#somehow that unbridled joy and celebration will find us again and for now that is enough

[prosebushpatch]

Since Christmas is around the corner, I wanted to talk a little bit about one of the most well-known Christmas Redemption Arcs and my favorite thing about A Christmas Carol. Enjoy!

[barnesandco]

Nikah: December

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Vague smut. 

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s writing challenge. I cannot believe I just finished my first series. I owe major thank you to everyone who has been so supportive, and a great debt of gratitude to the writers on this site who inspire me to keep going. Thank you for staying - I look forward to sharing future works with you. 

His wedding ring shines softly in the dim lighting of the hallway as he stands in front of the door, hand resting on its handle. The wood is cold against his forehead as he  breathes slowly, trying to calm his foxtrot heart. After three-quarters of an eternity, he knocks, and then enters upon the permission of his wife from within the room. Almost stumbles at the sight of her, as if he doesn't know her ethereal beauty like every speck of sunshine in her eyes.

She's sitting at the foot of the bed, the skirt of her glowing, white-golden lehenga spread out in front of her, her dupatta draped over her head and behind her to lay and glimmer like stardust over their silk sheets. Bucky's tie tightens around his neck and he lifts a hand to rub it nervously, and clears his throat, as she smiles reassuringly at him.

His wife, his moon and star, is tired and pleased, after the day's festivities. As is he. The wedding reception - held secretively in the same ballroom as his birthday - was quite the celebration.

"Hey," She says, unwavering, ever the anchor to ground his meandering mind. He stands in front of the mirror now, untying his tie, letting the silk slip through his hands like her love did for so, so long.

"Hey back," He answers with a grin as he removes his waistcoat. Drapes it over a nearby chair before sitting down to remove his socks. Relishes in the warmth of her content gaze as it washes over him. "How are you feeling?" He asks, leaning back to take her in. 

"Tired, but happy. Today was a good day, Bucky," She says, and he couldn't agree more. Not one to mince words where they are not needed, he walks over to her as he unbuttons the top of his shirt and kneels in front of her.

"Tired, huh? Anything I can help with, wife of mine?" He teases, trying to pretend to take one of her legs in his hand to massage, but is soon bewildered by the fact that he can't, the layers of fabric impeding his intentions. 

"Maybe I should be asking you that," She laughs, no malice in her amusement, only joy, and total awe at this man on his knees before her. He growls lowly and pushes up to meet her smiling mouth with his own, raspberries and gulab-jamun a magical mix he thinks he could live off of, if allowed to. Her lips are his aab e hayat - water of life - and he drinks her breaths until he hopes he will never go thirsty again. They part slowly, lips still grazing gently, and he returns to his crouching position at her feet. 

Until she frowns and stands up, urging him to do the same. Guides his hands to the pins holding her dupatta to her head and shoulders - he should not be thinking of superhero capes right now - and urges him to remove it. He slips it off with nimble fingers, and it slides off her and down the bed to puddle in a pool of gold on the floor. She doesn't let him reach for it, lifts her hands to cup his face, her own illuminated by the moonlight. Traces the planes of his cheeks and the valley between his brow and eyelids. Having taken her heels off, she stretches on tip-toe to plant a kiss on the ski-slope of his nose, the crevice of his chin, before sealing her lips over his again.

Bucky's hands, distinctly different but both unified in their desire, reach up to loosen her hair-do before burying themselves in the soft, comforting mass of it, using the grip to bring her somehow, some way, closer to him. Her whimpers are feather-soft against his tongue, her hands shaking as one grips his waist and the other reaches for the remaining buttons on his shirt. Her desire is contagious, amplifying his own tenfold, and his hands glide her back, coming to rest over the elegant embroidery at her waist. 

"Can I take it off?" She whispers with unbridled arousal in her eyes, and Bucky now realizes his shirt has been fully unbuttoned. He nods, lets her take it away. Lets her take him away. And God, does she take him away.

His wife, his golden woman takes him to a world where demons lose their power and no sound exists except the rustle of their bedsheets as they settle on them, and her gentle whispers of assent and encouragement. He forgets the planetarium when he has a galaxy in his hands, under his palms. The column of her neck is a nebula against his mouth, her waist a solar system between his arms. She kisses him like he's going to fly away, but he knows that the planet of her smile is his only home. The only place he can breathe right, the sun he needs to survive, is right here, not a millimeter apart.

The move like satin and soft clouds between parted mouths and gasping breaths, as they join forever, till death do them part. And after, after the tide crashes over the beach of their shore, bringing satiation and deep union with it, they lay together, her head on his chest and his heavy with the weight of the universe he has just gained. 

"Today was a good day," He echoes her earlier sentiment against her hair, voice rich with desire. A laugh rumbles through her cheek to his chest, and his heart is fit to burst. Something gives her the energy to lift her head and lean on an elbow above him, a free finger tracing any eyebrow as he traces her smile. 

"I almost fell over about a dozen times, Bucky. But yeah, other than that…" She reminds him playfully, and he rolls his eyes.

"I don't blame you, baby. Not in those heels," He points out. Throwing her head back, she laughs fully this time, and his cheeks hurt from grinning. "I still can't believe Sam danced to Katrina Kaif," He says, shaking his head. Her hand drops from where its busy tucking his hair behind his ear, and her responding smile is blinding.

"Wow, Buck, referring to Bollywood singers by name instead of song. I'm proud of you," She jokes.

"I had a good teacher."

"Anything else I can help with?" She asks, parroting his earlier comment as he had tried and failed to find her skin beneath her clothes. He found it in the end, and he'll be damned if he ever loses it, forgets the feel of it on his fingertips, ever again. He nods sincerely at her question, preparing the answer.

"Yeah. Stay," He replies quietly, and the laughter falls from her eyes to be replaced by brimming desire and overflowing love. This, Bucky knows, because it is a reflection of his own.

"Okay, Bucky. I can do that. We can stay," She says, before pulling the covers further over them, nestling against him. His arm fits like a puzzle-piece around her body, their intertwined forms the complete picture. 

Her words ring louder than the azaan in his ears as the silence envelopes them once more. Her embrace is kinder than he thought he deserved, but that he is imprinting into his memory, inch by glorious inch. Her hand rests on his chest, feeling his heartbeat thrum below, steady and alive. Bucky grabs that hand and brings it to his mouth, lays a snowflake of a kiss against the back of it as he thinks: love doesn't need second chances - it just takes a little faith.

Taglist: @suz-123 @mermaidxatxheart @buckyreaderrecs @shield-agent78 @corneliabarnes @stevieboyharrington @notsomellowmushroom @veganfangirl5 @mood-pancakes @lbuck121 @starnight-charmer @redhairedfeistynerd @geeksareunique @samingtonwilson @alyxkbrl @bucky-smiles​ @marvelrose​

[dancedelion]

Lover’s Lament

Genre: fluff Word Count: 2575 Summary: "What's it like to be in love?" "Don't." *** Jaskier and Geralt attend a wedding. ao3: Lover’s Lament Jaskier writes lover's laments - A long time ago, Jaskier wondered, is it an analytic truth that one must love to love? Is a feeling of reverence implied in soft touches, in shining eyes? Is happiness integral to a kiss?

And now he weeps into his pillow.

And now he feels his heart ache like a sore spot in his body.

Oh, how he loves to love. (How he loves picking himself up and piecing himself back together like patchwork never in the right order never how it was before never whole) (And never is like a string around his neck pulling tight, he is held up by rope of almosts.) Sweetheart, only masochists love love. What a brave fool you must be to walk onto a battlefield with no weapons and no shield.

But who needs weapons when you have a witcher in front of you by your side at your back -

(And there is nothing that could make you think he is your enemy, not even feeling the blade of his sword against your neck, not even when it stars to pierce your skin, if only slightly – even then, don't I still love your breath in my neck?)

Sometimes it hurts, but Jaskier can't stop writing a lament, when Geralt is with him and when he is not, this is his routine, what he knows -

Love hurts.

***

Everything is going according to routine - Geralt is fighting a monster, then killing a monster, then he returns to the tavern, goes upstairs to change out of his armor - until Jaskier bursts into the room and blurts: “A wedding!”

“What?” “We've been invited to a wedding!” Jaskier waves his hands around in a flourish. “You mean, you've been invited to a wedding.” “Nope! Both of us.” Geralt contemplates this for a moment. Jaskier bringing everything out of order and mixing everything up is according to routine. “Why would anyone invite me to their wedding? I'm a witcher.” “And what a witcher! Impressive swords, impressive... muscles. Who wouldn't be blown away?”

Geralt mutely shakes his head.

“Okay, I'll admit,” Jaskier amends, “from a certain point of view, that might seem a tiny bit threatening.”

“So what endeared them to me? The friendly smile?”

“The fact that you saved their village and now they don't have to live in constant panic and fear anymore! The wedding can finally happen! In a way, you've birthed this wedding. As the father, it's your responsibility, no, your duty even, to attend.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “Sure it's not just your incessant guilt tripping that's forcing me to attend?”

“I'd like to think it was my irresistible charm,” Jaskier flashes a smile. “Or because I annoyed you into it. That is a skill, I'll have you know. One I intend to perfect!”

“Believe me, you're already pretty good at it.”

“Oh, Geralt, stop, you'll make me blush.”

Geralt smirks and watches as Jaskier wanders the room.

“What a feat.”

“Hey! I do not blush easy.”

Overcome by a strange feeling, Geralt has to avert his eyes.

“So who's the happy couple?” Geralt busies himself with putting away his swords and folding the armor.

“Farmer's son and smith's daughter. It's properly romantic. We can not miss out on this! I can smell love in the air!”

Geralt turns his head. It's strangely hard to keep the smile in. “I'm pretty sure that's your perfume.”

“Fine, be grumpy, work it off. You've already agreed to this.” “I have?” “Come on, Geralt. Don't even pretend you can say no to me.”

Geralt shakes his head in amusement. (He doesn't say no.)

*** “I look ridiculous.” “You look dashing.”

“I look like a peacock.” “You look like a dashing peacock, witcher, pay attention.” Jaskier has gotten him a doublet – Melitele knows from where – and Geralt is sure it must be at least one size too small.

“I wear black,” Geralt tries to argue.

“Not today you're not. This is a wedding, not a funeral. Can't go around spreading gloom and bringing everyone down.”

“If they don't want that, then they shouldn't invite a witcher to their celebration.”

“That's not fair, they only got one quick look at you and you looked like exceptional, truly excellent company when you walked in from the hunt covered in blood.”

“Oh, when you put it like that.” Geralt rolls his eyes, worried the effect might be slightly undermined by the outfit. It looks like the outfit of someone who doesn't mind having eyes on him, someone who values looks over practicality, someone delicate and pretty – someone like Jaskier.

“Stop this,” Jaskier says and gestures in Geralt's direction. “Stop what?” “Your general grumpiness and pessimism. Think of it as going undercover. Here's your new role: You're going to pretend to be a normal person.”

“Hm. Like a human.”

“Exactly! It'll be fun.”

Geralt scrutinizes himself in the mirror, tries to think away the white hair and the yellow eyes. It doesn't quite work. Normal human, not so much, but maybe he could pretend to be a strange human.

*** They're in the back of the church. Geralt is on a mission. He has already calculated seven different escape routes.

“Stop glowering,” Jaskier whispers over to him. “I don't glower,” Geralt answers, “I just... observe.”

“You observe gloomily. You're unsettling the flower children.”

There's a boy three rows in front of them staring at them. Geralt tries to smooth out his expression a little. What would human Geralt do?

“Oh, that's a wonderful flower arrangement. Look at her, that dress is so beautiful.” Jaskier continues gushing compliments about the decorations. Geralt follows after Jaskier's descriptions with his eyes. It's simple, they can't afford much, but suddenly Geralt finds himself admiring the carnations tied to the benches. Nearly the whole village is assembled, chattering among themselves and laughing. The children are playing tag along the corridor. It's their faces though – creases in the corners of their eyes, like a whole face pulled apart by a smile.

Geralt is too big here, the seat is too small, the doublet is too small, he just doesn't fit -

There is no use in pretending he is human, he is not human, he could never exist in a space like this, he ruins moments like this. A wedding. What was he thinking? Listening to Jaskier, with the bad ideas that always get them in trouble? Inevitably some monster is going to burst in, or a brawl is going to break out, and somehow, how ever, it will be Geralt's fault. Who invites a witcher to a wedding?

“Geralt?”

Only someone who's scared of something worse. Geralt's not stupid, people always have an agenda, he knows this. He won't let himself be fooled by Jaskier's endless optimism. Just because he has let a human too close doesn't mean he is one, never will be again.

“I should have brought a sword,” Geralt mumbles.

“A sword? At a wedding? Are you crazy? Why, you mean the second row on the left? That's not a water hag, that's the groom's great aunt.”

Geralt snorts, but quickly grows serious again. “I have a bad feeling about this.” “You have bad feelings about everything, it's called being a paranoid bastard,” Jaskier says jokingly, “come on, relax a little. Have fun!”

Geralt has been to some weddings before and those had always been noble families and political marriages. This is... different. Strange.

The church quiets down and the ceremony begins. Geralt holds himself completely still, which is stupid – like that will somehow turn him invisible. The groom is a young man, barely out of childhood. He looks lost in front of the priest, scared even. But his face lights up completely when the bride steps in, wearing a blue dress, the best the family could afford. Geralt is dumbstruck at the unbridled joy in his eyes.

(If he were human, would he fall in love?) When they speak their vows – words of love and gentle promises – the bride starts crying and then so does the groom. They stumble forward, like the happiness pulled them together, and kiss, so enthusiastic in it that it turns clumsy and they pull apart again with a laugh.

(Could he kiss someone like that?) A sniff next to him startles Geralt out of his stupor.

“Are you crying?” Geralt glances at Jaskier sideways, who tries to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes. “...no.” “Yes, you are.”

“Fine! Yes. I'm crying. It's a wedding, everyone cries at weddings.” “Look around. No one is crying except for you.” “They're crying!” Jaskier points at the couple.

Geralt watches them, talking with a few older people, maybe their parents, all the while holding hands. “They're in love.”

Jaskier looks away.

(Could Jaskier love him, if he were human?)

*** At the reception, everyone is giddy from relief to be rid of the monster that was terrorizing the village and giddy from the joy of the wedding. People are eating at the benches outside of the church and when it turns dark, they start a fire.

He can tell Jaskier is a little intoxicated by the way he leans into Geralt.

“Geraaalt,” Jaskier sings, “I love this song.” “Not gonna complain that they didn't ask you to play?” “Not today.” Jaskier smiles a little. “You know I don't ask you for much, right? So can you just – can we just -” “What?” “Dance with me?” He leans into Geralt more and he's so close, Geralt's head gets dizzy.

“You can barely stand.” “Shut up, I'm not that drunk.”

And there is something about that night that makes Geralt believe in things he knows to be impossible, because he doesn't put up a fight and instead holds out a hand to Jaskier, like a nonsensical offer. Jaskier grabs his hand immediately and Geralt catches him by the hip and he lets himself touch. They are on the outskirts of the celebration, a small distance away. Geralt leads Jaskier slowly and suddenly gets unreasonably worried that Jaskier will hear his heartbeat. (Jaskier probably can't even hear the crickets in the field, there is nothing to be worried about.)

But he can't get the couple out of his mind and that kiss and what if he were human, somewhere in another universe -

“Jaskier?” “Hm?” “What's it like to be in love?”

Jaskier steps away from him abruptly, with a harsh intake of breath.

“Don't.”

*** Jaskier feels faint, his eyes becoming unfocused, then focused and unfocused again. They don't talk about this. It's like a rule, or maybe a courtesy, or a secret, how ever unspoken truths can be secrets. (My hand home in your hand. My house in your house. My lips in your lips. My dreams the color of your eyes. My heart beating to your song.) Jaskier has never tried to hide this, couldn't if he wanted to because this feeling is too big to hold in and he's always known that Geralt knows but they don't talk about it, because it would be embarrassing, because it would hurt.

Jaskier sways back a little. We don't do this.

(Have you ever stood on the edge of a cliff and had a strange desire to throw yourself off of it? Have you ever seen a butterfly and wanted to catch it, keep it in your hands?)

Jaskier doesn't understand, because Geralt is never cruel, not like this, so he looks up and sees confusion in Geralt's eyes.

“Don't you know,” Jaskier chokes out.

(What is love? A heart beat going too quickly? Elated eyes? A rush of joy in the human body? If that's what you think, dear, you have no idea.) “Witchers don't -” “Don't start with that.” “I – I don't -” Geralt starts.

“I don't believe that.”

It's Geralt, after all. Never understanding feelings, but always having so many of them.

“Tell me.” “I can't.”

“What? Can't find the words?” Jaskier presses his lips together.

“Can't find the courage,” he admits quietly. (Imagine a storm raging through my mind and the storm is just you, you, you. Everywhere, just you. Imagine a room full of mirrors and not being able to see yourself in a single one of them.)

“So you have been in love?” Geralt asks.

“What kind of question is that?” “Right, right. You fall in love with everyone.”

“Don't tell me you don't know,” Jaskier says, astounded. “You idiot. You moron. You complete imbecile.” Maybe some truths need to be spoken. Maybe it was more of a secret than Jaskier thought. And he could keep it to himself if he wanted to. He could leave the painful conversation to never. But how could he do that to Geralt who doesn't believe in being loved? Exposing yourself to love, exposing love – like laying bare fear and dreams and hope – maybe pain is integral to love, in a good way, but also in the worst way -

“Do you even know how many times I've come back to you? Every spring?” “We meet out of coincidence -” “What, you think we met all these times by hazard and you still don't believe in destiny?” Typical Geralt, trying to find some ridiculous explanation in everything rather than accept simple truths.

“Things don't just happen just because you hope for them,” Geralt says somberly. Hope for them? Hope for Jaskier's return? And isn't that ridiculous, because Jaskier always returns.

“Look, Geralt, I don't know if it's because you're really not emotionally intelligent or because you don't want to see it, but I think it's pretty clear that I love you.” Geralt's mouth drops open. He stares at Jaskier wide-eyed. Jaskier watches him with his heart in his throat and Jaskier would lose his nerve if it weren't for Geralt taking a small step toward him.

“Let me show you -” he says. Maybe it's not just him, maybe it's a thing, like him and Geralt, a them thing -

He reaches for Geralt's palm and presses his lips to it. He gets a small sigh as an answer and it tells Jaskier all he needs to know. He whispers a lament against his skin. Then he takes Geralt's hand in his and presses both of them against his chest.

It feels like the future is bright, bright, bright, like maybe they can have this, maybe they can love each other like humans do.

(Love is, I'm here. When you need me and when you don't know that you need me and when you don't need me. Love is, I'm waiting for you to catch up at the end of the road. Even when I can see you in the distance walking in the opposite direction.)

They dance together under the stars and Jaskier leads them, like come here, come here, let me show you the way – and Geralt does, like I'll follow you wherever you go, like stepping into gentleness, so close, like we are sharing oxygen like we are sharing a life like a sweet light little melody that is nothing like a lament and everything like joy.

[transracialqueer]

WHAT WE LOST: UNDOING THE FAIRY TALE NARRATIVE OF ADOPTION

by Liz Latty

January 3 is my Special Day. It is the anniversary of the day I was adopted. The day my parents bundled me up and brought me home to live in our red brick ranch house on West Chicago St. in a sprawling suburb just outside Detroit. As I grew up, I would hear the tale of this auspicious day time and time again. Sometimes even now, in my thirties, my parents like to retell it. Their eyes still shine with something expectant, something new.

We drove through the snow that morning to pick you up at the adoption agency. We were so excited. We’d been waiting so long for you; had prayed so hard. We held you in our arms. Your new brother made silly faces at you and you smiled and laughed at him. We took you home with us and our family was finally complete.

Although the Michigan court proceedings that legalized my adoption wouldn’t happen for another year and a half, my parents decided the January day they brought me home would be the symbolic day we celebrated our family making itself again each year.

I was told versions of the tale of my homecoming so many times over the years, it became somewhat like a myth. Perhaps the same way one’s birth story might feel mythical. And since this was the closest to a birth story anyone had to give me, it became part of the fabric of our family culture, like the storybook romance of my parents’ courtship that began with a canceled blind date in south St. Louis in 1963 and unfolded into their long prayed-for children arriving safely in their arms.

My brother had his own Special Day, having been adopted three years before me from a different family of origin. Our Special Day celebrations always included the retelling of the sweet tale of our arrivals, a small gift, and a special meal or dessert in our honor. I remember lovingly wrapped presents of longed-for books and shiny lip glosses, new CDs and all-you-can-eat dinners at the local Olive Garden. I liked feeling as though I had something akin to a second birthday. It made me feel different in a good way—like I got more than other kids to make up for the feeling that I somehow had less, or was missing something everyone else just naturally had.

At the same time, I felt acutely aware of how happy my mom and dad were on my Special Day, and how sometimes my feelings didn’t quite match up. Sometimes I would feel disconnected from the party, as if some other ghost girl were being celebrated as I watched. A girl who had one family that loved her, one family she belonged to, one name, one home, one story that began on that cozy January day and stretched on into happiness forever after. I would watch this girl celebrate with her family, watch them celebrate together, and I would feel hollow, empty in comparison. Eventually, as I grew into my teen years and my identity began shaping itself in part around this absence, I would come to an understanding that for my parents, my Special Day holds within its memory unbridled joy and relief—finally. But that for me, it holds something far more complicated.

*

Most mornings I sift through news stories from around the globe in search of content for an adoption news website I curate. As a result, I can safely tell you the majority of adoption-related news that doesn’t have to do with a celebrity adoption rarely makes it past small, local, or adoption-specific media platforms, or into the average person’s newsfeed on a regular basis. Yet this summer, when a five-year-old girl named Danielle had her adoption finalized in a Michigan courtroom, nine Disney princesses showed up to celebrate her, and a video of the joyous occasion went viral. Media outlets the likes of BuzzFeed, NBC, Refinery29, and Today.com ran the piece with headlines such as, “This Little Girl’s Adoption Hearing is a Real-Life Fairy Tale,” “Girl, 5, Gets Happily Ever After When Disney Princesses Surprise Her at Adoption Court Hearing,” and “Fairy-tale Ending as Disney Princesses Show Up for Adoption Hearing.”

I hesitated to watch the video. The all-too-familiar storyline linking adoption and fairy tales registered in my body as a flash of anxiety and exhaustion: Here we go again, I thought. But I clicked on it anyway and watched as a representative from the foster agency told us of Danielle’s obsession with Cinderella and everything Disney princess. My heart melted a little as I learned about the foster care workers who had arranged the elaborate surprise in an effort to make Danielle’s adoption day special. At the front of the courtroom next to Danielle sat her elated foster family of two years, for whom everything had lead up to this day in which they officially adopted Danielle, and another foster child, one-year-old Neveah, into their family. The anticipation in the room was electric as the judge offered Danielle the job of banging the gavel, symbolically sealing her own adoption, and the entire courtroom called out in unison, “It is so ordered!”

As the gavel crashed into its sounding block and a smiling, sweet-faced Danielle wobbled almost imperceptibly with the weight and force of it, I realized I’d been crying. The overwhelming sense of joy in the video, the love, the celebration of a family making itself, was beautiful. And, at the same time, I felt a familiar dull ache that often arrives as I watch adoptees at the center of someone else’s narrative.

I think what Danielle’s foster care workers and family did to make her day extra special was an incredibly loving gesture. And even though I can’t help but wonder what Danielle’s story is, what else she might have been feeling that day, or how she will come to think of that day in the future, what’s really troubling to me is why this video went viral when most adoption news goes quietly or not at all. What’s troubling to me is the particular brand of magic that Danielle’s story conjures for the rest of us.

There is no denying this video tugs at the heartstrings, but I believe it went viral for a very specific reason. With its fairy tale imagery and language, this video, and other sentimental representations of adoption, offer us the opportunity to further cement a narrative that we, in American society, have constructed over the last century and seem to need to believe in our individual and collective conscience: Adoption is a happy ending. Adoption is a win-win. Adoption is happily ever after. Unfortunately, this heartwarming narrative is a dangerous tale to tell and has far-reaching consequences.

The singular, unavoidable truth about adoption is that it requires the undoing of one family so that another one can come into being. And because of this, it is a practice, an institution, and a mode of family-making that is born of and begets trauma, loss, and grief. The fairy tale narrative of adoption denies adoptees the acknowledgement and support necessary to process their experiences across a lifetime. It delegitimizes the trauma of adoption loss and directly and indirectly influences the overwhelming statistics that show us adoptees are far more likely than the general population to struggle with trauma-related mental illness, suicide, and addiction.

By ignoring the complex reality of adoption, we are also corroborating a sentimental narrative that drives a billion-dollar, for-profit adoption industry whose sole purpose has been successfully shifted in modern American history from finding homes for children who legitimately need them, to supplying hopeful prospective parents with kids to call their own. The fairy tale narrative of adoption uncomplicates these truths and it lets us off the hook. It makes us feel good about each other and ourselves without having to face difficult complexities and integrate them into our understanding of not only what it means to be adopted, but also what it means to be human.

Inside the fairy tale, we don’t have to think about the darkness, the underbelly, or the unspeakable grief lying just below the surface of a child who has been severed from their home and family of origin. We don’t have to think about the countless pregnant people in the United States and across the globe who have been tricked, bribed, forced, and coerced into relinquishing their children or whose children are kidnapped and sold to agencies or intermediaries who stand to profit from their adoptions. Inside the fairy tale, we don’t have to think about all the first mothers and first families who would choose to keep their children or whose children might not have been unnecessarily or unjustly taken from them if they had access to the right kinds of support. The kinds of support that could be provided countless times over, both in the US and abroad, with the money currently invested in keeping the for-profit adoption industry and the child welfare industry in business.

So why do we love the adoption fairy tale so much? Most of us agree that modern day fairy tales have set us up for failure when it comes to beauty standards and romantic relationship expectations, but what about family-making?

*

I have the date of my Special Day tattooed on my left forearm along with the initials of the three first names I have been given—my birth name from my mother, a variation on her own mother’s name; my foster name from the people who cared for me in the interim; and my adoptive name from my parents, after the first American saint. Because people change children’s names, for a better fit, for a different life.

In my experience, most people that don’t know me well assume I inked my Special Day on my arm as a tribute to my adoption. A tribute to my forever family. To my happily ever after. Oh, how wonderful!, they exclaim smiling wide, knowing smiles. Except this is not at all why I wear the date on my arm. I wear it as a tribute to and an insistence on complexity. The complexity of a day that marks a beginning and an end, all at once. The beginning of my life with my adoptive family and the end of any possibility of returning to my family of origin. A family whose absence I felt as though my small body housed a haunting.

As a child, I never let on that I didn’t feel as excited as my parents did to celebrate my Special Day. This is a complicated hallmark of an adopted childhood. Adoptees often take on the emotional labor of holding our difficult feelings in places where no one can see them because we want to protect those around us from feeling hurt. There also often exists a very real and primal fear of further rejection. We understand we are loved and we understand love is tenuous, so we hide our feelings away because what if we didn’t? How will you feel? Will you be mad at me? Will you be hurt? Will you love me less? Will you send me back? I don’t want you to feel sad or think that I don’t love you, so I hold this hard truth. I hold it for you. I celebrate this day, in this way, for you.

In pictures of the day my parents brought me home from the adoption agency, I look like a baby. Utterly remarkable and yet not at all. In some pictures I look solemn, expressionless. In some I look happy, rosy-cheeked and smiling. There is no and every inference to be drawn as I sift through them, turn them over to see my mom’s handwriting, hold them up to the light. I can insert my adult feelings about this day into these pictures or not. I can choose how to narrate this story. I can tell a true story about a loving family that came to be. How long my parents had waited, had prayed. How they held me, finally. How I laughed at my brother because he made silly faces at me. How we went home together, forever. A family.

Twenty years later, although my parents (and consequently I) were told differently through agency records, I would find out that my eighteen-year-old mother had not wanted to give me up for adoption, but, like most original mothers, did not have the means to support me on her own and lived in a country unwilling to invest in helping single people, poor and working class people, people of color, queer people, immigrants, and young people keep their families sustainably intact. Though they were in love, my mother was not married to my seventeen-year-old father, and her family was Catholic. The answer was clear.

I was told her father made the decision that I would go away. A decision the family held against him for years afterward. A decision I believe I could see behind his eyes when he would try to look at me across a room or expanse of yard two decades later, after I found them.

I kept your newborn picture in my wallet for ten years or more, my mother’s younger sister tells me in a hotel bar. We always thought of you as The One That Got Away.

There is no record of the first five days of my life. I do not know if I was taken from my mother immediately or if we spent those last days together in the hospital. She was never able to speak of it during the time I knew her as an adult, before our reunion unraveled. Her sisters indicated to me they believed she no longer had access to these memories. That they had been too painful and she’d found somewhere to put them. I imagine a shoebox buried in the backyard of her parents’ home, the banks of the Detroit River eventually eroding, giving way, washing the memory of our time together into the tributaries and lakes that were the landscape of my childhood carrying on mere miles away.

The adoption agency placed me in a foster home on the fifth day, but my mother, not wanting to let me go, would come visit me. She asked her parents to take her there and they obliged. Once, she came alone. For two months, I lived in a stranger’s home without the person I’d come to know as intimately as one can. Except that sometimes she would come back for me. And then she would leave. And then she would come back. And then she would leave. As my body began to learn: this is what love is. Right up until that snowy January morning when I was taken to the adoption agency to meet my new parents and my new brother who made silly faces at me and I smiled. I laughed.

*

The late adoption scholar and activist, Reverend Keith C. Griffith, once said, “Adoption Loss is the only trauma in the world where the victims are expected by the whole of society to be grateful.” I come across this quote time and time again, more than any other, in the online adoptee and first mother communities. It is so often quoted I think, because it succinctly points to the glaring misconception, misrepresentation, and misalignment that exist between society’s narrative of adoption and our actual lived experiences as adopted people and first families. There is such a gulf, such a divide, and one that is valiantly defended by society’s deep need to believe a singular, uncomplicated truth about adoption, that those of us who have experienced the interior of an adopted life often feel completely erased and utterly silenced.

Society’s narrative of adoption tells adoptees, in no uncertain terms, if we were given to a loving home, we shouldn’t feel this pain, this chasm, this rip, this tear. We were saved, after all. We’re so much better off. We’re the lucky ones. Our parents must be such wonderful people. We must feel so grateful. How lucky. How special. We were meant to be together. Everything worked out just the way it was supposed to in the end.

It is here—in everyday encounters, in saccharine and reductive media representations, and even in our adoptive families—where adoptees are expected to embody the fairy tale narrative of adoption. A hopeful, well-intentioned narrative, but one that is historically steeped in white saviorhood and colonialism. One in which people with more financial resources, social capital, and most often racial privilege, feel entitled to the children of those with less privilege, opportunity, and support. And we have accepted this not only as an unquestionable good, but also as the best possible outcome.

But what exactly is being measured when weighing this out? Are we certain a child will be “better off” living with the irreparable wound of parental separation and more financial resources than with a low-income or working class parent in their family of origin? Certainly socioeconomic status is often a clear indicator of one’s opportunities in life, but what’s the trade off? I have often wondered what our lives would have looked like had my mother and father made the decision to strike out on their own and raise me. And I wonder too how much of our future might have been determined by the biases that are alive in these very same assumptions. Am I better off? Am I lucky? The truth is, we will never know. And this, too, is a loss.

*

I found my original family in my early twenties and for the last fifteen years, I have experienced wild anxiety, deep joy, profound grief, complex gratitude, rage, fear, alienation, belonging, contentment. I have made primal noises and shapes alone on the floor of a studio apartment when my mother stopped answering my letters after two and a half years of knowing her. I have gotten to watch new siblings grow into stunningly kind, caring, creative, bold, and generous young adults. And I recently reconnected again with my original father for the first time in nearly ten years. Perhaps it will be different this time. Perhaps it will stick. I hope so.

Three years ago I met my original grandmother and three aunts on my father’s side for the first time. I stood barefoot on a cold, tiled kitchen floor during a sweltering Southeastern Michigan heat wave, surrounded by four brazen women who looked and laughed and cursed just like me. I stood there in that kitchen as my grandmother tearfully handed me a jewelry box containing a pair of delicate earrings, tiny gold hoops with sparkling lavender gems—a family heirloom. I stood there as they apologized for not knowing about me. Apologized that I’d been a secret. Apologized for whom?

We didn’t know, they said to me. If we’d known, we would have kept you. We would have raised you ourselves.

In that moment, I felt wanted, I felt important, I felt loved beyond measure, and at the exact same time, another ghost girl was born. A girl who was raised by four strong, independent, take-no-shit, hilarious, hardworking women in a working-class town. She had one family and one name and one home and she knew where she belonged. I watched the ghost girl’s whole life unfold in that moment. I fell in love with her. And then I began the task of grieving her. I’m still grieving her. I’m not sure how to let her go.

*

Adoption loss is an ambiguous loss. While it changes shape over time, it is often life-long. It is without end. I have lost my entire family and yet, there are no bodies to bury, no socially acceptable ritual or process meant for me to understand this loss and how to live with it. My mother went on living, became someone else’s mother, while I lived my young life with only the presence of her absence and the fracturing unknown. Maybe she’s alive; maybe she’s dead. Maybe she loves me; maybe she has forgotten me. Maybe anything.

Even after reunion, if it is possible or desired, there are new losses, new lives, and new selves to grieve. Loss of this magnitude and with this kind of ambiguity most often does not simply resolve itself. Adoptees must learn how to live with it over time, yet we must do so in the face of society insisting we exude joy, gratitude, and luck. An insistence that often means the kind of support we need to manage our grief is either nonexistent or unavailable to us. Imagine for a moment, if we treated other losses this way. Imagine losing a loved one���tragically, unexpectedly—and then being expected to behave as though it was the best thing that ever happened to you.

We need a new adoption narrative. We need to ask ourselves why we have historically needed to perpetuate the sentimental fairy tale narrative of adoption that only serves to hurt those at the center of it and to support an industry in dire need of reconstruction. We need a narrative that can celebrate love and family-making, but which does not insist that adoption is always the best option. That in fact, it is often unnecessary and the most generous, altruistic thing we can possibly do is to help prevent another child and first family from having to live with a lifetime of loss and grief. We need a narrative that centers the voices of adopted people and can hold the complexity of our multiple and fractured truths. That can hold all of it. Because I think this is the reality of being adopted—holding these seemingly contradictory, disparate, complicated truths, in the same body, always. Holding deep grief and profound joy in the same breath. Holding love for one mother that does not negate the love for another mother. Belonging partly to one family or country or culture, partly to another, but maybe never feeling as though we belong to either. Feeling both wanted and unwanted, both chosen and abandoned. Wanting to belong here and wanting to go back there.

What if we, as a society, chose to hold all these truths at the same time, at the same pitch, without the need to push one out in favor of the other? How might our questions or actions or beliefs about adoption change? How might our ideas about loss change? About healing? About family?

*

Though we live on opposite sides of the country now, sometimes my parents and I are in the same place on January 3 and we celebrate my Special Day together. We still eat, we talk, we laugh, we remember. And at some point, later that day or the next, I mark it in my own way, privately, for me. I meditate, I cry, I go to nature—the ocean especially. The ocean rebalances me, stirs a kind of biological rhythm in my body, a point of origin. And the ocean is always bigger and stronger than whatever you bring to its shore. There is comfort in the humbling, in one’s own smallness.

This past January, after thirty-six Januaries, I finally told my parents that my Special Day means something very different for me than it does for them. Fear and shame and guilt licked at my heart as I opened my mouth to say the words. I still wanted to protect them. I wanted to protect them from me. But because the impulse to protect others from their own feelings about my adoption ignites resentment in me, a desire to be the one protected instead, I was cold and forceful in my telling. It’s the day I lost my family. Why would I want to celebrate that? This wasn’t the plan. I didn’t mean to, but this is what happened. I wasn’t prepared for the force with which a truth, held inside a body for thirty-six years, would emerge. I can still see the sadness in their eyes as they listened carefully and nodded, Yes, ok, we hear you.

I left their house later that day, the day before my Special Day, without saying much. I went to a friend’s place a few hours away, in a town I used to call home and didn’t return for a week. I felt guilty about how I handled it and I wasn’t ready yet to try again. The truth is, my parents and I haven’t always had an easy relationship. My unresolved childhood grief made for an angry, rebellious adolescence that left my parents at the end of their rope. When I came out of the closet at eighteen, it proved irreconcilable with their devout Catholicism and there were years of deep distance before we were able to find common ground again. When I found my original family, my parents acted threatened and scared and were unable to figure out a way to support me around it for many years. This is not a laundry list of anyone’s failings. This is complexity. This is a family.

*

Watching Danielle’s adoption hearing reminded me of how much I adore adoptees. How fierce, independent, resourceful, hard-loving, loyal, brilliant, and creative we are. Not in spite of, but alongside this grief we carry. How the first time I was ever in a room full of adoptees, I felt an atmospheric shift. I mean this in the planetary sense. I was never the same again. I had been given permission to be myself for the first time without having to navigate someone else’s need for my story to reflect a fairy tale ending.

This was when I began to dream in earnest about what it would be like for adoptees to exist in a world that understands the paradoxical experiences that we live. A world that does not insist on reducing us to cheerful assumptions and sentimental media representations. A world that accepts adoption not as an unquestionable, benevolent good, not as a fairy tale ending, but as an event that forever changes and complicates the lives of everyone involved. That when the gavel crashes into the sounding block, literally or symbolically, it is both a fracturing and a coming together, a severing and a multiplication, a derailment and a hope for the uncertain path ahead.

(source in the notes)

[mind-reader1]

My Promise (Jake x MC)

A/N: So this idea just popped into my head the other day, and I’m sorry in advance. This is an AU that takes place after the battle on the Celestial roof. Stay tuned for the sequel!

Warnings: Angsty af

Word Count: 2,896

Taylor stood on the rooftop of the Celestial, time frozen around her, all of her friends locked in place, completely unaware of what was happening. Taylor wasn’t even really sure what was happening until she saw Vaanu floating in front of her, the omnipresent transparent spirit sent a chill down her spine, she had the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. She could feel Vaanu staring at her, neither of them speaking, she wandered amongst her friends, making sure to memorize each and every one of them.

 Zahra’s dark red stripe of hair now grown out, the shaved side beginning to grow back into place creating a kind of fuzzy look, Craig keeping a close eye on her, his brown eyes revealing the teddy bear he was inside, the love he felt for her boiling over. 

Sean, the fierce protector of them all, his hazel eyes trying to hide the concern as he desperately searched for a way to stop Rourke from completing his plan. 

Quinn, the bubbly red-head who had come into her own on the trip, and who had saved them more than once, even if it could cost her, her life, the selfless queen. 

She even appreciated Aleister who was there, despite all the terrible things his father had done to him, and temporarily siding with him, back to protect his new family, the ones who truly appreciated him. 

Grace, sweet timid Grace with her bouncy girls and big brown eyes shielded from the world behind her glasses, the girl who finally stood up for what she wanted and found an unexpected love along the way. 

Raj, the secret stoner genius, the prodigy who had brought them all together when everyone else thought it was impossible, even Taylor, the one who made sure that she and Jake had the best wedding they possibly could. 

Diego, her best friend, the only reason she was even here was because of him because he had willed her into existence as if he knew somehow, they all needed Taylor for different reasons. Her best friend who had finally found love, the only thing he had ever really wanted for in this life. 

Estela, the girl who had come on a mission of vengeance, only to find that there was more to life than revenge and that she could be happy without it. 

Michelle, the beautiful pre-med who had been hardened by the experience with her so-called friends, who’d finally opened her heart to Taylor and become one of her best friends, they had all become her best friends, her family, especially Jake.

Oh, Jake. Taylor stopped in front of him, gently tracing her fingertips down his chiseled jaw, running them through his sandy blonde hair, down his misleadingly strong biceps to his rough, calloused hands that held her every night, kept her safe and warm, the only place she could forget about the rest of the world and be present in the moment. She intertwined her fingers with his, sighing when they didn’t entangle themselves with hers, letting go she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. It was a sound she had fallen asleep to so many times now, her own personal lullaby, and she knew her heartbeat matched his, perfectly timed. Cupping his face with hands, she looked into his cerulean blue eyes, the ones she had been avoiding, she could see the fear in them as he was reaching out for her, she never wanted to see that look in his eyes, and she most certainly never wanted to be the reason for it, he’d just lost the last person he had left beside her, his best friend.

“You know what you must do to end this.” Vannu’s voice rang in her mind, and it felt like a thousand tiny needles pressing against her head, it was agonizing, the visions of her home planet filling her mind.

“I can’t.” She pleaded, crying, staring at Jake. The last thing he’d said to her before time froze was, “that look in your eyes telling me that I’m gonna lose you, Princess.” He was right, Vannu wanted her to return with him, to make him whole again, just as she had done for her friends and Jake had done for her, Jake made her feel whole, not Vannu.

“It is your decision, but you know what you should choose.” She turned back to Vannu, an idea crossing her mind.

“I’m a part of you, surely you can sense how much Jake means to me. Please, I promised him a year and a day, at least let me fulfill that. I can’t just abandon him.” Taylor could sense Vannu thinking, could tell that he was torn up inside as well, sensing the pain radiating off of her.

“There would be no more time resets, no more loops, no more anomalies, if something happens to one of your friends or to Jake that is the end, there is no turning back.”

“Fine, just let me fulfill my promise.”

“Very well.” Taylor covered her eyes from the flash of blinding white light, time beginning to move around her again, Jake rushing forward and enveloping her in his arms.

“You can’t leave me, Princess.” Taylor could feel Jake’s heart practically beating out of his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jake.” She couldn’t look him in the eyes, so she pulled him flush against her, feeling the tension leave his body. Rourke’s outburst broke them from the moment.

“No! I don’t understand!” His omega mech had shut down, allowing Estela to escape, the rest of the group subduing the crazed man as he looked pointedly at Taylor.

“What did you do!”

“I sent Vannu home, it’s over Rourke.”

“No! There will be consequences!” He snarled, lunging for Taylor but it was no use, the others hold on him was too strong and they dragged him down to the dungeon where he could be locked up until they figured out what to do with him. Time in the outside world wouldn’t be completely reset until Taylor left, and Vannu had returned, no one would come looking for them until then. The group celebrated their victory for days, no one seemed to notice that something was haunting Taylor, not even Jake who was just so relieved that his wife was still here with him. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth, that with each day that passed their time together got shorter and shorter. She knew Jake wanted to start a family with her, and she wanted nothing more than to have a family with him too, but deep down she knew that wasn’t possible, she knew that she would never be able to completely give him what he desired. Those first few months, they hardly left their room, Taylor wanting to enjoy every second she had with him, Jake lost in marital bliss, they had been so careful, until one day they weren’t. The day she found out she was terrified, the baby would only be a few weeks old when she left, assuming she did her math right. Jake would be left to raise the baby on his own but he had no idea that was going to happen, she hadn’t had the guts to tell him, to ruin his happiness.

Jake was overjoyed, scooping her up off the ground and spinning her, chanting over and over. “We’re having a baby. We’re going to be parents! I’m going to be a dad!” The look of pure unbridled joy on his face broke something in Taylor, she began crying and Jake wiped her eyes, kissing her until she stopped crying.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy? He whispered, she could hear the edge in his voice.

“Yes, I’m so happy Jake, I love you.” She rested her forehead against his, she couldn’t let him see how scared she was, she should’ve been as happy as him, but it just made the inevitable truth that much closer for her. He went through the hotel, banging on everyone’s door to tell them the good news, they weren’t amused at first, but once they’d all had their coffee, they were happy and congratulating them. It put Taylor’s mind at ease just a little because she knew that Jake would have a village to help him raise the baby once she was gone.

Every day that passed, she could swear her belly got bigger and bigger as if it was some kind of sick joke, of Vaanu’s way of saying “this is what you wanted, there are always consequences for choices.” Jake and Taylor couldn’t agree on a name, for a boy or a girl, it’s not like they had any way of finding out on the island.

“I think we should name him Jacob McKenzie junior.” Jake teased, kissing her large belly, she looked like she would burst any day now, and she was due any day now as well by Michelle’s count.

“And what if it’s a girl?” Taylor raised her eyebrows. Jake chuckled and pulled her close, protectively wrapping an arm around her belly.

“I’m sure it’s a boy, but if it is a girl then she’ll be just as beautiful as her mother and we’ll try again so we can give her a little brother.” He teased, gently nibbling her ear, making her squirm under his touch. He was already thinking about another kid, and she would never be able to give that to him.

“So, you want a son?” Taylor prayed to Vaanu that their child would be a boy, that she could give him at least one thing he wanted before she left him forever.

“I just want a healthy baby with my beautiful wife, Taylor.” He could sense that something had been off with her, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Their beautiful baby girl was born that next week, Michelle helping her through the process and keeping her from breaking Jake’s fingers.

“It’s a beautiful baby girl.” Michelle held up the screaming baby for Taylor and Jake, Taylor cried as she held her, admiring her. She looked just like Taylor, a small patch of platinum blonde hair, crystal blue eyes curiously shining up at them.

“She looks just like you, Princess.” Jake kissed the top of her head and Taylor pulled them both close, refusing to let go until she was so exhausted she couldn’t hold on anymore, she wanted to treasure every possible moment she had left with them. She would be up in the middle of the night to feed or change the baby’s diaper, they had resorted to calling her Baby since they still hadn’t come up with a name. Despite being exhausted, constantly up with Baby, she couldn’t sleep, she would lie on her side facing Jake, memorizing his sleeping features. He looked so much younger and relaxed when he was sleeping, his breathing even and deep, his heartbeat strong and steady, reminding her that for now she was still alive and still had some time with her family left.

On their year and a day, Taylor refused to leave Jake and Baby’s side, she knew that this was their last day with them and she wasn’t going to waste a second of it, not knowing when Vaanu would be coming for her. They took Baby for a walk, having lunch with everyone to celebrate their anniversary and Diego and Varyyn’s. Taylor stood, clearing her throat to make a toast.

“I, I just want to thank you all for sharing this special day with us and to let you know that you’ve all become such a special part of my life. I would not trade anything for the time we’ve had together, I love you all so much, especially you Jake. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner on this crazy journey. Cheers.” Everyone raised their glasses and Taylor fought tears in her eyes.

“Okay Taylor, it’s not like this is goodbye or anything, I don’t know that I can follow that emotional speech.” Diego teased when the group began chanting, expecting a speech from him. She forced a small smile, if only they knew, this was goodbye. That night, Taylor and Jake returned to their place with Baby and set her down to sleep, Taylor crashing her lips onto his the second they were in their room. Jake was caught off guard but responded to her instantly, sensing the passion and desire rolling off his wife. At first, it was rushed, desperately clawing, trying to bring the other closer, to feel the other pressed against them completely; but then it was slow and sweet, taking their time, savoring the moment, pouring all their love for the other into it. As they laid there tangled up together, breathing heavy, Taylor traced idle circles on Jake’s chest.

“I’m not complaining, but what’s gotten into you, Taylor? You haven’t jumped me like that since our honeymoon.” She turned, her chin resting on his head, staring into his blue eyes. He could sense some swirling in the depths of her ocean blue eyes, it’d been there for a while, but he still couldn’t figure out what it was.

“I just love you so much Jake, I wanted our year and a day to be special,” she whispered, she couldn’t let him see the fear she felt boiling up inside her, the strength it took to fight back the tears and keep her heartbeat in time with his.

“I love you too, Princess. We’ve got plenty of years and days ahead of us.” He sighed and fell into a deep sleep with her wrapped in his arms. She carefully snaked her way out and began writing him a letter.

Jake,

My love, my husband, my one true love, Top Gun, if you’re reading this then I’m gone. I’m sorry, and I know that doesn’t even begin to make up for it, but I had to do it, and I hope you can understand. It was the only way I could save you all, to make sure that you had a chance at a real life, I promised you a year and a day, and so when Vaanu came to me, I begged that he let me fulfill that promise. I wish I could have given you all my years and days, but at least we were able to have one together, and let me tell you, Jake, it was the best year and a day of my life. You gave me the chance to be a mother, to have a real family, and I will forever be grateful for that. I know that it might not make sense, but I promise it will all work out and you will be the best father to our baby girl and name her something absolutely beautiful. Now you both carry a piece of me with you, and I will carry with me a piece of you both. I didn’t tell you because I knew that you would spend our time together searching for a way to undo it, and I didn’t want that for you, for us. I wanted you to remember the happy times together, to enjoy and savor every moment, like last night. I couldn’t have asked for a better parting gift. I hope you understand, I will love you forever Jacob Lucas McKenzie.

Love your princess,

Taylor

Jake sobbed, falling to his knees as he held the note to his chest. His heart was completely broken, his wife was gone, she’d made a deal without him knowing to save him and their friends. Now he was left alone with a newborn, this is what he had seen in her eyes, what she was so afraid of, it all made sense now. The only thing that broke him out of his downward spiral was the cries of Baby. He rushed to her side, worried that Vaanu was trying to take her too, but it was just him and Baby. He picked her up, rocking her gently, to soothe her, whispering sweet nothings. She finally calmed down and when he pulled her away from his chest he saw that she was sleeping peacefully again.

“Aurora Taylor McKenzie. Named after your mother, my princess. Mommy isn’t here with us anymore, but she’s out there, waiting for us to find her, a sleeping princess.”

“It’s beautiful Jake.” He swore he heard Taylor’s voice and whipped around, but there was nothing other than a slight breeze, carrying the scent of her perfume to his nose.

******************

Jake’s little girl came bounding into the room, jumping onto her Daddy’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck, staring at him with her large ocean blue eyes.

“Daddy, tell me about Mommy again!”

“You’re supposed to be in bed Squirt.” He carried her back to her room and laid her down in bed, pulling the covers up once more.

“Please, just tell me the story about Mommy one more time.”

“Okay, but then it’s bedtime.” The little girl eagerly nodded and settled in for her favorite story.

“It all started when the most beautiful princess in all the realms woke the dashing knight up from a nap in the front of the carriage.”

Find Part 2 here!

Perma-tag:  @brightpinkpeppercorn @sleepwalkingelite @ooo-barff-ooo @endlessly-searching-for-you @agent-bossypants @roonarific @likethetailofacomet @zaffrenotes @mysteli @vickypoochoices @kayann9 @jlouise88 @zigortega4life @findingdrake @bbaba-yagaa

Jake -Tag:  @endlesstaylormckenzie @sophie-summer @feartheendlesssummer @darley1101 @emomoustache​ @xo-endlessmayhem-xo​

[vrepit-sals]

During Training..  Pidge: Nice work Tailor Lance: Thank you, thank you very much Keith: wait what Hunk: It's a nickname Lance got his first year of flight school Lance: Yeah because of how I thread the needle Keith:  Keith: *intense Garrison crush flashbacks* Shiro: *uproarious laughter*

(I wrote this in two forms and couldn’t decide which I liked better, so there’s a full fic under the cut)

Lance laughs as the Green Lion balances the ball on the edge of its nose for a moment, before sending it towards the Black Lion with a flick.

His vision is tinged with blue, and he can hear Blue's enjoyment rumbling underneath him. He knows in theory that he's blindfolded, but it doesn't feel that way. With Blue's visual enhancements giving him an eagle eye and her targeting computer focusing his mind, he's never felt more aware of the world around him.

Allura wasn't kidding when she said this would be a fun training session.

He catches the ball with all the gracefulness that Blue provides, and sends it flying to Red, who moves underneath it and passes it on with a flick of her tail.

Show off.

The trajectory of the ball is damn near perfect too, sailing towards the Yellow Lion, bang between the eyes.

It isn't such a surprise, with his Lion's preference for bulk over flexibility, that this drill is more difficult for Hunk than any of the rest of them.

As such, when Yellow lines up perfectly, but isn't quite quick enough to hit the ball back to Green, Lance is already half ready to dive. Hunk must have seen it coming too, because he tries to correct for the trajectory, but it isn't enough.

The ball is sailing over one of the rock formations, and Blue is already chasing it, before Red or Black have even thought to move.

The angle is high, and Lance knows he should go up and over the formation to retrieve it. It'll hit the ground before he gets there, and they'll have to start the count over, but it's not his fault anyway, and it's the most sensible option.

Lance spots a small opening in the formation. It's an even split whether Blue would even fit, and if she didn't he could bring the whole formation on top of himself.

Since when has Lance ever been called sensible?

He's under and through it before he can even question his decision. Blue is a purr in the back of his mind and a guiding hand on the controls, making the smallest of tweaks to his technique to ensure the smoothest ride.

And there's the ball, falling fast, but without the momentum he'd need to hit it all the way back.

He freezes it with an ice blast to give it some added weight, and smacks it from beneath in a wide arc.

It's short work to get back to the others as Keith uses Red's flame mid-air to defrost the ball back.

Lance can't help the grin on his face at Pidge's laughter.

"Nice work Tailor!" She all but screams at him.

"Thank you, thank you very much."

He doesn't notice Keith's fumble, but it must have happened. Because the ball is suddenly gone, fallen into one of the crevices of the valley they're currently in.

So much for that record.

"What was that?" Comes Keith's voice through the coms.

"It's a nickname Lance got his first year of  flight school," Hunk says, already dropping down into the valley to look for the ball.

"Yeah, because of how I thread the needle" Lance adds, wiggling his eyebrows to an audience of no one. He feels like it adds something to his inflection nonetheless.

He expects Keith to bite back a retort. Expects derision or poorly constructed sarcasm.

The Red Lion's coms are silent.

"Someone else will need to go down there, it got lodged in a crevice too small for Yellow or Black," Hunk says as the Yellow Lion rises up from the depths.

Pidge offers to go, and is pointing her nose downward, when a strange sound causes them all to pause.

Starting soft, and growing louder by the second, is a sound almost unnerving for all it is uncommon.

Shiro is laughing.

And laughing.

And laughing some more.

Lance isn't sure the exact tone he hears, but it makes him convinced that there are currently tears streaming down their leader's cheeks.

Still laughing.

Honestly Lance is starting to get a little worried.

"Shiro what the hell," is heard over the speakers in Keith's growl.

If anything this seems to just set him off more.

Lance is happy for the guy, he really is. Shiro barely smiles as it is, so such an expression of unbridled joy is a cause for celebration.

Heaven knows what's so funny though.

The minutes pass. Hunk and Pidge start up a conversation about their latest project. Lance  pulls off his training helmet and rubs his eyes.

Shiro's laughter slowly begins to subside.

"Sorry about that everyone, I'm ok," he says, with a few errant chuckles.

Lance, paragon of leadership he is, is just about to do the responsible thing for once and suggest they get back to training, when there's the muffled sound of talking from Shiro's com and he's off again.

"Who was…" Pidge says, before her tone snaps into annoyed, "Matt, are you hanging out in the Black lion during training again?"

Lance all but tunes out the familiar argument, leaning back and pillowing his arms behind his head.

"Do you have any idea how boring the castle is Katie?"

"We're kind of trying to save the universe here Matt, this isn't a trip to the Bahamas!"

"I've been locked in a Galra prison for 18 months, if I want to pretend this alien ship is the Bahamas I damn well will!"

All punctuated by Shiro's cackles.

Lance asks Blue how she's finding training, and basks in the warmth she sends through their bond.

Hunk is interjecting into their argument occasionally, trying and failing to get the team back on track.

The red paladin is silent. Lance can almost see Keith crossing his arms with a pout.

If he shuts his eyes he can imagine he's back on Veradera beach, basking in the sun.

Not listening to Matt and Pidge's sibling fight, or Shiro losing it over nothing.

Just the warmth of the sand behind his back, the gentle breeze and the gentle lapping of waves soothing his eyes closed.

…What was Shiro laughing at anyway?

He thinks back over the conversation, his amazing move, Pidge's compliment.

Wait.

No.

Lance jolts up, and his tone must give away something about the brick in his stomach because at his words the coms fall silent.

"Wait, Shiro are you laughing at me?"

He's not laughing anymore.

The silence lasts a beat too long.

"No Lance it's not-"

He can't hear Shiro's protestations over the buzzing in his ears.

His stomach drops through the floor as the thoughts he usually keeps at bay swarm in. Thoughts that only manage to rattle him on bad nights; thoughts which Pidge's hugs and Shiro's praise and Keith's smiles and Hunk's mere existence are the only things that can dispel.

He forces himself to chuckle.

"Doesn't matter," he says, voice wavering so minutely he doesn't think anyone else would have caught it, "Blue should be able to fit into the fissure."

Then he pushes the Blue Lion straight into top speed.

He breathes a sigh of relief when no one else follows.

"Shiro, were you laughing at him?"

Lance can hear the anger seeping into Hunk's voice. Sweetest Hunk, light of Lance's life and the best friend a boy could ask for.

He flicks him coms off before he has to listen to Shiro's explanation.

The rest of training is fine. Lance doesn't try any more stunts, and no one expects him to.

He keeps his coms off, and if anyone has a problem with that, they aren't able to voice their concerns anyway.  They continue to play the game, all focussed more than ever, but somehow less successful. Lance hums and taps his feet and talks to Blue just to fill the silence.

Eventually, the Black Lion catches the ball in its mouth and hangs on.  The Green Lion pauses by him and gestures its head towards the castle, and waits for Blue to nod back before they all head in.

Lance isn't sure whether or not the other paladins will come and try to give him comfort, or hang back and give him space. He decides he's allowed to be offended for another hour or two before he'll have to put it aside for the sake of the universe, for the sake of his new family. Then he'll listen to Shiro apologise, and accept it with a smile.

But for now he all but runs out of Blue as soon as she sets down. Turns one corner and another, trying to stay as silent as possible.

He gets to his room, and, although he knows it's not the sneakiest of hiding spots, it is the one place in the Castle he's allowed to bar others access. He puts his room into sleep mode and grabs his pyjamas, before heading into the bathroom for some well-earned pampering.

A long, warm bath, a face mask and two run throughs of the playlist Pidge made him later, he's back to feeling almost human, and about as ready to face the team again as he's ever going to be.

It's still half an hour or so until dinner, but he decides to spend the time stretching his legs. Maybe see what Hunk's working on, or help Pidge test Rover 2 for a little while.

Outside his door, though, sitting innocuously on the floor, is a note.

I need to talk to you.

- Keith

The Red paladin couldn't even be bothered to wait apparently.

Lance crumples it up and puts it in his pocket with a sigh. He turns left instead of right, and stops to knock on Keith's door.

No answer.

"Are you freaking kidding me?" He mutters to himself as he traces the familiar path to the training room.

Likely this is all an elaborate setup to make him talk to Shiro or something, not that he wasn't going to anyway. But then part of him also reminds himself that it isn't really that much of a stretch to believe that Keith would be unaware enough of social norms to leave him a note and then just vanish.

Sure enough, when he gets to the training room and sees who's inside, he wants to put his head in his hands, but can't stop a fond smile spreading across his face.

Keith is fighting the Gladiator, blocking stroke after stroke, completely oblivious to any social obligation he might have given himself.

Lance leans against the frame and decides to just wait it out. It's not like he's in a rush to anywhere concrete, and Keith has improved so much since they were pulled into space that watching him fight is almost relaxing. His movements are swift and graceful, moving though his footwork in almost a dance.

Especially now, when he's not fighting for his life, when his scowl of concentration breaks to let a small grin through whenever he makes a particularly good hit or block.

It took Lance a few months to realise that Keith isn't just a stick in the mud, but actually finds training genuinely enjoyable. He still doesn't understand it, but he's come to accept Keith's slightly off-centre hobby. And really, he can't talk, not after Keith has spent an afternoon helping him track down some rare Altean part so Coran could reconfigure the textile synthesiser to make knitting wool.

There's a particularly loud clang from across the room, and Keith wipes his brow as the Gladiator disappears.

"You wanted to talk to me mullet?" Lance asks, grinning as Keith starts.

Keith doesn't seem to relax when the shock passes. If anything his shoulders tense more as he picks up a water pouch and takes a sip.

"Yeah I did," he says, gazing across the floor.

"Well?" Lance steps forward and makes himself as comfy as possible on the training room floor, "here I am."

He raises an eyebrow at Keith and he lets out a chuckle, which only sounds 40% forced.

Keith moves towards him, and crouches down. After a few minutes, and a look from Lance, he sits down, still sipping water as he thinks.

"Shiro wasn't laughing at you" he blurts out, after about 30 seconds of silence.

Lance sighs. He should have known this was coming.

"Keith, I get it. You want me to forgive Shiro. It's fine, I stopped caring an hour ago."

"No-" Keith almost cuts him off in a rush to get the words out, but as soon as he does he pauses, like he isn't actually sure what he wants to say.

Lance waits.

"He wasn't laughing at you. He was laughing at me."

Lance almost laughs. Oh Keith. Sweet Keith, the worst liar Lance has ever met.

"Keith you don't have to lie, it's fine," and it almost is. The fact that Keith would lie is both annoying for all that he knows it's only to defend Shiro, and sweet for all he hopes that some of it might be Keith trying to protect his feelings.

Keith groans.

"I'm serious."

"And I don't believe you."

Keith rolls his eyes and buries his face in his hands. He sits just like that, stock still, whispering something that sounds like curses, before he sits back and looks at Lance with tired eyes.

"Ok, how about this…"

Keith sighs. Lance is just about to interrupt.

"Back at the Garrison there was this boy I had a huge crush on, alright?"

Lance starts, for just a moment, because what a change of topic.

"Okay…?"

"He was…" Keith's face makes a strangled expression before he forces himself to continue, "he was loud. Sometimes I felt like I didn’t understand most of what he was saying, he used to make fun of the instructors and he wasn't the best in the simulator but he acted like he was anyway, and he hated me for reasons I'll never know."

Lance's frown pulls down, and he tells himself it's not jealousy.

"He was kind. He encouraged us all to do better. When the teachers tried to pit us against each other, for the good grades and promises of graduate jobs, he helped everyone relax and work together. You could feel the tension lift whenever he entered a room."

Lance's stomach drops out at the fond look on Keith's face. He could count the number of times he's seen it on one hand, on one finger the number of times it's been directed at him. He couldn't count on all the stars how many times he's wanted it to be flashed his way.

"Sounds like you really liked him," Lance says, trying to ensure no bitterness seeps into his tone.

Keith's face turns to him, and the smile softens even further.

"I never stopped."

And isn't that just great. Lance has spent years following in Keith's footsteps, shouting and yelling and begging for attention which was never going to be his, because it already belonged to some other cadet who probably never appreciated it.

"Shiro used to tease me by how often I talked about him. I wrote this terrible poem about him when I was 14 or so, which of course Shiro found and memorised. He was…"

Keith stops, and takes a deep, shuttering breath. Lance is about to cut him off, tell him it's fine because he wants to hear about Keith's crush about as much as Keith wants to tell him, but he stops when he realises just how red Keith's face has gotten.

"Shiro was laughing at me because I didn't know this boy very well, and so when I met him in my first year of flight school I thought his name was Taylor."

Lance's brain screeches to a halt.

He can't mean…

"Those months living in the desert I kind of just repressed everything from the Garrison. So when you rushed in while I was saving Shiro, I didn't know who you were."

Lance sits and stares.

"But then it didn't matter because you held my hand and said we were a good team, and I feel for you again anyway," Keith says, not looking at him.

This isn't real.

But Keith is sitting in front of him, his smile slowly seeping from his face as Lance takes the time to process the best news he's received since their whole space adventure began.

Lance reaches out a hand, takes Keith's palm in his, partly because he's worried Keith will run away before he has a chance to answer, partly because this is what he's wanted to do for years.

"Keith, most of what I said to you at the Garrison made no sense. I just wanted to you look at me."

Keith's slowly developing frown burns away, and suddenly he's all but beaming.

"I really like you, Lance" he says, holding his hand tighter.

Lance's heart sings.

"I really like you too"

Lance pauses for a moment, sees the smile on Keith's face, and decides to just go for it.

He leans forward, slowly, giving Keith plenty of time to back away. But before he can close the gap, Keith is already there, kissing him softly, taking his other hand and running his thumb across Lance's knuckles.

They stay there for longer than they have. Longer than they should. The time passes far too quickly.

When they enter the dining hall, everyone else is already there.

Hunk shoots Lance a grin and a thumbs up when he sees their linked hands. Pidge smiles at them and digs into her food goo.

Lance looks Shiro straight in the eye.

"Taylor is in the house!" he exclaims, smiling when Keith chuckles and grips his hand tighter.

Shiro throws his head back and laughs.

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

Michele Moore-V

November, 2020

OUT OF THE STEAM COMES CLACKING FALSE TEETH AND AN ECCENTRIC UNCLE

A long haired man in a turtleneck, my uncle, is at my grandmother’s stove, stirring a pot.

“Come here Mother, and inhale this ambrosia!”

My grandmother, my tiny, precious grandmother, bustles in between kitchen chairs and grandchildren and her adoring sons, laying out dishes on her table, trays of her bread, the cutlery she polished that morning. Her immense heart somehow contained in her so very slight, petite body.

Her kitchen is steamy and redolent with the scent of good savoury food. My grandmother’s kitchen, and entire house, is woody cozy;  the floor, the big round table and chairs, the cupboards, all a dense and aged chestnut brown that makes me feel as I do when I’m in a forest surrounded by trees – safe and whole. (I am no more than ten, this memory is decades old, yet in my mind as fresh as new snow.)

Even my grandfather’s tall cabinet sized radio is woody. My grandfather. Sitting beside his radio, his thick hair white as his sleeveless undershirt, the kind of shirt he always wears when he sits in his kitchen. I don’t know what I find more entertaining – my grandfather’s false teeth trick, he pops his upper dentures out and onto his tongue, flashes the ghoulish object at me, then clacks them several times against his bottom set before putting them back in place…. Or… my long haired, hippy uncle at the stove just inches behind him….

who is cooking with boisterous joie de vivre, bubbling like the stew he stirs on the stove. He is making Beef Bourguignon, which, in plain terms, is beef stew.

He holds a bottle of red wine in one hand and a wineglass in the other. He splashes wine into the pot, then into his glass, takes a luxuriant drink, stirs the stew, inhales the steamy scent, and in his magisterial voice proclaims:

“The French are obnoxious self-indulged culinary snobs, but this stew is so damn delicious that even I, a humbug professor with socialist tendencies must congratulate the French. Merci! Merci beaucoup for this dish, tres bon, tres bon, Beef Bourguignon is my raison d’etre! Where can I bow down and kiss the feet of the genius who invented this peasant fare!”

(As a child and adult, my uncle’s discourse deeply impressed me. I can imagine him saying exactly these things, and am certain he used these expressions.)

“Beef Bourguignon isn’t peasant food Gary, it’s high cuisine!” shouts my mother.

“Nonsense! Poppycock!” my uncle responds. “An insufferable chef perpetrated a lie on the people! This is not haute cuisine Dinah, it’s simple food, food for the people, damn it!” He gulps another mouthful  of wine from his glass. “Ah, this vin rouge, this nectar of the Gods! Come here Jim and taste this ambrosia, my God, it will make you a new man!”

My father (Jim) is sitting at the big round wood table, legs crossed, stubby brown beer bottle in hand, shaking his head and chuckling the way he does. His blue eyes sparkle with mirth. My grandfather clacks his teeth again, and I laugh.

All these people, my grandparents, my uncle, father, and shadows of others emerged from the steam rising from my own pot of French beef stew recently and crowded around my stove. As I inhaled the scent of the thyme infused rich wine gravy, they poured peace and cheer into my glass, my heart.

These memories are gifts, right? We can access them time after time. We can pass them on, share them. Keep them in a velvet box, reveal them to others at special moments, or spontaneously, when they perfectly fit an occasion, a moment, an opportunity.

A complete memory is never without melancholy. My grandparents both died not long after my first taste of that delectable French beef stew. I still feel their absence. A few years ago, my uncle died suddenly, followed within days by another uncle. I see my father, stupefied over the loss of his two brothers within days of each other. He had no warning for either.

But I’m smiling. I’m seeing that same uncle now, at my cousin’s wedding, smashing a wineglass on the floor with his foot, the way it’s done at a Jewish wedding. He wasn’t Jewish, but he loved any cultural practice that involved wine, music, loud conversation, an unbridled celebration of life.

Did he know, I wonder, that the custom of breaking the glass is, among other reasons, to remind the newlyweds of the fragility of joy? The fragility of life?

Let’s cook, eat, and shout across the kitchen, across the airwaves these days, and take ourselves to the places that bring us joy.

Do not grieve over any joy that has gone forever, for it will return to you in another form, know that for sure. Rumi

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

[helmes-deep]

Prompt: Sean and Sue cuddle on the couch while watching a movie.

So I, uhhhh… decided to go with a different writing “style” this time around, hehe… included a bunch of types of hugs/cuddles, but the movie scene is still in there!! 😉💕

Human affection is an interesting thing, Sue Heck decides. Sure, she’s been with a few good boyfriends throughout her dating life, and has had her fair share of hugs and kisses inherent to the functioning of each relationship. But it isn’t until she starts dating her current boyfriend Sean Donahue that Sue begins to think there’s a little more to another’s display of physical affections than just the plain touch. A kiss isn’t just a kiss anymore, and a hand on the shoulder isn’t another warm embrace. It’s only when you truly love someone, Sue surmises, that a simple touch from the person you care about can mean so much more—and so many different things:

Support / Encouragement.

“I did it! I did it!” she shouts. There’s a big smile on her face, and she can’t contain her joy and excitement, waving a crisply-rolled piece of paper as her cap and gown bounce up and down on the open, crowded playing field. Her entire family is there to congratulate her, and she exchanges a hug with each of them, working down the line of relatives until she makes it to the end, and greets him.

“Congratulations, Sue!!” he says, appearing alongside her overly-ecstatic family members. His smile is as wide—and as proud—as hers. He motions to a bag he’s been carrying with him. “Here, I got you a gift.”

She smiles brightly and takes the bag from him, reaching in and pulling out a small cardboard box before opening it, and peering inside.

“Oohh!” she gasps aloud, just as the lid folds open. “My very own service bell!! It’s even got a cute Orson cow design on it and is in my favorite color as well!” She squeals in awe, excitement, and delight. “Thank you, Sean this is such a sweet gift! I love it!”

He nods, and then smiles. “I wanted to give you something that you’ll be able to use right away at your new job. I know you’re going to be great at managing a hotel someday, Sue; your guests are going to love you. You’ve worked really hard to get here, and I want you to know that I’m really proud of you.”

“Well, nothing says ‘Sue Heck at your service’ better than having your guests to ring your very own, actual service bell!” she responds with avid enthusiasm, beaming. She holds up his wonderful gift to show to everyone before saying, “I just hope you’re really right about me getting a job soon, Sean. I’d hate for ‘Sue-vice’ to go out of business before it even gets started!” She’s obviously joking, but there’s a hint of nerves and an odd awareness of true, approaching reality hidden underneath her care-free grin.

“You’ll get one; I know you will,” he says, laughing in response. And he pulls her in for a hug. It’s warm, strong, inviting, and firm—and exactly what she needs right now. His warmth is welcoming, and it spreads all over her, chasing away all her feelings of self-doubt and of being over-whelmed by thinking of everything she still has yet to accomplish. His wide, strong arms block out all of the unnecessary noise (there were a lot of jubilant students reunited with their equally as exuberant parents that day); her speeding adrenaline rush; and all of the new, impending chaos beginning to surround her as his firm, steady hold lends her hope. For once, she can hear herself think again, and her rising fears for the future begin to steadily fade away.

She closes her eyes as his arms tighten encouragingly around her, and she reaches around him as well, carefully holding onto her diploma in one hand and his thoughtful gift in the other.

Their embrace is normal and sweet—a typical display of affection from any couple. But this one is unlike any other. It’s the hug he gives her to tell her that he’s happy for her, that’s he’s here for her, and that he believes in her. That he’s not only here to celebrate her great achievement thus far, but also to remind her of the support, love, and encouragement he will always have for her as her journey continues beyond this life-changing point.

The future ahead is bright, afterall, but it is still, relatively, unknown.

And it’s the same supportive, encouraging, and congratulatory hug he gives her when she announces with unbridled glee that she’s found a job in guest service at a local hotel just a few months later.

Protection.

She shivers as she helps him stack another donation box for Orson’s Annual Christmas Food Drive. Once the last box is stacked neatly on top, they stand next to each other in front of his house, waiting for their moms to drive by and to come pick the boxes and them up.

“Bbbrrr,” she says, shaking in the winter cold. Her nose, cheeks, and the tips of her ears are all flushed, while everything else beneath her puffy, pink coat is quietly rattling. She can already feel the frosty, iced air start to chill her bones as it begins to seep into her thinly-layered mittens, making her fingers go numb.

Suddenly, she feels a certain pressure and warmth encapsulate her entire body. He’s standing behind her with both arms wrapped fervently around her, his heavily jacketed and insulated arms soundly holding her.

“What are you doing?” she asks, looking up with a curious smile on her face and a bright, rosy-red nose.

“Protecting your from the cold,” he replies openly. The light note in his voice indicates that he’s teasing her, but his arms stay wrapped securely around her, and his hands don’t break away until they spot their moms’ car driving up in the distance.

It’s a cute and adorably romantic gesture he’s done, she thinks to herself as she feels the full length of his warmth around her shoulders. It’s the type of ridiculously cheesy thing a couple (like them) would do. But somehow, as they wait for those few, short minutes to slowly trickle by, she finds herself feeling warmer, less colder—somehow safer—and with greater strength and determination as she stands up a little taller, and a bit more comfortably, against the terrible cold.

Comfort.

She had come home after a long day at work. He was sitting on the couch, unwinding to some TV as she opened the apartment door and entered.

“Hey, Suzy-Q! What’s up?” he asks in his usual, welcoming and amiable manner.

She doesn’t respond right way, quietly locking the door as she ponders her answer; and when she turns, he immediately recognizes the sadness in her eyes that typically isn’t on her usually cheery, upbeat face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks her. He’s instantly up in his seat, eyebrows raised in serious worry as she silently trudges over.

She’s unable to speak a word, stumbling forward and crashing onto him as soon as she’s made it to the couch.

“Hey… it’s okay,” he answers softly, taking all of her into him. He moves over to let her find a place in the space between his arms; her whole body sinks into him as her head falls near his neck. As her small frame sinks deeper into him, it’s like a pile of incredibly tense and heavy emotions has been weighted onto his lap. He quietly places one arm completely over and around her back, while the other moves to bring the rest of her together. By the time he’s holding her to him, she’s already breaking apart, thin lines of tears streaming down her cheeks.

The warm, comforting tenderness with which he pulls her closer to him tells her that he cares. The patient, loving quietness he displays as he gently strokes her back, soothing her sobs, tells her that he’s ready, waiting, and listening. That he doesn’t quite know what’s happened to set off her feelings in this way, but that he understands. It doesn’t matter what kind of horrible situations she’s had to pull herself through for today; they’ll figure out all of that stuff later. What matters right now, in this moment, is that he’s holding her, that he’s simply there to offer his support and comfort to her as her world falls apart. And that’s all she needs right now—his presence. His unyielding desire to not let her go because she’s already been let down too many times today. And that’s what he gives her as he pulls her even closer into him, wiping the tears and wet strands of hair away from her face, and she cries her heart out into his chest.

Care / Love.

It is night. All the lights are turned off, and their little apartment is quiet and still. The only other movement in the room is the flashing of the TV screen, which switches from one exaggerated face to the other as soft blue and purple-ish hues set their faces aglow.

A funny scene flashes on the TV, and they both laugh quietly together.

His arm is resting on her shoulders; his fingers barely brushing against her. Her head is lying between the start of his shoulder and the peak of his chest, her whole form leaning against his. Both of her legs are bent and bundled upon the couch, while his whole back is resting comfortably against its cushions.

For a moment, she shifts, and as if by natural response, he does, too. Her upper body moves to fit snuggly back into the crooked space created by his arm and torso, and his whole body mirrors her movements to let her back in. And for a moment, they briefly wrestle—he’s desperately trying to find her and she’s frantically looking for him—before he’s been quietly fitted to her and she’s nicely fitted into him once again; and they’re nestled against each other like a perfectly tangled puzzle on the living room couch. His arm pulls her closer into him, and her arm reaches over to fully hug him beneath the blanket covers.

It’s just him, and it’s just her. There are no unnecessary movements, no extra noises, no other distractions.

Just pure, happily contented silence.

There are no words; there don’t need to be. The way his arm is wrapped so easily around her shoulders, and the way she’s snuggled warmly into his side, tells her how comfortable they are with one another. The way he leans into her as he holds her closer, and the way she knows she can happily rest her head on his chest forever, tells her how completely and fully they trust and understand one another. And the way they gradually move closer and closer toward each other, deeper and deeper, until all she hears is the sound of his soft breathing and her heart beating in unison, tells her how much he loves her and how much she loves him—and all she needs to know about the two of them being together.

And for Sue, those are her absolute favorite moments: her most precious, deeply cherished thoughts when thinking about finding any type of human affection in Sean’s arms. It’s moments like that when she believes she truly understands what it means to experience another person’s affectionate touch, what it means to be carefully held—what it’s like to be in love.

And it’s that realization that fills Sue with the truest warmth; it’s that realization that makes her the happiest. And as her realization grows, she finds herself moving closer and closer to Sean, scooting closer and nearer to him—to share with him this warmth, this happiness. She’s pretty sure he feels the same way, too, as he starts to bring himself closer to her as well, the two cuddling so close to each other. And it’s in that moment, when Sue finds herself fitting so warmly, snugly, and perfectly in Sean’s arms, that she knows she couldn’t be happier.

Wanted to try something different so went for something that was a little more… drabble-ish?? :PP I guess if this story could be considered Sean’s introspective, than this one can serve more of as an introspective for Sue.

Hope y'all enjoyed, and that this story sorta half-fills the void while we’re all waiting for the show to come back after the break!! Excited to see what’s next for Sue and Sean, especially after those press release spoilers/pics lololol. 

Also someone tell me if this story came off as too cheesy leool; my goal was to be more “fluffy” this time around because of the incorporation of hugs/cuddles, but who knows how my execution of “fluffy” actually came out as leoleoleoool.

My next one should be out soon…ish??? I’ll try to get it done, at least by the end of this week :P :P 

Send me a prompt and I’ll write a short Sue x Sean fanfic about it leol (closed)

Also available on FanFiction.net

[babiesjeep44-blog]

30 resolutions: A pledge for every team in '19

Happy New Year! The grand illusion of New Year's celebrations is that they make us believe that, somehow, the future will be better than the past, that no matter what bad things happened last year, next year will be different. It doesn't often happen that way … but many of us are optimistic and hopeful. The New Year is also the time of resolutions, some of which we may actually keep. 

So, in the spirit of optimism that the New Year brings, today at the Thirty, we give each MLB team one resolution for 2019. What went wrong in 2018 might be fixed in 2019, if they can just stick to these resolutions. As with most resolutions, it's easier said than done. But there's nothing wrong with hope.

AMERICAN LEAGUE

EAST

Blue Jays: Let's make Vlad Jr. feel at home

The Blue Jays have a markedly aged lineup (half of which is over 30) for a team that doesn't have a ton of hope to compete for a title this season. But 2019 will forever be known as "The Year Vladamir Guerrero Jr. Landed in Toronto." It'd be nice to let Vlad Jr. work his way into MLB shape rather than have to feel like the franchise's immediate savior.

Video: Montoyo excited by Guerrero Jr.'s potential

Orioles: Let's not lose 115 games again

The Orioles are starting completely over; it's going to be a while. But not losing a franchise-record number of games seems like a good place to start, right? The Orioles aren't contending this year, but signs of progress would be nice.

Rays: Let's get to the playoffs

With all the smart moves the Rays have made this offseason, and with all the strategic inventiveness they've displayed, it's time to see some results. Steamer has the Rays as the ninth-best team in baseball and the second AL Wild Card team. The Rays have missed the past five postseasons. It's time to shock the world again.

Red Sox: Let's win another one

The Red Sox have done just about everything else in the last decade-plus, but there's one thing they haven't done since 1915-16: Win two in a row. The last team to win two World Series in a row was the Yankees. That's a record the Red Sox would love to take away from them.

Yankees: Let's go get Manny Machado

The match is perfect in every way, both good and bad. Manny has said he's waiting until 2019 to sign. Let's get this done and make the prophecy complete.

Video: Manny Machado visits with New York Yankees

CENTRAL

Indians: Let's get home-field advantage in the AL Division Series

Even with the improvements in Minnesota and Chicago, Cleveland is still the class of the division. The Indians need to take advantage by winning enough games to at least have home-field advantage in the first round, if not the entire playoffs. There are many wins to be had in this division. The Indians need to get them.

Royals: Let's get two prospects in the MLB Pipeline Top 100

The Royals are going young and building for the future, but they don't actually have a great farm system set up right now. Brady Singer, No. 60, is the only Top 100 prospect they have right now. This is the year to make sure you get yourself some more.

Tigers: Let's see some vintage Miguel Cabrera

It has been two full seasons since we saw a healthy, raking Miggy. This is a Hall of Famer right in front of us. It'd be a gift to get to see him be that again.

Video: Beck on expectations once Miggy returns to Tigers

Twins: Let's get four 30-homer hitters

Signing Nelson Cruz was the perfect move for a team that needs to up its power game. You don't need to squint to see Cruz, Eddie Rosario, Max Kepler and Miguel Sano all hitting 30 or more. If that happens, this is a Wild Card team at the very least.

White Sox: Let's see Eloy Jimenez establish himself

The phenom prospect should be up by June, at the latest. If he can even approach the freshman season that, say, Ronald Acuna Jr., put up, the White Sox have a cornerstone star for the rest of the prospects to filter in around.

WEST

Angels: Let's get Mike Trout a playoff win

As long as he doesn't have one and he's still in Los Angeles, this is the resolution. Or else he likely won't be there much longer.

Video: Guardado on the latest between Angels and Trout

Astros: Let's get a fourth (or third!) starting pitcher

At this point, they essentially have everything else.

Athletics: Let's get Matt Chapman an extension

He's a player you build around, the fans love him and you have a new ballpark you're trying to hype up. Get your budding superstar locked in.

Mariners: Let's get the fans something to tide them over

The Mariners made smart moves this offseason, but they were clearly steps backwards in the short term for a team that still has the longest postseason drought in baseball. There are better times ahead, but those long-suffering fans deserve something to make them happy. (Yusei Kikuchi was a nice start.)

Rangers: Let's get Joey Gallo's average up to at least .220

Gallo's a valuable hitter at .206 and .209. Imagine what he'd be if he hit about 10 points higher.

Video: TEX@SF: Gallo hits 440-ft. homer on 98.2-mph heater

NATIONAL LEAGUE

EAST

Braves: Let's get some of those pitchers up and healthy

Mike Soroka, Kyle Wright, Touki Toussaint, Luiz Gohara and Bryse Wilson are all top 100 prospects who are close to ready for the big leagues right now. Get three or four of them going at the right time, and watch out for the Braves.

Marlins: Let's see some progress, any progress

After the initial ugliness of their outfield selloff, Derek Jeter and company have made some quietly rational and smart long-term moves. But no one will believe it until they start to see it on the field.

Mets: Let's make Brodie look smart

Guess who Steamer has as the 10th best team in baseball and the second NL Wild Card team? The Mets! If that happens, they may bronze their new GM outside of Citi Field.

Video: DiComo on Van Wagenen's first 2 months as Mets GM

Nationals: Let's be the 2001 Mariners

All right, so maybe the Nats don't win quite that many games. But if the Nationals are looking for a team to emulate that lost a superstar and rebounded to be even better than before, that's the one.

Phillies: Let's get another star so the fans don't tear this place apart

The Phillies went into the offseason willing to spend "stupid" money, and yet they still don't have any major superstars (with apologies to Andrew McCutchen and Rhys Hoskins). Can they get one if Harper and Machado don't come?

CENTRAL

Brewers: Let's steal the Cubs' mantle

The Brewers won the NL Central last year, even if it still seems like the Cubs won it. If the Brewers win another one, no one will ever be able to dismiss them as a fluke or a result of a Cubs' dropoff: They'll be the new captains now.

Cardinals: Let's get to the postseason

No need to overthink this one. The Cardinals have missed the playoffs for three consecutive seasons, the longest stretch for the franchise since 1997-99. They've invested substantially in this year's team. The stakes couldn't be more clear.

Cubs: Let's get this Joe Maddon situation resolved, one way or another

One would have thought that bringing a World Series trophy to Wrigley Field would get you a lifetime contract, but there have been clear differences between Maddon and his front office in the last two years. The Cubs will either double down on Maddon after this year, or go another direction entirely.

Video: Maddon talks about his current contract with the Cubs

Pirates: Let's Get Mitch Keller up to Pittsburgh and have a truly scary rotation

Jameson Taillon, Chris Archer, Trevor Williams and Keller: Is that potentially the best starting four in the division? Maybe the whole National League?

Reds: Let's plate 800 runs

The rotation is still going to be an issue, but with the lineup additions and a fully healthy Joey Votto, the Reds could potentially get to 800 runs for the first time since 2005.

WEST

Diamondbacks: Let's find a new home for Zack Greinke

The D-backs are cleaning house, and the best way to truly clear some payroll and maybe bring in some talent, would be dealing Greinke. If he's old-school Greinke for the season's first three months, some contender will eagerly come calling.

Video: Gilbert on possibility of D-backs trading Greinke

Dodgers: Let's get over the hump this time

Losing two straight World Series is … not fun. The Dodgers do not want to be baseball's Buffalo Bills.

Giants: Let's give Farhan Zaidi some room

The Giants won three World Series in five years, giving their fans unbridled joy in the process. Now the bill is coming due. Now is not the time for sentimentality. Zaidi is one of the smartest men in the sport. Let him do what he's here to do.

Padres: Let's let everybody know we're coming

The Padres are stealthily, studiously building something intriguing out there. But fans -- and the rest of baseball -- need to see some forward movement to start believing. With the D-backs and Giants taking a step back, this would be a terrific season to show it.

Rockies: Let's get Nolan Arenado signed

He's the face of the franchise and its recent resurgence. Let's get this done.

Video: Bridich, Rox communicating with Arenado about future

Will Leitch is a columnist for MLB.com.

Source: https://www.mlb.com/news/new-years-resolutions-for-every-mlb-team/c-302281316