#the ONLY thing my mom checked out on was that her ankle was prone to dislocating

[dramatic-dolphin]

oh, in the majority of cases my mom says "no, I never could, but your dad can and I always found it funny". that's actually why I'm asking her lol. the reason this whole possible EDS thing slipped by me until now, even with all the medical shit caused by my unstable joints years ago is exactly because my sister and my dad (and possibly even my grandpa) are also like this, so I thought it was normal for your joints to bend weird ways and for your skin to be stretchy like that, and so on 😅 so now I'm gathering info from people not related to me on the paternal line to see what is actually normal and what is not.

demonstrating possible ehlers-danlos symptoms and asking my mom "can you do this?": so far all answers have been negative. very helpful anon might have been onto something. 😨

[tiffdawg]

Curriculum Vitae: Prologue

Gif: @javier-pena​

curriculum Vitae: noun cur·ric·u·la vi·tae Latin. the course of one's life.

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader (fem; no y/n)

Word Count: 1.8k

Rated: M - rating will go up | Warnings: Period-typical sexism, angst, mild language.

Story Summary: After leaving Colombia and retiring from the DEA, Javier Peña steps into a new role as a university professor. A woman with multiple degrees and more books than you can count, you meet Javier as you similarly struggle with the future of your career. Despite your odds, the two of you find something you need in each other during uncertain times.

A/N: So, the idea of Professor Peña has been on my mind lately (is this because I, myself, am pursing a career in academia? who’s to say ) and this multi-chapter, semi-slowburn, enemies/idiots-colleagues-friends-lovers story is the result. Just in case, I wanted to be clear that this story won’t be about a student-teacher dynamic – I went in a totally different direction. This will be a playful, sexy romance full of dreamy images of our favorite DEA agent turned university professor set against the backdrop of Los Angeles of the 1990s. I also want to note that UCLA is about to take some hits in this story, specifically the sociology department, but it’s just for the plot. I’m a UC alumna myself so mad respect any bruins out there! Anyway, I’ve already fallen in love with this story and I’m so excited to share it with you!

Read on AO3

CV Masterlist | My Masterlist

... . ...

Prologue

Checking your reflection in a nearby window, you straightened your blouse and mentally prepared yourself to knock on the imposing door in front of you. Your top was sticking to you in all the wrong places, probably from your nerves as much as the dry heat of August in Los Angeles and you really wished the university would be a bit more forthcoming with the air conditioning. The chair of the sociology department usually opted to pass along information via a memo, phone call, or through the office’s shared secretary, the latter being his preferred method. You knew it wasn’t good when he called you personally to ask for a meeting.

Steeling yourself, you rapped your knuckles against the old wooden door and listened for the brusque enter from your boss.

“Good morning, Dr. Campbell,” you announced politely, “You wanted to speak with me?”

“Ah, yes! Please come in.” He gestured to the overstuffed leather chair across from his wide mahogany desk and you sat yourself on the edge of the seat, crossing your legs at your ankles. His spacious office was lined with rows upon rows of well-read books and shelves stocked with awards and accolades. He was an intimidating man on a good day, but this was torture. You watched attentively as he cleared his throat and shuffled a few loose papers around on his desk before finally looking up at you through the thin wire glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, seemingly intent on drawing out the awkward interaction for as long as possible. “I’m afraid I have some rather sour news for you, miss.”

Gritting your teeth, you ignored his gaffe; whether the man never remembered your proper title or just refused to acknowledge it, you’d never know, although you had your suspicions. At that precise moment, it was the rest of his statement that unnerved you.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Concerning what, exactly?” you prompted, hoping he would take the bait and get this over with already. He was a man known for being a bit long-winded. 

“Well, your tenure,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “Or lack thereof, pardon my candor.”

… . …

You needed to get off that godforsaken campus.

Hastily unlocking the door to your office, letting it fling open without much concern for the wall behind it, you stomped in with a little less decorum than you usually maintained at work. You threw open your bottom desk drawer and dug out your crossbody purse and large tote, tossing both carelessly onto your desk, and then proceeded to shove a few of the books and notepads strewn about your cramped workspace into your bag. You would work on your lectures for the upcoming quarter at home over the weekend, too upset to stay at the university for a second longer than you absolutely had to.

As you made your exit, the framed degrees you’d proudly hung on your wall caught your eye. You could’ve sworn they were glaring at you, taunting you.

“Useless. All three of you.”

… . …

“You are an exemplary lecturer, instructor, and researcher, and the university is fortunate to have you among our prestigious faculty,” Dr. Campbell droned on, clearly trying to soften the blow.

“However?”

“The department cannot offer you a tenured position at this time.” He rested his forearms on his desk, his bony fingers forming a pointed steeple.

You drew in a deep breath of air and dug your nails into the soft flesh of your palm, sure to leave ugly crescent moons. “I’m not sure I understand, sir,” you ground out. “This is my sixth year as an assistant professor. I was offered this professorship with the understanding that it was a tenure-track position and last year when I was overlooked for tenure, I was well-assured that this year would be different.”

The man across from you sighed again, clearly not enjoying the fact that he had to deal with an angry woman. “I am aware of the situation, lest you forget I was the one who offered you this position in the first place.”

“Then can I ask what’s changed?”

“In all honesty, the matter is out of my hands,” he placated. “This directive is coming from the dean’s office. Beyond our department, the school of social sciences is offering fewer positions this year and diverting funds elsewhere, hopefully, if I may be so bold to suggest, to services beneficial to our rapidly increasing student population.”

It took every ounce of willpower you had not to roll your eyes at his explanation. “And are competent, contented professors not beneficial to our students?”

“Well, the sociology department is being gifted a rather impressive visiting lecturer for the year.”

… . … 

“Beneficial to our students?” Beverly scoffed into her end of the receiver. If there was anyone in the world you could count on to be even angrier for you than yourself, it was her. Not only was she your best friend in Los Angeles – actually, at this point, probably the world – but she worked in student services and understood university politics even better than you did. “God, I can’t believe that pretentious asshole had the gall to say that to you.”

“You’re telling me,” you mumbled, precariously cradling the phone to your ear with a shoulder as you set the timer on your microwave oven. 

“And I’m still shocked that they’re doing this to you again,” she continued, “The department promised you tenure. Literally, promised. I remember you telling me word for word what was said at that meeting last fall.”

“Oh, don’t worry so do I.” You sniffed at a second container of leftovers, making a face when you decided the crispy tofu and Chinese broccoli hadn’t survived a few days in the fridge nearly as well as the veggie curry. “I think I etched that conversation into my brain because some part of me knew this was going to happen.” You resealed the container and moved to throw it away, only making it halfway across your kitchen before the phone cord pulled taut and nearly drugged you backwards. “Shit, hold on.”

You picked up the receiver just as your microwave beeped and you were fairly certain Beverly was laughing at you. She’d been on enough calls where you actually did overextend yourself and drop the phone to know exactly what had happened. 

“So, what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Sulk, probably.”

“Nah, that doesn’t sound like you,” she challenged. “I’ve worked at that university for nearly a decade and to this day you’re one of the most determined, hard-working, dedicated professors I’ve ever met.”

“Bev-”

“No! Scratch that. One of the most determined, hard-working, dedicated people I’ve ever met anywhere in my entire life.”

You chuckled as you stirred the remnants of your red curry and jasmine rice. “What would I ever do without you?”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she scolded, “But that’s alright because I’m going to tell you what you’re going to do.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” you quipped.

“I’m going to ignore the sarcasm, this time, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” You knew not to argue when she was using her mom voice on you.

“Now, listen carefully. You’re going to throw yourself into your work, as you are so prone to doing, and make this your best year yet. I’m talking professor-of-the-decade worthy.”

“I don’t think that’s a real thing,” you said with a laugh.

“You know what I mean! And I’m not finished so stop interrupting me.” She paused to make sure you were done being cheeky. “You’re going to make this your best goddamn year of teaching, research, mentorship, and whatever else it is you do, and if they don’t offer you tenure at the end of it, you’re going to remember your worth and then go where that’ll be appreciated. UCLA be damned.”

You were quiet for a long moment as you considered your words. They pulled at something hidden inside of you and were simultaneously encouraging and deeply uncomfortable. “I can’t just-”

“You can. You’re free to do whatever you need to do for yourself, and you should. There’s nothing tying you here. No family, no kids, no tenure-track, that’s for sure.” You swallowed around a lump forming in your throat and ran a hand over your face. “You still there, sweetie?”

“Yeah,” you said, switching the receiver to your other ear. “Yeah, and you’re right. I know you’re right.” 

“Of course I am.” You could practically see the grin on her face. “If they don’t have the money to make you an associate professor, at the very least, then you should go somewhere that will.”

“That’s the best part. I’m pretty sure they do. The department is bringing in a new visiting lecturer so you can’t tell me they don’t have some discretionary funds.” 

“Really? Who?”

You moaned. “One of the guys who brought down Pablo Escobar. It’s a fucking publicity stunt.”

“Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.” There was a crash on the other end of the line followed by an ear-piercing shriek. “I’m really sorry babe, but I gotta go. Henry’s going to be home soon and I’m making dinner and the baby’s crying and I think the other two are trying to kill each other. Again.”

“Oh, no. Go take care of your family. I’m sorry I called – I didn’t realize how late it was.” 

“No, I’m so glad you did. I was worried when you didn’t show up at our usual spot for lunch today. Anyway, I’m sure this will all work out in the end somehow. I’ll see you Monday.”

You hung up the landline, silencing the dial tone. You scanned your empty apartment, your eyes dancing between the random stacks of books, your cluttered dual-purpose kitchen table/worktop, and your makeshift bedroom partially partitioned from the rest of the studio. You exhaled and skewered a few rapidly cooling vegetables onto your fork as you thought over Beverly’s words. Your whole life fit inside these four walls. There wasn’t anything tying you down besides your hope that your hard work would finally be rewarded. While that should’ve been reassuring, it just tore at your already broken heart.

This couldn’t be all there was for you.

Something had to change.

 A spunky bark pulled you from your spiraling thoughts. “Is it dinner time for you too, Sunny?”

A second bark and a wagging tail confirmed your suspicion.

Well, at least you weren’t entirely on your own.

... . ...

Thanks for reading! 💕

... . ...

Tag List: @leo-moon​ @readsalot73​

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Just Like You - Kenny McCormick(South Park)

I wrote this a really long time ago when I was obsessed with South Park. I don’t know why lmao, but here it is. 

Warning: Also wrote this when I was an edgy teen™, so cringe and possible trigger warning.

~~~~~~~~~~

Welp, today’s the day...

New town. New house. New school.

My parents had gotten a better job offer here in this little town of South Park, much to my dismay. I love traveling, but moving from a large city in New York to a small mountain town in Colorado is a lot.

It should be interesting though, more opportunities that I��ve never gotten before. Although, I still have to go to school. The local South Park high school.

I put on my outfit for school and wear my black coat over it. It seems to always snow here, only on rare occasions it gets warm. I run downstairs and grab a piece of toast my mother made from the kitchen. I find a note on the counter.

Have a good first day of school, hon. Try to make some friends, and yes, that means being nice to people. Your father and I will not be back until tomorrow morning, so keep those memories of your first day in you head until we can hear about it. Love you!

My mother is a freak, I love her, but she’s a freak. I’m surprised my father has a job with all the day drinking he does. It helps him get work done, I guess.

I walk to school still eating my buttered toast. Approaching the school, I take in its features. It’s an ugly yellow color. Although, I think all bright colors are ugly. I walk in the school and all eyes are on me. I pretend not to notice. I get my class schedule and such from the receptionist and make my way towards my locker.

“You must be new. I think I would’ve recognized an ass that fine before.” A brunette says to me. I roll my eyes and huff.

“As a matter of fact, I am new. I was hoping for something better than a lame catcall on my first day, but at least you tried.” I said and patted him on the shoulder. He glared, tears filling in his eyes, and stomped off.

I bet he’s never been rejected in his entire life, poor soul.

I walk into my first class and immediately get called on. “Well, hello there! You must be the new student. Y/N right? Well, I’m Mr. Garrison and this here is my little friend Mr. Hat. Say hello Mr. Hat!”

Okay...already creeped the fuck out. Something about his southern accent and oh yeah, his fucking creepy ass puppet just rubs me the wrong way.

“Now, please, go take a seat. Wait...are you a troublemaker?” He asks.

“Oh no. Not at all, sir.” I lie. It’s easy to lie. I have a natural talent for it.

“Oh alright, I guess you can sit next to Kenny. That boy in the orange coat. You can keep him in check.”

Will do, you creepy old fuck.

I take my seat next to the blonde haired boy. He’s kinda cute actually. After class a group of boys came up to me, including that Kenny kid.

“Hi, new kid! Just thought we’d introduce ourselves. I’m Kyle. This here’s Stan, Cartman, and Kenny.” The redhead said.

“Holy shit, look at those tits!”

“Cartman!” Kyle scolded.

“Well, first off. It’s Y/N, not new kid. And nice to meet you too...I guess.” I said and walked off. 

Yeah, I don’t have great people skills. My harshness has pushed people away. I’m trying to work on it. But determined from what the fatass said I probably don’t wanna be friends with those dudes.

Off to lunch, finally. Hopefully the lunch here is better than the ones at my old school. I took my tray and looked around the lunchroom. Everyone in groups or pairs. I see one empty table. I head towards it and sit down.

The food isn’t that bad, but I’ll definitely be bringing my own from now on. While I was eating I noticed people staring at me. One, that Kenny kid, and two, that guy that used that lame catcall. I got uncomfortable real quick.

The rest of school was a bust. It was boring. Now, I want something fun to do. I heard that there’s a pond near here, that sounds like fun. I asked directions to where the pond was, which I found out was called Stark’s Pond, and headed there.

I approached and noticed no one was there. Perfect.

I looked around in my bookbag for some rope, and luckily I carry some around with me at all times. I look a heavy looking rock and tie it to the rope. I’m not that heavy so it should work.

I tie the other end of the rope around my ankle. I throw the boulder into the pond and it yanks me down, breaking my ankle. It drags me down until the rock rests at the bottom of the pond.

It’s dark and cold. I’m floating, suspended in time. I look up and see the sunlight breaking through the surface of the water, but it’s not enough to reach me. My hair flies around, loose and tangling each other. I reach up and run my fingers through my soft hair.

It starts...I try to gasp for breath but it isn’t there. My lungs start to burn with fire as no oxygen reaches them and they only fill with water as I struggle for air.

I always find this part of drowning so fascinating. Your survival instincts kick in and you try so desperately to fight to survive but come up short when your lungs fill completely with water and your body becomes stiff and frozen.

I black out.

*The Next Morning*

I gasp and bolt upright from my bed.

I sigh in relief to see that I’m back again, in my new home. Every time I die, there’s always a part of me that’s afraid I’ll never come back, and yet I always do.

The first time it happened, I was 10. I was at a birthday party. It was my friend’s party cake that killed me. Someone, while making the cake, accidentally put poison in it. I don’t know how in the hell someone “accidentally” puts poison in a cake, but it happened.

I started to feel hungry, it wasn’t time eat yet but the cake was on the kitchen table and I couldn’t help myself. I took a small piece of cake, it was delicious but it caused me to foam out the mouth and have a seizure. I died almost instantly. Good thing I died otherwise the rest of those kids would’ve had a bad day.

Then I woke up in my bed the next morning.

The hardest part was that no one remembered that I died, but I did. I remember the whole painful experience, and my parents didn’t even believe me. They took me to counseling after that, not that it helped.

One day, a few weeks after the first time I died, I tried crossing the road without my parents. I looked both ways and no cars were coming as far as I could tell. As soon as I almost crossed the, a car came out of no where and completely wrecked me. Again, I woke up in my bed like nothing happened.

The day after I built up the courage enough to test out the theory that I was unkillable. My dad had a 9 mil in his safe. I shot myself, and just like that, I woke up in my bed the next day.

At first, I was insanely afraid of myself and it wasn’t until last year that I realized it could be fun.

I’ve tested out so many ways of dying. Yesterday at the pond was my first time drowning, but I wanted to get over it cause I knew I’d drown soon even if I avoided it. Next on my list is falling to my death, but besides drowning heights is my biggest fear. Heights might be a good excuse to procrastinate getting that done.

I get up out of bed and take a quick shower. I wonder if I’ll ever stop being immortal? It’s probably a good thing I am since I’ve become so accident prone.

After my shower, I quickly got dressed and jogged down the stairs, almost falling in the process. I walked into the kitchen where I saw my parents.

“Y/N! Hello, sweetie!” My mom said and gave me a hug.

“Hey.” I said.

My mom was making waffles and my dad was just sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Dick never pays any attention to me.

“So, how was your first day of school? Did you make any friends?”

“Uh, not really. Some guys introduced themselves to me, but you know how I am with people. And school was fine, learned a lot, teachers are a freaky though.” I paused. “Oh, and I drowned myself at Stark’s Pond.” I said nonchalantly.

My mom sighed. “That’s nice dear.”

Ever since I’ve been experimenting with dying over and over, I’ve been telling my parents about it. They never believe me of course. Even when one time I purposely hurt myself and bled to death in front of them, but they never remember. My dad didn’t really give a shit though. Anyway...

“I’m going to school now. Later!” I said, walking out the door.

Hmm, maybe I should take the bus. I wait at the bus stop, cause I don’t feel like walking to school.

“Y/N!” I flinch when I heard my name being called out. I turn to see Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman walking up to me. “I didn’t know you took the bus.” Kyle went on to say.

“Didn’t really feel like walking to school today.” I said, looking down and kicking the ground beneath me absentmindedly.

The bus finally arrived and we all walked on, I sat in the very back by myself. Until Kenny decided to sit next to me.

“Mmph!” He said, well I don’t exactly know he said. His bright orange parka covering his face made his voice muffled. I’m just gonna assume he said hi.

“Hi.” I replied.

“Mmph mmph mmph mph mmmph mmph!”

“Uh...huh?”

He rolled his eyes and took off his hood, revealing a mop of messy dirty blonde hair. “I said, how are you liking school so far?” He said.

“Oh, um. It’s okay, I guess.” I smiled.

“You guess? Okay, so I take it you don’t really like it.”

“Well, it always sucks when you’re the new kid and you have no friends.” I sighed.

“No friends, huh? Well, I’ll be you friend. I’m sure Kyle and Stan will too!” He said, making me blush. Darn. “Aw, you’re blushing!”

“Shut up. I always blush.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Kenny smirked.

When we finally got to school Kenny walked me to class, which was nice. He’s actually really nice and funny, also really adorable.

*A Week Later*

School so far has been good. I’ve grown really close to Kenny, since he’s basically my only friend. 

Kenny invited me to sit with him at his table, I agreed. Stan and Kyle seemed to enjoy my company though, Cartman didn’t. Didn’t like me for some reason, although he could be just an asshole all the time.

As the talk started to slow down and lunch was almost over, I looked around the lunchroom to avoid small talk. I saw the guy with brown hair staring at me again, but looked away when I saw him. “Hey, Kenny?”

“Yeah?”

“Who is that guy over there?” I ask, discreetly pointing at him.

“Oh, that guy in the red coat is Clyde. Why?” Kenny asked.

“Oh, no reason. He was just staring at me my first day here and also today. He also kinda catcalled me that day too.”

Kenny noticeably frowned. “He has?”

“Yeah, but it’s probably nothing.” I stuttered a little. Kenny giggled. 

“You’re cute when you stutter.” He smiled, which made me blush. “Aw, you’re blushing again.” He poked my blushing cheeks.

“Ugh, stop.” I whined, and shoved his hand away.

The rest of school was okay. Kenny stayed by my side the whole day, I didn’t mind, but he seemed like he was in a clingy mood which was weird. “I’ll walk you home.” Kenny said.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.” I said.

“Nah, I insist.” He said.

Well, who could say no to Kenny. We were almost to my house, we had to cross the street first. We both walked side by side, Kenny had his arm around my shoulders to which I giggled. I suddenly hear a loud horn, I tried to push Kenny out of harm’s way but it was too late.

We’d both been run over by a semi-truck. 

I gasp and bolt upright from my bed in a cold sweat.

Oh, god. Kenny. We both got hit. I tried to get Kenny out of the way, but I was too late. I let him get run over. He’s probably dead because of me.

I start to sob. He’s dead and it’s my fault. My fucking fault. God no. Why couldn’t it have just been me? I wouldn’t even care if I wasn’t able to come back, I just want Kenny to still be alive.

My alarm went off. I smashed it. I’m not going to school today. I can’t. Everyone probably knows Kenny’s dead and they’re mourning him school. I can’t be knowing it’s my fault.

My doorbell rings.

Ugh...I don’t feel answering the door. The person is now beating on the door, damn they’re persistent.

I get up to yell at the person who’s beating down my door. I mumble profanities as I answer it. My heart stops. Not literally but it feels like it. 

“K-Kenny?” I start sobbing as I take the blonde haired boy in my arms, holding tightly. “I thought you died!” I sob. I pull away. His face looks like he’s in shock, also confused.

“You...you remember?” He asks.

“Of course I do! I tried pushing you out of the way of that truck, I guess I succeeded.” I sigh in relief.

“But...how? I thought you died too.” He said, flabbergasted.

“What do you mean too? Wait, you remembered I died?” I ask, also so confused.

“Y/N, I died. You didn’t push me out of the way in time, but I didn’t save you either. We both died,” he paused, “and we both remember.”

Suddenly, Kenny grabs both my upper arms and pulls me close to him and gives me a passionate kiss. 

I pull away, shocked. “Woah....what was that for?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just...nobody has ever remembered me dying. No one, but you can.” Kenny explained.

“And you remember me dying?” I ask.

Kenny nods. “You’re the first person that remembers me dying too.” He says.

I don’t know what to say or do. This has never happened to me before. I think Kenny feels the same, since we’re both just stood awkwardly at my front door. I finally break the silence.

“Kenny, I thought you died, and I’ve never been more scared in my entire life.” I said, with still a few salty tears flowing down my red cheeks.

“I was too.” Kenny said. “Well, looks like we have more in common than I originally thought.” He giggled.

~~~~~~~~~~

[jenliliscripts]

Chapter 217

June’s POV

I honked softly, letting Lia know that I'm outside. A few moments later, she rushed out of her door, throwing her poise away as she ran to the passenger side. She climbed in, frantically fixing the ends of her hair.

"Have you been waiting?" she inquired while checking her face using her front camera.

I observed her from my seat, not wasting the chance to look at her. She looked gorgeous in her black long sleeved dress. It definitely complements her striking features, giving her a more fierce look. "No, I just got here."

"Sorry. I can't pick what to wear. I couldn't find anything good in the shops that I went to earlier today—"

"You look fine. Stop worrying."

I reached for her hand in attempt to calm her down. She flinched as soon as my fingers grazed her skin, her eyes instantly darting towards me. I expected her to withdraw her hand, but instead inserted  her fingers in between the spaces, locking our hands together. "We're different people, remember? We can be whoever we want to be. We can do whatever we want."

So has she been wanting to do this? Hold my hand, I mean. The question fades into the back of my mind.

I knew better not to voice out my questions. I just have to enjoy the night and deal with everything later. For now, I must keep my mind clear.

I nodded lightly. "Yes, we are. For today, we can be."

Our hands were clasped as I drove to the restaurant. I occasionally stole glances while she was quietly sucked in by her thoughts. I broke the silence and began asking her about her day to which she answered as if she was a completely different person as we had agreed and I followed suit when she fired the questions back to me.

Although this is all an act, some stupid condition I made, I still like the idea because for a short time, we can momentarily forget that we're in a muddled situation. There are a couple of things we need to iron out, but I shall set that aside for now. I just really want the old Lia tonight—the caring and thoughtful Lia, the Lia that would say that she hates me but looks at me with utter tenderness.

"Music?" I suggested, stroking her thumb in a steady rhythm

"Yes, please. It's a need. Mild traffic up ahead according to your navigation app."

I let go of her then pressed the play button on my steering wheel. I looked over to her side in search for her hand and Lia was quick to recognize it, extending her arm to take mine. She carefully laced them together, earning a smile from me.  

"I know what you're looking for," she declared rather proudly, her fingers playfully tapping the back of my hand.

"I want to go to another place after dinner. Can I take you with me?" I asked, biting my lip right after. "It's okay if you don't—"

"Sure. Let's go. You can have me all night, Junie."

Junie. Ah, hearing her say it endearingly, melts my heart. It's a golden melody.

Silence followed, only the soft music from the speakers can be heard. My palm got sweaty from holding her hand. I was going to take it back so I can wipe off the sweat but she clutched it tighter. "Don't. Until the end of the night, you're not allowed to let go."

With those simple words, my heart started hammering in my chest. Oh, Lia. What have you done to me? I am subdued by this overwhelming amount of love I have for you. I smiled convincingly, making it seem like I don't feel uneasy—as if my insides aren't uncomfortably twisting.

"I like that," I replied in an amused tone. "I certainly approve of that."

Not long after, we reached our destination. I got down of the car first and Lia followed suit. Jamie and I had already planned the entire night so it's safe to be seen in public. I met her on the other side and instinctively intertwined our fingers. She looked at me, a puzzled expression on her face.

I gave her a reassuring smile. "It's okay. It's all been arranged. There's won't be news about this tomorrow. I can hold your hand as much as I want to."

Leading her in, she squeezed my hand upon seeing the place packed with people. "Aren't they going to—"

"They don't mind. We are sitting with elites. They only care about themselves," I tugged her forward. "We're trying to be normal and it would defeat the purpose if I bought out the whole restaurant tonight."

"Right. I'm trust you on this. Let's go."

We were guided to our table on the far corner. We didn't waste time and scanned the menu. "I suggest you make room for dessert."

"Okay, but there's no dessert on the courses here."

I put down the menu, tilting my head to the side. "We're not eating it here."

"Then where?"

"In an ice cream parlor in downtown Manhattan."

We placed in our orders and patiently waited for the food to be served. As we did, I asked her what others would consider trivial questions, but for me, those are the facts about her that I would love to know.

"Favorite ice cream flavor?" I inquired randomly, earning a frown from her.

"Vanilla. Is this like a fast talk?"

"Yes. Just answer. You can ask me anything too."

"Hatest childhood memory?" she asked.

"Oh that's a good one." My eyes wandered for a brief moment. "Ah! When my mom wanted to send me abroad for school. We fought everyday because I would break my luggage and throw out the the things inside so they'd have to pack my clothes again."

"That's intense. You're really a troublemaker, aren't you?"

I puffed my chest, flashing a proud smile. "That's what you call fighting for what you want. Yours?"

"When I crashed my bike when I was riding down a steep road. I got all sorts of scratches and I broke my wrist. I never rode one since that day."

"You're accident prone, huh? Last time you almost sprained your ankle. Unbelievable. You should be treated like a fragile object."

"Psh." Her face turned smug. "I don’t need extra care. I'm fine on my own."

As our conversation went on, we finally warmed up to each other, and it felt like the two of us from months ago. Bickering, laughing in between, and then the cycle repeats. I'd like to believe we both forgot that there we had unspoken issues. Dinner proceeded smoothly, thank God. If it had went the other way, I would have to suffer more sleepless night thinking of what went wrong.

Lia stood up after I paid for the bill, but I asked her sit for a while. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Can I take a picture of you?"

Her brows met in the middle, confused by the unusual request. "You don't ask. You just take it. Go."

I pouted, trying to act cute. "Of all the photos I have of you, you only smiled once."

She groaned, throwing her head back. I, on the other hand fished for my phone from my purse and waited for her to tell me she's ready. She propped her elbows on the table, then cupped her cheeks with her palms. "How do I do this?"

I snapped a photo of the most breathtaking sight that's sitting right in front of me. She wasn't doing anything yet I am completely smitten by her beauty. When I thought I couldn't fall deeper in love, I was proven wrong. Lia Kim, you're taking everything that I have without even trying. I love you. I love you and I can't keep my feelings at bay. I want to tell you everything. I'm tired of pretending that I'm okay that you’re not mine.

"June?" she called my name and I immediately diverted my attention to her.

"You ready?"

She didn't answer and instead tilted her head to the side. She smiled, showing her teeth and I did too. "Perfect. That's beautiful, Lia."

She fixed her posture, her smile fading soon after. "Can we get ice cream now?"

"Of course. Let's go."

[prouvaireafterdark]

Drive Me to Distraction

Buckle up for some deeply self-indulgent smut that I am not even remotely sorry for. Along the same vein as Open Up.

Also on AO3!

***

“Guerin, can I talk to you a minute?”

Michael looks up from the calculations he and Liz are working on, the end of his pen clenched between his teeth. Alex, who had been typing away on his laptop at the table across the bunker last Michael checked, is standing by their work station with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Yeah, what’s up?” he asks, taking the pen out of his mouth and twirling it between his fingers.

“Alone,” Alex clarifies, tracking the movement.

“Uh, yeah,” Michael says before asking Liz, “You got this while I’m gone?”

“I was a published research scientist long before you and your big alien brain came along, Mikey. I think I can handle a little math,” she says, her tone sarcastically amused.

Michael holds his hands up in mock surrender and gets up from the table.

Alex walks off without another word and Michael follows him mutely, wondering what Alex could want to talk to him about that he couldn’t say in front of Liz. He’s been looking into Project Shepherd, Michael knows, but Liz is part of the team; she should be informed about any developments on that front. Unless—is it about his mom? His mind is running through the possibilities a mile a minute as he follows Alex into the small bathroom, the only private place in the whole bunker.

When the door clicks shut behind them, what Michael is definitely not expecting is for Alex to spin him around and walk him backward until the porcelain sink is digging into his lower back.

“Are you teasing me on purpose,” Alex asks, voice low in his ear, “or do you really not know how fucking distracting you are?”

“Wha-?” Michael asks intelligently, his senses overloaded by the heat coming off Alex’s body and the scent of his aftershave. Alex tugs on Michael’s earlobe with his teeth, as if that will make him any more coherent. Michael has to close his eyes and count to five before he asks, “W-what do you mean?”

Alex pointedly rolls his hips into Michael’s so he can feel his erection, hot and hard in his jeans.

“Oh,” Michael says breathlessly, his own body reacting in kind as he looks down between them at the bulge in Alex’s pants.

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Alex echoes.

“I did that to you, huh?” Michael asks, his hands reaching for Alex’s waist, pulling him even closer, eyes glazing over with want.

“Mhm, you and that mouth of yours,” Alex answers, eyes fixed on Michael’s lips.

“I didn’t even say anything,” Michael protests.

“Didn’t have to. I’ve been watching you suck on your pen for the last twenty minutes like you’re not supposed to be using it for something. It’s very distracting.”

Michael’s always had a pen chewing problem, the frenetic chaos in his head making him prone to fidgeting, but he never thought it would ever turn anyone on. Though, he supposes, if he saw Alex stick something vaguely cylindrical in his mouth like that he’d be hard pressed not to let his mind wander.  

Michael imagines Alex sitting across the room from him, trying and failing to do his own work as he watches the tip of Michael’s pen disappear into his mouth, a hint of tongue peeking out every now and then. The vision in his mind’s eye shifts suddenly to Alex palming his swelling cock under the table as he thinks about all the other, better things Michael could be doing with his mouth.

I can certainly come up with a few, Michael thinks, already calculating the distance between the bathroom and the main lab and the thickness of the walls surrounding them to determine whether they’re far enough away to avoid being heard. Michael licks his lips as he realizes they are, so long as they don’t shout.  

“Mm,” Michael hums. “I’m real sorry about that, Alex.”

“You are, huh?” Alex asks, doubtful amusement cracking through his expression.

“Yeah,” Michael says, looking up at him beneath his lashes. “I should really do somethin’ about it, don’t you think? Show you how sorry I am.”

Michael starts to get to his knees, but Alex stops him. Michael stands up straight again, eyebrows raised questioningly. Alex just smiles at him, naked affection softening his gaze as his hand comes to rest on Michael’s cheek, his thumb brushing against the stubble there.

“You’re not obligated to do anything about this, you know that, right? I mostly just wanted to ask you to take mercy on me and keep your pen out of your mouth, but I got a little carried away,” Alex confesses, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. “You can go back to your calculations now if you want, I can take care of it myself.”

Michael huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he leans in to kiss him, slow and dirty enough to make his intentions very, very clear. When he pulls away, Alex’s pupils have well and truly blown, his gaze locked on Michael’s mouth.

“That is very sweet of you, Alex,” Michael says, bringing his hand between them to squeeze Alex’s cock through the dark denim of his jeans. His smug smile widens as Alex’s eyes slip closed and his hips press into his touch. “But if I don’t get my mouth on you in the next five seconds I’m going to spontaneously combust.”

Alex swallows and Michael watches his throat work, transfixed.

“What are you waiting for then?”

In one smooth movement, Michael spins them around so Alex is the one leaning against the sink. Once Alex is settled, Michael kneels on the hard concrete floor, his hands sliding up Alex’s thighs as he licks his lips in anticipation.

Alex grips Michael’s curls tight at the back of his head and Michael’s mouth drops open, his own cock throbbing in his jeans. Alex’s free hand comes up to touch his bottom lip, still slick with spit.

“Look at you,” Alex muses, the tip of his finger running along the edge of his teeth, pressing down to open Michael’s mouth further. Michael moans softly, sticking his tongue forward for a taste of Alex’s skin. “Haven’t even gotten my cock out and you’re already gagging for it.”

Michael whimpers as Alex slips his finger deeper inside to swipe over his tongue, and goddamn it if he doesn’t love it when Alex talks to him like this.

Alex’s other hand pops the button on his jeans and frees himself from his boxer briefs, tugging the waistband under his balls. Michael stares hungrily at his cock, thick and hard in front of him, and his lips close instinctually to suck on the finger that’s already in his mouth.

“Fuck, I love how much you want it,” Alex comments, watching Michael’s face. Alex removes his finger and wraps his hand around the base of his own cock, angling it toward Michael’s mouth. “Go on, you can have it.”

Michael leans forward and takes the head into his mouth, moaning as soon as he gets that first taste of precome. He revels in the feel of him, heavy on his tongue as it forces his lips open wide. Alex’s blunt nails scrape along Michael’s scalp as he sucks, drunk on the way Alex bites down on his bottom lip to keep from crying out.

Michael bobs his head, taking him deeper and deeper on every downstroke until the dark wiry hair at the base of Alex’s cock tickles his nose. Tears leak from his eyes as he fights against his gag reflex, but Alex is there to catch them with the pad of his thumb.

“Fuck, Michael,” Alex groans softly. “So fucking perfect, baby, you’re so good for me.”

Michael moans and Alex’s hips twitch forward involuntarily at the vibration, shoving his cock deeper down Michael’s throat. Alex cants his hips backward almost immediately, an apology on his lips, but Michael slides his hands around to the backs of Alex’s thighs to push him closer, urging him to fuck his throat. Instead of following through on Michael’s silent demand, Alex pulls his cock out of his mouth entirely.

He lets Michael catch his breath a minute before he asks, “You sure?” brushing his thumb across Michael’s cheek. Michael blushes as Alex’s finger trails down to wipe away some of the saliva that’s dripped down his chin.

“Yeah,” he says, voice broken and rough. “Please.”

Alex nods and eases his cock back into Michael’s mouth. Once Michael gives him the go ahead, he starts pumping his hips in a slow, steady rhythm that gradually builds as Michael adjusts to it.

Michael’s eyes fall shut as he concentrates on breathing, giving himself over to the sensation of Alex filling his throat, to the soft sounds Alex makes as his pleasure mounts. Michael is desperate for all of it, but most of all for the feeling of being used by the only person he’s ever trusted enough to give permission. Because as much as Alex gets off on this, as easy as it would be to forget himself and push Michael too hard, too fast, Michael knows that Alex will never be reckless with his safety, and he’s finally starting to understand why that matters.

It’s not long before Alex pulls out again, a gossamer thread of saliva connecting Michael’s mouth to his cock. Michael kneels there, gasping as he looks up at him.

“Keep your mouth open,” Alex demands roughly.

Michael obeys, opening his mouth, his tongue sticking out just passed the edge of his bottom lip.

“That’s it, baby,” he gasps, taking himself in hand. “You’re so good, love you so much.”

Alex strips his cock at lightning speed until he comes in thick white streaks across Michael’s tongue, shoving his cock back in his mouth at the last second so it doesn’t spill. Michael swallows greedily, sucking on the tip until Alex hisses in overstimulation and gently pushes him away. Michael rests his head on Alex’s thigh, his fingers dropping to curl around Alex’s left ankle as they both catch their breath.

Michael feels like he’s floating as Alex pulls him to his feet. He seeks out Alex’s warmth immediately, pressing close until their chests are flush together. He moans a little too loudly when Alex reaches for the waistband of his blue jeans, his need for release becoming urgent the moment he remembers it.

“Alex,” he whines as Alex gets his jeans open.

“Shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Alex promises.

Alex licks his own palm and takes him in hand. He doesn’t drag it out, instead jerking Michael off fast and rough. Michael buries his face in Alex’s neck to muffle his desperate sounds, his fingers gripping hard at Alex wherever he can reach.

“That’s it, Michael,” Alex murmurs in his ear. “Come for me, you can do it, you’ve been so good, come on—“

Stars explode behind Michael’s eyes as he comes in no time at all, shooting hard into Alex’s waiting hand. His eyes close as Alex milks him dry, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of him.

Suddenly, Michael feels something wet at his lips again. “Come on, don’t waste it,” Alex urges, and Michael opens his mouth without question. He registers the sharp taste of his own come on Alex’s fingers as they press inside his mouth and his spent cock twitches in interest against Alex’s palm.

He opens his eyes as he licks Alex’s fingers clean, enjoying the rapturous expression on Alex’s face. The second Alex’s fingers are out of his mouth, Alex claims his lips in a possessive kiss, chasing the taste of him on Michael’s tongue with his own. Michael lets Alex have his fill, content to submit to him.

“Mmm,” Michael hums when Alex pulls away, eyes half-lidded as he nuzzles closer.

He wraps his arms more completely around Alex’s waist as he leans heavily against his chest, his forehead finding a home against Alex’s neck. Alex rubs his hand up and down Michael’s back soothingly, making Michael want to melt into a puddle on the floor.

“How’re you feeling?” Alex asks after he’s had a moment to settle. “I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?”

Michael takes stock of himself. His throat feels raw, his jaw aches, and he’s sure if he looked in the mirror he’d see a goddamn mess, but right now he feels amazing.

“No, you were perfect,” Michael answers, his voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

“Good,” Alex says, pressing a kiss to his temple. After a moment he chuckles and adds, “God, you really sound like you just got your throat fucked. Liz is definitely gonna know what I did to you in here.”

Michael makes an amused sound. “If she doesn’t already. You weren’t exactly quiet while I sucked your brain out your dick.”

Alex’s laugh is fond as he asks, rhetorically, “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Whatever you want,” Michael replies, softer than he means to.

Michael feels Alex hold him tighter. “I love you,” he whispers into his curls.

“I love you too,” Michael says, squeezing him back and pressing a kiss to his neck.

Alex continues to rub his back for another precious minute before his movements slow to a stop. Michael makes a small noise of complaint in the back of his throat.

“I know,” Alex sighs ruefully, “but we should really get back to work.”

“Do we have to?” Michael whines.

“Mhm,” Alex answers. “Liz needs your help.”

“I think you’ll recall she said she could handle it,” he counters, though he’s already standing up on his own and tucking himself back into his jeans. Michael can feel Alex’s assessing gaze on him even as he zips himself up.

“Hey,” he says softly, and waits for Michael to look at him before he continues, “That was pretty intense, what we just did. We should still get back to work, but I’ll be just across the room, okay? If you want to go home or just need me close for a while, all you have to do is ask.”

Michael smiles, impossibly fond. “I know.”

They take turns washing their hands and give each other a once over to make sure there are no hard-to-explain stains on their clothes. Michael notes in the mirror that his hair is indeed a mess and his lips are red and puffy from use, but there’s not a whole lot he can do about that now.

“I’ll head out first,” Alex says, pausing to press a kiss to Michael’s cheek on his way out.

Michael spends another few minutes trying to make himself presentable before he leaves the bathroom.

When he reaches the drawing table he and Liz were working at, he finds a cold bottle of water in front of his chair. He locks eyes with Alex across the room and smiles, cracking the seal and taking a long pull, the cool liquid soothing his sore throat on the way down.

“So, you ready to—?” Liz starts, but freezes the second she looks at him. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Michael asks, feigning innocence, though he knows his performance is ruined by how wrecked his voice sounds.

“Don’t ‘what?’ me, Michael Guerin,” Liz says. “You two are fucking ridiculous, we’re supposed to be working!”

“I don’t know about ridiculous,” Michael smirks, “but we’re definitely fucking.”

Alex’s startled laugh echoes around the bunker as Michael narrowly avoids the eraser Liz throws at him.

[streamsovlys]

things that i can never change about my body and i am okay with

if you have similar struggles, you can take inspiration from this post to accept things you can never change about the way your body is built. I have added some positive examples and ways to cope with these problems.

♡My leg length. I have shorter legs and that's completely okay. You cannot change your skeleton. My legs will appear shorter no matter what I do. I am okay with having shorter legs. The shortness of your legs will be determined by it's proportion to your torso, so your height does not really matter. If you hate your shorter legs, check out Gisele Bündchen for inspiration. She has shorther legs in proportion to her torso and other models and she still rocks it.

♡Hip dips. Hip dips are caused by your bone structure, muscle tone, and fat storage. You can try to exercise your hip dips off. But you can never change how and where your body stores fat. The lowest dip on your hip dips store no fat and have no built muscles. The fat that's store on your lower belly and back creates hip dips. Even if you have a little fat, your hip dips will stay unless you're working out to build muscle. I am so over hip dips. I don't care if I have them or not. If you hate your hip dips, take inspiration from Bella Hadid. She has an amazing body that's envied by many and her hip dips are still noticable. Her hip dips adds character to her walk and her legs, makes her appear sharper. If you're struggling with hip dips, get a few pairs of high waisted, seamless panties that are a size smaller. The compression from the fabric will have a spanx effect on your hip dips if you adjust it accordingly.

♡I will never have a thigh gap. Thigh gaps, like hip dips are also determined by your bone structure and how you store fat. If your hip bones are wide it's possible that you will have a thigh gap. If your hips bones are narrow, you may never have a thigh gap even though you are skinny. I never wanted a thigh gap because I knew it would be an unrealistic expectation. I have narrower hips and I store my fat on my thighs for the most part, so it is unrealistic of me to strive for a thigh gap. You should focus on things you can change about your body and ignore what you can't change. Do not beat yourself over things you have no control over and let go.

♡Fat ankles. Again, that's just how my body is built. Women in my family have thicker ankles and I do too. It's not something that will change by losing weight. I do not beat myself over it. I dress accordingly with chunkier shoes so my ankles will appear more delicate.

♡Stretch marks. I remember when they first appeared and how painful the process was. Your cells are multiplying like crazy so you can grow. They would be super itchy and red for days. I don't care about stretch marks because everyone has them. I don't care if it's caused by natural growth or weight gain. I literally couldn't care less. If you're unhappy with stretch marks, you can look into laser options to get them removed. That's the only way to get rid of them. However, you can try and prevent stretch marks. If you are scared you'll get them, moisturize 2 times a day to keep your skin hydrated and flexible. If you have naturally dry skin that is prone to eczema and such, you're more prone to stretch marks. If you moisturize everday and still got stretch marks, you probably have very dry skin and there is not much to do and you will have to learn to accept them.

♡Wide ribcage. A wide ribcage means that my waist will never be small and dainty. My mom would make fun of me for having a wide and thick waist and would talk about how small her waist was at my age; we had an 8 inch difference. But her bone structure and the way her body stores fat it different than mine. I don't care if my waist is small. My wide ribcage gives me the appearance of a wider and stronger upper body. It also means that my ribs are visible even when I am at a 'healthy' weight. I love my wide ribcage because it makes me look strong and badass.

♡Undefined collarbones. Another part of my body that I cannot change. The visibility of your collarbones is determined by its build and the thickness of your skin regardless of weight. If you are struggling to get collarbone definition, chances are your skeleton is not built that way and you have thicker skin. A thicker skin means the skin on your collarbones will age slower compared to those who have thinner skin. You cannot change your bone structure to make your collarbones more visible. However, you can change your posture. Have you noticed how ballet dancers have beautiful collarbones? It's not because they are skinny, but have been trained from childhood for proper posture. Working on your posture may have a more positive effect on the look of your collarbones than losing more weight.

♡Big thighs. That's just where my body stores fat mostly. The only thing that can slim them down is by working out and building muscle. However, what little fat I have will be stored there no matter what. I'm not complaining about my bih, squishy thighs. Tyra Banks always had fleshier, softer thighs at every weight and she looks amazing.

[facethroughthemirror]

A Little Less Dramatic

[ hey @fanvsfic I’m late to lunch with my mom and grandma so I can post this today enjoy it ]

Crossposted on ao3

Relationships: Donald Doyle/Emily Grey, Vanessa Kimball/Agent Carolina Additional tags: Suicide, Doyle Lives au

Over an hour after landing at what the rebels have termed “Crash Site Bravo” finds General Doyle still in the back of the pelican, perched on a bank of seats with his unarmored head in his gloved hands. The ache from where he’d hit it in the fall caused by the transport being jolted by the explosion has subsided, but the throbbing in his ankle. He can’t bring himself to look down at the discarded helmet at his feet, or at any of the plate armor he’s wearing. Not yet.

It’s war , he tells himself quietly. These things happen. Not everyone makes it back. He’s seen it happen countless times, hundreds of soldiers whose names he had never known slain on the battlefield, scientists and medical staff massacred by Charon’s mercenaries, each and every leader of the Federal Army before him either evacuated or dead, including the man he’d worked for most of his adult life before the... abrupt promotion. Good god, he stopped keeping track of names years ago. There were too many of them after a while to even keep track of. He doesn’t even know how many of them had died for nothing but the benefit of a businessman somewhere beyond Chorus’ skies, sacrificed for someone else’s gain.

And as much as it pains him, he can’t help but resign himself to the thought that maybe Armonia had been just another one of those sacrifices. That everything -- every one -- that Chorus had lost was for nothing. That it wouldn’t matter in the end.

No one’s been by to check on him. He assumes it simply to be due to no one noticing that he’s gone, though he finds it just a bit more comforting to think that it’s perhaps out of a kind of respect, or even more likely out of a somewhat mutual depression. Though he suspects that it’s entirely to do with the loss of Armonia, and not at all with the loss of...

“Oh dear…”

“What is it?”

“Are you ready?”

“... I’m afraid I won’t be joining you after all!”

“... What?”

“... there’s no longer a way to overload the reactor from the control panel with enough time to leave. But, I can still trigger an explosion! I’ll just have to do it manually!”

“... manually?! No, you don’t, just--just stay low, we can come to you.”

“I’m afraid that just won’t be possible! I appear to be surrounded, and there’s just no time for anyone else to get down here without tipping off Charon that something’s not right!”

Emily was a doctor . A non-combatant. He knows she can likely count the number of times she’s fired a gun on one hand, maybe both of her hands, and her standard-issue sidearm (that came with being an officer and as strongly as Emily objected to carrying one, there just wasn’t anything either of them could do about that) was in such a pitiful state of disrepair that it was hardly safe to use -- she’d had plans to convert it into a tranquilizer gun, he’d discovered. She should have never been down there in the first place. She should have left Armonia with her staff and patients, long before she could have ever even had the chance to suggest this. He should have told her to leave the city, she would have listened -- need to keep up appearances, after all, she wouldn’t have blatantly protested or outright disregarded an order where the others could have seen her do so.

The whole thing had been her idea, once they’d realized that Charon would leave the city if they knew that he had. She’d been trying to buy them time, she’d been meant to lead the mercenaries around, lose them, and then overload the reactor controls and slip out of the city before the reactor blew. They’d switched plate armor, so that she’d be able to not only catch the pirates’ eyes, but pass as him from a distance, while moving quickly through the city. She was several inches shorter than him, and was noticeably slighter, so it wouldn’t be enough to fool someone up close, or to trick Locus if she crossed paths with him, but it would buy them the time they needed. She would keep the mercenaries distracted, lead them in circles. They’d switched her hardlight shield into his armor, it ran better and covered a larger area, standard issue for Federal medical personnel in order to shield patients in the field, and he’d given her his better-maintained sidearm, so that she’d have a fighting chance should she be cornered.

It feels… almost unreal. He… still can’t believe it. It had all been going according to plan, but then…

“Emily -- Y-You can’t--!”

“I’m sorry, General Doyle! I know it isn’t perfect. Oh... there we are. The timer on this detonator barely lasts a minute. You need to get out of the city while you still can!”

Kimball throws her weapon to the floor of the Pelican as she speaks, shouting now, even though the other general knows it won’t do any good. “Damn it, Grey! Don’t--”

“Chorus needs you both. When this war ends, they’ll need skilled leaders more than they’ll need another doctor. You’re no good to Chorus dead!”

He just stands in quiet shock, gripping hard on a grab bar close to the bay doors as he hears that cheerful voice on the other end of the line, so matter-of-factly explaining, rationalizing, her situation as if it was a simple lab experiment. He can hear Kimball shouting over the radio, but a private message over his own comm. line drowns her out.

“... I’m so sorry. If there were any other way…” He hears her breath hitch, hears her voice shake. And it breaks his heart to know that there’s nothing he can do. “... look in my left-side storage pocket. I left you something just in case. I love you.”

He doesn’t have time to answer her, doesn’t have time to tell her that he loves her, doesn’t have time to say goodbye or anything else: there’s a deafening roar of an explosion, one that shakes the transport. But he isn’t sure if it’s the impact or the grief that snatches his knees out from under him and sends him crashing to the floor .

Emily’s “just in case” had turned out to be the very same things Locus had brought him after the massacre at her outpost, just about. Except, she’s left him both of her identification tags, with her ring neatly dropped onto the ball chain and hanging beside them.

“… Doyle?” a voice asks from somewhere outside his vision. He tucks the tags back into the pocket from whence they’d come: he doesn’t want anyone to see them. “… oh, you’re still in here.”

Tired blue eyes crack open finally at the sound of someone calling him, catching sight of the helmet at his feet. He closes them against the tears as they start again, and he swallows. He knows that voice. He knows precisely who’s speaking to him, and he also knows full well that he can’t exactly ignore the speaker. But he just can’t bring himself to look up. It takes a great deal of effort simply to speak aloud.

“... unfortunately.” His unconscious choice of words spikes emotion in his chest, but he swallows it, shuts his eyes against it. He can… he can deal with that later. “... do… do you... er… do you need me for something?”

Vanessa is quiet, the silence heavy in the air between them. For that long moment, he’s sure she’s about to begin shouting, telling him that of course she needs him for something. But she never does. Instead, her response is quiet. Almost… concerned. “... It can… wait.”

“... ah… are… erm… are-are you certain?”

“... yes.” Her footsteps approach his position slowly. Carefully. Once she stops walking, he hears the sound of a helmet seal breaking, and feels her sit down next to him. When she doesn’t say anything further, he finally forces himself to open his eyes again, to turn his head and look at her. Vanessa’s face, so young still but aged prematurely around the eyes by the stresses and horrors of war, is normally tired and sort of angry-looking, or at least, it has been the few times he’s seen it. And she still looks tired now, but… the anger is gone. Her curly hair is coming out of the hurried little bundle she appears to have put it into to keep it out of her face. He can see the very badly-faded lock of what was once ice-blue hair that hangs somewhere in the middle of the right side of her head, it’s come out of the bundle completely and is hanging down away from the other fugitive tendrils.

“... Sarge told me you two seemed close,” she finally says.

“... closer than he knows, I believe. I… spent quite a lot of time in her medical bay, after all, quite, er… quite prone to fainting spells. We… got to be… yes, quite… quite close.” He swallows. “... I shouldn’t have let her go. She never should have been out there, she… she should have left with her patients.”

“... you heard her on the radio. I… really don’t think you could have said anything to stop her.”

“You’re… entirely right. Emily is… w-was … a very willful individual. One of the many things in my life I had absolutely no control over. But that… always seemed to work in my favor. If I’d managed to find my spine for two minutes maybe I could’ve… talked some sense in her…”

Kimball’s hand settles on his wrist, and he pulls his hand away. As a reflex, he stands, shaking his head wordlessly, intending to physically move away from her -- from the conversation. He doesn’t get far on trembling knees and his sprained ankle, though, and winds up crumpled on the floor of the pelican about three feet closer to the bay door than he’d started. And it’s there that he stays.

Good god, he’s pathetic.

Kimball’s beside him in a moment, but doesn’t move to touch him yet, just stands beside him and waits for his next move. When he doesn’t make one, she takes a knee beside him. He finally manages to look up, face lined with years of worry and etched deeper with fresh sadness, eyes tired and empty and heartbroken, brimming with restrained tears. He can’t manage to say anything yet -- just stares. Stares, then turns his eyes almost sheepishly to the floor.

Kimball sighs. “… Look. I… I don’t… I didn’t know Doctor Grey as well as you did. So… I’m not going to sit here and pretend to know what she’d really want. But… if you two were that close, then I can promise you that she wouldn’t want you to think that way. She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. I understand how hard this is for you--”

“ Do you.” The statement -- absolutely not a question -- is uncharacteristically harsh. The bark of a much larger dog than he’s previously shown himself to be. And it absolutely does not come with an immediate retreat and profuse apology, though neither does it come with an aggressive posture. It’s more addressed to the floor than to the other general. “ Do you understand.”

“Yes, I do!” Kimball snaps back. “You’re not the only one who’s lost friends because of this war.”

… friends. Right. Of course she couldn’t have known: he and Emily had been very careful to keep that information private. If anyone has figured it out, he’d’ve assumed it was Agent Washington: most of the soldiers at the outpost avoided Emily like the plague and probably assumed that he, while possibly afraid of her, felt bad for her that she was so isolated.

He doesn’t correct her. It doesn’t matter now.

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

“Ducking out early?”

He stops in his tracks as he makes it to the door, and turns over his shoulder to see Vanessa leaning against a wall not very far from him, a cup of coffee still gently steaming in one hand. He just gives a bit of a nervous chuckle, reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “… and here I thought I was being quiet.”

“You were. But I know you by now.” She stands straight, taking a long sip of her coffee, and makes her way closer to him, which isn’t hard, considering that he doesn’t move. “I’d offer to make you some eggs, but I get the feeling you’d say no.”

“H-Huh?”

“Nothing. You got somewhere to be?”

“Ah, er… well, I… yes, I do. But… but I--” He’s caught. He knows he’s caught. He’s got no excuse. So he just slumps. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to just… disappear like this…”

Vanessa laughs , and of course it’s not malicious. It never is, with her. At least not to him, not anymore. They’ve… come quite a ways in the several months since the war ended. “You at least gonna tell me who it is? I feel like you owe me that much.”

“I-I…”

“I’m joking . What you do once you leave here is your business.”

He stammers further, as if looking for an excuse even though one isn’t required, but eventually shuts his mouth and looks down, clears his throat to reset his stammer. It’s been dreadful these past few months, after so many years of speech therapy and an entire adult life with little discernible trace of the horrible thing. But… well, he’d been warned that the stress and trauma could bring his speech impediment back.

He is, however, thankfully spared from answering as Vanessa continues to speak. “… I’m happy for you. You know that, right?”

“Ex… e-excuse me?”

“You’ve been… down. Really down. I’ve noticed. And I get it. You… we’ve all been through… well, a lot. You, me, Chorus… and… you know, some people haven’t been able to come back from that and be happy and connect with people again. It’s good to see that you’re finally getting back out there.” There’s that teasing smirk again. “Even if it means I get to see less of you.”

“ Please don’t say it like that. I…”

“Like what?”

“Like this is your apartment and… a-and I’m sneaking out after something illicit !” It’s quite a bit louder, and quite a bit harsher, than he’d like, but the jokes -- and he knows she’s joking -- have made him uncomfortable for quite some time, and… well, today of all days he just… he really, really can’t take it. In his frustration, he twitches, his fingers flex, and he drops his helmet to the floor with a loud clatter that snaps him out of his moment of unprompted rage . “… I-I… I’m so sorry, I…”

Vanessa is, of course, unfazed. “Doyle, I’m gay . You very much aren’t my type. Well, you’ve kinda got the right hair color, but otherwise--”

“I know that! I…” He just shakes his head. He knows that. He’s known that for nearly a year now, since he first caught her eyeing Agent Carolina while the former freelancer was making use of the weight room at the training facility. “I-I know that. I’m sorry. This… this is just a very… strange day. For me, I… I’m very sorry. I… I need to go. I, er… finished the last of the major projects I’d been working on, those are on my desk.”

“Cool. I’ll get to them in the morning, I’m about done with mine.”

“There’s no rush.”

“… mind if I ask what you’re headed out to do?”

“… not at all. I…” He pauses, stoops to pick his helmet up, and straightens again, tucking it securely under his arm. “… it’s… ah… anniversary.”

“Anniversary?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate beyond that. It’s another brief moment before he turns away from her, and puts his helmet on, with shaking hands. “… good night, Vanessa.”

She doesn’t say anything further, simply watches him leave. Once the door closes behind him, he’s off down the back staircase -- he’d normally take the lift, but that’s not… he’s better going down stairs than up them. It also allows him to avoid people. Not that there’s anyone left in the building at this hour, he and Vanessa are almost always the last to leave.

He sees a familiar, teal-armored someone lurking in the lobby once he emerges from the stairwell, and he gives her a polite nod. “Hello, Agent Carolina. Er… waiting for Vanessa?”

She gives a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement.

“She should be down soon, but I can key you into the lift if you like.”

“… I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

He nods a bit, tosses his head toward the lift and turns to lead her to it, keying in the code and letting her in in order to send her up to the offices. Once he bids her a good evening and the doors close, he sighs, and turns to head out of the building.

The walk home is short. Of course it is, his apartment -- they’re all in apartments, even him and Vanessa, it was… it was the most efficient solution to the housing issue -- isn’t far from the offices. Not a long walk at all. Not quite enough time to let his thoughts run away from him. His apartment is in the basement of the building, so there’s no zoning out in the lift and staring into space while his mind runs unchecked. Just a short flight of stairs down into the basement hallway, then a few more feet to the only occupied apartment on this level -- there’s an empty one across from him, no one’s cared to move into it, it reminds a lot of them of the barracks, and he understands that. It’s not at all why he found this one comforting, in fact, it makes his skin crawl just thinking about it that way, but it had been the sense of solitude that had come with it.

And there it is. Once the door closes, all the sounds that come with existing beyond these walls cease entirely. No traffic noise, no humming of industrial ventilation keeping air moving through the hallways. He finally lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh, letting the tension drop out of his shoulders as he leans back against the door. It takes him an inordinate amount of strength to reach up and remove his helmet, and even more to reach and set it down on the table beside the door.

It’s slow going to change out of his armor, but he manages it. Manages to start dinner too. He’s not sure how much of it he’ll eat, but he’ll try. He’s just sitting down on the sofa when the chirping alert tone of an incoming call comes in from the radio console on the end table. He considers not picking it up, letting it ring out. But he doesn’t let it go, he reaches over and taps the button to answer. “Yes?”

“ It’s me .”

“Hello, Vanessa. Did I leave something at the office?”

“ No, uh. Look, I feel bad about… you seemed upset with you left. I just… wanted to make sure you were okay .”

“Oh. Yes, I’m. I’m alright. Just a strange day, I told you.”

“ … Carolina and I are going to get some dinner, if you want to join us .”

“Ah. Already in for the night, actually. Thank you, though.”

“… what um. You mentioned an anniversary. Anniversary of what, exactly? ”

“… I… well, er…” He swallows. He’s… very carefully avoided discussing this with Vanessa. He’d had no reason to do so. When he speaks, his voice is… different. Far more tired than he’d sounded before, an incredible feat, really. “… did you know I was married, before?”

“… uh… no, you, um. You never mentioned that .”

“Mm. I asked her to marry me while I was having a panic attack. I-I thought one of us would die before we got the chance.” Doyle’s laugh is humorless, more like a scoff as he realizes how stupid it must have sounded at the time, though his fear would prove itself to be real several years later. “She probably shouldn’t have agreed to it.”

Kimball remains quiet for a moment, which he expects. He doesn’t hear Carolina in the background, but he knows she has to be there. “… do you want to… um… tell me about her? ”

“I don’t want to intrude on your evening, Vanessa. If you’ve plans with Agent Carolina, then you should keep to them.”

“ It’s… um, it’s okay. No, we… we can wait a minute. You um. You sound like you need to talk. ”

“I’m alright.”

“ Not even a name, huh? ” Her joking tone is back, and normally, it’d be… sort of welcome. But it isn’t. “ Come on. Some good memories to balance out the sadness, huh? ”

“… well, you did meet her.” He reaches up and closes one hand around the identification tags he’s kept wearing even after the war. One of them is his, the other Emily’s. Her ring settled right alongside them. “I’d be surprised if you remembered her quite as fondly as I do, though, no one really seems to.”

“… who was she ?”

He pauses. He’s not sure why the question stings so much. “… right, I didn’t think y… y-y… didn’t think y-you did. I’m… not surprised. Emily could be… a bit off-putting. I admit that.”

“Emily? … wait, Doctor Grey?”

“Mm.” He leaves that answer as it is for a moment. He hears Vanessa make a small sound of acknowledgement, but she doesn’t speak. His grip tightens around Emily’s tags, so much so that it shakes. “... she deserved so much better. ... she wasn’t always l… wasn’t always li… l-like that. I… I di… didn’t… didn’t realize there was something wrong until it was… far too late to stop it. She deserved someone who could have helped her… before she got so bad. Perhaps if she’d been in her right mind--”

“... I don’t think she’d be very happy to hear you say that ,” Vanessa says, thankfully cutting him off before he can really finish his thought. “ I think she’d be insulted to know you think she must have been out of her mind to do what she did .”

“You… y-you’re very right.” Doyle shuts his eyes again. Good lord, he’s absolutely awful. How can he think so poorly of Emily. And what’s worse… what’s worse is the part that he’s forgotten in his grief. That his voice cracks and shakes on admitting, even after the usual throat clearing in order to stop himself from stammering. “... her greatest fear was that she would lose her mind entirely, you know.”

“… I think that’s a perfectly rational fear .”

“… as did I,” he simply says. “… I’m… dreadfully sorry to have ruined your evening, you had… you had plans, didn’t you?”

“ … no, it’s… i-it’s okay. I don’t mind. You’re upset, and you, um… it’s not a problem .”

“No, I… you should enjoy your evening. Well, er… a-as much as you can after dealing with me, anyhow.”

“ Wait, no, it’s--it’s fine, really .”

“… thank you for listening, Vanessa. I didn’t realize how much I needed to… ‘get that off of my chest,’ as it were.”

“ Hey, listen, it’s still early, Carolina and I can come get you, you can come have dinner with us. I don’t feel right leaving you alone like this. ”

“No, thank you. I’m not much for company right now. I… think I’m just going to go to bed.”

“ Doyle, wait-- ”

“Good night, Vanessa.”

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

Doyle doesn’t come in on time the next morning.

Doyle is never late to work. In fact, he’s always early, settled into work for the day by the time Vanessa makes it in. So to see no trace of the man in the building after the rest of the staff is mostly in in the morning is jarring and almost frightening to begin with.

Vanessa has her suspicions.

Something about the dark office, the empty desk, the memory of just how tired Doyle had sounded on their call last night makes her feel sick and worried. She remembers how he’d very uncharacteristically snapped at her before leaving work the day before -- he’d apologized, true, but still… and last night had been… a hard date for him. Something’s wrong. She knows it.

But she waits. She waits five, ten minutes before she can’t stand it anymore. She doesn’t bother with a call. She just rushes from her office and down the back stairs, because taking the elevator will take too much time. She barely stops to apologize to Matthews after knocking into him on her way out the front door, and it’s hell to push upstream through the foot traffic for the two blocks between the offices and Doyle’s building, but she manages it.

His building had chosen to go for non-powered doors, far easier to build than the heavy steel sliders, though with far less security. Which is useful for Vanessa, considering it only takes her two minutes to break the damn thing off its hinges.

She’s only been to his apartment a handful of times, and every time, she’d noted how bare it was. Hardly looked lived-in. She’d thought that it was because all he did was go to work and then come home to sleep, he didn’t take days off. He didn’t have a lot of time for decorating. But now… she’s not so certain that’s the real reason. Now… it sort of feels like he didn’t plan to stay long.

“… Doyle?” She shakes her head, reaches up and pulls her helmet off when she sees his still sitting on the table by the door. “Doyle, it’s me.”

Nothing.

“Doyle? You home?”

Of course he’s home .

There’s only two doors in the apartment: she knows one to be the bathroom, which also has a door into the bedroom. So it’s this second door she tries when she finds the one to the bedroom locked. And it’s not only unlocked, but slightly ajar.

She had been afraid of what she might see once she reached his apartment. Her mind had given her a hundred possibilities: that lanky figure hanging from a ceiling figure by the neck, the coffin-sized bathtub overflowing with bloody water, a body slumped against a wall with gore smeared behind it and a gaping gunshot wound. Or worse, no trace of the man at all.

So when she sees the shadowed shape of a body in the bed, it’s… both something of a relief, and sucker punch to the gut that knocks all the breath from her body. She’s hesitant to cross the small room and turn on the overhead light, but she does, and it cuts off the third attempt to call the man’s name entirely.

Vanessa knows he isn’t going to answer her.

He left the empty medication bottles on his bedside table. Two of them, both prescribed to him by Doctor Grey, but… obviously a little out of date.

She’s seen her share of dead bodies. But all of them have gone out violently, or in mental anguish that still showed on the corpse. But Doyle… looks peaceful. Really like he’d gone to sleep. No fear, no pain, nothing. Just… peace.

She looks for a note. She doesn’t find one.

She calls whoever she needs to. Reports it. Suzy, the medic-turned-doctor, who Emily had trusted with her patients. Jensen and Smith, they’re… cops now, they have to be called. She stays while they look around, tells them what she knows. What he said. How he didn’t leave a note that she can find. They find he’s holding a set of military ID tags, with a gold ring dropped onto the chain. One of them is his. One of them is Doctor Grey’s.

When they finish up, she goes back to the office. She’ll… have to think of something to tell the people now. It occurs to her to check his office on the way by, check his desk for the projects he’d said he’d finished. She’ll have to clean it out anyway. She finds the files right where he said they’d be, but on top of them is something else: a piece of paper, marked with his flowing, elegant handwriting. Not messy, not hurried. Absolutely clear to read.

I’m very sorry I lied to you, Vanessa. I didn’t want to waste your time with a long goodbye. You had an appointment to keep, I had dinner plans. But if you’ve found this, then I suppose that you already know what those plans truly were.

Do you remember what I said, at the skirmish in Armonia? The outpost that was destroyed? It was our primary command facility, and the location of our field hospital. Where Emily was stationed. After the massacre there, Locus reported it to me in Armonia. He put her ring into my hand, and told me that he’d found her lying in the snow. That she’d already bled to death by the time he’d gotten to her. There was nothing he could have done. I still wear her tag. And her ring, on the chain.

Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was what I thought she must have looked like by then. And when it came to light that Locus had been lying to us… I was hoping that he’d lied about her too. And he had, which in all honesty came as nothing short of the most intense relief I think I’ve ever felt. I thought back then that I didn’t know how I’d ever get along without her. When you met me in Armonia, I was greatly considering letting you take your shot and end everything. I didn’t want to live without her. I’d considered doing it myself, but I couldn’t have done that to the soldiers.

Please don’t be upset with yourself. Or anyone else. Of course no one saw the signs. I made certain there weren’t any signs to show. I didn’t go a romantically poetic route and go all the way to the old Armonia site and let the radiation get me if the medication didn’t because I didn’t want to be stopped by some soul on the street and distracted. I didn’t want it to be loud and messy, or dramatic. I wanted this to be over. Rather appropriately, I am just so tired. I’ve been an insomniac since I could spell the word. I just want to sleep. This has been months in the making, Vanessa, there was never anything you or anyone else could have done to stop it.

Tell people whatever you like. Tell them the truth, tell them I was too weak to go on, too selfish to live without the woman I loved. Lie to them and tell them the trauma of war took its toll in other ways and I wasn’t strong enough to take it -- well, that part’s sort of true, I suppose. Or don’t tell them anything. It doesn’t matter in the slightest.

Do me a favor, would you, and make sure that whatever happens to me, they leave me with Emily’s things. There was nothing of her to bury but her plate armor, and I’ve had that since it happened. If we can’t be buried together properly, I’d like to do whatever we can .

She doesn’t know how long she spends standing there, reading and rereading the paper in her hands. She doesn’t know how long her radio chirps for before she notices it, and answers, her voice shaky and broken.

“Yes?”

“ General Kimball? It’s uh. It’s Smith, ma’am. There’s kind of a crowd out here, some reporters. Uh. What do you want us to tell them? ”

She pauses. “Don’t tell them anything. Not yet. I want to handle this properly.”

“ Yes ma’am. ”

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

Suzy comes to visit around dinner. To check in on her, mostly, see how she’s holding up, but also to deliver some news.

Preliminary results of the autopsy say that it was the medication overdose that killed him, she’s confident to call it a clonazepam overdose right now. But there’s something else. Sort of an ultimate cliche, really.

His medical records all indicated a rather weak heart. But the heart she’d seen when she’d checked him over had been… different. There had been some swelling, she says, a specific swelling of the left ventricle that indicated something called takotsubo cardiomyopathy . It’s stress-related, and rare, and it mostly affects women between sixty and eighty. Dying from it is nearly unheard of, but if it goes untreated in someone with such high stress, well, it can cause other problems. If he’d ignored it, or had never noticed, it could have contributed to heart failure.

It’s the common name that almost, darkly, makes Vanessa laugh. Some people, Suzy tells her, call it broken heart syndrome .

“The physical broken heart didn’t kill him,” Suzy clarifies. “But by all accounts, it was probably going to.”

[galoots]

Team Uncle Week 2019 - Day Two: Teasing Donald and his classmate, Daisy, are working on a school project at the McDuck Manor. And these two obviously have it bad for one another. Politely, Scrooge waits until after Daisy leaves to mercilessly clown on his beloved nephew.

Scrooge carefully picked his way through an obstacle course of scattered sheets, uncapped markers, open textbooks, glue sticks, and vials of glitter that littered the floor. His previously pristine living room now resembled the desolate battlefield of some craft-related war. Not that he particularly minded a little mess as long as Donald and his little study partner were getting their project done. Duckworth, however, would surely have a fit if he laid eyes upon this catastrophic mess.

           He reached the couch just as the kids re-entered the living room. Both Donald and Daisy were carrying armfuls of fresh school supplies, backup munitions to bolster their existing armaments. Donald’s greeting was cut short when a stray marker underfoot caused him to lose his footing, sending him crashing to the ground. With an elegant sidestep, Daisy avoided the trajectory of Donald’s fall and watched his supplies spill everywhere.

           “Hello Mr. McDuck.” She greeted him politely while using her sneaker-clad foot to jostle Donald’s prone body, making sure he was still alive.

           His uncle fought back a sigh. Ever since that boy had hit his growth spurt, he’d become an accident waiting to happen. He’d been clumsy before, but puberty compounded his bungling into something extraordinary. A regular bull in a china shop.

           Scrooge suppressed the urge to rush to his nephew’s side to check on him like he would whenever he took a spill as a tot. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass Donald in front of his new objet d’affection. Still, he couldn’t conceal a sympathetic wince when Donald’s chin collided with the hardwood floor.

           He cleared his throat loudly to distract Daisy from the spectacle of a flustered Donald scrambling to collect himself. “So how goes the project, kiddos?”

           “G-good!” Donald was crouched now, trying to play off his fall as if it hadn’t happened and gathering up the items he’d spilled. “We, uh, we’ve been working hard. A+ material for sure!”

           Daisy made a smug little noise at that remark. “I’ve been working hard he means. Donald here—” she flipped his bangs teasingly with her hand, “—keeps zoning out and staring off into space.”

           “Not true!” He stopped cleaning up in order to playfully yank her tied shoelaces undone. “I wrote the whole section about the socio-political fallout that lead to the dawn of WWII!”

           “Hey!” Daisy cried with mock offense at his retribution and bumped him with her hip in response. “Only ‘cause I had to nag you last night to work on it instead of bombarding me with IM’s.”

           A small knowing smile crept on to Scrooge’s face while he watched their cute repartee over the folded edge of his newspaper. They’d only befriended each other recently but almost immediately established a familiar coquettish rapport with one another. Scrooge wasn’t the most perceptive duck in the flock, but even he knew puppy love when it was staring him in the face. He watched their spectacle with subtle attention while the two of them—absorbed in laughter and chatter, shy accidental brushes of the hand, exchanges of coy smiles and glances—forgot entirely about his presence in the room.

           He let their steady banter coupled with the soft scratch of pencil lead on paper serve fade to the background of his focus as he turned back to his reading. The two of them were well-suited for each other it seemed, since they were able to make steady progress on their project despite their flirting.

           Time passed pleasantly as the hour grew later, marked by the steady fading of the light outside. Having noticed the change, Daisy checked her wristwatch and began to pack up her things. “I gotta get home.” She swung her backpack over her shoulder and stood up, smoothing her skirt as she did so.

           “Already?” Donald complaint was tinged with disappointment. No doubt their time together seemed excruciatingly short from his point of view.

           Daisy nudged him with her shoulder. “It’s late! If I stay any later my mom will flip. She’ll think I skipped town with some hunky guy or something.”

           Donald opened his beak to ready a response, but Scrooge intervened, asking Daisy if she needed a ride home before his nephew could utter a word. He knew his nephew well enough to know when he was about to insert his foot into his mouth. It was for his own good anyway��he doubted Donald’s remark about the identity of that hunky guy being a certain teen-aged duck would have been successful.

           Scrooge threw his newspaper onto the couch as he hastily moved to prevent disaster. “So, need a ride home, Daisy?”

           “No thanks, Mr. McDuck. I rode my bike here.”

           “Alright,” Scrooge yielded, “Just see to it you get home safely, alright? I don’t want to read about a reckless driver’s collision with cyclist because of low visibility in tomorrow’s paper.”

           “I’ll be fine, Mr. McDuck. I got those reflective stickers on my bike.” She smiled at him, pleased that he cared enough to worry about her.

           Like the courteous gentleman Scrooge raised Donald to be, he walked their guest to the door to see her out. Scrooge trailed behind, letting Donald hold the door open for her while they exchanged pleasantries. As Daisy took off down their driveway, she waved to them both before finally pedaling out of sight.

Donald waved dreamily at her retreating figure and said, in a voice too quiet for her to hear, “Bye, Daisy.”

           Scrooge smirked at his love-sick nephew. Turning to head back inside, Donald caught his uncle’s smug little grin.

“What?” Donald shut the door behind him, noticing Scrooge’s impish grin.

He didn’t want to tease his nephew about his crush when she was present, but now that she was gone? It was a no-holds barred moosewood stadium freestyle goofing sesh, and Scrooge was ready to bring the heat.

           “Oh, nothing…” He swung his cane nonchalantly in the air on his way back to the living room, eager for Donald to take the bait.

           Donald jogged after him, a perturbed, suspicious look fixed on his face. “What are you smiling about?”

           Scrooge sat gingerly back down on the couch. Hook, line, and sinker. Time for the games to begin. “Can’t a man smile in his own home?”

           Donald eyed him with apprehension, let out a hmph, and bent down to start tidying the mess he’d left on the living room floor.

           Crossing his ankle over his knee, Scrooge tittered to himself. “That Daisy of yours is quite the nice young gal, isn’t she?”

           Right on cue, Donald blushed and stammered nervously. “She’s fine! I guess. Whatever, its not like I like her or anything. I mean, I like her but not like, like-like her. She’s just a girl! Who happens to be a friend!”

           Scrooge hummed, sounding unconvinced. His nephew ducked his head bashfully, focusing his attention on his cleaning efforts.

           He tapped a finger against his chin, peering down at Donald. “You know, Tennyson said Spring was the time a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. I think he may be mistaken; the season’s clearly fall.”

           Dropping his armful of stationery, Donald squawked. “I don’t love her!”

           Chuckling, Scrooge swatted Donald’s head lightly with his rolled-up newspaper. “I was discussing poetry, nephew. You should be the expert. You are the designated poet in this family, after all.”

           Grumbling loudly, Donald started to pack up the arts and crafts supplies even faster.

           “Speaking of, you haven’t given me one of your poems to read in a while. Yet, I always see you scribbling away in that notebook of yours…”

           Donald abruptly stood, eyes wide, and brow furrowed,  briskly walking out the room. Following in quick pursuit, Scrooge wheeled around the corner into the parlor. Donald was already making his way up the stairs, beating a hasty retreat to his room.

           He called after him good-naturely, enjoying the sport. “What’s the matter, nephew? No blason? No sonnets?” Scrooge puffed out his chest, thudding a fist against it, recited pompously, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…”

           “Shut it!” Donald leaned over the banister, waist against the railing, to shout angrily at his uncle. “That’s not even what that sonnet’s about! It’s a satirical send-up of the poetic conventions of courtly love! God!”

           Scrooge’s laughter echoed up the staircase and down the hall Donald was trying to cross as fast as he could. Motivated, Scrooge ignored the pain in his hip to catch up with his nephew. He swung an arm over the boy’s shoulder, pulling him so close their cheeks were smushed together. “Ah young love! You never forget your first love. It’s special you know.”

           With a violent shrug, Donald escaped from his uncle’s hold and stomped off towards his bedroom, quickly flinging the door closed. He hadn’t escaped the onslaught however, because Scrooge had wedged his cane between the door and its frame before it could close. Donald leaned his weight on the door, trying to keep Scrooge out, but his uncle still outclassed him when it came to strength, and he slid forward as Scrooge pushed the door open. He strolled in like he owned the place, continuing on like he hadn’t just strong-armed his way past Donald’s defenses.“Although I suppose Mickey was your first love. Oh my, he isn’t upset about this, is he?”

           “I’ve told you a million times, Uncle Scrooge! We were friends! We were never together! I don’t even like boys!” Donald squeaked out through the thick of his embarrassment.

           “Ah, is that why I found you two locked in a passionate kiss that one time?”

           Donald covered his bright-red face with his hands and, with a phrase now commonplace in their household, whined, “It wasn’t what it looked like!” He whipped around shoving fruitlessly at his uncle’s back. “Get out of my room! Go away!”

           “Oh no,” Scrooge melodramatically exclaimed, throwing a hand to his forehead in an imitation of a faint. “I feel weak, Donald!” He leaned his weight against Donald’s hands.

           “No, you’re not! Leave me alone!”

           “Donald, m’boy, my body’s growing heavy. I can’t seem to move at all! How curious!” Donald was supporting his uncle’s weight now as Scrooge went limp. His arms shook with strain as he protested.

           “If you don’t love me, Donnie, I do believe I’ll expire right here on the spot!”

           “No, you won’t! Cut it out!”

           “I’m dying…” Scrooge slumped completely against Donald. “I’m dead…” They flopped onto the bedspread as Donald’s arms gave out, and Scrooge sat on top of his nephew, pinning him to the bedspread with his weight.

           “Get offa me!” Donald struggled, kicking his legs and waggling his arms, but couldn’t break free. Frustrated, he buried his head in his duvet, grumbling furious remarks into the fabric.

           Well that wouldn’t do, Scrooge thought. He wanted a happy Donald, not a grumpy one. Fortunately, he knew the perfect solution. Scrooge grabbed the boy’s ankle, confining his leg between his arm and his side, and started tickling the underside of Donald’s foot. Immediately, Donald burst into hysterical laughter, his body shaking with his guffaws while he squirmed to try and get away.

           It didn’t take long for Donald to yield, crying, “Uncle! Uncle!”

           Unfortunately for him, Scrooge loved a good pun. “Yes, I am your uncle. What of it?” Scrooge grinned with devilish glee at his own joke.

           “I mean I give! Lemme go!”

           Finally, Scrooge ceased his efforts, watching Donald’s slight frame shake with residual laughter. He freed him from his hold, moving his weight off the boy and onto the mattress so the lad could catch his breath. When his breathing had evened out, Scrooge looped an arm around Donald’s neck, pulling him into a loose headlock so he could noogie him. By then, Donald had given up trying to escape his uncle’s little wrestling match. He was too tired to fight back anymore and chose to lay limply in his uncle’s grasp like a dead fish.

           “You’re so mean, Uncle Scrooge.” Donald’s complaint had no bite behind it just the fond exasperation of a child dealing with a parent.

           “Oh, come now, I only tease because I love you, dear.” He planted a gentle kiss on top of Donald’s captive head.

           “Yeah, whatever.” Donald apathetically replied, before adding, in a quiet, rushed voice, “It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything but, um, Iloveyoutoo.”

Scrooge said nothing, smiling down happily at his nephew, who returned his loving gaze with a small shy smile of his own. It was a perfect moment—the kind you’d like to freeze in its tracks so you could tack up the memory in your mind like a snapshot. But time flowed on, and the peaceful little bubble was popped by a warbling cry of despair of a posh British voice that rang from downstairs. What happened to my living room?!”

           “Uh oh. Puppa sounds mad,” Donald mumbled, realizing with a gasp why. “We forgot about the mess!”

           “Woops.” Scrooge replied with dry dismay.

           They exchanged a look, communicating wordlessly with one another. We’re really in for it now.

[staycatcher]

Hi!!! You're absolutely right about day6 and fall. Idk what it is but they're perfect for fall walks and bike rides. Colors is like ten times better when I'm standing in the crisp air surrounded by fallen leaves. You just reminded me that I should start going on bike rides again. I had a (more than) slight incident in spring so my parents made me stop "what if you DIED?!" :( Have you ever done anything that kind of stupid before? 1/2

Oh my god!! And colors is so applicable since it’s fall and all the pretty colors you get to see :D🥰 when I was in the car the one that stood out the most was letting go~~ idk just the chill mood~~ and I usually need to hear that kind of message anyways but hearing it that time was really good and healing for me😌🍂🍁✨

Oh no what happened?!?! Are you alright?!! :O I hope so that sounds really scary!!

Oh and definitely!! Too many to count lmao I’m very clumsy and prone to accidents but somehow I’ve never broken a bone but last September (2018) I did something super stupid!! It’ll make you feel better lmao so I’ll tell it 

STORYTIME!! Blood warning!! (I have hEmophobia so shout to all my fellow hEmophobes out there I get you I hate it so this story was even worse for me) Waste of time to read warning!!😂😂

So basically!! Last September I was just WALKING home okay. Nothing crazy at all, just walking on the sidewalk in between this car dealership parking lot behind my school and this place where you turn in to get to the Walgreens and other shit, with my best friend from school to home (that was the plan at least)

But!! I fucking tripped OVER MY OWN TWO FEET. Though the sidewalk did actually have cracks or unevenness or something could be the fault. But no. I was the one at fault.

My ankle just decided to idek what but I tripped over my own two left feet and immediately!! BAMMM!!! My face onto the concrete. I bit my lip when I was trying to regain balance, thus when my face hit the ground I bIT MY LIP !!OPEN!! Blood!! Pain!! Embarrassment!! bc this is just ~right~ by the school okay like half a block so all the kids in their cars saw, the people walking far from us saw, hell maybe even god saw too if Woojin wasn’t too busy.

Anyways!! I get up immediately!! I’m like fuck, no one can see me fucking do that!! I get up fast as I could!! My bestie helps me is like “omf are yoU OKAY BREWGIE (but she said my irl name ofc) WHAT WAS THAT!???!” Bc she fuckin knows me very very well. She’s seen me fall before and vice versa too but it’s never been like this and I’m just !!!!!!!!

I’m just like ‘it’s fine, it’s fine, this is okay, this is fine. I’m not gonna think about it let’s just carry on it’s not a big deal, it’s not a big deal at all’. BUT CLEARLY, IT IS A BIG DEAL!! I MEAN I BIT MY LIP OPEN!! But I just told her it’s okay let’s not call my parents or yours let’s just walk this off and I’ll stop by my mom’s salon that’s on another block!! BUT!! I’m hypoglycemic and ate a very small lunch and nothing since then which was hours ago so like I’m already in a bad place and then I just threw on an injury on top of that and said ‘it’s fine, let’s go.’

So the entire way there I’m a fuckin soldier okay. I skinned my knees also but who cares I’m limping myself with my comforting best friend that I barely pay attention to bc I’m just! Goin’! Can’t stop! Limping our way to the Walgreens and making jokes the whole way there bc that’s how I cope with things. Then we make it to the intersection at where the Walgreens ends then we wait for the light for us to cross. And it was so humiliating walking past 5 lanes of traffic that I just know is full of people I go to school with and are probably underclassmen who have a car and I don’t. So I don’t even look at them!! Eyes on the prize, cracking jokes trying to get me and my friend to laugh everything away.

So it felt like it took four years to cross those lanes of traffic and now we’re on the other side where this gas station is, then a fast food place then after that is the building of my mom’s hair salon but on the other side is where our neighborhoods are.

On this day, I usually would go with her cuz I didn’t work for my mom that day but. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna walk up to the apartment where my friend lives and have to nurse me back to health or some shit and then raid her food when she barely has any food for herself so no!! And I can’t walk four times that to my house so the only option is the salon.

I said, “I’ll wait for your light then I’ll go to the salon!!” And she argued with me but I’m a stubborn Taurus so I won and she went but she wasn’t happy about it then I limped all the wayyyy to the salon; which is like a long way for an injured hypoglycemic gal such as myself at the time but I did it like a champion and went on in!! And played it cool~~~

I see my mom is in the middle of dying someone’s hair so I just say hi and brush past her and luckily I was fast or something cuz she didn’t see me and I waited for an. Entire. Half an hour. At the reception desk and each second my body is like ‘!!! HELLO !! YOU NEED HELP RIGHT NOW!!’ But I’m like nope, nope I will wait this out when i can be helped bc I’m too embarrassed and ashamed and hangry and in pain and grumpy to do anything else.

So once the half an hour or more waiting ends, somehow I’m in the aesthetician’s room who’s not there that day and I finally!! Breathe!! Let it out!! And tell my mom!! And she flips and gets her friend to check out my lip and she’s like ‘ohhh man!! its super deep but not deep enough to get stitches’ and i was like hallelujah!! I could not deal with that whole ordeal. 

The ending is basically me canceling on my dad’s dinner with them all making fun of me and I got really pissed at them and then for like two weeks coming to school with an ice pack to my face and joking around with my friends which led to me making one of my graphics design projects about my big swollen lip. 

The end!! 😂😂😂 dont feel bad for me at all I find it hilarious and ridiculous now so don’t like feel bad for me or anything, laugh with me!! 

[kariachi]

Okay, so, I’m on a daemon run, but it’s also edging into a Pern run, so, have some daemon UTW au.

My Varalkon on the subject of daemon shapes, namely that of his Tarav.

~~

Back home, whenever somebody Settled, without fail the adults would lament what the colony lacked. At the Holds and Halls and Weyrs, they would say- and most of them had been Settled when they’d become holdless, so surely they knew- had massive sets of books full of daemon shapes. That when a child Settled they would go to wherever these books were kept and they would search them to find what sort’ve creature they were. That nobody went through life not knowing. It was one of the many stories that enraptured the children, a remarkable and sensible idea, and Var could remember back when they were small- so small Settling seemed some distant joke- going off with their cousins to try to steal a set for the colony.

Uncle Seren had caught them less than a mile out, but still. It had been worth a shot and the scolding after.

There’d been a lot of Settling at the Camp. Most everybody was snatched up before they Settled and if you survived, well, that was where it was going to happen. And every time, to their own horror, it seemed everybody had the same thing to say. The same thing every. single. one. of them had heard before. ‘It’s a shame we don’t have any of those daemon books they have in the Holds.’ Which meant it had to be true, because everybody’s aunts and uncles had said so.

So, as a result, it really wasn’t a surprise that on the first night at High Reaches after their rescue, when they were all mostly not terrified and the mountain was eighty percent asleep, Mom and Eryk had gathered them all up and led them (snuck them, only like four pairs moved in something other than a sneak at that point) deep into the creche, to a shelf that seemed like it should bend under the weight of the thick tomes that rested on it. Brand new after the fire that’d once taken the Weyr, they’d been taken down with the reverence of people who mostly hadn’t seen anything like them before in their lives. The vast, vast majority couldn’t read for obvious reasons, but Mom and her daemon set up shop among the crowd, settling into a chair as people picked through pages of pictures, trying to find themselves among them before waving them over to give the name and the description.

Var didn’t join in the initial rush. He and Tarav had had plenty of turns to get used to him just being a dog, nothing more special than that. It’d been the same shape since the last day they spoke, and by now they were comfortable with knowing or not knowing. Instead they took up position near the entrance with some of the other, older lot, Eryk, and their daemons. Grinning, chatting low amongst themselves, joining in on the quiet clapping at each description read out. Occasionally somebody would step up to check for themselves, but for the most part they’d all known so long, it really didn’t matter. Really.

“Var!” The call was quiet as any other, but he and his daemon both turned at his name. “We found Tarav!”

They didn’t need to know. They didn’t care. But still their feet drew them forward to kneel beside one of their sisters and her fish? maybe? She shoved the book at them long enough for them to take in the image before handing it off to Mom. The pattern matched, the drooping mouth, the long ears.

“Coonhound,” Seyrah read off, “a breed of hunting dog- athletic, friendly, loud, prone to getting into trouble.”

“That’s them alright.” Tarav whirled around the nip at ankles, almost like he meant it, while Var considered the information, tongue moving behind his teeth like he was trying to taste the words.

Coonhound.

Ignoring Tarav’s wagging tail slapping him repeatedly in the face, Var smiled at his applauding family.

Yeah. Yeah, that felt about right.

[starfaring-princelotor]

Hopelessly Devoted To You

Hello my Prince and thank you for another doozy of a word.  Devotion is one of those things that can be experienced on so many levels, and in the case of this little story it is of a familial aspect. Nearly everything I write is about you, but as you already know how devoted I am to your Highness, I thought that just this one time I would go off script, so to speak.  ~ Babs

It’s 7:30 A.M.  The alarm on her phone goes off, just like every morning.  It doesn’t matter that she just fell asleep two hours ago, her day begins with or without her consent.  She lays there, staring at the ceiling, steeling her resolve before throwing the blankets off and sitting up.

Quietly descending the stairs, laptop under one arm, phone in hand, she makes her way to the kitchen and sets up the coffee pot to brew.  The kittens are all rubbing around her ankles, waiting for breakfast, expectantly looking at her as she sets her computer down in order to free her hands to pull out the food bowls.

Once they’re fed, she goes down to start laundry, hitting the reheat cycle on the dryer before heading back upstairs.  Then it’s time to empty the dishwasher only to start filling it again, cleaning the kitchen and preparing the list of meals for the day.  She pulls certain items from the freezer and makes sure everything is in order for breakfast.

She carefully opens the door to the makeshift bedroom off the kitchen, just to verify that all is as it should be.  Hearing the deep and slow breathing of the occupant, she backs out and gently closes the latch.

She adds a healthy splash of cream to her coffee cup, picks up her laptop and phone, and wanders to the sitting room.  Curling up on the couch she checks her messages on her phone while waiting for the laptop to come to life.  She takes a sip of her coffee and is joined by one of the kittens, jumping up to lay by her feet.  She reaches down and scratches his ears, remembering the day that changed her future.

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

“We don’t know what’s wrong with her.  We’re checking for brain swelling, have done the lumbar puncture, and gotten a sample to rule out a UTI.  Has she been sick lately?”  The medical personnel were all surrounding the bed, poking and prodding, shining lights into her mom’s eyes as she lay prone on the gurney in the emergency ward.  She wasn’t talking, she wasn’t responding, her eyes rolled back in her head, her face ashen.

Her mom was behaving as if in a coma.  The MRI’s were being scheduled, as well as a battery of blood tests, CT scans, doppler testing, chest x-rays, everything to determine a reasonable explanation for what was happening.  She paced the room, opened the laptop and popped in a CD of her mom’s favorite music, in hopes to reach her on some unconscious level.

Eventually it was time to be admitted and taken up to the stroke ward.  She picked up all of her stuff, carrying everything as she hurried behind the hospital transport staff.  The room they were brought to was spacious and there was a foldable couch for family to sleep on.

She settled herself by organizing her things, before she started pacing the room, tears flowing with fear, waiting for the next medical staff to visit.  This was the pattern for several hours.  A visit by a doctor, nurse, physician’s assistant, physical therapist, hospital administration, and housekeeping, in between hours of nothing but waiting.  She fell asleep in the chair next to her mom, holding her hand all through the night.

Days of ICU stepdown and IV treatments later, her mom’s mind finally started to work, and she regained consciousness.

“Good morning!” the nurse yelled to her mom.  “Do you know where you are?”

Her mom nodded and said, “Yes”.

“Good!  Where are we?” she yelled.

“Hospital,” her mom answered.

“Yes!  We’re in the hospital!” she said with an excited voice.  The nurse gestured to her, “Do you know who this is?”

It was a shock to her when her mom turned and looked at her blankly, shaking her head no.

“This is your daughter,” the nurse said.

“Hi mom, don’t you know me?” she said.

The woman shook her head and turned over on the hospital bed, looking away from the stranger her oldest daughter had become.

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

She sipped her coffee, listening for noise in the room behind her, starting to type her newest work that she was hoping to complete within the next few hours.  She was waiting for the call from her mom, needing her help to get out of bed.  As soon as she did it would be medications, physical treatments, and helping to dress.

She typed furiously, hiding within the words, letting the characters take her away to new worlds, stopping only to sip her coffee, and look up an occasional word in the thesaurus.  She felt herself slipping away, dancing in the words that were flying from her fingertips.

The sudden crashing sound that came from the bedroom had her throwing the laptop aside and sprinting into the other room, throwing the door open to find her mom on the floor.  She had attempted to get up, but the wheelchair had slid away, and she toppled over.  She grabbed the sling and slid it under her mom’s arms, securing it at the waist to help her up from the floor and into her wheelchair.

A quick check just to make sure there weren’t any additional injuries, she grabbed the fuzzy robe hanging on the door hooks and wrapped her mom in it.  Now it was down to the routine schedule.  First came the prosthetic leg, and then the cane so her mom could walk if she chose.  The amputation had come during the last bout of a mental lapse due to sepsis.  It was discovered her mom was suffering from an infection that originated from the bones in her foot.  It was either lose the leg or she would lose her life.  There was no decision to be made.

Next it was time for coffee and breakfast, which she prepares after pushing the wheelchair into the sitting room where her mom could wait, watching tv.  The laptop is still open after being abandoned on the couch, partially written page sitting here, cursor blinking.

Medications soon follow, along with general ablutions and getting dressed.

Then she would be able to pick up the laptop again, maybe.  Oh, there goes the dryer buzzer.

Never mind, the story could wait until later.  She sighs as she descends the stairs to the basement to gather the load and start the next one.

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

“So, miss, we can’t say how long she’ll be suffering from this newest dementia trouble.  She might be gone for an hour, a day or maybe even for good.  Have you discussed any long-term care options?” the doctor said, looking over the Living Will directive.  

“We did.  She needs to be home,” she answered, hugging herself at the finality of the conversation.  “If she comes back to us and finds herself in a retirement home, she’ll take that depression express bus to death.  I can’t do that to her.  I promised her she would always have me around to take care of her.  She’s going to be home with me.”

“That’s admirable.  So many families can’t make that choice.  You are certainly devoted to her,” the doctor said as you nodded.  “We can help make sure you have the proper support mechanisms in place.  Being a long-term caregiver is a very challenging, and you will face a lot of obstacles.

“I will not abandon her.  She is my family and she needs me.  I won’t leave her stuck in a place to slowly wither and die.  She needs to be where she has familiarity.  She needs to be with someone who loves her, even when she doesn’t know who I am.”  She let the doctor know that it was her final decision.

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

She stood in front of her boss, handing in her resignation letter.  Her mom needed full time care and she simply couldn’t work a full-time job any longer.  The part-time she had would have to suffice.  She’d figure out how to make ends meet, somehow.

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

She walked into the counselor’s office, ready to terminate her schedule for the next semester.

“But, you’re only three classes from your Bachelor’s Degree!” the counselor exclaimed.

“I know, but I can’t come to campus anymore.  If I’m not there she might set the house on fire, or fall down the stairs, or wander out the door and never been seen again.  I’m going to be with her, taking care of her.  It’s my life now.”  She tearfully turned in her paperwork to drop all classes and return her student aid.

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

The evening routine is just like the morning, except in reverse.  Laundry, dishes, medications and treatments, getting pajamas on and washing her face, helping her into bed before removing the prosthesis.

She bends over and kisses her mom’s forehead, adjusting the pillows and pulling the blankets up to tuck her in.  She wonders how long it will be before her mom retreats into her mind again.  Will she still know me in the morning?

“Sleep well, mom,” she says.

“Don’t stay up too late,” her mom says.

“I won’t,” she lies as she turns out the light and closes the door.

She starts up the coffee again.  It is only 9:30 P.M.  She has four hours to get the next chapter done before it’s too late to meet her deadline.  Pouring the coffee into her cup, adding the flavored creamer, she finally sits back on the couch, the blueish glow emanating from the laptop.

She allows the world on her screen to suck her in, becoming lost in her written words, forgetting the reality around her.  One thousand words.  Then two thousand.  The clock reminding her that her deadline was racing towards her.  Three thousand.  

Spell-check.  

Saved.  

Updated on the platform.  

Posted.  

Headphones on.  

Site connected.

“Hello friends,” she says.  “How was your day?”

[preeshera]

If Love Be Blind

Chapter 4

Angsty multi-chapter love square monstrosity (you have been warned)

(Chapter 1) (read on AO3) (I owe my life and sanity to my lovely beta Bell! Special thanks to Tala who is a sweetheart and indulges my ML rants)

Summary:

‘Marinette’s life is slipping through her fingertips, all the dreams and plans she made for herself shattered, as she falls deeper and deeper into misery.

What happened to Ladybug’s famous luck?

And could there be a way to bring it back? … a certain black cat, perhaps? Only time will tell.’

It was his hand that turned her world to ashes, but he must never know

-----

   “Bullshit. Ever-fucking crap-covered hell!” Marinette exhaled heavily, her shoulders sagging in frustration. She was supposed to be happy to be home. Sure. She was in pain, completely blind,  treated like a ticking bomb by her parents, and couldn’t even make it to the bathroom without knocking something over, but she was home.

Tears of frustration welled in her eyes as she gripped at the piece of furniture she bumped into. See, all the blind people in movies somehow automatically knew where they were going, but that, she quickly learned, was some rotten Hollywood propaganda.

As if she were supposed to magically know the layout of her entire house by heart the second she lost sight. Well , Marinette thought bitterly, her brain must have not gotten the memo.

She sat down hard on the tile floor and let the tears run free. Crying-that’s the only thing she was good at anymore.

‘Cheer up, Marinette,’ Tikki spoke up softly from above her.

Yeah, right. Easier said than done.

The stupid bandages itched and her head still hurt in irregular intervals, but apparently, she was well enough not to be on the good drugs anymore.

Marinette sighed. She hated this, all of it. Hated how she was angry all the time. Hated the noise, the dark, the stabbing pain behind her eyelids anytime she tried to lie down to sleep. Chat’s visit the other day made her feel so much better. She wished she could just go out and...

“Tikki, say, are my parents busy right now?”

The kwami pursed her lips disapprovingly, but Marinette wouldn’t have cared even if she could see – which she couldn’t.

‘ Last I checked they were downstairs in the bakery, but I don’t think –” but the kwami never got to finish her sentence.

“Tikki, spots on!”

  Flying on her yo-yo through Parisian streets was an amazing feeling. Marinette felt that she hadn’t truly appreciated being Ladybug before.

Sure, there were the akumas and the danger; she knew that better than most. But even gray and cloudy, the vast expanse of the evening sky sang to her. She could finally see. Screw plain, boring, blind Marinette – she was Ladybug. She was a superhero. She could do anything.

Chat’s crimson eyes flashed in her mind, and she startled so badly she missed a step and twisted her ankle painfully, crashing down onto an empty roof. She shook as the memory took over. Distorted and unreal, it took a shape of her nightmares and  overtook her senses.

Chat Noir was walking towards her. His black suit looked different, darker somehow. It was bulkier in the shoulders and made him look imposing. Monster-like. He smirked at her, but his teeth looked too sharp. His eyes were all wrong. Not warm, not laughing, but red – like blood.

Marinette shook like a leaf.

Then she realized her shaking legs weren’t covered in the polka-dotted red and black of her suit. She wasn’t Ladybug, just herself. Just Marinette.

Chat let loose a cold, disturbing laugh.

“My Lady.” he crooned, faux-sweetness, like venom, dripping from the words.

“My Lady?”

“Buginette?! What happened? Are you okay?!”

The warm, familiar voice colored with so much fright and concern was what finally brought her out of the episode. This was her Chat   – this bright, warm, friendly presence. Not that horrible nightmare.

“Ladybug?”

Marinette shook off like a wet dog and tried to piece her confident Ladybug persona back together.

“Hey Chaton,” she said softly and met the familiar pair of bright green eyes after a beat of hesitation.

“Don’t just ‘Hey Chaton’ me! What happened LB? You looked totally terrified there...” He was drawing in a breath to continue on his rant, but stopped at the look on her face.

“I am sorry I worried you, Chat Noir. I am still a bit shaken by the last attack, that’s all.”

His expression turned somber.

“Have I told you that I am sorry?”

“No! Chat you know it wasn’t your fault!”

“I used my Cataclysm on you, you could have died!”

“And I didn’t. It wasn’t you, it was the akuma, and you know it – just like you knew it all those other times. I am fine, really.”

Suddenly, she didn’t feel like being Ladybug was helping her mood anymore. She swung her yo-yo around and pushed off the rooftop without a single look back.

“See you at patrol, Minou.”

  The moment she de-transformed she fell prone to the floor. Part of it was the banging headache caused by the meds Lady-bugging out of her system. Part was her general lack of will to attempt to get anywhere like this.

After a few beats, her head cleared a smidge, and she almost went to sit up, when she heard a strange noise from down below.

She realized where she landed must be directly above the kitchen, and straining her ears to focus as much as she could, she heard the whispered argument from downstairs.

“Sabine, you can’t mean to lie to her forever.” She covered her mouth. Daddy never argued with mom. It was always her chiding him for something or other.

“She is not ready for another set of bad news. Tom, she barely gets up in the morning. She doesn’t eat properly. What good would it do to tell her?”

There was a beat of silence, and Marinette could feel tears pricking her eyes underneath the bandage. Her parents, her loving, amazing, supportive parents were arguing because of her.

“False hope doesn’t help anyone. She needs to accept her condition and learn how to move on, Sabine. We all do.”

With a gasp Marinette realized her mom was crying.

Enough.

She shot up to her feet and after fumbling for a few steps she threw herself in the general direction of her bed.

Accept her condition? Move on? They had no idea, Marinette realized. Her parents thought she believed her blindness was only temporary. They thought she didn’t know!

Well, yes, it was easy to pretend with the bandages pressing heavy over her eyes, but Marinette wasn’t stupid. Cataclysm to the fucking face doesn’t just heal.

Not overnight. And probably not ever. If Tikki couldn’t heal her she doubted some conventional medicine had a shot.

But they thought she didn’t know. How could she have?

And they’re arguing about how to tell me... Marinette thought grimly. Her musings, however, were cut short by footsteps coming up the stairs towards her room.

Marinette focused on the footsteps, but she had honestly no idea. Seriously, popular culture gave her such unrealistic expectations for this. A soft knock on the door echoed around her quiet room.

“Come in!”

“Hello dear, how are you feeling?” Mom drew the short straw, then.

“Okay. Blind.” Marinette said dryly, then instantly regretted it.

“I am sorry mama, I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days – I feel so angry all the time.”

Warm arms wrapped around her and her mother’s comforting smell calmed her down.

“Here, it’s okay love, it’s okay. I am pretty sure you are not the first teenager to ever snap at her mom. Given the situation, I would say you have more reasons than most.”

Marinette nodded, lips pursed.

“Do you feel like coming down? Your father and I need to talk to you about some things. It can wait if you are tired, or –”

“No, mom, I’m fine. Help me down?”

Marinette let herself be led by the hand like a child and tried her best not to feel too bitter about it. She could just about make it into the kitchen on her own these days. She asked her parents not to move furniture around and leave things in her path so she could move around on her own. Sadly, they all forgot about it way too often for her to be sure she could make the longer trips through the house unscathed.

It was probably a good thing that Marinette couldn’t see her parents just then. Sabine’s blotchy red eyes and Tom’s worried, tired look wouldn’t have made the upcoming talk any easier.

“Marinette, your father and I,” her mom started, but her voice broke, “your father and I need to tell you something important.”

I know mama. I know, it’s okay, Marinette wanted to say, but she remained silent and still.

“We decided to move away from Paris.”

Wait. Rage bubbled inside her like hot lava.

“What? What do you mean move away?!” Marinette demanded angrily, “why would you do that? And what about the bakery? Mom you can’t be serious!”

“Calm down, Marinette,” her father pleaded.

“We found an amazing institute that could help you, and we decided it is worth moving for.”

“ You decided?! Well that’s just grand, isn’t it. None of you thought to ask the poor, blind Marinette what she thought about it, have you?!”

She was screaming now, but she didn’t care.

“Well if you think I will let you abandon all your dreams and hard work just because of me, you are wrong. I will stay in Paris alone if I have to. I am not going anywhere!”

Her father was about to say something, but she stood up, storming off into her room. If she knocked over a chair or two on her way, or stubbed her toe on the stairs, it really was nobody’s business but her own.

I will not let them do this , she seethed internally once she finally made it into her room.

I just won’t allow it! Her hands clenched into fists as she tried to restrain the angry tears threatening to spill.

You won’t allow it? How cute. A cruel little voice piped up inside her head. And what exactly do you think you can do about it?

Marinette bit her lip.

Arms extended in front of her she made her way towards her table, there she pawed at the smooth wood for a second before managing to locate her phone.

She unlocked it with her thumb and calmed her shaking voice to activate the voice recognition:

“Hey Cortana? Call Alya Cesaire, please!”

Three beeps later her best friend picked up with a wall of blabber.

“Marinette? Are you okay? Is everything alright? Are you hurt? Do I need to come over?!”

“ALYA!”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” her friend apologized sheepishly, “Chilling out. Sorry. No overcompensating – I remember what you said the last time.”

Marinette sighed.

“I need my awesome, smart, incredible best friend to work a miracle for me. Is she there, or is this my new helicopter mother talking?”

Alya grumbled.

“So, which one is it?”

“Your best friend, always.” she replied dutifully. “So what is it, Mari, you sound kinda, well, mad?”

“It’s my parents. They want us to move away from Paris - to some village that has this amazing institute for blind kids.”

There was a beat of silence.

“That sucks. But maybe the new school will be super great for you, and, and I can always come to visit, right? I’ll drag Nino, and Adrien with me! And Juleka, Rose and Alix will want to come too, I –”

“No!” Marinette stopped her resolutely.

“No? You don’t want us to visit?” Alya asked, her voice tiny.

“No, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to move away, and I don’t want to go to some super special school for blind kids. I want my old life back - okay? I know that I can’t see now, okay, I know! But plenty of people can’t, and they aren’t all locked away in some institutes in the countryside !”

Stunned silence followed suit.

“Mari, I...” Alya started gently, but Marinette interrupted her again.

“Alya – I don’t need your pity! God knows I have enough by myself. What I really need right now is my best friend to help me find some way around this. I know my parents don’t really want to leave. The bakery is their life Alya. And I don’t want to take that away, not because of this.”

“I get it, Mari, I do. I will go do some research – I promise I will find something!”

The new fire in Alya’s voice spread warmth of relief in Marinette’s belly. Finally. Her best friend was back.

They could do this.

   -----

[onceuponamirror]

heart rise above

///// CHAPTER 6

summary: It wasn’t an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister’s college graduation. That’s it.

Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.

Mechanic!AU

fandom: riverdale ship: betty x jughead words: 25k chapters: 6/?

[read from the beginning] [read the latest]

Well, I've been afraid of changing 'Cause I've built my life around you

.

.

.

“Knock, knock,” comes a familiar voice, quickly followed by Veronica’s dark head peeking around her bedroom door.

“Hi, V, come on in,” Betty says distractedly, standing back to get a better look at the organized piles on her bed. “Where’s Kevin?”

“Downstairs, being interrogated-slash-interviewed by your mother. She says she wants to do an article on the pageantry of parade floats.” Veronica takes a seat by Betty’s pillow, crossing her legs as she presses one hand into the soft florals of the bed sheets. She’s wearing a short black sundress and her sunglasses are perched on the top of her head. She glances around. “Are we going somewhere tropical?”

Betty looks up. “What? No. I’m just making sure I have everything.”

“There’s like two weeks worth of sun products here, B,” Veronica replies, her lips curling upwards. “We’re going to Sweetwater, not Waikiki; you don’t need four towels and SPF three-thousand.”

“I’m just going through my options,” Betty insists. “Besides, Polly texted me this morning and said she and the kids are going down to the river today too, since it’s so nice out. They need high SPF; they’re so fair.”

“Let Polly bring her own kids’ sunscreen.” Her look is pointed.

“I’m sure she is. I thought I’d have it just in case,” Betty says, throwing the jumbo bottle into a bag anyway. Veronica throws a hand into the air, but doesn’t say anything else. “Anyway, what suit should I wear? I’m sure you have an opinion.”

“Mais oui,” Veronica preens, standing up and coming around to the selection of suits laid out on the bed. She immediately reaches for the stringiest bikini available and dangles it in Betty’s face; a tiny pink thing that Betty hardly ever wears and, right now, wonders why she even still has it.

Betty grabs it out of Veronica’s hands and puts it back on the bed. “Not that one.”

“I thought you might say that,” Veronica grins, something glittering in her eyes. “You’d look so Bikini Kill in it, but I get it. It’s a lot for just Sweetwater. Okay, what about this one? One-pieces are very in right now. I’m wearing one too. Granted, mine has quite a few more cut-outs in it.”

Veronica has selected a simple white one-piece with a low back and high hips, and Betty smiles and takes it, going behind her closet door to change.

As she’s pulling her cutoffs on over the suit, she hears Kevin enter the room and immediately exclaim, “Oh my god, am I going off to war?”

“You two are so dramatic,” Betty huffs, slipping an open pink button up over her arms and coming around the door. “I just wanted to have enough food and sun protection for everyone. You’ll be thanking me when you’re hungry and want one of the sandwiches I made.”

Kevin and Veronica exchange looks. “True,” he admits, shrugging. “Alright, I’m loading up the car. Gimme something to carry.”

Throwing the rest of the snacks into one of her large canvas bags, Betty passes it and the cooler to Kevin, who accepts them with a theatrical grunt and a poorly repressed eye roll.

“I’ll take this one,” Veronica offers, grabbing the second beach bag, and then they’re both gone.

Betty moves in front of her little vanity mirror, staring at herself. She hasn’t quite gotten past catching her reflection in the mirror of her childhood bedroom; amongst the pink flowers on the wall and the old photographs, it feels like a looking glass into time, like she’s sixteen again and questioning everything, especially her own appearance.

But looking at herself now, she actually likes this look—pale pink, light washed denim blue, and crisp white have always been her colors. She reties her ponytail and tugs it through the back strap of her ratty old blue baseball cap, hoists the last bag over her shoulder, as well as her purse, and slips onto her Keds.

When she gets downstairs, her mother is typing away by an open window, a glass of fresh lemonade beside her. “I’m going now, Mom,” she says, and it’s a moment before her mother looks up.

“Have everything?” She asks, folding her hands together. Betty nods. “Sun-block?” Betty nods again, and Alice Cooper returns her gaze to her computer. “Then have a nice day. By the way, the fridge looked a little empty yesterday. Pick up some fruit and milk on your way back, would you?”

“Sure,” Betty says easily, waving goodbye. Kevin and Veronica are waiting for her outside, leaning against her big blue car and gossiping away. They fall suspiciously silent as they spot her, but move aside for her to throw the bag through the open window. Veronica slides into the passenger seat and Kevin climbs into the back, and then they’re off.

“So how was your date last night? I was very patiently waiting to ask until Betty was here so you wouldn’t have to tell the story twice,” Kevin says, leaning forward and resting his chin on the back of Veronica’s seat.

She twists excitedly. “It was quite nice, for a first date,” she says demurely. “We went to that French place in New Paltz you like, Kevin.”

“What does Archie do?” Betty asks, eyes on the road, realizing that if he’s sticking around with Jughead, he must also have some kind of freelance job.

Veronica laughs. “I can’t believe I didn’t open with that. He actually writes commercial jingles. Do you remember that one about the singing vacuum cleaner?”

Kevin and Betty simultaneously burst into the same hypnotically insipid tune, and Veronica giggles again. “Yes, that one. The twins were so obsessed with that commercial. Cheryl took the televisions out of their rooms because they were constantly singing it.”

“How could I forget?” Betty half-gripes. “That sounds like a fun job, though.”

“He says it’s just to pay his bills, and he wants to really be a singer-songwriter,” Veronica adds, with a slight sigh. “Which is cute.”

“Or potentially annoying, if he’s not any good,” Kevin quips.

Veronica waves a hand and her bracelets tinkle slightly. “I don’t think I’ll know him long enough to get annoyed. We’re just having fun. He’s leaving in, what, less than three weeks? How long do you think it’ll take you to fix that truck, Betty?”

“About that,” she says, sighing.

“So, have you slept with him yet?” Kevin asks, a smidge too excitedly.

“I have my rules, Kevin Keller,” Veronica replies with faux-offense. “I’m not quite as prone to playing with my food as I used to be, but I still like to wait a little bit. Probably date two.”

“You’re seeing him again, then? Besides today, obviously.”

Veronica nods. “Tomorrow night. I suppose this could count as a second date, but considering you two sprung his inclusion in our afternoon plans on me, I’m not partial to anything that wasn’t my own idea.”

“Well, it was Jughead’s idea,” Betty says, “and we did check with you.”

She notices Kevin and Veronica exchanging looks again. “Yeah, though we couldn’t exactly say no, with him making such big puppy eyes over at Betty,” Kevin says, after a moment. Betty exhales loudly. “I’m sorry, I know I said I wouldn’t meddle, but—”

“Then don’t,” Betty interrupts. Veronica opens her mouth, but Betty is faster. “Either of you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you two whispering already. Please, guys. I’m not going to be able to unwind at all today if I feel like I need to babysit your twitter feeds. And you both have been on my case about relaxation, so you don’t get it both ways. Pick one and stick to it.”

They stare at one another, then at Betty. “Very well,” Veronica pouts, shifting in her seat so that she faces the road again.

Betty reaches forward and turns on the radio, and the sweet crooning of doo-wop filters through the speakers. She’s always liked the genre; it has the chronic romanticism that can span to relevance of any part of her life, but it’s also as soothing as it is saddening. Like catching the eye of her reflection across the crowded room of her heart and not being able to close the distance.

She slips her hand out the window, undulating it against the wind, and lets her mind clear.

They reach their destination not much later, and it’s still early enough for the parking lot not to be madness. Sweetwater River is an inlet of the larger Hudson River, with a small stretch of patchy water mostly used by kayakers and other boaters, but largely a leisurely stream of floating inner tubes, frolicking families, and warm, coarse sand.

It takes a moment to gather all the things Betty has packed, plus the collapsible and utterly gigantic beach umbrella Veronica insisted on and secretly stashed in the trunk (“I never want to hear another word about my packed lunches, Ronnie.”), but eventually they heave everything out of the car and find an unoccupied patch of beach to drop anchor.

Betty texts Jughead instructions for their location, having gotten his cell number last night, and he replies with a thumbs up emoji, promising Archie is a slow-mover but they’re on their way.

She puts her phone on her towel, while Kevin sheds down to his swim trunks and pulls on an open, cuffed button up and Veronica starts lathering herself with tanning oil. Betty kicks off her sneakers and tucks her knees under her chin, peeking up at the sky from under the brim of her baseball cap.

She watches the trees rustle with an unseen breeze.

.

.

.

She’s still sitting there, staring at nothing, when she hears a voice over her shoulder. “Hey there, Gilligan,” Jughead says, plopping into the sand beside her.

He’s dressed the same as usual, with dark pants and drooping suspenders, but this time he’s rolled his jeans up to the ankle and is only wearing a white undershirt. He’s still donning the beanie and he’s barefoot.

“You found us,” Betty greets, momentarily distracted by the surprising amount of definition in his arms.

“Wasn’t hard,” he scoffs. “Could spot that thing a mile away.”

They both turn and look at the big beach umbrella behind them. Archie and Kevin are making introductions under it and Veronica looks pleased to see him. Betty gives Jughead another once over, feeling a bit disappointed as a thought occurs to her. “You’re not dressed to swim.”

He rubs behind his neck in what she’s learning is a tell-tale nervous tick. “I’m not much of a swimmer, honestly. I’ve got a pair of trunks in Archie’s backpack, but…mostly I planned to read or write, if I’m lucky.” He pulls a dog-eared paperback and a moleskin journal from his back pockets and gives them a little shake.

She stretches her arms over her bare, tanned legs, sizing him up. “Have you ever swum in a river? It’s not like the ocean. The water is cool and calm and you just float along.”

“I can’t say that I have. Sounds almost nice,” he admits.

“It is. There’s nothing like it. It’s…well, I’m not the writer here, so I’m not quite sure how to describe it. But, peaceful.”

“Well, you make a hard case to argue, Betty Cooper.” She pretends to look offended, and he grins. “I’ve got an image as an aloof miscreant to uphold, but I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll want to once you realize how hot it’s supposed to be today.” She says it lightly, but Jughead’s eyes are lingering on her legs and she feels the heat of the day already. She quickly pulls the cooler over to them. “I brought drinks and water and snacks, also. And sandwiches for lunch.”

“And dinner, and desert, and The Last Supper, by the looks of it,” Jughead says admirably, peering into the snack bag next to it.

“Everyone always makes fun of me, but they all manage to eat whatever I bring anyway,” Betty huffs, halfway between a laugh and indignancy.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Jughead replies seriously. “I think it…I’m basically always hungry. So between my Homo neanderthalensis companion and me, you definitely don’t have to worry about the food getting eaten. On my honor, I swear to thee,” he adds wryly.

“Big words from a guy wearing a wool hat at the beach,” Betty jests, and he snorts, his fingers tracing the edge of his beanie. She reaches over and picks at one of his loose suspenders. “Like, did you confuse Hawaii 5-0 as Hawaii 50 and think it was about old men at the beach?”

“Ouch,” he whistles. “You know, I like my suspenders.”

She does too, but she won’t give him the satisfaction, so she just shrugs coyly.

He shakes his head at her, giving a good show of looking affronted. “So I take it my sacred vessel is in the hands of Joaquin today?”

“Yes, even though I told him I wanted him here,” Kevin says tersely from behind them.

“He wanted the hours, Kev, don’t blame me,” Betty replies, sweeping a look over at him. He’s stretched out on his stomach underneath Ronnie’s giant umbrella and looking downright petulant. He starts to reply, but something catches his eye beyond Betty’s shoulder and he seems to lose the train of thought.

“Oh my god, it’s Queen of the River Styx,” he drawls instead.

Veronica looks over, sighs, and then raises a hand in the air in greeting. “Hi Cheryl!” She calls across the water. Cheryl hesitates, then responds with a half-wave of her hand that is probably the same gesture she uses in a dismissal.

“God, she is so extra. I mean, I love it, but so extra,” Kevin mutters, and this time Betty actually agrees; Cheryl Blossom is floating downriver on a large, bright pink flamingo-shaped raft, wearing oversized sunglasses and a cherry red bikini.

It’s outdoing herself, even for Cheryl.

“I’m gonna go say hi,” Betty announces, mostly because she’s been aching to get into the water but didn’t want to rudely be the first one to leave the beach encampment without good reason.

She peels out of her cutoffs and shirt, tossing her hat onto the sand. Jughead is watching her, but when she catches his eye, he mutters a “have fun” and hastily turns his attention onto his book.

She dives into the water, enjoys a moment of the cool quiet beneath the surface, and then bobs upwards. She always loves that first meeting of the river and the sun. Betty starts swimming towards Cheryl’s raft, where the redhead in question is currently rubbing sunscreen into her pale, glossy skin.

“Hello there,” Cheryl says, not looking up. She deposits the tube of sunscreen into a cup-holder on the flamingo’s wing and trades it out for a bottle of water with a straw in it. She takes a sip, and then uses one finger to push her sunglasses up onto her forehead, finally glancing over.

“I didn’t know you’d be here today, Cheryl,” Betty says, treading water in front of the raft. She grabs hold of it, and it sweeps both of them slowly downriver.

“Came with the fam, don’t forget to come say hi,” she replies coolly. Betty and Cheryl’s dynamic had once been fraught with high school hierarchies, but years of therapy and mood-stabilizers have done wonders for their relationship. Betty is grateful for the shift, considering she’s now related by marriage to her and sees her quite a bit more than she ever expected, still after she and Veronica broke up.

Cheryl even once admitted that, since the split, Betty is the only other person besides her therapist that she talks to about her bipolar disorder—as Jason always tries to fix her and Polly couldn’t be trusted to keep it from him—and ever since then, the two women have grown closer. As close as one can get to Cheryl Blossom, that is; they still have plenty of off-days.

“So, who’s the tall drink of orange juice talking to my ex?” Cheryl asks, in an incredibly poor attempt at sounding casual. Across the water, though now farther away, it’s clear that Archie and Veronica are laid strewn on towels and talking closely.

“Cheryl, you can’t do this again,” Betty warns. “It’s been over a year.”

The redhead sighs heavily, palming her hands along the cool water as she adjusts against her raft. “Oh, spare me the lecture, Olivia Newton-John. I know. I’m not going to interfere, I just want to make sure he’s up to standard.”

“You both mutually agreed breaking up was the right thing to do,” Betty reminds her, because there’s something longing in Cheryl’s expression that worries her. “You know it was. The timing just wasn’t right.”

“Yes, but I always thought, after—well, it doesn’t matter. So who is he? She certainly has developed a type, at least.” She flips her long red hair over her shoulder.

Betty folds her arms on the edge of Cheryl’s pink flamingo raft. “His name is Archie. He and his friend were on a road trip, but their truck broke down in the parking lot of Pop’s. Veronica was covering one of her mom’s shifts, and, well.”

Cheryl sighs and flicks an invisible shred of dust off her bathing suit. “So he’s not sticking around long?”

“Should take me a few weeks to fix it all up, but no. They’ll be gone,” Betty says, digging her chin into her crossed arms.

“Veronica isn’t like us,” Cheryl says, after a long moment of inspecting Betty. Her voice is uncharacteristically tender. “She’s not as picky.”

“Are you serious? Veronica is the pickiest person I’ve ever met, Cheryl, you should know that better than anyone.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Cheryl sighs impatiently. “With shoes and jewelry and dresses, yes, she is, of course. But she gets back on the horse right away. She’s fearless. She sees something she wants, and she goes for it, because she knows she’ll always land on her feet. I always loved that about her. Me…I don’t do anything I can’t control, can’t predict. And neither do you, Betty dear. That’s where we’re alike.”

“I’m not like that,” Betty says quietly, knowing it’s a lie. She’s good Betty Cooper, she who does everything for everyone, but Cheryl has a point. The sun shines brightly on the water and her eyes find Jughead on the beach, his nose in a book.

“Please. Let’s not insult either of our intelligences,” Cheryl insists sharply. “You had a boy down on one knee for you and you practically ran away screaming. So riddle me this, Rapunzel: why wouldn’t you let down your hair for sweet Trevor Brown?”

But Betty can’t answer that. She still doesn’t know how to put it into words, still can’t even begin to form the thought without the feverish flutterings of a panic attack. She presses her lips together, and Cheryl just leans back against the flamingo’s neck, pushing her sunglasses back down over her nose.

“I thought so. I’m not paying my therapist all that money every week for nothing, Cleopatra of denial. Now, give me a nudge. I want to float away my troubles.”

Betty complies, giving the flamingo raft a shove downstream. Cheryl waves her away, tipping her chin up to the sun, and then the current sweeps her lightly down the river. Betty dips her head under water once more, and starts swimming in the opposite direction, her limbs feeling strong and toned as she heads upstream. She finds Polly, Jason, and the kids on a beach not far up, and cuts their way.

She tans herself on the private Blossom beach for a little while, trying very hard not to think about Cheryl’s words, and has a bit of light conversation with her sister and brother-in-law. It turns out that Polly has, indeed, brought her own high SPF sunscreen. The kids are busy with squirt guns, and she indulges them in a bit of warfare before reentering the river.

As she returns to the original stretch of sand, where Kevin is texting, Jughead is still reading, and Archie and Veronica are now splashing each other playfully in the water, Betty is bathed in sunshine and sparkling green water and feels simultaneously so at ease—and so alone.

She desperately wants to blame Cheryl Blossom for planting the seed, but truthfully, she’s lived with this thought for some time now. It’s duplicitous; swimming amongst the reeds and trees along the riverbanks is freeing, anonymous—but humbling, and isolating. She feels so small amongst the pines.

She kicks back towards the shore, past Archie and Veronica, and steps out of the water. Jughead’s head rises slowly from his book, and for a fleeting moment she wonders if he might be looking at her in a way that speaks to the heat in her own belly at the sight of his toned arms.

“Do you guys want to go swimming with me? The water’s really nice,” she asks, glancing between the two of them.

Kevin’s eyes don’t leave his phone. “Maybe in a bit,” he says vaguely, which is Kevin for there’s-something-much-more-interesting-happening-on-Instagram.

She turns to Jughead. “What about you?” His Adam’s apple bobs and he makes a noncommittal sound. She really doesn’t want to go back into the water alone, but she doesn’t want to stay here on the beach either. “Please, Juggie?”

The nickname just slips out, and she’s far too sure she doesn’t know him well enough for it, but it seems to do the trick; he scrunches up his face and then sighs, getting to his feet. He rustles around in a blue backpack near the cooler, says he’s going to go change behind the trees, and disappears.

Kevin finally glances up, but doesn’t say anything. While she waits, Betty decides her wet hair feels too tight on her head, so she pulls out her ponytail and shakes it free.

Jughead returns a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a black pair of trunks and his hat. His clothes are bunched up in his hands, and he dumps them by his book. And then, after a moment of deliberation, pushes the wool beanie off his head as well. It falls onto the sand beside the rest of his things with an unassuming plop.

He stares at it, and then looks over at her. “Okay,” he says, in an indecipherable voice.

She forces her brain to play catch up, because the sight of his bare chest momentarily caused her to forget herself. She swallows. He has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and once again, a surprising amount of lithe definition. Even Kevin is eying him with something like impressed approval.

“Right,” she says, turning on her heel and making her way back towards the river’s edge. She dives under the water and surfaces quickly, pushing her hair back over her head. “Come on!”

She swims out further, but Jughead’s toes line at the sand’s end. “You can swim, right?” Betty asks, because Jughead is behaving strangely enough for her question it.

“Yes, I can swim,” he says flatly, but he hasn’t moved. “How deep does this go? I mean, how deep is the river?”

She cocks her head at him, treading water. “In the middle it’s probably 15 feet, but we can stick to the shallows, if you want.”

In a moment of decision, Jughead splashes into the water and dips his head under. He pops up a second later, flipping his hair back with a force that sends droplets flying. “I’ve just got a thing about not being able to see the bottom or touch down,” he says quietly, swimming towards her. “I know it’s ripe for metaphorical investigation, but spare me.”

“We won’t go too far out,” Betty promises, and for a moment, they’re just treading water, staring at one another. Jughead allows himself to sink slightly so that just his nose and eyes are above the surface. She can’t read his expression, but she feels warm and is unsure what’s the sun and what are her own nerves.

“Well, I’m here,” Jughead says finally. “But I’m not sure I see my way through the hype. What am I supposed to be doing in order to access catharsis?”

She laughs, and shifts onto her back, limbs spread out around her as if she were making a snow angel. “You just float, Juggie. Let the water take you where you want.”

Betty kicks, frog-like, and swims in a circle around him. He watches for a moment with something like amusement, and then mimics her, allowing himself to float on his back.

“Wow,” he deadpans. “So this is nirvana.”

She laughs and splashes water at him. “Shut up.”

Ducking under the surface to avoid his retaliatory splash, she swims further out, though is sure to remain close enough to the shallows that he won’t get nervous. He follows, and they both consent to the current guiding them downstream.

Lazily, she cuts her arms over her head in a half-hearted backstroke, but mostly lets the river’s flow to do its ancient work. After what feels like an hour but is more likely ten minutes, she looks over, and Jughead is grinning at her, his normally downturned lips quirking upwards. 

She’s overcome with a simple thought: he’s hot. And then, slightly more poetically: she likes it when he wears handsomeness around the softness of his eyes. With a face that looks like it’s carried tension for years, relaxation looks especially good on him. 

“Well, alright. This is nice, Ophelia,” he says.

“Leave it to you to make a morbid reference on a beautiful day,” Betty sighs, closing her eyes to the sun.

“I mean it, though,” Jughead says, softer. “This is actually kind of…nice. You’re right, it’s not like the ocean.”

“You’ve been missing out, Jughead Jones,” she replies, eyes still shut, but waiting for him to crack a cynical joke or drop some obscenely large vocabulary, or any of his usual responses.

But he doesn’t say a word.

.

.

.

Finally feeling her fingers and toes beginning to prune, Betty accepts that it’s probably time to pull herself out of the water for a bit, though she has no desire to. She feels so at ease, half-swimming, half-floating in peace with just Jughead by her side, but his stomach gives a loud gurgle and she breaks the silence with a giggle. “Hungry?”

“Always—but, particularly now, yes,” Jughead replies honestly.

“Lets head back, then,” Betty says, performing a half-curl in the water, her legs momentarily the only thing above the surface. She submerges herself fully, allowing a respite of underwater tranquility, and then returns for air.

They both turn and swim up against the stream, and when they reach the shore, everyone has returned to their stations. Kevin’s hair looks wet, so Betty assumes he finally went into the water, and Archie is strumming an acoustic guitar while Veronica suns herself.

Archie looks up as they approach. “Were you swimming, Jug?”

“No, I tripped and fell in,” Jughead replies, pokerfaced. “Yeah, I went swimming.”

“It’s my fault,” Betty intercedes, dropping to her knees and digging around in the cooler for a chilled lemonade. “I practically begged him.”

Archie’s eyebrows briefly knot into a peculiar expression, but he doesn’t seem to dwell on it because Betty has procured sandwiches in each hand.

“Who wants lunch?” Betty asks, only to be met by an affirming chorus of yeses. “We’ve got turkey or chicken salad.” People announce their decisions and Betty starts dolling out the sandwiches.

“I take back anything I’ve ever said, ever,” Kevin says gratefully through a mouthful of chicken salad. “Thank you for thinking to bring food, Betty.” Everyone agrees, and she feels a flush of warm appreciation.

After everyone polishes off their lunch, Archie resumes care of his acoustic guitar and launches into a soft rendition of the Girl From North Country. Jughead mutters in her ear that it wasn’t until two years ago that singer-songwriter Archie Andrews even knew who Bob Dylan was, and she fails to suppress her giggles.

The sun is now high overhead, her skin feels kissed golden, and her eyes fall to his lips as they pull from her ear.

Kevin has placed Betty’s baseball cap over his face while he lies on his back, Veronica is curled towards Archie, watching him play, and Betty and Jughead both lean back on one elbow, the length of their bodies warmed to the sky and facing one another. She watches a stray droplet run down his jaw.

“Remember me to one who lives there,” Archie crones in a gentle, pleasing voice. “She once was a true love of mine.”

Betty tucks a damp, tousled strand of hair behind her ear. Jughead’s eyes follow the movement.

.

.

.

.

.

.

[thatiranianphantom]

holy water from my own veins, a wynonna earp fic

The utter pointlessness of the universe still frustrates you at times.

Because you, Wynonna Earp, you are not mom material.

(in which wynonna muses on her situation)

OKAY. So this was not supposed to happen but I got sucked into Wynonna Earp. Came for Wayhaught, stayed for the "brunette girl, she's the voice of reason." Actually, it took an alarmingly short amount of time to get to the 'oh bby girl let me cuddle you' stage.

So since I am just really worried about the baby plotline (I need mom!Wynonna in my life and I have been burned by basically every scifi show that has done a baby plotline. Lookin' at you Fringe, Angel, Doctor Who and X-Files.) I word vomited 2000 words of baby stuff.

Yeah.

Let’s just face the facts right now.

Say it right here.

You’ve never been one for lying.

(You’re a liar, Wynonna Earp. You’ve always been a liar.)

This kid probably isn’t even going to make it out.

The utter pointlessness of the universe still frustrates you at times.

Because you, Wynonna Earp, you are not mom material.

You knew that. You accepted it. Of all the shitty qualities you already have, this didn’t even rank.

You were never supposed to be a mom. Moms did nurturing shit. They stayed. They protected. They were warm. Loving.

You are none of those things. You never will be.

The only thing you will ever be, for the rest of your life, is alone.

                                             i’m way too far gone

So you’ve been on birth control since you were 13.

It gave you a kind of liberation.

Sex has always given you a type of control, even when everything else in your life spins like a carnival ride.

Not your first time, of course. That happened when you were 13 years and 5 months old, and your “friends” had left you in a seedy bar. You had no way to get home. A man offered you a ride. He was cute. He was nice. You consented, don’t make it a thing.

(You were a child, Wynonna.)

He smelled and it hurt and he was too heavy on top of you, but you consented.

And then six weeks later, you demand three drinks and a ride home before, and he agrees.

They’ll agree to anything.

You learn to work that.

                                         far away, long ago

Your mom cried in the bathroom. You all heard her. Frankly, it’s amazing she stayed as long as she did.

Waverly used to crawl into your bed during the nights when your dad had too much to drink and need a target.

She tried Willa once, and Willa pushed her into your father’s path and called her a baby.

But you hold your baby sister against you, soothe her as she cries.

Because Waverly is innocent. You vow to protect that, swear it with all your eleven-year-old heart.

(Look how fucking well that turned out.)

She’s what you hold onto, on the days where the tears and the blood and the “never tell, Wynonna. They’ll never understand” becomes too much.

She stays. She takes the beatings. You’re never sure why, but you’re still hesitant to blame your mother for your fucked-up relationships with men.

Your mother insisted she loved your father. You weren’t too clear on love, but whatever was between your parents, it didn’t feel anywhere near the same as what you feel for Waverly.

She is your one perfect thing. She looks at you with innocent eyes and you want to shelter her from the world.

                                    glowing dim as an ember

You kill your father.

It was an accident. You didn’t mean to, or maybe a part of you did.

(Murderer.)

But you shoot him, and you see the blood, and for a moment, just a brief moment, you don’t feel sad. You don’t feel regretful.

You feel relief.

And then Waverly looks at you with fear, and that….that is worse than watching your father die.

And then they take you both away.

But they don’t want you, not really.

You don’t even blame them.

You’ve been alone your whole life. You don’t need them.

Waverly is small and cute. You’re damaged. Nobody wants you.

                             i’m coming home to breathe again

You come back to Purgatory broken, or maybe you’ve always been broken.

Maybe your shattered pieces just can’t be fixed.

You don’t want to stay.

But you do.

(Waverly looks at you with those same eyes, you meet Doc and Dolls, and later Nicole, and suddenly there are more people you will shatter with your brokenness.)

You stay, and you fight.

Everything inside you screams not to trust this, but you feel your resolve crumbling, in a way it never has before. You kiss Doc, and Dolls, and aren’t sure what you feel for either, but both make the swirling vortex of your mind quiet for a moment.

                                          i’m ready to carry on

Light enters your world for the first time in sixteen years.

You have a sister. A team. A home.

(It feels almost like a family, but what the hell would Wynonna Earp know about family?)

                                       i’ve never really done this

And then the kid.

You feel it beneath your hand and you force yourself not to feel.

You’re good at that.

The kid reminds you every single minute that you’re cursed, that you will always be cursed. That the universe has never and will never give you a choice.

You are stuck with this, doesn’t matter what you want.

(Not that it ever really did).

                                     now I know what scared is

The kid sticks with you.

You know, logically, you know, it has no choice.

Even if it did, you are nobody’s first choice.

But the weight in your belly, making you hungry all the time, requiring sixteen trips to the bathroom a day, it becomes a comforting presence.

You take to running your hand over your belly, and feeling the resistance of a kick against your hand, and sometimes you almost smile.

The kid has guts.

Sometimes, when you take down Revenants, it kicks wildly, almost like it wants in on the fight too.

(It’s an Earp).  

                                            you’ll be alright

You fight every second to prove that you are still Wynonna Earp, that you haven’t changed. That you are still the same Wynonna Earp that dives headlong into danger and never looks back.

You fight and kill and steal guns when Dolls and Doc don’t want to give them to you.

You train and quip and you’re Wynonna Earp, just with a bigger belly.

Maybe that was what you meant to do.

Maybe you’re trying to prove that you’re still Wynonna Earp so everyone around you will know (how could they not know) that Wynonna Earp is a murder, not a mother.

You can’t say it, but you can show it.

Shit, that’s getting a little introspective for you.

                                        i can feel and I can cry

You force yourself not to think again, as you research prospective parents. Doc will be furious, but only at first. He’ll see. An ageless cowboy and a fucked-up murderer cannot be parents.

All the families look the same. Normal. Sane.

Your gaze wanders down to their hands, unstained with blood.

Not like yours.

You’re a murderer.

(But this kid isn’t going to end up like that.)

So it can’t stay with you.

                      we’re spinning circles down the avenues instead

The widows kill Nedley.

They nearly kill Nicole.

And you can’t kill them.

They almost took away what makes your baby sister’s world spin, and you couldn’t even catch them.

You snort about how much black lace this town’s gonna have to clean up when they finally get them, about how you are not doing that shit, all in an effort to look away from Waverly cradling Nicole, tears streaking down her cheeks, and from and Nedley’s prone, motionless form.

Dolls grasps your arm and Doc tips his hat at you as you make your way home, and you think they’re just too nice to call you on what a failure you are right here.

(You’re as broken as they come.)

                                       can you hear heaven cry?

You have the house to yourself, that’s preferable, but it wasn’t like you were going to cry, or scream, or any shit like that.

No, you don’t cry.

You’re alone.

But you’re about to be a mother.

(The cruel irony that is your life should make you laugh.)

                                  how long do you want to be loved

It’s that night that you step out of bed and feel liquid sloshing around your ankles.

Realistically, you know what that means.

Logically, you know what this signals.

Clearly, you’re ready for this.

(Actually, you panic because it’s three weeks early and it could be small and sick and you want your baby inside you, sheltered and safe, and where the hell did that come from?)

                                               is forever enough?

It hurts.

It figures you’re alone, as you scream and dig your fingernails into your arm and draw blood.

And you wish, harder than you’ve ever wished for anything, for this not to be happening.

But it is.

Your body, the body that grew your baby, is not letting you forget it.

It’s going to be expelled into the world, the same world that broke you, and you can’t stop this.

You’re not a mother.

(You’re a coward. Don’t forget fraud.)

                         long i have wandered, weary and waiting

Dolls comes to check on you.

To say he looks terrified when he realizes what’s happening is like saying Waverly’s only slightly friendly.

He calls everyone, and like everything else in your life, it seems there will be witnesses to your failure.

You barely notice when they come in. The pain grips you in a vice, fills everything, and your mind can only scream “no, no no”.

(But nothing changes because nothing ever will.)

             i’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through some of my mistakes

They all panic. Someone suggest the hospital, but you shake your head.

If this has to happen, it feels right to have it happen here.

(You’re not sure why. It just does.)

this is a place i don’t feel alone

It’s Nicole, in the end, who takes charge.

She lays you down on your bed (you’re pretty sure you say something like “shit, this is so not coming out of these sheets”) and tells you when to push but you can’t because if you push you’ll be a mother and you can’t, you can’t.

                         hush my darling, don’t fear my darling

The world is still and you are in a vice of pain and it’s coming and you’re alone, you’re always alone.

And then Waverly lays down beside you, wipes your sweaty face.

“Remember when I crawled into bed with you, the night before Mom left?”

“I can’t, Waves, I…” you gasp.

She smiles, looks at you with that same look you vowed to protect all those years ago.

Like you’re her hero.

Like she loves you.

“You told me, ‘don’t think about it, Waverly. What’s out there doesn’t matter, all that matters is here. I love you. Trust me.’”

The words are a dim memory, but everything is a dim memory now.

Waverly passes a cool hand over your forehead, grips a hand in hers.

“Wynonna. You can do this. I’m right here.”

“I can’t….” you gasp and you don’t even recognize yourself.

(She smiles at you again, your one perfect thing.)

“Squeeze my hand, Wynonna. Squeeze my hand and I’ll tell you I love you.”

A wave of pain crests over you and you gasp, tightening your fingers around hers.

“I love you,” the words are a balm over you. You squeeze again.

“I love you, Wynonna.”

Again.

“I love you. I’m here. All that matters is here.”

And then your hands meet something warm and wet (you definitely say “ew” at least once) and your body gives one final heave and the kid tumbles from you.

Nicole places it on your chest and it’s out and it’s done and someone is toweling it off and you wish they’d stop because you want to look but you don’t.

And then your eyes lock with murky blue ones as your little boy stares at you, and the world stops.

You aren’t sure you’re even breathing, but you see his tiny, perfect face knot into a cry, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Your son is born into your home, into your family, and your broken pieces finally knit together.

                                          i was made for you

Epilogue:

Wyatt John Earp doesn’t leave your side for a solid month.

You are stunned by your tiny boy, enamored by him. You stare for hours.

And somewhere along the line, it occurs to you that you made this perfect being. He came from you. So there must be something good inside you too.

It’s a revelation you’re not sure how to take.

Wyatt needs you all the time, and you’re exhausted, so your quips are like 30% less pithy, but he’s worth it.

He’s worth everything.

[collegekidseth-blog]

Symptoms

Here is a list of “symptoms” I am experiencing

-dysphoria/disconnecting (I will uncontrollably disappear from the present, and sometimes don’t ‘feel’ it happening. The worst time it’s occurred was at the supermarket, where upon paying I zoned out and was lost...the cashier and my partner had to call me several times to ‘bring me back.’

-anxiety that induces a racing heart, shortness of breath

-general and constant panic

-loss of some sleep

-disinterest in things I would normally be excited about (Juaren, video games, my family, life changes)

-possible mania/general emotional problems? There are moments in each day where I suddenly feel extremely hopeful and motivated, yet within the hour I can then slump down and feel hopeless and depressed

-self-harm. I skip meals, I used to cut myself, I abstain from water/fluids for days, rarely and not necessarily intentional

-self-deprecation. Using weed to help, but sometimes heightens the above

-overthinking/over-analyzing. This has been true since grade school

-feeling constant, irreplaceable guilt, shame, depression over “who” I am to Juaren primarily

-I feel absolutely no sense of self or identity anymore, but haven’t since beginning college

-I talk to myself a lot, but sometimes it feels ‘real.’ I will imaging a scenario, using something hopeful, and will play it out in my head, only sometimes it transcends the fantasy and I find myself actually talking in real life. This seems normal, as I have caught others doing it too, but it’s almost uncontrollable sometimes, and I have to catch myself before someone sees me.

-A month ago I got a strange tingle in my right foot, in the upper-middle portion, just in front of my ankle joint. The numbness was intense, and fed down into my big and middle toes. A few days later, the intensity dulled and now there is a faint/dull numbness up to my knee. When I walk, my right leg feels heavier than the left. My right knee feels weaker too, like when I hop it’s waiting to give out.

-I have two small, but when poked at, medium/swollen masses on the left and right sides of my chin. Pretty sure (well, more like hoping) these are cysts, as I have several in my lip, and my family is prone to getting them. Thankfully, more time than not they are benign, and pose no threat. They are not painful, but noticeable and I need to get these checked out

-All around worry for Juaren and his state, how our futures will hold up, whether the choice I am making now will come back to haunt me, worry about his mom and her state, my mom and her state, my sister and her loneliness, my other sister and her vapid denial of life, I worry of my dad and his partner - I hope to god she doesnt die, leave him, or get bored - he NEEDS her, I worry about my grandma being alone all day - I know she doesnt have much time left and thats doesnt scare me but her having another set of strokes but being alone and scared and confused does scare me. I feel sheer panic and my life trajectory, but not so much so that I have shaved my head, or dyed my hair, or run away

That’s pretty much all I can think of. Not saying that all of these are critical, per se. I’m sure many if not all adults feel anxiety, worry, and lose sleep due to unease, so in that I am not alone. If you’re reading this and think “Geeze, you have no real problems. Just be normal!” Maybe you’re right. Thing is I wouldn’t ever know because there is nothing inside assuring me that I am heading the ‘right’ or ‘needed’ way.

But I do believe either I have a loose joint that needs a good tighten, or I need medication for something not yet identified. 

[type2diabetestreatments-blog]

Diabetes and Tattoos: The Only Two Things You Need to Know

New Post has been published on http://type2diabetestreatment.net/healthy-tips/diabetes-and-tattoos-the-only-two-things-you-need-to-know/

Diabetes and Tattoos: The Only Two Things You Need to Know

“Diabetics can’t or shouldn’t get tattoos” would likely be uttered from the same person who would say people with diabetes can’t or shouldn’t eat carbs. Not only is it an ignorant, projected opinion filled with misinformation, but it is simply incorrect.

For some odd reason, people with diabetes get treated like we have leprosy and get told we can’t do anything and that gets pretty frustrating at times — especially because it is the furthest thing from the truth!

Getting a tattoo is a personal choice and if you decide to get a tattoo, diabetes or no diabetes, you need to make sure of the following:

The tattoo shop is accredited, licensed, up-to-date legally, and clean

The tattoo artist has good reviews not only of the quality of his or her work (no one wants a bad tat, right?) but the healing process

You are willing to 100% adhere to the healing procedure as directed by your artist

There are many in-home, or street tattoo artists that might be cheaper but never risk your health to save a buck. After all, cheaper doesn’t mean better and, in most cases, means worse in terms of quality.

By simply following the advice above, getting a tattoo shouldn’t be a problem for the average non-diabetic but as a diabetic, there are 2 huge areas of caution you need to be aware of: your A1C and your healing time.

A1C Requirements for Diabetics Getting Tattoos

As much as we sometimes hate checking and living by our A1C, it is a relatively good tool that lets us know how our blood sugar has been. If you really want to get some fresh ink, whether it’s a small tattoo or a sick sleeve, you need to be sure your A1C is in check.

Having a high A1C going into a tattoo session can provide a plethora of problems. Elevated blood sugar levels mean decreased immune response. When you decide to get under the needle, your skin barrier is being perceived up to 3,000 times a minute. Having a higher A1C puts you at higher risk for an infection and infected tattoos are not only dangerous to your health but just aren’t sexy.

Some doctors recommend having an A1C <8% while some Certified Diabetes Educators recommend an A1C <7% prior to getting a tattoo.

A higher A1C might suggest blood sugar management could be a struggle for you possibly because a change in your life, activity level, or even stress level so be sure to reach out to your endocrinologist or CDE to see if they can help you!

The last thing you want is to be sitting for a tattoo for 4-8 hours while riding the blood sugar roller coaster. Food generally isn’t allowed in a tattoo shop for hygiene purposes and I can assure you going outside constantly to combat lows is no fun just as hearing your pump scream at you for high blood sugar isn’t fun. Getting tattooed will induce a stress response that will most likely increase your blood sugar temporarily. Talk to your doctor about seeing how you can best manage your sugars during your tattoo session.

If you plan on investing in a tattoo, invest the months prior to your diabetes management as well.

Tattoo Healing for Diabetics

Getting a quality artist to do quality work is only half of the battle. If your tattoo doesn’t heal properly, it can looked faded, discolored and just not as sharp as you hoped for. I don’t know about you, but when I invested over $1000 into my tattoo sleeve and 14 hours of pain, I made sure to follow every single healing protocol verbatim.

Having diabetes means you will most likely take longer to recover and your tattoo artist will know this. Don’t listen to all your other friends with $19 “I Heart Mom” tattoos who offer their non-medical, non-professional advice on how to heal your new tattoo. Listen to your tattoo artist.

While most people take around 2 weeks to optimally heal from a tattoo, diabetics can sometimes be double that. Don’t risk your health, money, or tattoo quality by shorting or getting lazy with the healing process. Whether your artist recommends Tegaderm, A&D ointment or anything of the sort, follow their instructions for an extended period of time to be sure your tattoo heals healthily and beautifully.

Some people will say to not get your feet, hands, or other areas tattooed because of slower healing times especially associated with poor blood circulation but there are quite a few tatted type 1 diabetics who have lower A1Cs with ankle, foot, and practically full body tattoos! If you are currently fighting complications or have poor circulation, it is best to consult your doctor before getting a tattoo so they can help you stay as safe and healthy as possible.

Because we as diabetics heal slower and are more prone to infection, it is vital to control our blood sugars months prior to getting a tattoo as well as adhering to the healing process and procedure as best as possible. As diabetics, we are not banned from getting tattoos nor is it dangerous for us given we are smart with our condition and decision to follow safety protocols.

Whether you want a meaningful tattoo, a medical tattoo or just an epic design because you appreciate the art form, T1Ds and T2Ds with tattoos are not a problem!

Post Views: 1Diabetes Type 2 Tips Diabetes Escape Plan Does Diabetes Destroyer Really Work? Original Article