, but we can get into that when you get here, okay?"

"Okay" You sighed. "Everyone's okay?"

"Everyone is fine." Steve smiled. "I want you to keep having fun with your friend. I'll see you later."

"See you soon. Love you"

"Love you too."

Though he tried his hardest to reassure you that everything was fine, you couldn't clear your head of the endless possibilities of what this could mean for the future of the whole universe. Those thoughts didn't even allow you to fully appreciate or give your undivided attention to your friend, so you called it a day as soon as you could. And when you arrived back at the compound, you immediately spotted Steve sitting outside on a bench.

You could tell his mind was occupied by a billion racing thoughts, his breathing was steady and there was a pinch in his brows.

Approaching slowly and sitting next to him, he wrapped you up in a side hug before kissing your temple and letting you go. "What's going on, Honey?"

He sighed in appreciation as your hand found its way to his back, rubbing long, firm strips up and down to comfort him. "We think we can time travel."

"What?" Your hand stopped in place.

"Go back in time before Thanos, get the stones from a bunch of different points in time, snap again." Steve explained like it was the most simple idea in the world.

"But..... how?" You we're blown away by the possibility, but the biggest part of you was terrified of what that meant for him, the world, and the entire future.

"Something to do with pym particles and a quantum tunnel, I don't really understand it." Steve explained, his mind was wandering miles away from him. "We have Bruce en route to work on that, but we're going to get Tony. Try to assemble the whole team again."

You didn't quite have the words at the moment, nor the time to even process this as a possibility. Whenever you couldn't quite grasp a concept that was much larger than you, but whenever you felt so tiny in the vastness of the universe, Steve was always there to put you on his shoulders and make you feel big again. "How do you feel about this?"

"I feel ready to just get it done." He explained.

"Are you scared?" You plopped your head down onto his shoulder, he nestled his cheek into the crown of your head.

"No" He denied softly. "Are you?"

"If you're not then I'm not" You smiled. That was a lie, but you always tried to not burden him with your own fears.

Though letting him out of your grasp and straight into battles often appeared in your own nightmares, you reeled in your feelings as to not disrupt his own peace. As often as you wanted to tell him to be careful, beg him not to do risky things like go to space in a ship being piloted by a raccoon to kill a titan that killed half the universe, you trusted him. His entire life was rich with risk assessment that only made him more and more successful the more he lived.

So if he wasn't scared, you'd try not to be either.

"Well, maybe that's a lie. Maybe I am a little scared." Steve retracted his statement.

"Well shit" You joked, earning a laugh from the sweet man.

"I'm scared it's not going to work, and I'm scared of putting anything on the line when my only goal for the future is a life with you." He admitted. "Everything else, I'm not scared of."

This time, your arms wrapped him up and didn't let him go. He was letting his Steve Rogers shine through in a place you typically only saw Captain America. Though he would argue that those two people were the same, you thought he was so very wrong.

Steve was still the little guy he once was. Sensitive and gentle, he'd cry over videos of cute animals doing cute things, decorate cookies with you and asked to be cuddled for as long as he could get you to stay still. But Cap... Cap was strong. Nothing could tear him down. When the uniform was on or public and teammates eyes were on him, he had to be the leader. He stood tall, refused to shed a tear regardless of any circumstance thrown his way. Everyone looked at him to guide them through.

You loved both versions of him, and both were truthful of his character, but it was also true that Steve was a version of himself he was only comfortable showing to the people he loved the most.

So you gave Cap the space he needed to be firm and strong, and gave Steve the space he needed to be vulnerable. Sometimes that looked like a little snuggle on a bench outside of the Avengers compound.

Very surface level and as deep down as could be, he knew that Cap couldn't be the fighter he was without you nurturing Steve. He was strong because you were compassionate, and everyday he amounted his power to you.

"I love you so very much," you started.

"But?" He raised an eyebrow, already anticipating the kicker.

"But doing this is exactly what you need in order for you to live the life you want." You explained. "You and I both know you'd live the entire rest of your life with guilt if the Avengers don't find a way to fix this. And though I don't agree that any of this is your fault, I know you feel that burden every single day. So in a certain way, I think for once, this is a great fight for yourself."

He sat and considered it for a second. "I don't have it in me to fight for myself, so I'm going to consider this a fight for you."

"A happy, relaxing future with you is all I want." You kindled his fire. Though you wished he could fight for himself, any incentive to get him through would work in this moment. "And i'd love to see Sam again and meet Bucky."

"I miss them so much" Steve stated, you could hear the sadness in his voice.

You lifted your head to give him a kiss. Your soft lips mingled for a little while before pulling away and resting your forehead against his. "Everything is going to be okay."

"I think so too" He agreed.

"And if it doesn't pan out the way you all hope, then I hope you know that everything will be okay that way too."

"Well that's not an option." He gently shook his head.

"Hard headed!" You pulled away and raised your hand to gently poke him right in the center of his forehead. He laughed, knowing his words would irritate you. "You drive me crazy!"

"I love driving you crazy" His smile prevailed.

"Really? I couldn't tell." You said sarcastically, feeling the effects of his contagious smile.

"And I'd love it even more if I can keep annoying you on our date tonight." He brought up.

"Stevie" Your face softened. "We can reschedule that if you need to, you know I understand."

"No, I definitely don't want to cancel that." He denied firmly. "Not to bring up the past or anything, but the last time I rescheduled a date it didn't turn out too well for me."

"Awwwww" You cooed. "Classic Cap history"

"Yeah, and we're rewriting it because I'm not doing that again" he said with a chuckle.

"I'm more than happy to help you out with that" You agreed, giving his leg a little squeeze. "How's Scott doing? I'm sure this is a lot to process."

"He seems to be doing alright, but that leads me to something Nat and I talked about that I wanted to present to you."

"What's up?"

"It's no secret that you're kind've one of the most amazing and comforting humans alive, and we were supposed to go home in 2 days but..." He took a moment to find the right words. "I'm my best when you're around, and whether you've noticed or not, everyone is happier when you're here. So we were wondering if you could stay a little longer just to kinda help keep spirits up. I know you have the bakery at home but it could be a pretty crucial part in saving half the world."

"I can't imagine I'd have any crucial part in any of that, but I'll stay for you alone." You giggled.

"Obviously I'll bring you home before the time travel happens because it's such unknown territory, I'd want you far away from the compound. But we're going to bring everyone we've got here, including Thor who we heard is going through a rough patch. I think your love would go a far way."

"And cookies" You grinned.

"Cookies would definitely help."

"Can Rocket eat chocolate chips?" You pondered.

"He's a raccoon, not a dog." Steve reminded you.

"That doesn't answer my question." You eyebrow raised. "What about Nebula? Do cyborgs eat food? Ooh! I know Bruce likes chocolate, and Tony likes hazelnut because they had those Ben and Jerry's ice cream flavors so maybe I'll make Nutella cookies so it's the best of both worlds. Do you know what Rhodey likes? I have Nat covered. Thor probably li-"

"Baby, Baby" Steve cut you off with a giggle. "Don't stress yourself out now. You're not here to take care of us, just keep being you"

"This is me." You laughed. "Have you ever seen me not like this?"

"You know what? That's fair." He agreed.

"Ooh! And I bet Nat knows exactly what Clint would want!" You chirped. "...I should call the bakery..."

Next Part: Crawl Home to You

Tag List: @patzammit @bemysugarbean @buckymydarlingangel @happinessinthebeing @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @differenttyphoonwerewolf @themotherof10 @talesofadragon @spikeluv84 @royalwriteroftheuniverse @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @bitchy-bi-trash @crazyunsexycool @openup-yourmind @selella @kattreffic @benedict-squirtle @magnificentsaladllama @theroyalmanatee @calwitch @avengersinitiative2012 @rogersbarber @daddywattpad4945

[joosbasschick]

🌌Void🌌

A Ricky x Fem!Reader (Angst/Fluff)

Summary: You have been having an extremely hard time for a few weeks, but today was just the one day that topped them all... So Ricky had to step in before he lost you to yourself.

Warnings/Mentions: Depression, Drug usage (prescribed medications), self-deprecation, LOTS OF CRYING, Pet names (Squirt, Honey, Sweetie, Maomao, and Darling), very small amount of violence? 

Hello everyone! I finally have completed my very first ZB1 fanfic and have truly become an official writer of Zumblr! This work has a lot of my emotions or feelings into it and was very self-indulgent when thought of. As many of my previous followers may have noticed, I’ve changed my user to “rickyschicky.” Yes, I’m going to mainly be writing about ZB1 from now on, but no I’ll still write for other groups/idols. But they most likely will be my ult biases or Idols that have a special place in my heart. This fic is coming out a lot later than I originally wanted it to due to a lot of personal things happening in my life. Now that this is released, I’ll be working on a proper pin that has a proper about me, rules for the blog, rules for asks and even an anon list for those who wish to SECRETLY stick around! Im very excited to have my fresh start, so perceive me well, pretty please! Feedback is always appreciated, and if you see mistakes don’t be afraid to send me a DM!

Cup. Pop. Gulp.

     This routine was normal for you, a dreaded ritual if anything. If you didn’t do this every morning and night, you know your life would be in shambles and unlivable. Curling into your favorite (F/C) blanket, you let out a sigh of emptiness as your feet mindlessly kick around in it. 

Managing depression, sucks.

     Mindlessly watching whatever was playing on the tv, the heart inside of your chest sunk deeper and deeper. Yet anything you put on couldn’t entertain you, not even rewatching your favorite shows. You can’t decide what’s worse; not remembering how many days it’s been since this started, not eating or hydrating enough, or the fact that you have shut all your friends out with your boyfriend being the very next one. You hear your best friend’s custom ringtone blare though your phone speakers at least twice a day, but you couldn’t help but sigh and say, “not today, (F/N)”. Everything from blaring sounds to the soft fabric currently on your fingertips felt like it was hardly there. Your body feels like over-used putty, numb and worn out from so much usage. It’s impossible though, it has felt like you haven’t moved from this spot in months. Who knows the actual time you even were here on the couch of you and your lover’s shared house.

     It’s pitiful how you couldn’t even jump from surprise when Ricky touches your head softly, “I’m home, squirt. I’m sorry I was out late, I wanted to finish getting a certain verse right.’ Only humming in response, you sit up and turn the tv down in an attempt to listen to him. By all means it wasn’t because you weren’t interested, it's far from that. It’s just hard to control your fuzzy mind and have it focus on something emotional at this moment in time. He didn’t like the lack-of response he received, gracefully walking over and sitting next to your cocooned form.

     “(Y/N), honey. Please look at me.” You tear your gaze from the random spot you decided to zone out on and look into his gentle, cat shaped eyes. They were full of concern and distress. You almost hated how he could easily read you like an open book just by the way you act or look. 

     “Sweetie don’t start crying, I am far from mad at you. I just want you to talk to me, tell me what you feel.” Ricky takes no time in using his large thumb to brush away the tears that unknowingly fell from your lash line. He lets his long arms wrap around your figure, pulling you into his comforting lap. 

     The first thought you could even think of through the numerous tears was ‘why am I like this?’. Feeling disgusted with yourself, you choke out a sob harder and limply lay your head on his shoulder. You take your medicine day and night as prescribed, so why are you still feeling like a hollow doll that’s incapable of nothing? Even in the love of your life’s arms, you couldn’t feel an ounce of happiness.

     Ricky sensed this, pulling your chin up and bringing you into a sweet and gentle kiss as he whispers soft praises of how strong you are. “Hey hey hey, don’t work yourself up too much (Y/N). We both know we will feel like shit, and I’ll call Hanbin to let him know I can’t come in to practice because you are just sooo sad.” He gives a cute pout, tickling your sides in mockery. Through your tears, you let out a huff that quickly turns into a squeal. You quickly throw your fists up and start lightly punching him in his wide shoulders and chest in an attempt to get his fingers away from your sensitive sides.

     “The last thing I need is for you yelled at by mother, Shen Ricky.” You scold, feeling a breath of life flow through your veins. It was hard to be upset when he acts silly or in this case: say something utterly stupid and cute. He chuckles, noticing how you were starting to change right before his eyes. He knew he had to continue before you slip back. 

     “Well, I can always bring you to practice?” 

     “Ricky, WakeOne literally won’t let me, even if you beg.”

     You sit in silence before just snorting at his antics. You shimmy out of the blanket and take care to put it around you and him, straddling his lap so you can lay your head on his collarbone right under his chin. Soon your body melts as you go limp once more. Ricky quickly accepted this new position by wrapping his arms around your lower back snugly, giving many annoying kisses to your temples and forehead. He felt you changing again and wanted to halt the process. Deciding this was too annoying right now, you attempt to pull the blanket above your head. Not liking this, your boyfriend quickly grabs the blanket with his teeth and starts tugging on it playfully, tickling your sides ferociously.  

     “What are you, a dog?” 

     “Actually, I’m a cat.”

     You don’t waste a second to jab your hand in his side, hearing him whimper for you to let up and be gentle. He sighs, giving up and letting you hide under the soft fabric, rocking your curled up form that was on his lap. After being together for a while, he knew your limits and when to stop. You just wanted someone to physically be there for you today, so that’s what he will do. Slowly moving the blanket off the top of your head, he gently clears his throat to sing for you in his mother tongue. You voiced to him before you loved hearing him sing so comfortably in his first language and even encouraged him to teach you a few songs in Chinese. 

     Not soon after you were about to pull the blanket over your head, you heard his deep, breathy voice fill your ears. Stopping your current action, you tuck your hair behind your ears so you could hear him clearly (even if you couldn’t understand a single thing coming from his lips), and let your head lay heavy on his shoulder. Sure, Ricky could be a total annoying brat when he wanted to be, but times like this are when you are the most thankful for him. You felt at one of your lowest points and instead of running or simply saying, ‘suck it up’, he stuck around and tried to learn how to take care of you and cheer you up. He took his time learning your needs, favorite activities and foods, and even points of his personality you enjoyed the most. You were his rose, freshly bloomed and bright red with an addicting scent. His romance, the one that made his heart fall in his stomach and bounce of his rib cage with a simple stare and gentle laugh. If he could, you would be carried everywhere in his pocket wherever he traveled. Ricky truly loved you, just for who you are.

     Not a second after he finished the song, you were wiping tears. You didn’t know what tears they really were at this point. You felt numb, but you at least felt something now compared to earlier. Sitting up carefully, you rub your raw puffy eyes to attempt to see him. Blinking rapidly, you saw he had a gentle smile on, your second favorite smile. Nothing could beat his largest, brightest smile he gives when he is bursting with happiness. Leaning over, you connect your sore lips with his thick, plush ones. Ricky’s chest rumbled smoothly under your hands that were propping you up, humming with the small show of affection. 

     “That’s my girl, so pretty even when she is the saddest soul on the planet.” He coos, large hands once again cupping your jaw tenderly. His eyes were sparkling, looking like the softest pieces of boba you have laid your own eyes on. Everything that exuded him at this moment spoke of love and truth. You lay your smaller hands ontop of his, enjoying the warmth of them. 

     “Maomao, let’s go to bed...I’m just really tired after today.” You confess, guilt laced in your voice. His thumb brushed your lip to hush you, smiling sweetly. 

     “There is nothing wrong with that, my darling. Let’s get some good rest and wake up to a new day. Together.” Your boyfriend promises, gently moving his hands to securely hold your thighs as he stands up and starts walking to your shared bedroom. He lays you down like royalty on the bed, swinging you in properly and tucks you in. By the time you were able to focus your eyes, he vanished from the room. 

     After a few minutes, you hear a familiar rattle come down the hallway as he slips in the room once again. He kneels by the bed a water in hand, and a yellow tinted bottle with a white cap on top. Sleepily, you grab the bottle and twist it open, smiling when you see the water bottle already opened and offered towards you.

Cup. Pop. Gulp.

         Managing depression, sucks.

                               But Ricky makes it suck a lot less. 

[lostintheclouds-stuff]

Just a stupid vent ab my stupid mental health <3

I am ruining my life to put it plainly...

I have a loving partner, pets, a few friends and I do have my family (although they aren't always the best) they do care, but as awful as it sounds, I don't care. I love all of them but my head just doesn't work the way it's supposed to. Like I love and care deeply for all of them and genuinely I would walk to the ends of the earth just to make them happy, but the fact they care about me doesn't stick long enough for me to care if I'm destroying myself or not.

Earlier this year I had 2 sewerslide attempts, 1 put me in h0spital and the other was minor because it got caught whilst I was doing it and I started getting better after that, I went to therapy and spoke things out, I was getting back into a routine, I was 3ating and looking after myself, still getting episodes but I was medicated so it was okay, then idk when it happened but everything started falling apart, I started r3stricting and thinking about wanting to d1e far more often and now I'm at a point where every single day I'm considering if i should go through with it again, I'm thinking about wanting to s/h constantly and trying to think of the best ways to do it without being caught, I'm not taking my antidepressants im hardly looking after myself

All while I tell everyone I'm doing much better now. My episodes are starting to get worse and worse again too, looking at old photos and videos of myself not even recognising who it is because I just don't even know what I look like, I'm so detached from myself I don't have a clue who I am or what I look like or what I'm even supposed to be doing with myself.

I know there's lots of reasons to live bla bla, but it's just hopeless honestly. I have no goals (ik being sk1nny is a goal but lets be real b1nging and restr1cting doesn't last eventually I will be caught and stopped or get sick enough to be hospitalised) no aspirations, no plans, I'm just sick and the rest of my life is just going to be a constant cycle of get better, relapse, get better, relapse. So what's the point... I genuinely feel like they would all be much better off without me here.

When I say I aggressively hate myself, I mean it with all the might I've got. I fucking despise myself, every single part of me. I had planned to end everything when I hit 16 but I'm 24 now and idk what to do with myself, I didn't plan anything because I wasn't meant to be here... I'm just exhausted, I'm tired.

I'm sorry if you read this whole thing ik it's shitty and depressing. stay safe loves <3

[nerdthatsiriuslylovesteaxx]

Helpless part 3 peeps

It was almost five and Nico had embarrassingly spent the whole day thinking about Will Solace, he was stubborn and got on his nerve but he was cute in a way. Nico headed to the infirmary where Will Solace stood there waiting for him,

"Hey Nico." Wil called out brightly,

"Hello Solace." Nico said coldly, this Apollo kid could not know anything. Will did the routine of lecturing him about how he needs to eat more, his severe vitiam D deficiencies, iron deficiencies and about twenty more that could never remember.

"Okay so, I'm giving you some vitamins. Take this one with breakfast and the blue one before you sleep, also I looked through the tests you did. You have PTSD and depression, I would recommend therapy but then you would send an army of skeletons after me, pass out and potentially die and I really don't want you to die. I think we have reached a level of kind of friendship and would not like you to die right now, take one of these a day first thing in the morning with water before you eat anything." Will said walking around the room picking up three different containers and placing them on a table in front of Nico.

"Solace I'm fine. I'm not taking them." Nico spoke bluntly,

"Yes you are, doctors orders. I will be telling your sister to make sure you take them and after she leaves I'll make sure you do." Will respond firmly,

"Solace you aren't my father, I don't need you checking in on me. I won't take them, I am fine." Nico said avoiding eye contact as the blonde boy towered over him.

"Nico di Angelo, it is my job to make sure you are healthy. I do not care whether you like it or not, you need to take the medication. I don't care if I have to shove it down your throat, I can't have you dying on me di Angelo so take the fucking pills. Please for the love of Apollo or I guess Hades just take it, I don't care how much you say you're okay, you are not. Do you know how many times I have considered putting you in the infirmary on an IV because you looked like you wouldn't last another day? Have you even eaten today Nico? It may seem shocking to you but I actually care about you, I don't want you to drop dead." Will finishes, his usual gentle voice lost replaced with a shaking yet harsh one."Shit, Nico I'm really sorry I just, I'm really concerned about you. Please just take the pills, doctors orders." Will replies in his usual gentleness.

"Okay I'll take them, I swear I'm trying to eat more it's just I forget I need to. Spending years with ghosts and then trapped in that jar I always forget I'm meant to eat." Nico whispered, he was actually trying to eat, but it just makes him feel sick.

"It's at dinner I'll sit with you and Hazel at the Hades table." said Will.

"I thought you weren't allowed to do that?" Nico wondered.

"For medical purposes, I am." Will added simply, Nico didn't argue after that. Seeing Will speaking in that harsh voice, it made him seem more real. He didn't want to admit it but after that he wanted him even more.

***

They walked to the Hades table,

"Oh hey, Will Solace right? I thought you were an Apollo kids, why are you sitting at Hades?" Hazel asked,

"Medical reasons; you're Hazel I presuming?" Will responded, after that they started talking. They got on quite well. With Will there Nico felt more pressured to eat, even then he barley finished half a plate. "It's getting better, just try to eat a bit more each day. I'll see you at campfire, yeah Nico?" Will said before walking away.

"So that's loverboy?" Hazel grinned as Nico tried to hide his blushing,

"Shut up Hazel, there's no chance he likes me." Nico responded softly, looking down. "Especially after today, I'll see you at campfire Haze." He finished before leaving. 

***

"Gods Will, just tell him." Annabeth sighed,

"There's no chance he likes me back. I quite literally yelled at him today because he wasn't taking his medication."

"Will, please if Nico di Angelo was going to get scared by yelling he would not have survived Tartarus."

"I know but what if he's straight?" What if he was homophobic.....he was from the 30s...Nico probably didn't know he was bi since he was never at camp constantly. Will didn't say anything to Annabeth but the thought was in the back of his mind. Annabeth thought quickly, she didn't want to out Nico but also he didn't want Will to think he had no chance, he'd been pining over Nico for so long it was kind of hopeless.

"You won't know until you talk to him Will."

"I swear he hates me, he won't even say we're friends."

"Will, Nico does not hate you. If he did he would have made that very clear."

"But-"

"I promise he doesn't hate you Will, trust me."

"Okay Annabeth I trust you, but I still think there is no chance Nico di Angelo, the living embodiment of darkness will ever fall for the son of Appollo." With that Will walked off to the infirmary, just as Percy and Jason came running in.

"Hey Wise Girl." Percy said while kissing her,

"Hi Seaweed brain." Annabeth replied as she messed up his hair,

"I'm sorry to interrupt but I did want to tell you two something." Jason said, "Nico came out to the rest of the group today as well as Reyna. "

"Wait really? Gods I'm so proud of him." Annabeth said, she felt a strange amount of protectiveness over the son of Hades. He'd gone through so much and she was so proud of him for telling everyone.

"I'm guessing I'm still not his type? Wait there's no one I need to drown right? Because I gladly will drown anyone if required,"

"Thankfully no, but I did also offere to strike anyone with lighting if required." Jason responded as he and Percy high fived. Piper walked towards them after leaving a group of Aphrodite kids, she had a look in her eyes which Annabeth could only assume meant she was planning something.

"Guys so you know how Nico likes Will-"

"Wait what?" Annabeth said shocked.

"Nico said you and Percy already knew?" Piper said extremely confused,

"So his type is blondes? " Percy asked,

"Well um..anyways what's the chance that they get together? I need to hear your predictions, Aphrodite kid tradition except they don't know this time so I thought I would ask you guys."

"80%" Percy and Jason said in unison before Annabeth just smiled and said,

"100" and walking off.

"Anyways bye you two, I should probably go and help plan that date for Clarisse and Chris. I told Clarisse we would have it planned by campfire." She said kissing Jason and walking back to where her siblings were.

"Bro I bet I can beat you in a sword fight right now." Jason said,

"Not a chance, your on. No prep time allowed."

"Let's go then."

Percy and Jason both ran off to the forest likely going to do something extremely stupid and probably electrocute a few people but honestly no one cares as their fights were some of the most exciting things to watch.

***

________

xx hope you like it

[razor-tits]

A very long and over due life update.

So, to start this off I guess I need to back up. Let's start in October. It feels like yesterday but also a lifetime ago. Things were...ok I'd say. Boring, routine, the only shake up was my hormones ran out and my job was changing our insurance, so I had to cancel my follow up appointment for bloodwork and a refill. But then I got some bad news from my parents.

My dad had a heart attack and was in the hospital. He was ok, but he needed surgery. First they thought just a stent, but then decided he needed a triple bypass. I have a pretty good relationship with my parents, but we're kind of distant. I live a few hours away and only see them around the holidays but we talk on the phone weekly. My dad can lean a little on the conservative side but both of them are the absolute salt of the earth. They're done so much to help me and I felt powerless to be able to help. I couldn't leave work and felt like there was nothing I could do.

The next couple weeks were rough, my dad was staying in the hospital, my mom was going back and forth staying with him and taking care of my grandma, who is in her late 80's and has a litany of health issues. On a Friday I finally managed to make the drive home and spend the weekend there. Seeing my dad laid up in a hospital gown tied to machines is something i'll never forget. He could get up and move and acted like he was ok. But he's one of those guys you meet and you think he's invincible. The kind of guy that put a new roof on our house with a broken finger and can't turn away a stray animal at the door. Some family members I hadn't seen in a long time came and went over the weekend. Thoughts of our own mortality set in and I realize this could be the last time I see any of them.

I've lost people before. Some of them suddenly and unexpectedly. Others who's death was almost a sigh of relief after fighting for so long. I never got to say goodbye when my friend died and I hope he knows how much he meant to me. I don't want to feel that again, ever.

The day of surgery came. He was in the OR for 3 hours but it felt like an eternity and a second at the same time. A few hours after that my mom and I were able to see him. He was extubated already, which was a good sign. But he was on heavy medication, incoherent, coming in and out of sleep. But he knew I was there and that's all that mattered.

I had to leave and make my way back to my parents to get my dog, and then make the 2 hour drive back to Ohio and go back to work in the morning. At this point I knew my dad would be ok, he just had to get through recovery. But now thoughts of my own health were worrying me. I'm not in the best shape, I don't exercise or work out. I've already had surgery to fix stomach problems. Everyone on my dad's side has heart problems, and everyone on my mom's side has cancer and diabetes. There's not much I do to prevent any of that. I'm in my 30's and I feel it, maybe more than I should.

Over the next couple months my mental health continues to fall. I had a birthday and spent it sick, as I always seem to do. It's always a rough time of year for me. Seasonal depression kicks in, I get older, and another year passes. My dog, my best friend, the reason I kept myself alive, is getting old. I see it more and more every day and it breaks my heart.

The holidays came and went. I saw my grandma for the first time in a few years. Always wondering if it will be the last. Despite that, this year I never felt less in the holiday spirit. I used to love this time of year, now I desperately try to enjoy it, but part of me just wants it to be over. The best part seems to be a few days off work.

At this point it should be noted I have not restarted hormones. My identity has always been more in flux than i've let on, and maybe that needs to be it's own post, but I don't know if I want to start again or not. I don't know what I want, I don't know what my goals are. I don't know who i am. Beyond basic hygiene, I really don't even feel like taking care of myself most days. I pretty much always feel melancholic. I'm not angry, I don't get excited, I don't have much joy. My sex drive is non existent and I have no desire to do...well, anything.

New year's comes and I honestly couldn't care. It feels like another day. My gf and I go out and have an Ok time. I'm just so tired all the time it's hard for me to go out and enjoy myself like I used to.

And then, a couple days ago my landlord calls. We have to move out. Not sure when, but probably soon. I'm heartbroken and panicking over it. We absolutely love our house. We've only been here about a year and a half but it's been wonderful. It has plenty of room, privacy, it's quiet. We can leave our doors unlocked and packages aren't stolen off our porch. We're allowed both of our dogs and all 3 of our cats with no issues. We've invested so much time and money here. My gf is close with the owners and their children, who were the previous tenants. We even thought about trying to buy this house off of them when their other kid moves out of the downstairs apartment. And it's affordable. Anything else like what we have now will cost double and we can't afford that.

Our last apartment was tiny, cramped, dark and ran by an awful property investment company. And now we have to deal with that again. If we can even find a place where we can take 5 animals. We can hide 2 of the cats, but not all of them. We're in no position to buy nor do we have the time to go through the process. My gf said we may have to find 2 different apartments and live separately for a while. Just the thought of that brings me to tears. I can't live without her, I can't live without our pets. We're a family. I don't know what to do.

Since I got the phone call I've done nothing but panic, contact rental agencies and weigh my options. None of them are good. Best case scenario is we move in a smaller, worse place, paying more rent.

Nothing is going right for me. I know this isn't insurmountable and nothing that people haven't gone through before. But...god damn I need a break and I can't get one.

[delphictrip]

Captain's log. Stardate JAN 10 2024. ADHD and time management.

trying some of the non medication adhd management techniques along with my medication for the superpowers of... hopefully clean kitchen and laundry done and to bed on time?

i watched this video while I was folding towels on Monday and I almost cried. Yeah. I'm Judy. I don't know how long it takes to do the goddamn laundry, so I always overbook myself and never finish it and that's how i end up with clothes all over the floor constantly that may or may not need to be re-washed. and being surrounded by mess all the time is depressing and stresses me out and makes EVERYTHING worse (things i have known about myself for years and not really figured out how to solve).

starting to TIME my tasks.

shower: 30 minutes. 15 minutes for brushing hair before, hopping in, getting clean, getting into a towel. 15 more minutes for drying off enough to feel comfortable putting clothes on again.

getting ready for bed: 15 minutes for grooming (brushing and braiding hair, brushing teeth, extras if needed) and however long a wind down yoga video is. 10-30 minutes. start at 8:30 to be in bed by 9 or 9:15

getting ready for work: 15 minutes to get dressed and groom, maybe a yoga routine if time allows, 15 minutes to eat breakfast and pack my bag and put on my badges and get out the door. still working on breaking that down. I wasn't late for work today though!!! I was a whole minute early. Although I was shooting for 5 minutes early. Oops.

I just got a LOT of kitchen clean up done in 50 minutes. Like, it's good enough I'm not gonna hate cooking in it tonight.

Taking a breather. Time's up 5 minutes ago, going to see how long it takes to make dinner in a TIDY kitchen with CLEAN KNIVES and a CLEAN COUNTER. Maybe I need to give myself a 15 minute break after 45 minutes like I planned instead of a 10 minute break after 50 that ended up stretching into an 17.5 minute break OK POSTING NOW BYE

[feminismisstillahatemovement]

"OMG TEACHERS ARE GONNA MAKE MY KIDS TRANSITION!!" You are completely delusional, I hope you know that. Like thats a completely insane and embarrassing thing to say. thats also not how transgenderism works in the slightest. transgender people have always known theyre transgender. its not a choice, its a fact. See: the story of the man who had a botched circumcision that removed his penis. His parents tried to raise him as a woman and never told him. In his twenties, he started to identify as a trans man until he finally had a DNA test done and learned he was in fact a cis man without a penis. you can't change what you identify as and no one can change it for you, retard. learn how things work or just end your miserable life so no one has to have the misfortune of dealing with you. I recommend jumping in front of a train.

It's so weird being routinely told I'm hateful and evil for saying maybe we shouldn't mutilate children by people gleefully telling me to kill myself. But it always makes me feel better about myself, knowing that I have never once done such a thing, and never will.

The funny thing here is the story of David Reimer actually proves the opposite of what this person is presenting: Reimer was raised as a girl on the orders of John Money, the "sexologist" chiefly responsible for promoting and legitimizing the belief that gender is a social construct and something assigned at birth. Reimer didn't "start to identify as a trans man" in his twenties, and there was no DNA test; he simply knew he was a normal little boy all along who had been abused by an evil and deceitful medical practitioner pushing the cult of transgenderism:

"By the age of 13 years, Reimer was experiencing suicidal depression and he told his parents he would take his own life if they made him see Money again. Finally, on 14 March 1980, Reimer's parents told him the truth about his gender reassignment, following advice from Reimer's endocrinologist and psychiatrist. At 14, having been informed of his past by his father, Reimer decided to assume a male gender identity, calling himself David." (wikipedia)

[firecooking]

Here me out, in the tugs fandom there are 3 depictions of captain zero

1. Shitty mustache ( looks like it's pencil drawn)

2. Mustache that curls into a zero ( it curling to represent how he's the antagonist and also it resembles a 0 )

3. No mustache ( because he's either terrible at facial hair or artist just didn't draw him with one)

In your au is there an inside joke that zero can't grow proper facial hair?

I have been a conosuier of human Captain Zero's for years, and that theory does hold water!

I think the only Zero I can think of until a few that cropped up around this year with a beard that was drawn more than once is Dan-the-countdowner's over on deviant art. God speed Dan you where like the only guy drawing human Captains for years.

Also, your asks are always on deck in my ask box when I have a few minutes of free time, please don't think I'm ignoring them, sometimes it takes me a while to formulate my answers. Also I don't often do drawing requests, but I make an exception for my TUGS au's!

Anyways, on to my au! There will be a detailed explanation under the read more but tldr:

When Zero was a younger man he always kept himself clean shaven, after his time in he army he attempts to grow a mustache, which was universally hated and every one regarded as a bad move. Post War 1918-pre Zip 1920 is lovingly known as the rat years in the photo albums that reside around Zero Marine Bigg City.

Before the Great War Captain Zero clean shaved every morning, brushed out, cared for, and styled his hair, and generally looked put together and intentional despite living with rather wild, wavy, longer hair. I picture him around a 2b/2c if he makes an attempt to care for it but when he's not doing anything particular its just a frizzy/fluffy 2a, he has pretty fine hair so it's never consistent unless Zero makes the effort. His hair keeping short also makes it less wavy than it might be if he let it grow out.

He'll never admit it but he never really liked looking anyone in the eyes as a young man, and he still doesn't like it. His long bangs covering his face made him feel more calm and helped hide the fact he was avoiding eye contact.

When he signed up for the draft, Star had made a few passing comments about his hair, but Zero never thought anything of it. He's always remembered Star had had longer hair, and the Army wasn't that different to the navy, right?

After he was drafted and was in training, one of the first things that happened was his hair was trimmed back to fit in his helmet better and his daily grooming routine was reprimanded as a waste of time for a medic. He was told to change it or lives would be lost. So change it he did. This change consisted of not doing his hair routine save for 'basic maintenance' [ie, none] as needed, and only shaving one or twice a week, his facial hair never did grow very fast and was rather sparse anyways.

When he got back from the war, he vowed to grow his hair back out, but he was a different man returning home.

With his new found free time in the mornings meant he could always find time for tea and some breakfast. Making for a slightly less 'tired bitch of a captain' according to his three tugboats [data gathered from eaves dropping on their nightly poker games]. With his shaving routine fully altered and him no longer being picky about being clean shaven, he decided to try out facial hair, his father always maintained a beard, so why couldn't he? Genetics were on his side! He often forgets he's adopted.

It never did grow in fast, or very full. Even with Zorran's best efforts to help, Zero never really had more than a slightly bushy mess. And his hair never really got back to it's same length/health after the war, he always blamed it on the fact it was cut back, and not the fact he was a depressed mess after Europe who had stopped grooming almost entirely for years.

When Zip was due to be christened, Zero finally went down to a barbers shop to get himself cleaned up for the photographs at the urging of his tugboats and mother.

The barber took one look at him and told him the mustache needed to go and that his hair was initially damaged from lack of care during the war and then exacerbated by lack of care after. Zero on a whim let the man do what he felt was right, it was a new decade after all.

Zero's up cut was initially very low maintenance for him and he quite preferred it that way. Zero didn't keep up steam with his hair care the same way he did before the war, but he could manage to brush it in the morning to keep it from getting as bad as it had been.

Once Zasha comes into his life and he realized she has much curlier hair than he ever did [a mix of 3 b/c], he starts to pick hair maintenance back up as he learns how to take care of her hair. He's gotta be a role model and a good father after all. He still never gets back to how he was before the war, but at least his hair is healthy instead of oily, frizzy, and out of place.

More importantly he's taking regular showers and grooming again. His tugs count both of those things as a win.

He never figures out why he was less particular about the way he looks after the war. He was living a life of crime before the war. In the army he never injured a soul or took a life, unlike his days collecting debts as an 'accountant.'

He doesn't see how the war to end all wars could have changed him.

[saintavangeline]

hi! i hope it won't come off as nosy, but i got really interested when you said you've been diagnosed with bipolar, and adhd on top of it... mainly because i have adhd, and for the past month i've been waiting to get a bipolar diagnosis confirmed, since my psychiatrist is suspecting it. i don't know anyone who has it and it feels a bit lonely to sail this boat, would it be okay if i asked you a few questions? (feel free to skip if you don't want to answer them!)

overall i just wanted to ask, what are your main symptoms and how does your adhd get worse with experiencing episodes? & are you able to experience remission with your current treatment (that's mostly for adhd, if i remember it correctly)? and also i just want to quickly say im insanely proud of you for managing to survive, and, despite all the difficulties, still finding your voice in music 🤍🤍

Hi! I don't mind these questions at all - I know firsthand how isolating and difficult it is to navigate these illnesses and especially when you're waiting on a formal diagnosis. Having adhd and bipolar (and in my case.. also a recent autism diagnosis) together can be incredibly difficult, but on the plus side, people with these disorders usually have some of the most creative minds in our society. So.. yay to that part of it's any consolation!

1. My main symptoms are lethargy/fatigue, ruminating, anxiety, issues with starting and completing tasks, impulsivity, memory issues/forgetfulness, poor time management and keeping a routine, mood swings, and (this is one I feel so so awful about and I'm trying so hard to work on) changing topics mid convo/interrupting.

2. When I experience episodes, I definitely feel like my ADHD exacerbates my symptoms. When I'm manic, I am go-go-go, do not eat for days, possessed and riddled with creativity and pull all-nighters frequently. It's like I'm on some sort of bender but my drug is creating things or getting really involved in a special interest or hobby. I'm also able to get a lot done and accomplish things I normally struggle knocking out. When I reach my depression cycle, ADHD paralysis keeps me immobilized on my couch or in my bed for sometimes entire days. I struggle to even get up and bathe.

3. Unfortunately no, I have not experienced remission. However, I will say that taking stimulants has helped numb out bad feelings when I'm low, and somewhat stabilizes me during mania. I don't feel AS extreme of mood shifts when I'm on stimulants, but it doesn't completely stop my symptoms.

4. I have tried other medications for treating bipolar in the past, and I have had horrible experiences with all of them, and some new trauma around coerced medication so finding something that will work is currently off the table for me in terms of drugs. I advise you be careful and trust your gut with whatever you're given. If you feel like something is wrong, you DO NOT have to keep taking it. And don't let anyone pressure you otherwise.

And thank you so much! Life has been incredibly hard and sometimes I am genuinely fighting for it, but my mania cycle is about to kick in finally (it always does around this time of year) and I'm ready to kick off LOL

I wish you the best of luck in your mental health journey, and props to you for advocating for yourself 🤍