#the doctor said that it would most likely spread through my entire body

[evilwriter37]

The rash spread to my fucking eyelids.

[kurishiri]

epilogue . . . “ the medical record of the love between the hunter and me ”

— this translation may not be 100% accurate or may contain creative liberties for characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost or claim these as your own!

— this is the epilogue story for roger’s past records, which is available after sending hearts 700 times. this is told in kate’s point of view, and takes place after they become a couple, so i would personally recommend reading this after you've read at least one branch of his route. (but it's not necessarily required!)

— cw: roger without glasses 🤭, nsfw (fade to black), a bit unedited.

It was the early afternoon, the weather clear, a little after Roger and I had become lovers.

“Your medical records could use some polishing, lil lady.”

That was what Roger said as he called me to the laboratory.

Roger: I asked Victor for your diagnostic tests, right? As for your weight——

Kate: Don’t read it out loud!

Roger: Humans are about the only living beings that care about every little thing about their weight.

Kate: Well, I can’t argue with that, but still...

Roger: It’s all well and good you grew up big.

Even after becoming lovers, it seemed Roger’s tendency to lack delicacy sometimes was going strong.

(Well, that said... I also love that about him too.)

Kate: Wait, I’m pretty sure filling in my medical record won’t make much difference... there’s not much point...

Roger: ‘There’s not much point,’ you say?

Kate: I mean, what you want is data on the Cursed ones, right?

K: As much as I’d love to be of help to you, I’m not Cursed myself...

Roger: Hey now, don’t go saying sad stuff like that.

R: Kate, as my special fairytale keeper, you’ll need to continue to accompany me on missions from here on out.

R: And that’s already asking for more danger than a normal person. That’s all to say,

R: if I get to know you on an even deeper level, I can save you more.

With a broad grin, Roger’s canine tooth peeked out.

That smile alone was enough to make me happy...

(To think Roger’s thought this much about me!)

The happiness at having become his lover spread through my entire body, and I gave him a broad nod in turn.

Kate: If that’s the case, I’ll answer anything!

Roger: .........Anything, huh.

In my enthusiasm in answering, I missed Roger’s words, which came in a whisper.

Roger: Then, let’s start the examination.

Kate: Alright, I’ll be in your care!

Roger: What’s your type, lil lady?

(.........Huh?)

Kate: Is... is that needed for the medical record?

Roger: Very much actually. I’m a former doctor, so you think I’d go around asking pointless questions?

Kate: W-well, besides, we are dating already, so do I really need to say my type out loud...

Roger: Your type could be different, even if we are dating. So I have to ask, just in case.

(Is... that true?)

There was no hesitation in Roger’s tone, so it would be strange not to be able to answer.

My type, huh——Roger’s figure popped into my mind then.

Kate: Uhm, I like to watch someone eat a lot, I think.

Roger: Eat a lot, you say? Ahh, so you mean me?

Kate: T-that’s not necessarily the case!

Roger paid no mind to how flustered I was from him hitting the bull’s eye, instead asking the next question.

Roger: Okay, next. What’s something you’ve found fun recently?

He asked the question so quickly to me, I felt I had to answer quickly.

Kate: Something fun is... ah...

K: Yesterday, I had some very hot food, and it was so spicy I ended up laughing.

Roger: You’re talking about the one we were eating together, right? I remember that too.

Kate: ...Eh, ah...

Roger: Okay, next. Who in Crown do you find the most charming?

Kate: That...

I didn’t even have to mull over it; that was just how charming Roger was.

(...Oh no.)

——This is definitely not for filling in the medical records.

But by the time I realized, it was already too late.

Roger: What, keeping quiet? Then, let me ask a final question, for a bad patient.

Roger’s fingertips poked over where my heart was.

Roger: You’ve been teased so relentlessly, and yet your heart’s beating so fast... why is that?

Roger has the ability to hear sounds up to 100 yards away.

So it came as no surprise that he was aware how fast my heart was beating.

Kate: Please don’t listen in...

Roger: No can do, your heart’s the one that’s too noisy.

R: See, it’s going thump thump so fast, it’s pretty cute.

Kate: Uu...

Roger: Oh? You’re going to cry? In that case, by all means, feel free to. I’ll be happy about that.

(T-this man, I swear——!)

I threw him the sharpest glare I could muster at a grinning Roger.

Kate: I thought this before we got together, too, but why do you always have to do things like this!?

K: You say you don’t like doing anything unnecessary, but then you go and do exactly that!

Roger: That’s because I want to take care of you.

R: Because your crying face is cute.

R: Because I want to talk more with you.

R: And because, if it’s with you, I don’t find any of it unnecessary.

R: I’ve got loads of reasons up my sleeve. You wanna hear more?

He hit me with one sweet reason after another as if being shot by a gun, rendering me unable to respond.

No matter how frustrated I got at his teasing, I ended up on the palm of his hand,

and I end up wagging my tail in happiness, like a dog.

I really do like Roger.

(God... I really want to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him right now.)

But, if I wag my tail so easily for him, I wouldn’t be any different than Ale.

(I’m the woman who’s been trained by Roger, so I need to have some kind of comeback.)

(After all, I’m not someone who just falls on the palm of others!)

Regaining my composure, I tried to act out a confident, capable woman.

Kate: Haven’t we talked enough about me? Now you answer my questions.

K: It’s not fair if I’m the only one doing the answering.

Roger: Hmm? Okay then, ask away.

Kate: “What’s your type,” Roger?

I returned the question that had left me flustered before back at Roger, and I inwardly chuckled to myself.

(Hehe, it would be nice if I could make Roger feel the same way I did, even just a little.)

——But, my intentions were seen through all too soon, to my disappointment.

Roger: “My type” is someone who’s much like a dog, and someone who can think for themself.

R: And if you have the spirit to try and get back at me for what I did to you, all the better.

R: Ahh, come to think of it, someone like the one right before my eyes is really my type.

Kate: Wh...

Roger: “What’s something you’ve found fun recently?”

R: Right now, this moment.

Kate: Ah...

Roger: “Who in Crown do you find the most charming?”

R: If you count as a member of Crown——then it can only be you, Kate.

I could only blink in response as Roger’s strong arms wrapped around me.

My ears were pressed against his warm chest...

Roger: Here, listen to my heart.

Being hit with those sweet words on top of that, I felt myself going dizzy.

Kate: I think my heart’s being too noisy... so, I can’t tell.

Roger: Pfft, hahahaha!

R: Guess that makes it my win.

Seeing him laugh so happily while patting my head, that sort of innocence was rare coming from him, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

(...Jeez... I really am no match for him.)

Kate: Hehe, I don’t recall this ever having been a match, but I surrender.

I was always on the palm of his head, and that was so frustrating it was unbearable.

But, I’m not someone who will fall into anyone’s palm.

(Roger, you are the most special to me, and I wouldn’t replace you for the world.)

(That’s why, I will happily fall into the palm of your hand.)

Roger: What’re you talking about, isn’t it too early to surrender?

The hand that had been on my head slipped before grabbing and lifting my chin.

Roger: We’ve only just become lovers. So we have to get to know each other more.

The eyes before me pierced me with a heat that resembled a hunter aiming for his prey.

He didn’t even try to conceal that heat, and it brought out my desire as well.

Kate: ...What do we need to do, in order to get to know each other deeper?

Roger: Let’s see now, first of all...

Kate: Mn, nn...

While kissing me, Roger lifted me before pinning me down on the lab table.

Roger: Do I need to spell out the rest... lil lady?

Just thinking about what he was going to do made the bottom of my stomach throb.

As if seeing through my desire, Roger’s fingers traced my thighs before they made their way in my underwear.

Roger: ...Hm?

(Ahh, jeez...)

I removed Roger’s glasses, and in an attempt to divert him from my embarrassment, I turned my face away.

Kate: ...I know, but still... tell me.

Roger: .........Alright, I’ll tell you everything.

—— Time skip ——

As the night deepened, Victor and Roger’s shadows were present in the lounge.

Victor: Oh, right, Roger. About Kate’s medical records...

Roger: Ahh, that. I have it here.

Victor: Thank you, that was quick as always. Oh? This date...

V: To think you’ve taken such detailed records on her since the day she started as a fairytale keeper...

Roger: Well, yeah.

Victor: I’m sure if Kate knew, she would be delighted.

Roger: No, best to keep that a secret.

R: Since the day I met her, the thing I liked the most was giving her a bit of trouble.

Fin.

← main story 👑 ecb story 🪞🍻

full masterlist 🍻

END NOTES: i believe this basically concludes my translation of roger’s past records! and a big big thank you to everyone who read to the end! i had fun translating this story, since in addition to roger, we can see a variety of other characters being featured — and they even feature a chapter where crown is just being the dysfunctional found family they are 🤭

i hope this story can serve as a good starting for roger’s route (and perhaps future routes too, though in the end we still don’t know too much about victor, haha). i’d love to hear your thoughts 🥹🙏

[bumblebeerror]

i saw your post about "testosterone" puberty and while i appreciate the sentiment, i think you're wrong. and i say this as someone who is amab and went through an amab puberty.

i didn't sweat that much at all. and even when i did in summer, it was nothing a shower, soap and deodorant couldn't fix. my hair never got greasy, even when i was depressed and went for a week without showering or washing it. in fact, it was the opposite: it was unusually dry. my skin also never got oily and was always dry.

very few of my peers stinked because we practiced proper hygiene. it's your own responsibility as a teenager to clean yourself and practice proper hygiene, no matter how much testosterone you make. it's not a valid excuse to be dirty.

the reason you're sweating so much is probably because you're overdosing on testosterone. most transmascs on t take doses WAY HIGHER that what the average cis boy/man produces. the average cis boy/man has levels of 400-500, meanwhile the average ftm dosage is around 800-1000.

also, the timing of testosterone production is different. cis boys/men produce it daily (every morning), meanwhile you guys get it weekly (whenever you take your shots). so it's more evenly spread out amongst cis boys/men.

if you're bothered by the symptoms you're experiencing, you should talk to your doctor about lowering your dosage.

Oh yay unsolicited health advice

My levels are round 400 as of my last blood test, thanks though.

I’m gonna stop you right there at my injections - testosterone injections are not done into veins. They’re done intramuscularly (into a large muscle) or subcutaneously (into the layer of fat that sits under the skin). This is because injectable testosterone is oil based, because it is meant to absorb slowly through the week, similarly to how it’s produced.

Not to mention, my body also… does make testosterone. Like on its own. Not enough to masculinize me, but testosterone is a hormone that regulates things like ovarian function and bone density in afab folks. All this to say that my body knows what to do with it, and if my levels were too high, my dose would have been lessened when my blood was tested. In fact I seem to struggle to absorb it properly - I originally started on low-dose T and had to increase it because it barely raised my levels at all.

With that out of the way, I’ll address the rest;

That… doesn’t change the fact that while you personally may not have sweat much or had oily skin, a lot of my classmates the first time I had puberty did. And a lot of them were my friends, because I was the only person who didn’t treat them like dirty and gross for struggling to adapt to their bodies changing.

Going through puberty the first time for me meant almost no change in how much I sweat, stank, or how comfortable I was. A week out of the month I had to deal with smelling like blood and dealing with pads and being extremely uncomfortable - im not saying it was a breeze, but what I am saying is I didn’t have to worry about gym class leaving a smiley face in sweat on my shirt, or being unpresentable in general unless I was on my period. And even then - if someone called me on it I could always say I was on my period and people would fuck off about it. Besides that, I’m saying I didn’t have to change my hygiene as a teen whatsoever. No changes. No increase in showers. No extra deodorant.

What I experience now is similar to what I saw my friends experience, and what I saw them catch absolute hell for.

Something that I, as an adult, do have the tools and knowledge to handle. But as a child, I would have struggled immensely.

I said it before and I will say it again. Sweaty, stinky, disheveled teenage boys are learning entirely new routines in order to be presentable. They’re fucking kids, and I personally think if you make fun of kids for not being able to adjust to a change that is so huge, I think that’s pretty shitty tbh.

They deserve a break.

[the-cookie-of-doom]

“Angel, will you bring me my phone?” Kim called from the balcony. He heard it chime in the living room, but was too comfortable with his guitar to get it himself. Chay was closer, anyway. 

“Sure,” Chay called back. He unburied himself from the piles of notes, books, and homework he’s been accumulating all afternoon, and located Kim’s phone amidst the mess he’s made of the coffee table. Kim had message previews disabled but Chay saw the sender’s ID. “It’s Kinn.” 

“Thanks.” Chay drifted back towards his homework, but not before Kim gave him a sweet kiss on his hip and an encouraging pat to his butt. Kim watched him go, full of so much fondness and love for the other boy, he somehow wondered how he could survive the weight of it. 

Then Kim opened his messages, and all the warmth left his body in the same rush that stole the breath from his lungs. 

From: Kinn It’s time to come home Pa is dying 

Kim called his brother. Kinn picked up before the end of the first ring. 

“What happened?” Kim asked, distantly proud of himself for keeping his voice even. 

“Pa has cancer. Stage four, according to the doctor. Started in his liver, spread to his lungs. They’re suspecting his brain, as well.” 

“What? How—since when?”

“Nearly two years now.” Kinn took a deep breath, He kept his voice steady, too, even though this had to be destroying him. “He was hiding it from us. Said he didn’t want us to worry.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“I believe him, Kim. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t want to look weak. It’s why he retired to Chiang Mai. You know how he is.” 

Another wave of cold. “I didn’t know he retired,” Kim said flatly. 

“Oh.” A beat. “He did. Four years ago, now. Soon after…”

“After I left.” All this time, hating his father for never coming to see him. The entire time he was on the other side of the country, and no one bothered to tell Kim. Of course they hadn’t, he’d made it very clear when he stormed out that he didn’t want contact with any of them. “What… what do we do, now?”

“Tankhun has already moved up North to take care of Pa. I’m taking a sabbatical from the company to join him. I—we would appreciate it if you could come too.” 

Kim felt his throat close up around any words he might have said. 

“Not for long. Only a few days, at most. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious, Kim, but we don’t know how much time he has left. Please, I… Please.”

Kim hated the desperation in his brother’s voice. Would do anything to spare them both. 

“No, I—I’ll come.” Kinn breathed a deep sigh of relief. Before he could do anything like thank Kim, he rushed to add, “I can’t promise how long I’ll stay. I’ll need to see how much—”

“Just a few days. Anything you can spare.”

“Okay. Okay, I… I’ll be there.” 

“Thank you, Kim. I’ll let Tankhun know. Tell me when you have your travel details.” 

“I will.” Feeling eyes on his back, Kim looked over his shoulder to find Chay hovering in the doorway, watching him with concern. “I have to go. We’ll talk soon.” 

“Is everything alright, P’Kim?” Chay asked softly, after Kim hung up. He approached quietly, Kim turned back around, staring out at the cityscape beyond the balcony. He still had his phone in hand.

“My father’s dying,” Kim said numbly. 

“Oh, no.” Immediately Chay’s arms fell around him, pulling him into the safety of his boyfriend’s chest. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I… don’t know.” Kim didn’t know what he was feeling, if anything at all. “I shouldn’t be. He’s my father. And he’s—” 

“I don’t think there’s a right way to feel,” Chay soothed, working his fingers through Kim’s hair. “But I think it’s also probably still a shock? Why don’t we go sit down? I think we’ve both worked enough today, let’s just—yeah. Sit down. Let it, uh, sink in.”

“Okay.” 

Kim let Chay take his guitar and lay it aside. He let himself be led back into the living room, which had unofficially become Chay’s workspace during these shared days. He watched Chay clear away his school clutter into an unorganized pile—he would probably regret it later—and then let himself be pulled down onto the sofa, into Chay’s chest. 

[torque-witch]

Hey, good morning! I know I’m super casual on here outside of business posts - but maybe there are some newer people around that don’t know much about me, so let’s recap and go over some goals for the new year! (Long post ahead!)

My name is Cara - most people on Tumblr call me Torque - and I’m 32, non-binary, disabled from complications of Crohn’s disease and medical misadventures and am currently a full-time artist! Many people either know me from being more involved in the witchcraft and pagan communities from about 2014-2017 and some know me from when I started creating Hel Mary’s around that time as well and selling crafts here and there to keep me afloat outside of low-paying jobs at the time.

In 2017/18 I was working 55-65 hours managing an auto parts store (part of the lore of why my username is Torque) while simultaneously getting sicker and sicker, so I couldn’t devote a lot of time to witchcraft blogging and art anymore.

In 2020 I took a layoff from that job when Covid hit because I was on injections that shut down part of my immune system to help control Crohn’s disease, as I was still being monitored after a huge GI bleed. I was also developing medication-induced Lupus from the injections and my joints were starting to suffer as well as causing me frequent fevers. I decided not to return and instead focused on selling my art online full time and did really well for a minute while the pandemic was in full-swing.

Unfortunately by mid-2021 I was starting to develop strange symptoms like tachycardia, waking up in something similar to a panic attack, nausea, hot flashes and was having trouble eating - particularly in public. Long story short, I was told to get off of an anti-depressant my GI had me on for chronic abdominal pain because it had a black-box warning for tachycardia and heart-related events. 4 doctors (non-psychiatric) told me I could stop taking them cold turkey, even though I was on 25-50mg daily for 3 years at this point. After 3 hospital events, I decided to stop taking them and legitimately within a day I could not get out of bed, couldn’t eat, my guts were a wreck and I couldn’t walk up stairs or down even 3 blocks without my heart rate being 160. Even more doctors denied anything was wrong with me, and said that withdrawal from antidepressants is not real. I developed agoraphobia and a resurgence of horrific emetophobia. I was in talk therapy for a year and exposure therapy for emetophobia for probably 8 months and while my agoraphobia has dramatically lessened, exposure therapy was traumatizing me even more and I had to quit. I was and still do suffer from night terrors that are body-horror and phobia centric, but thankfully the worst of it was almost daily as I went through a 9 month, protracted antidepressant withdrawal period. The heart issues are mostly gone now, but I still have autonomic sleep issues and what seems like a permanent daily rotation of phobic spiraling thoughts and trouble eating.

In January of 2023, my husband and I were so financially a wreck that I had to get another job again since I had almost no audience for art and witchcraft anymore and had been too sick to really put much effort into it. Even though I was still feeling unwell, I got a job at a local catering place and stayed for a year and a half part time. Another long story short, but that job was making me even more sick. I did have improvements and overall feel like it helped me get through agoraphobia, but I never received pay stubs the entire time, I couldn’t report the income even though I filled out a W2 THREE TIMES, and my boss would never have a schedule and expected me to just come in on a whim while my sleep was still almost non-existent. By the end I was only tolerating 8 hours a week and still needing to rest after from the stress and being unable to eat before or during shifts.

It ended…weirdly…with my boss spreading rumors that I was having a mental break and my husband was abusive (he’s not???) even though she and other employees were concerned that I was visibly losing weight. I had lost 14 lbs by the end of it and still have been at least since the fall.

And so now we are at the present in winter of 2024. I had started to focus on in-person art shows again more actively in 2023 and toured a little bit with Oddities & Curiosities Expo in 2024 and am doing so again in 2025! It was really rough physically for me to do that while still catering, but for the last few months I’ve been finishing my 2024 shows and focusing on re-building what I actually want to do now that my husband has graduated his apprenticeship with pipe-fitting and can support us both a little easier. And to be clear, I couldn’t do this without him. His hard work has kept me insured and able to seek medical help without cost to me since we got married and now it’s giving me the option to actually take my work seriously!

So…phew. That was a lot. But! I legitimately do want to keep doing this, why I came to Tumblr in the first place so many years ago. I want to be a witchcraft and pagan blogger/writer. I want to keep creating Hel Mary’s and providing personalized statuary to other pagan practitioners, I do want to keep reading Tarot, I do want to keep developing my digital drawing skills, I will be focusing more on in-person shows and I do want to be self-sufficient while still honoring my health as it clearly isn’t going to stop causing me issues.

You can help by liking and sharing posts that you may see, reading my blogs and leaving comments or likes there, following me on other social media, following my shop/page, buying from me of course and becoming a member!

Memberships are $1, $5 & $10 and include (based on tier) automatic shop discounts, monthly outlook tarot readings, personalized tarot readings and sticker mail!

Y’all have supported me through this crazy mess, and for new people - thank you for finding me and sticking around! I genuinely could not have made it through the last years without the monetary support and without the great friendships and connections I’ve made on tumblr. I hope that I can finally do what I really believe in while navigating whatever the world will be like.

Here are some helpful links on where to find me, my projects, etc.

Instagram/Threads

Facebook Page

Website/Blog/Shop

Memberships

Join the Death's Head Divination Discord Server!

Etsy - please don't use to shop. Message me if you don't see something on Ko-fi! Keeping for reviews.

Free Resource Google Form - add your local community resources so I can build a directory!

I think that's about it! I'm posting on like 5 different platforms, so I'm sorry that I can't be here 24/7, but I am always somewhere and very reachable if you have questions, if you're interested in custom work, etc.

Ko-fi is the best way to support me right now because there aren't as many fees as Etsy and it has a lot more options like keeping my blogs in one place and memberships! If you follow me there you will also get e-mails when I post or add new products. See you there!

[ultrainfinitepit]

Town of Puddle: Werewolves

Last updated 08/15/2023

Werewolves (or more generally, werecreatures) are a subset of shapeshifters who are differentiated from others by four key factors:

Werewolves have a humanoid form that is nearly indistinguishable from human.

Werewolves must always transform into their wereform during the night of the full moon. Wereforms vary, from humanoid or beast-like to dramatically monstrous. Many werewolves maintain control of their faculties during the transformation, making it more of an inconvenience than a threat. Some werewolves can transform at will at any other time.

Werewolves are weak to silver.

Werewolves are often immortal or extremely-long lived.

Werewolves are the most common werecreature, but there are many other types of werecreatures. Because werewolves are the most common of them, all werecreatures are often referred to as werewolves even if their beast form is not a wolf.

Werewolves all have a trait called “lycanthropy.” It is a curse, a magical affliction not a disease. Lycanthropy can most commonly be passed through a bite that draws blood, but there are other ways to pass it and it depends on the werecreature: similar to vampirism. 

There are many debated origins for werewolves, but they actually come from a single source. You may notice many werewolf traits are shared with vampires. This is because werewolves originate from vampires. 

The first werewolf was an ancient vampire Lycan: a child of Rapha and Asherah. After Rapha was killed, Asherah’s hold on reality and her kingdom began to wane. Lycan sought to take her place and make a new kingdom, one that would be entirely holy and free from what Lycan had come to see as Asherah’s evil demonic influence.

Filled with hubris and encouraged by their human followers, Lycan sought to make himself into something no longer vampire: human or greater than human, perhaps divine. The Cure that Lycan devised did indeed make him something else, but not a god: the first werewolf. It is said that Rapha, though dead and scattered into stardust, saw Lycan spurn Asherah his mother; saw Lycan seek to become a god; and cursed Lycan to be what he truly was: a monster with no control, a twisted wolf - unholy not because of his birth, but for turning against his family. While werewolves nowadays tend to maintain self-control in their beast forms, Lycan did not, and in fact was driven into a frenzy by Rapha’s curse. Lycan went after their followers and turned them all into werewolves, together they became the First Pack and scattered across the globe, spreading lycanthropy as they went. 

The members of the First Pack became legendary and were hunted by those seeking glory through the ages. None now remain, even Lycan was hunted down. But it is said Lycan’s immortality was twisted just as his body and mind were; and now his spirit lives on to spread lycanthropy and to turn any werecreature into a frenzied beast.

Perhaps if the Cure was discovered again, if used on any other without Lycan’s hubris it would indeed cure vampirism. But no one has yet rediscovered it, and no trace of that ancient recipe remains. Those who pursue it always seem to meet a grim end, as if Rapha strikes down any who tries.

Below are my Puddle werewolves.

Wash Whitlock is a former British naval officer, who now works for the Order and acts as Ariel’s keeper. In the course of his duties he accidentally became a wereotter. Wash has wisely decided he does not need to share this information with Order higher-ups, though his colleagues are well-aware and tease him incessantly. 

Nuniq is a member of Ariel’s crew. She is the ship’s doctor, and practices both magic and science for healing. She is a Greenland wereshark. For her family, being a wereshark is hereditary on the mother’s side but can skip generations, and only develops around puberty. Nuniq had to track down her great-grandmother for help, when she found out she was one. That journey inspired her to continue traveling and exploring. Nuniq is approaching eighty but doesn’t look that old thanks to her wereshark nature. Greenland sharks can live incredibly long.

Below are @wyrmzier's werewolves.

Ines Luna was a catholic nun who performed all of her duties wonderfully. She was chaste, pure, and kind. She worked as a school teacher at the adjacent all girls school. Despite her faithfulness and piety she harbored deep guilt over her lesbianism, and when she heard rumors of two of her students attempting to elope to be with each other she went out to guide them to the right path. But she did not find any students, just an ancient feral wolf who attacked her. She was saved in time by the angel Dame, but with her life still intact the curse rooted in her veins and she was turned into a werewolf. The curse proved unwieldy. Ines could barely control herself every full moon; she feared her own bloodthirst and a powerful heat edged on by the presence of her savior. Her convent grew fearful and ashamed and kicked her out. The church was all Ines knew, but again Dame saved her and they wed and lived happily ever after.

[justsome-di]

NEUD Bonus Story: A Little Boy Named Oliver

Summary: Damián meets Oliver, Diego's four-year-old son.

This was published on Patreon back in April in the paid tier. If you want to read it there, you can now view it for free!

This short story is also on AO3.

----

“No, thank you. I’m watching what I eat.”

Diego set the serving spoon down but still narrowed his eyes at Damián. The tiramisu sat between them, innocent and rejected.

“This better be because you’re trying to consume less caffeine and not because you’re counting calories,” Diego said.

“I’m just trying to be mindful about what I’m putting in my body.”

“As a doctor—”

Damián playfully groaned. He grabbed Diego’s hand and kissed his knuckles.

Damián was a beautiful young man. His eyes were doe-like. His hair was curly and a bit shaggy. There were still lingering signs of youthfulness all over him. The gangliness of his limbs, the tightness of his entire body. He was at an age where maturing had done him all favors. Every year in your twenties, you get better. You get smarter. You shed the awkward remains of adolescence and blossom into a full adult.

Diego, on the other hand, felt like he was settling into a decline. He had feared that his 30s were going to be a free fall. That he was going to tumble down the bad side of aging quickly and hit middle age in a crumpled heap. But it was more like pausing at the top of a roller coaster. He knew what was going to happen. He just didn’t know when it would be or how fast it would go. All he knew was that he was holding his breath and fighting back a bite of nausea.

“I don’t need a lecture from a doctor,” Damián said.

“I was just going to say that as a doctor, I disapprove of most diets. You’re already thin, Marcus. You shouldn’t lose any weight.”

Damián tried looking cute. It came easy to him. All he had to was blink those eyes and pout those lips, and Diego was putty in his hands. He took a half-step closer to Damián and laid his hand in his curls. A lecture was still on the back of his tongue, but he didn’t want to kill the mood.

He was about to offer an invitation to the home office where Damián knew how to spread himself out for him, but the doorbell rang and interrupted the offer.

“I’ll be right back,” Diego said.

“Hurry. I might get lonely in here.”

He left Damián with a glass of wine and crossed the house. Before he reached the door, the bell rang again. And then again. And then again. Diego picked up a jog and wrenched open the front door.

His heart sank, and his shoulders fell.

“Sorry. He wanted to push the doorbell, and then he didn’t stop.”

“Hi, Daddy!”

Four-year-old Oliver bounced into the house with his little backpack strapped to him. Diego’s ex-husband stayed on the front stoop. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it up and off his forehead. When he dropped his arm back to his side, a tuft of hair stayed standing upright.

“Ethan,” Diego began.

“I would have called, but I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.” Ethan sounded almost breathless. “My mom’s in the hospital.”

Diego couldn’t be mad. He crossed his arms over his stomach. “What happened? Is she okay?”

“Kelly said she fell. Hurt her bad hip. I’m going over to see her right now, and I need you to take Oliver.”

Diego knew the right thing to do was say of course. Oliver was his boy. Cheryl was in the hospital. Ethan and Kelly needed to be with their mother. And despite the divorce, Diego still loved his ex-in-laws very dearly. It should have been easy to nod and wish Ethan the best.

But he hesitated and then asked, “How long do you think you’ll be there?”

“Diego, this really needs to be a moment when you say yes with no questions asked.”

“No. Of course. I just—I have company, and I don’t—”

Ethan sighed and pressed his fingers into his eyes. “He’s your child. This shouldn’t be a conversation.”

“Right. You’re right. Go see your mother. Tell her I gave her my best.”

Ethan finally nodded in approval.

“Um, Diego?”

Diego turned around. Damián had walked into the living room with Oliver, holding little Oliver’s jacket sleeve with the tips of his fingers. Oliver, with his free hand, munched on a garlic knot.

Damián knew that Oliver existed, but Diego never kept up pictures of him while Damián was around or ever mentioned his name or age. Damián knew that a child existed as a concept rather than as a physical, living, breathing being.

“Who does this belong to?” Damián asked. Ethan had walked in behind Diego. He stared at Damián, and Damián stared back. Diego felt ill.

“I can ask the same question,” Ethan said, gesturing to Damián who bristled at the comment. “This is ‘company?’”

“He’s a friend,” Diego lied.

“Friend. Sure. I’m sorry to interrupt your date, but I have to go. Ollie, I’m leaving now, okay?”

Oliver waved his hand that held the now-soggy garlic knot. “Bye, Daddy!”

“Be good tonight, okay?”

“Okay.”

Diego pressed his head to the door as he closed it behind Ethan. Great. The young escort he had been regularly hiring for a year had just met his family. His broken family. It was surely not going to get around that Diego was seeing young men post-divorce.

He pulled his head up and looked back at Damián and Oliver. Oliver still gnawed at his garlic knot, and Damián still held his sleeve with his fingertips.

“Why are you holding him like that?” Diego asked.

“Toddlers have a tendency to be sticky.”

“My Oliver is never sticky.”

“I don’t know, that garlic knot I gave him seems to be doing the trick.”

Diego loved Oliver dearly. More than anything in the world. He was the sweetest-looking little boy with dark, almost black eyes, and his thick brown hair.

“So,” Damián said, “was that your husband?”

“Ex-husband.”

“And when he made that comment about me being ‘company—‘”

“Don’t mind that. It has nothing to do with you. Anyone could be in this house, and he would be upset.”

Damián looked back down at Oliver. “And this is your son?”

“It is.” Diego bent down in front of Oliver. “Oliver, darling, did Daddy make you dinner before you came here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want a little dessert then?”

“Yeah!”

Diego swatted Damián’s hand away and took Oliver’s backpack off of him. He set it aside and led Oliver to the kitchen. He sat him on a chair and cleared the space in front of him.

“If you want to leave, I understand,” Diego said to Damián.

He rummaged through the freezer and found a half-eaten carton of vanilla ice cream that was only partially freezer burnt.

Damián caught Oliver’s hand right before it reached for the tiramisu. Oliver giggled up at him like stopping a small child from getting a hold of caffeine was a silly game.

“Do you think your ex will be gone long?” Damián asked.

Oliver reached for a glass of wine with his other hand. Damián lifted him out of his chair and held him on his hip. Oliver wiggled, but Damián held on tight. It was as if he had experience.

“It’s hard to say,” Diego said.

“I heard him mention something about his mother.”

The ice cream was frozen solid. Diego tried chipping away at it with a spoon, but hardly any could be scraped off.

“His mother’s a bit frail,” he said. “She’s been in and out of nursing homes for the past year. His sister said that she fell, so I’m sure they’d keep her in the hospital overnight. At least. But I’m just not sure if Ethan will stay with her all night.”

Diego laid a pathetic bowl of ice cream on the table. Damián sat Oliver down in his chair. Oliver picked up his spoon, not seeming to care that it was only a pile of miserable, frozen chunks.

“You don’t have to stay,” Diego repeated. “I’ve already paid you. If you want, you can leave. We won’t worry about it.”

“Well, I’m trying to decide if it’s worth it. If your ex won’t be gone long, I might as well hang around so we can get to everything after—unless you want me to leave. I’d get it if you don’t want me around your kid.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you around Oliver?”

“I don’t know how many people would willingly let their kid hang around a sex worker.”

“Marcus, please. You know you’re not immoral.”

“I know that.”

But Damián was still, apparently, trying to peg Diego. He was still trying to decide if Diego could be trusted.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Diego said. “We can still eat the tiramisu. I’ll put Oliver to bed, and we can. Wait.”

God, it sounded awful. Sending his son to bed so he didn’t have to look after him. So he could count down the minutes until he could have sex.

Oliver slid off the chair and ran to the living room. The pathetic bowl of ice cream was almost untouched. He turned his backpack upside down and dumped out all of the contents. Pajamas (Ethan had prepared for him to stay overnight after all), a handful of tiny dinosaurs, and a single red firetruck.

Diego had bought that firetruck for him last Christmas, and he was momentarily relieved to see Oliver was still playing with it.

Damián watched him scatter out his toys and then held out his hand when Oliver ran up to him to pull him into the living room.

“Guess I’m staying,” Damián said over his shoulder.

Diego busied himself with cleaning up. He dumped the ice cream in the sink. He wrapped up the tiramisu and stuck it in the fridge. Plates went in the dishwasher. The wine was re-corked. A rag was wiped across every surface.

And when it was all done, Diego took a deep breath and braved a step into the living room.

Damián was on the floor, puppeting a dinosaur to pounce on top of the firetruck. Oliver was delighted with his playmate, pulling out another dinosaur to retaliate.

“I don’t know what we’re playing,” Damián said, “but I might be winning.”

“I’m winning,” Oliver said.

“Oh. I was wrong.” Damián held out a dinosaur to Diego. “But I think there’s room for three?”

Diego reached out to the spinosaurus. He wrapped his fingers around it. The hard plastic bit into his palm.

Damián smiled up at him. His eyes were bright and inviting. Oliver grabbed his hand.

“Play with us, Daddy!”

Diego couldn’t remember the last time he sat down next to Oliver, holding one of his toys. Ethan always did that. He always laid with Oliver when he cried through tummy time and always crawled around him with stuffed animals and wooden blocks.

“Say ‘please,’” Damián chided.

Oliver looked at Diego with perhaps the sweetest eyes on Earth and smiled. Quietly, he asked, “Please?”

“Of course, mijo. Tell me what I have to do. What are the rules?”

“There are no rules.”

Damián shrugged at Diego. “There aren’t any rules, I guess. But Oliver is winning.”

Oliver let out a mighty roar—as mighty as his tiny body could force out.

——————

“Oliver, what’s your favorite movie?”

There were few options to stream on Netflix. The animated movies section was definitely lacking in quality content. Or content overall.

“Mulan,” Oliver said.

“I love Mulan!” Damián said. “Do you think we can watch it on the TV right now?”

“It’s there somewhere,” Diego said.

He had dug around for it many times before. He wasn’t looking particularly looking forward to hearing the same music and the same jokes for the 100th time.

But Damián was more than willing to sit through a Disney movie, and Diego wanted to follow his lead.

“My brother loved Mulan when he was little,” Damián said. “My dad wasn’t super happy about him watching a movie like that, but I argued that she isn’t a princess. She’s a warrior. And that made him kind of okay with it.”

“I like the dragon,” Oliver said.

“Me too! Oh, here it is. Are you ready, Oliver?”

“Uh-huh.”

Damián pressed play and got up from the floor to join Diego on the couch. He rubbed his knees where they had been bent into the floor all evening. Damián was far too young to be complaining about his joints, but Diego knew he didn’t have very forgiving floors. It had been an oversight when he bought the townhouse. He hadn’t considered long play sessions with his son. In the end, though, it seemed Damián was the only one who was going to suffer. He was the only one who had put in the hours playing from down there.

The Disney castle appeared on screen with the iconic orchestra.

Damián pressed close into Diego’s side. And then, slow so Diego had time to object, rested his head on his shoulder. Diego put his arm around Damián and pulled him in closer. It was invitation enough for Damián to slide his arm around Deigo’s waist and curl up entirely against him.

It felt nice having the weight on him, sharing the warmth of their bodies. One of Damián’s loose curls tickled his nose. It smelled heavily of artificial fruit mixed with the chemicals of hair products.

Diego rubbed his thumb over Damián’s exposed arm where he had rolled up his sleeves to play with Oliver. Damián had scarce body hair. What was on his forearms was thin compared to the coarse hair Diego had from the back of his hands up.

When they fucked, Diego liked to pay close attention to Diego’s almost-bare chest, the dark patches that sprouted on his lower tummy and led to the well-trimmed but thick curls over his pubic bone.

“Is he wearing you out?” Diego asked.

There was a short, deep chuckle in Damián’s chest. “I’m okay. I have experience with my little brother when he was younger.”

“How old is he now?”

“Uh. Jeez.” Damián rubbed his face. “He must be 14 now? I think he just started high school.”

“You don’t know how old your brother is?”

Damián burrowed deeper into Diego’s side.

Oliver abandoned his toys to stand in front of them, missing out on the cuddling. Diego let go of Damián’s arm and held out his hand. Oliver climbed up on top of them and nestled in close between their laps.

For a moment, Diego thought they all felt like a family.

——————

Oliver had settled on Damián’s lap, pressed into his chest. Though his face was turned away from Diego, he could see the toddler was asleep. Diego ran the tips of his fingers through Oliver’s hair. He moved his hand down to Oliver’s back, pressing it flat against his pajamas.

Oliver was such a sweet kid, and Diego barely spent any time with him. And sure, now, when he was still so young, Oliver loved him. He cheered when Ethan dropped him off at his front door. But in just a few short years, Oliver would start to notice that Diego wasn’t nearly as good of a father as Ethan was.

He would realize how few diaper changes Diego had done, how many late nights he had spent at work rather than at home with his family. Oliver would catch on when Diego would struggle to remember his interests and surely show up late to soccer games or little league meets when Diego’s practice required just a few more hours of attention.

Diego loved Oliver. More than anything. But he was never meant to be a father.

“Do you want to put him to bed or something?” Damián asked. “He’s totally out.”

“No. Not yet.” Diego stood. “Excuse me for a second.”

He escaped to the kitchen and sat at the table with his head pressed into his hands. Ethan had been so excited to be a dad. It was all he talked about the year leading up to their adoption. And Diego had looked forward to it, too. A part of him felt good that he was appeasing some standard. A spouse and a child and a white picket fence. Oliver was like a box he could check. If he got a child, he would be happy because people with children in nuclear families were always happy.

Oliver came, and Diego doted on him for the first few weeks. His hands were tiny, and Diego loved holding them between his fingers. His face was scrunched up like a raisin. Diego dutifully dragged himself out of bed in the middle of the night when Oliver cried in his bassinet next to Ethan’s side of the bed.

But eventually, the novelty wore off. Diego went back to work quickly. He couldn’t neglect his patients for too long. The routine of everyday life returned, and Diego would bounce Oliver on his knee and try to encourage him to sit up on his own. But it was Ethan who was staying home with him, it was Ethan who was waking up now to stumble to the nursery in the dark while Diego slept through it.

Diego didn’t stop loving Oliver, but there were days he figured he could stay an extra hour at work. He could skip bath time or story time. He didn’t need to look at every picture Ethan sent him of Oliver at breakfast or playing with a toy he had played with every day for a month.

Diego and Ethan started arguing when Oliver was only six-months-old. They felt like they were drowning when Oliver was nine-months. Diego was served the divorce papers the week after Oliver’s first birthday only because he knew Ethan couldn’t stand to start the whole process before their child was one. They had to make it at least one year for a reason Diego could never understand.

It was civil and quick. Ethan asked for joint custody, and Diego accepted every other week with his son and a fair share of holidays. Diego insisted Ethan keep the house, but he asked for the antique bookcase from their living room. It held most of Diego’s books anyway, Ethan had said. His vintage medical books had always looked quite handsome on the shelves.

The night before he moved out, Diego held onto Ethan and cried for the first time since they were told the exhaustive adoption process had finally led them to a baby. Ethan had always been the more emotional of the two. He blubbered through their wedding vows. He Christened Oliver with his tears. But Diego couldn’t help it with the boxes and luggage sitting by the front door.

It felt worse than failure. It was a catastrophe. An Act of God that tore down everything around Diego, that Diego never would have known how to prepare for.

Ethan and Diego slept in the same bed one last time, their backs turned to each other. Oliver slept through the night for the first time that night.

And now his son was curled up with a stranger who was warmer to him than Diego ever was.

“Diego?”

Diego looked up.

Damián was so quiet. He padded into the kitchen without a sound. Poor thing was still in his tight outfit. Diego thought it was sexy when the night started, but now he could only think about how uncomfortable he must have been while running around the house with Oliver. Maybe Diego should have offered him something more comfortable to lounge in. But that would have felt far too intimate. Far too personal. Damián wasn’t a boyfriend. He was a hired escort Diego had grown a little too close to.

“Are you okay?” Damián asked.

“Fine.”

Diego leaned back in his chair. Damián stood at his side.

“Are you sure?” Damián asked.

Diego pressed his head into Damián’s middle. He savored the warmth radiating from under his shirt for a few seconds and then pulled away before it got too dangerous.

Damián took a seat next to him. “We can talk. If you need to.”

Diego looked at Damián—all big eyes and curly hair. Still so young. Basically a kid himself. He would have no idea what Diego could be going through.

“Marcus, why do I hire you?” Diego asked.

Damián sat stiff in his chair. “Because I’m good at what I do? I hope.”

“Yes—yes, you are. But why do I hire you? How old were you the first time we met?”

“I think I was 23.”

Diego sunk into his chair and covered his face with his hands and dragged them down to pull at his eyes and cheeks with his fingers. “Shit.”

“What?”

“You know how old I am? I’m 36, Damián.”

Damián flinched at his own name. Diego almost hated that he knew it, but Damián had told him one night after six months of seeing each other. He was trusting Diego with it, and Diego saved it for only the most special occasions when he wanted to tear down the wall between them. When he wanted to talk to the real Damián. The boy from the other side of town with three roommates and a new hobby of keeping plants. Not Marcus who only existed for a few hours a month.

Damián grabbed his sleeve tightly. “Are you saying you don’t want to see me anymore?”

“I—no. No, I’m not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That I’m a bad father.”

Damián tilted his head. His lips parted, and Diego could see the little tips of his front teeth. Diego wondered if he bleached them. They were the perfect shade of white, and Diego wasn’t sure if that could ever be natural. The teeth themselves were real. Diego had already memorized where the bottom row slightly turned into each other like Damián had had braces in his youth but neglected to keep up with a retainer. It almost wasn’t noticeable, but Diego had seen it plenty of times when Damián’s mouth was wide open in a silent moan on the floor of his study.

“I don’t think I follow,” Damián said.

“I’m a bad father to Oliver. I can’t do anything right, and now my ex-husband thinks I’m seeing a man 12 years younger than me.”

Damián’s jaw clenched. The joint jutted out, widening his face. “I don’t know what I have to do with any of this.”

“You have nothing to do with any of it.” Diego leaned forward to take his hand. “I wasn’t trying to imply anything. It’s just—Ethan knows I’m a bad father, and I was about to turn away my own son away because I was concerned about fulfilling our—our transaction.”

“But you didn’t turn Oliver away.”

“That part doesn’t matter all that much.”

“I think it does. I think it matters a lot.” Damián leaned back in his chair, pulling his hand away from Diego. He tucked his arms over his chest and stared off at the tea towel draped over the handle of the oven. “I don’t know. My parents disowned me, so I think for me, the bar is set pretty low. But I think that stopping what you were doing so you could be there for your son means a lot.”

“I didn’t know your parents disowned you.”

Damián shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

“No, it is. I’m sorry they did that.”

“It’s whatever now.” Damián looked at him and smiled. “Now, I get to be a sad, little sex worker with baggage men get to fantasize about fixing.”

Diego held his breath for a moment. He looked Damián and his forced smile over.

“Do you think that that’s what I want?” He asked. “I don’t. I’d rather you be a happy, little sex worker with no baggage. I don’t want to fix you. I don’t want you to be broken.”

Diego didn’t want that sort of responsibility or to put in that sort of effort. He wanted Damián to be whole, like an already assembled table. Diego was never good at IKEA instructions.

He also didn’t want anyone to take advantage of Damián because they had savior complexes. He didn’t like the thought of other men mistreating Damián.

“It is what it is. This way, I at least get to appeal to people who love this kind of shit,” Damián said.

“Don’t—no, don’t do that.” Heat was rising in Diego’s cheeks. “Don’t book people who are going to look at you like that. You’re more than a tragic story for people to jack off to. Everyone has their shit.”

“Yeah, but some people’s shit can be a fetish.” Damián blinked a few times, quickly. “Anyway, let’s get back to you. Why do you think you’re a bad father?”

Diego didn’t want to continue that conversation, but he let Damián redirect him anyway.

“I always have been.”

Damián stood and stared down at Diego. He had a pouty look to him that drove Diego wild on most nights. But Diego had too many feelings stirring around right then to get aroused.

Diego slipped one hand on Damián’s narrow waist.

Damián moved forward, carefully. He sat on Diego’s lap and wrapped his arms around his neck.

“I don’t think you’re a bad father,” Damián said. “I think you’re doing all you can.”

Diego ran his hand over Damián’s hair and down his cheek and then kissed him. “You don’t know the whole story.”

“I don’t think I need to. You care enough about him that you’re worried you’re not a good father. I think that that’s proof you’re not that bad.”

Maybe Damián had a point, and it did soothe Diego’s nerves. He wasn’t a total deadbeat. He did really care about Oliver, and maybe that would be worth something, someday.

—————

Damián stayed in the kitchen when Ethan came back later that same night. Diego held Oliver in his arms, rubbing his back.

“He could have stayed with me overnight,” Diego said.

“He has a dentist appointment first thing in the morning. I know you wouldn’t be able to make it to that.”

There was a little edge to Ethan’s voice that Diego resented. But he was right. Diego’s schedule was packed full. He’d have to shuffle patients around to get to Oliver’s dentist across town—if Diego could even remember where it was. Or what the dentist’s name was.

“How’s Cheryl?” Diego asked.

Ethan stroked Oliver’s hair and brushed his knuckle against a rosy, round cheek.

“She’s okay,” Ethan said. “She’ll recover. Just a little bruising.”

“Really, Ethan, if you want to be with her, Oliver can sleep here.”

“No. No, I’d feel better if he were with me.”

Ethan slid an arm between Diego and Oliver. Without waking him, they moved him to Ethan’s arms.

“Goodnight,” Ethan said. “I’ll bring Oliver back around on Friday.”

“Ethan?”

Ethan looked back at Diego.

“I am trying,” Diego said. “Really. I am. I know I’ve never been the best dad—or a good one, even, maybe. But—“

Diego cut himself off before he embarrassed himself any further. Ethan’s face was twisted, sad.

“I’ve never said—I never want—I haven’t meant to make you feel like you’re a bad father,” Ethan said. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. “I just wish you would step up a little more. I don’t know. I’d like it if you initiated things with us more. I’d like it if you tossed out an idea about what school we should get him into next year or if he should do gymnastics or soccer. Because right now, it’s just me trying to figure a thousand things out on my own.”

Diego hadn’t thought about all of it before. He knew that at some point Oliver would be in sports and in school, but he never really saw himself as being part of that process. In his mind, when he thought about the future, he just always thought of Oliver as doing things and being places, somehow magically manifesting there.

“Listen,” Ethan said. “If you want to do lunch or coffee or something sometime, let me know.”

“Maybe we can take Oliver out for a day?” Diego asked. He had always had dreams of going out on day trips with his little family before it was broken up. “We can take him to the beach or to the zoo.”

Ethan, softly, said, “I think that’d be nice. He’s never seen the beach before.”

Diego kissed Oliver on the top of the head and risked giving Ethan an awkward side-hug goodbye. He watched Ethan drive off down the dark street until he turned at a stop sign. He gently closed the door.

Damián was in the kitchen, re-opening the bottle of wine Diego had corked hours ago. He poured two glasses. Diego took his and then took Damián’s hand and led him to a chair. Damián took a seat on his lap as if they had done it every night for a year after sending their child off to his other daddy.

“Are they gone?” Damián asked.

“Yup.”

Damián laid his hand on Diego’s chest. “What do you want to do now?”

“If you want to go home, you can. It’s late, and you’ve done more than enough.”

Damián’s lips pouted out. “You don’t want me around any more?”

He was back to being cutesy, talking in that almost-baby voice. It was impressive how fast he could switch the act on and off. But maybe Diego would talk to Damián about the whiny tone later. Maybe it was time for him to request Damián act a bit older.

“It’s not that,” Diego said, voice gentle and calm. “I’m just saying it’s late, and I haven’t paid you to be with me this long. And Oliver must have exhausted you, you poor thing.”

Damián lifted his chin and looked to the ceiling. He didn’t look exhausted at all. “I technically didn’t fulfill your appointment request.”

Diego laid his hand on Damián’s hip. It was thin, Diego could hold it so easily with one hand. He couldn’t remember when he was so young and lanky. It felt like forever ago. He couldn’t see where he had boarded the roller coaster anymore.

“How about,” Diego said, “I pay you a little extra tonight, and we head to my office in a minute?”

It must have made Damián happy because he wiggled in Diego’s lap and pressed their faces together. Diego caught his lips for a few seconds and then let him go to jump down and run off to the bathroom to freshen up.

Diego leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine.

He thought about where he would have Damián lay that night, hands up so vulnerable while his head tilted back. He was eager to hear those sweet, little gasps that came from Damián’s mouth while he climaxed. Diego tried picturing it all as he walked to his office, trying to place the scene as it would happen right there on his loveseat.

But his mind kept wandering to beaches

[regenderate-fic]

Quid Pro Quo

Fandom: Doctor Who Ships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler Characters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler Rating: General Word Count: 2,653 Other Tags: Egg Tenth Doctor, Transfem Tenth Doctor, Sharing Clothes, Making Out, Intimacy, Drag, Pre-Episode: Fear Her

Read on AO3

Summary: Rose and the Doctor have an exchange.

NOTES: inspired by this art by nipuni! original concept was that art -> this image pipeline

the intention here is 100% very much to be writing the tenth doctor as an egg ie. as a trans girl who doesn't know she's a girl yet. i've used he/him pronouns because it's from ten's pov and at this point in time ten's internal monologue is using he/him pronouns but i would like everyone to know where this fic stands on the subject. happy tomorrow is transfem ten(too) tuesday. (and the drag tag is entirely for rose in the doctor's clothes. it is drag To Me.)

also this takes place right before fear her in my mind <3

“What do you think?” Rose was standing at the foot of her bed, her arms spread wide. She also, as it happened, was wearing the Doctor’s blue button-up, his tie loosely tied around her neck. “Can I pull it off?”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. He’d been lying on her bed in his undershirt, idly flicking through one of the Earth gossip magazines Rose brought back from her visits home as he waited for her to be out of the shower. He’d learned a lot about early 21st century celebrity culture, but he had been so absorbed in that that he hadn't noticed Rose, freshly showered, coming out of the bathroom and putting on his shirt. 

“Er—” He floundered. The truth was, she could pull it off. The shirt was endearingly too big for her: just the tips of her fingers were poking out of the sleeves, and the hem came down to her mid thigh. There was a rakish quality to the tie, too. The Doctor had to admit—it was cute. But before he could say that, Rose held up a hand. 

“Wait—don't answer that.” She picked up his jacket from the chair where he'd left it and pulled it on. “Now?”

“D’you want my trousers, too, while you're at it?” The Doctor was trying to give off an air of annoyance, but truthfully it was hard to be annoyed with Rose. Especially not when she was grinning at him like that. 

“Only if you can spare them,” she said. 

As she focused on buttoning the jacket, he unzipped his trousers and peeled them off his legs. He balled them up and tossed them at her. 

It struck him, as he watched Rose’s attempts at getting his trousers to stay up around her waist, that this was somehow the most exposed he'd been around her. They’d spent nearly every waking moment together for—well, it was nearly impossible to tell how long, what with the time travel and all, but it had been a good while—and Rose had never seen the Doctor’s legs. He wondered whether he ought to be self-conscious. And then he realized if he was wondering, he probably was self-conscious. Why was he self-conscious? All right, yes, he preferred to be covered up, but there was no real reason for it. And anyway, he knew Rose wouldn't mind. She'd seen him in far more compromising circumstances, all things considered, and she still liked him well enough to let him sit in her bedroom while she showered. Still, he found himself pulling his legs closer to his body, and by the time Rose had found a belt and used it to cinch his trousers at her waist, he was sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed.

“Hang on,” she said, looking down at herself. “Where's the coat? If I'm doing this right, I need the coat.”

“It's in the console room, I'm afraid.”

Rose grinned. “Wait here, then.” She was out the door in a second, a blur of brown and blue and blonde. Obedient, the Doctor leaned back against the pillows to wait. 

It was only a few minutes before Rose was back, the Doctor’s coat flapping around her heels. She struck a pose. “Now do I pull it off?”

The Doctor looked. “Hang on, are you wearing my shoes?” They were barely visible under the trousers, but still, he would've remembered if Rose had owned Converse. 

She rolled her eyes. “Had to get the full ensemble, didn't I?”

“Hm.” The Doctor looked at her properly. Yes, his clothes were too big for her—but he had a feeling they wouldn't have fit her half as well if they’d been tailored. “Yes, well, I suppose you look all right.”

Rose raised her eyebrows. “Just all right?” 

“Fine, fine, you wear it well.” 

Rose beamed. She plunged a hand into the pockets—bigger on the inside, those pockets were, and nigh impossible to navigate, except Rose had figured out where the important things were kept—and pulled out his sonic screwdriver. “Now I’m really the Doctor,” she said. “Suppose I’d better start acting like it, too.” Her back straightened, and she put on what he quickly recognized was a caricature of his tone. “Now, I think you'll find, if you just overload the—flux capacitor—”

“That's from Back to the Future,” the Doctor interrupted. “Won't find it on the TARDIS.”

“Ah, but that's a common misconception,” Rose replied, still in character. “The flux capacitor is actually the most important part of the TARDIS—”

“Not how that works—”

“—and any relationship between that name and any films from the 1980’s probably has something to do with a very wet day I spent with—whoever wrote that screenplay—”

“Ah, yes, well, you're not too far off the mark there—”

He could swear he saw a smirk. But Rose didn't break character. “And, besides, they got everything else about the time travel wrong, despite my—my best efforts—so there's not much point discussing it further.” She stepped towards the Doctor. “Anyway, what have we here?” She waved the sonic at him and, with a flourish, pretended she was reading it. “Hold on…” She fished in his pocket again and came back with his glasses, which she perched on the bridge of her nose. “Ah, yes.” She picked up the Doctor’s hand and angled it this way and that. “If I'm right…” Her eyes met his, and a second later the tip of her tongue flicked across his skin. He fought the urge to yank his hand away, and meanwhile she pulled back, saying, “Ah, yes. Just as I suspected. Time Lord through and through.”

The Doctor shook his head. His hand still tingled from where she'd been holding it. That, and the spot where she'd licked him was uncomfortably colder than the rest of his skin. “Too clever for your own good, you are.” He tilted his head to the side. “Anyway, if you're the Doctor, who am I supposed to be?”

Rose hummed. “Too bad my clothes won't fit, or you could be Rose.” She looked around. “Except… there's always my makeup.”

The Doctor started. “There's—what?”

Rose was already grabbing things off her vanity. Before the Doctor could protest, she'd shed the long coat and tucked his glasses back into their pocket so she could clamber onto the bed and swing one leg over his lap to straddle him. 

“Right, now, hold still.” All of a sudden, Rose’s face was very close to his. Not that he was complaining—quite the opposite—but it still took him a moment to adjust to the proximity, the warm weight of her legs around his waist, her big eyes centimeters from his. “Don't think you’d enjoy loads of foundation—hang on, close your eyes.”

Without thinking, the Doctor obliged. He did his best not to flinch when he felt a soft pad on his eyelid—eyeshadow, he was reasonably sure. 

The Doctor couldn't really say how it had happened, but at some point, while Rose was applying the eyeshadow, he'd wound up lying on his back against the pillows, and Rose was hovering over him, tilting her head this way and that as she evaluated her work. 

“Hold still,” she said, this time weilding an eyeliner pencil, and the Doctor was quick to oblige, lest he lose an eye to what was essentially a whim. Rose was gentle, though, pulling the pencil carefully along his eyelid. “Keep your eyes closed,” she said, and the Doctor felt something—a mascara wand?—brushing against his eyelashes. 

When Rose finally pulled away and the Doctor finally opened his eyes, she smiled with satisfaction. “Right, now blush—” She picked up another little plastic case and popped it open. The Doctor watched, this time, as she dipped a brush into the case and swept it over his cheeks. “You've got good bone structure,” she commented, half-distracted still. 

“Er—thanks?” What made bone structure ‘good’? Still, it didn't matter, he could take a compliment. 

Rose snapped the blush closed. “How do you feel about lipstick?” she asked. “I don't wear it all the time—but this is a special occasion—”

“How do you figure that?”

He felt her shrug in the way her body shifted over him. “Don't know. Not every day you let me do your makeup.”

The Doctor frowned. “You've never asked.”

“Didn't think of it ‘til now.”

“So, it's not that I don't let you do this,” he said. “You didn't think of it.”

“Oh, yeah? You’d let all this happen again?”

The Doctor considered for a moment. Frankly, there was a lot he'd do if it meant Rose would straddle him like this, but he wasn't going to say that. “I don't mind it,” he finally said. “‘Course, I have yet to see a final product—”

“All in good time,” Rose promised. “Now stop talking so I can do the lipstick.”

“All right, all right.” The Doctor held still as Rose came in again with a tube of bright red lipstick. 

“Okay, now do this—” She pressed her lips together. 

The Doctor mimicked her, and she smiled. 

“Brilliant.” She leaned in to inspect her work. “You're hot, as a woman.”

The Doctor’s mouth had gone very dry. “What, I wasn't hot before?”

Rose smiled. She was still leaning over him, now, propped up on her elbows with her face hovering above his. “Didn't say that, did I?”

This all felt surreal. They flirted all the time, of course, but this was different. More direct, more intimate, with the added layer of vulnerability that came with sitting in his underwear and letting someone else get close to his eyes with something stick-shaped and vaguely pointy. If he tried, the Doctor could map out all the steps that had gotten them to this point, but he still couldn't quite figure out why they’d all happened, nor was he quite sure why their natural conclusion had been this, Rose Tyler leaning over him and telling him he made for a hot woman. 

He struggled to find a response. “Er—”

But before he could say anything, Rose’s head tilted forward, her eyes suddenly impossibly close to his, and he found himself completely incapable of speech. She smiled like she knew, and then before he could recover his facilities her lips were on his, and he knew he was done for. All the time he'd spent trying to avoid this—telling himself he couldn't cross that line—and he'd been fooling himself. All it had taken was the barest nudge, and the line had dissolved. There wasn’t a thought in his mind of pushing her away, not now Rose’s knees were pressing into his waist, not now her tongue was running along his bottom lip, not now his whole body was on fire with the thrill of it all. He didn't want to think what was happening to the lipstick she had so carefully applied—but, then again, she didn't seem offended, and after all it wasn't like he couldn't reapply if he felt like it later. 

His hands had found their way to her back, and he pressed her warm weight close against him, the knot of his—or, he supposed it was her—tie pressing into his chest. He scrambled to undo it, all while Rose did her absolute best to keep him distracted. Her tongue had made its way into his mouth, and now it was running along the back of his teeth, which was an altogether pleasant sensation, as it turned out. 

He finally got the tie undone, and his hands rested on Rose’s waist. He cursed himself for wearing so many layers—sure, he liked the suit, but he’d never considered how it would perform in this situation. Although, really, how could he have predicted this situation? He’d give himself a pass on the grounds that he never, not in a million years, would have expected any of this. Even if he wished he could be feeling the soft give of Rose’s waist through one of her T-shirts instead of layers of stiff fabric. 

As if she could read his mind, one of Rose’s hands went to the buttons of the jacket. Clumsily, she managed to undo them, and the Doctor slid the jacket off her shoulders and tossed it to the side. It still wasn’t enough—she wasn’t close enough—and in the strange, surreal bubble of the evening, he had just enough confidence to tug at the hem of the shirt and slip his hands under, skimming them along the skin of Rose’s back—and yes, this was much better. Rose, for her part, had started kissing down his jaw to his neck, and when her teeth scraped at his pulse point, he gasped. He felt her smile against his skin, and he couldn’t help but smile too. He’d wanted this for so long—but he’d never dreamed it would feel like this.

Rose moved back up to his mouth, and he kissed her with everything he had. One of her hands was brushing through his hair now, tugging gently at the roots. His breaths were coming hard and fast—no thanks to his respiratory bypass, which seemed to have gone offline—his skin seemed to sing with the joy of being touched—and then something shifted, and he and Rose both were moving more slowly, her hand tracing the back of his ear, his breaths slowing, until finally Rose pulled back and grinned. She brushed her thumb across the Doctor’s lower lip.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve made a bit of a mess of your lipstick.”

The Doctor breathed out a laugh. “No need to apologize,” he said.

Rose’s grin grew. 

--

The Doctor woke up the next morning in Rose’s bed, still in his undershirt and not much else. Rose was fast asleep next to him, still in his button-up, although she seemed to have kicked off his trousers. She seemed to stir when he brushed a hand through her hair, but it didn’t last—she burrowed her head further into her pillow, and he chuckled to himself as he stretched. 

He gathered up his trousers and jacket and retreated to the wardrobe. It wasn’t until he caught sight of his face in the mirror that he remembered he hadn’t done anything to wash off the makeup from the night before. He leaned in. Even after sleeping in it, he had to admit he didn’t look half bad—maybe Rose had had a point when she’d said he was hot this way. Not that the Doctor typically spent a lot of time thinking about whether or not he was hot in really any capacity, but, well, even he noticed that the now-smudged eyeliner gave his eyes a bit of definition, and even though half the blush must’ve rubbed off, he sort of liked the way it framed his face. 

Still. His eyes were a bit irritated, and his lips felt dry and chapped. He found a pack of makeup wipes in a drawer next to the mirror, and before long his face was bare again. He glanced in the mirror—yes, that was what he expected, just the same as always—and then busied himself about finding a shirt. Perhaps he wouldn’t bother with all the layers today. He didn’t quite feel like dealing with all those buttons. He shed his undershirt and replaced it with a blue henley, and then he shrugged his jacket on over his shoulders. It managed to not be too wrinkled. His trousers had lost some of their crease, but they were presentable enough. He spent a couple minutes on his hair, and then he went out to the console room to wait for Rose.

She appeared about ten minutes later, freshly dressed in her own clothes and with a shy smile on her face. He returned it with a grin.

“All right, Rose Tyler, where are we going today?”

Rose practically skipped to stand next to him. “Dealer’s choice?” 

He took her hand. “Right. I know just the place.” 

[saga-project]

....fine, so maybe he wasn't going to kill his brothers for dumping him in the pool once they'd found out that he was very much in the process of shedding. Cain would have been hard-pressed to admit it, but the pool did feel nice. Warm enough that it wasn't unpleasant, with some substrate spread at the bottom that he could scratch on should he feel so inclined. And the jets were soft enough that they felt good to press up against. And the more he was left to his own devices, the more Cain started to indulge himself, flipping and somersaulting underwater as he expertly propelled himself through the waves. Surfacing to take a breath, he let out a small chirp in spite of himself, closing his good eye in silent bliss--

"Heya, Don."

"GOOD GALIL-" Cain yelped, flinching backwards so suddenly he sent a wave of water up into his face and had to splutter for several minutes to clear his airway. His startled expression warped into a frown as he beheld who was standing there, lips curling up into a displeased sneer. "Oh. You."

"Me," said April O'Neil, who was doing a terrible job of trying not to look smug. At least in his professional opinion.

"Why are you here?"

“Your brothers are goin’ on a snack run, and apparently you really like water so I’m here to make sure you don’t turn into a prune. Leo’s words, not mine.” April leaned on the pool's edge almost conspiratorially. As if she knew him. It was most annoying.

“Well, as you can see, I’m clearly fine. Now shoo. Skedaddle. Make like a tree and leaf. So on and so forth." He waggled a hand towards the entrance of the room then, as if to add import to his words.

April groaned then, rolling her eyes skyward. “Ugh. Why do you have to be such a stick in the mud about humans?”

“Because humans are the entire reason mutants and yokai have to hide out in the first place.”

“And the fact that I’ve known your brothers for like a DECADE or more—“

“Irrelevant. Why they trust you is beyond me. Now leave or I will make you leave.” His bo was still within grabbing distance, after all. He could easily make the excuse that she had been provoking him if his brothers came back to find her limp body bleeding out onto the tiles.

....though he supposed Mikey would be disappointed in him, then. Son of a bitch. That was only confirmed by April wincing slightly, almost having the grace to look guilty as she stood there. “Sorry. Mikey went Doctor Delicate Touch on me to get me to do this.”

"....of course he did. Well. I don't like you and we're not going to be friends. So there."

"Trust me, feeling's kiiiiiinda mutual on that one, bud."

Cain simply glared, pointedly turning his back on her to swim more laps. Fine. If she was going to act like an asshole, he could act like one in return. It was no skin off his back, so long as she didn't try to act upon said frustration. He had a fitness routine to be attending to anyway. Who said you couldn't glare daggers at someone and exercise at the same time?

His plan of doing his best to steadfastly ignore her worked for a time. And then the space between his shoulder blades started to itch, causing him to stop dead in his tracks and attempt to bring the area within reach. To no avail. Despite the nature of his shell making him more flexible than the average turtle mutant, that spot was staying resolutely out of reach, leaving him to groan and mutter under his breath in exasperation. “Mother of—just let me reach. Son of a….mmmfff-"

"You need some help there, bud?" Ah, right. That annoying, ear-bleeding voice again. Because if there was one thing that humans were terrible at, it was leaving well enough alone and not sticking their noses into things.

"Not from a human." Scratch scratch scratch. Come on, it was right there. Just let him--

"Suuuuure ya don't, bud. I can help scratch your back, it's really not a--"

"You must be even stupider than I thought if you think I'm letting you anywhere near my shell. I am fine."

Several more minutes passed. Cain continued to try new angles, twisting and bending. He would not accept defeat when his dignity was on the line. Not in front of a human. He would--

"....human April."

"Do you need help?" To her credit, she was at least trying to keep the smug tone out of her voice.

"Sweet baby Galileo yes."

"Alright, tough guy. Get over here."

As much as a part of him loathed to admit that he swam over as quickly as he did, Cain obeyed, directing her as she started scratching slow circles into his shell. "Higher. Higher and a little to the lef---ohhhhh my god yes right there. Perfect." He shut up afterwards, determined to keep his mouth shut and just let April work. Surely he didn't need to thank her just for performing a service for him, after all. She was just doing the work that any of his brothers probably would have done as well, if they'd been in her shoes.

But he couldn't deny that she was getting at the nooks and crannies better than he probably could. It felt....nice. His shell was so sensitive anyway, but combined with the shedding....it was a good kind of different. Add that to the warm water, and Cain was feeling quite content at that moment. He squinted his eye shut, tilting his head up towards the ceiling--

Chirp! Churrr churrrrrr churrr.

--and then startled, narrowing his good eye and looking towards April. "Not. A. Word."

"Your secret's safe with me, tough guy," she said, huffing out an amused breath. "But seriously. Was gettin' your back scratched by a human that bad?"

Cain considered, for a moment. “Mmmf. Suppose not. I thank you for being willing to do it, at least. Don’t think this means we’re friends, though."

"Sure it doesn't."

"....I am choosing to ignore the blatant sarcasm in your tone."

"Did I mention we have snacks, Don?"

"Not interested. For all I know, you probably poisoned it."

"What if it's sushi." He looked back towards her then, eye narrowing. "....you're bluffing."

"Oh, am I?" April rifled through a bag then, pulling out a small cube of sushi, and Cain didn't even have the mental capacity to be ashamed of how fast his eyes widened as he reached for it.

"GIVE."

“Ah ah ah. First give me a genuine thank you.” Oh, this bitch. She was so lucky that his bo was now out of arm's reach.

“Mmmmmph. FINE. Thank you ever so much for scratching my back. It was most helpful. Now hand over the fish."

"...eh. Good enough." She tossed the sushi cube to him, and Cain all but snatched it out of the air, devouring it in one hearty gulp as his tail gave a pleased wag behind him. Man, that was good. It had been so long since he'd had a good piece of sushi--

Chrrrrup! Chirp chirp chirp--

He slapped a hand over his mouth in embarrassment, even as April sent a soft smile in his direction. "Awwww. That's adorable."

"I am not adorable."

"It kinda is."

"No, it's not. I'm not supposed to make those sounds, or else-" Wait, he wasn't supposed to be talking about what Papa had done to him with anyone else. He snapped his beak shut just in the nick of time, ignoring the concerned frown that April sent in his direction.

"Or what." "Nothing."

"Mmmm." She cocked a brow incredulously, and god damn it how was she so good at making him want to fess up even when he'd done absolutely nothing wrong--

"...just that a warrior isn't supposed to be chirping."

Her gaze seemed to soften as she sat there, some unreadable emotion flashing through her gaze. "Don. You're a kid. You shouldn't have to be a warrior unless you wanna be."

"Y-yeah, well..." Why did his voice sound so shaky all of a sudden. Get it together, Cain, come on--

"Did they punish you? For chirping, or-"

"April, can we...I....I don't want to talk about it. At least not now. Please?" Keep it together. He would not start screaming at April all because she'd asked a question. He would not let panic start to overwhelm him. That would be stupid.

At least April seemed to realize that it wasn't a conversation topic she should be pushing him about, relenting after a moment. "Okay. But you should talk to someone about it, you know? Doesn’t have to be me.”

He let out a non-committal hum under his breath, letting the conversation lapse back into silence again. And then--

"Can I ask you something?" "You've already shown that you're not going to leave no matter what I do, so. Shoot."

"Did you always used to hate humans?"

Damn. She'd caught him. "I....well. I mean. No." Cain glanced away for a moment, sighing heavily. "I didn’t know how they’d react to me, but I didn’t hate them. I still don’t really HATE your kind. I just don’t trust you.”

"Soooo. What changed."

Okay, so they were doing this. “…..never seeing a human in my life. Never really knowing what their world was like. Hearing stories about how cruel they were to the yokai. And….and if I was being treated as a warrior by the people who raised me, then I didn’t think your kind would treat me much differently. There’s no place for me out there. Besides, everyone I’ve ever trusted has stabbed me in the back eventually.” He was pointedly avoiding looking her in the eyes then, too afraid of the emotions he'd see dancing in her gaze if he bothered.

"...well, your brothers are my friends. I'd never do anything to hurt them, and I'd never do anything to hurt you. I promise. And when April O'Neil makes a promise, I never break it. So you can trust me."

"....we'll see about that."

".....alright. You want more sushi? There's more in the bag-"

"I wouldn't be opposed."

"Oooh, I know. We could make a game out of it. I've been watching how good you are at swimming. I can throw it in, and if you do a cool trick to catch it-"

"I am not falling for your....your bribery or whatever this is." Cain's eye narrowed again, but his tone was much less biting than before.

"....I can loan you my Atomic Lass DVDs if you do it."

His eyes widened. "Wait a minute. You like Atomic Lass?"

"Uh, yeah! Because I have taste? Who wouldn't? I actually find her movies really-" She cut herself off as Cain leaned closer, his eyes sparkling.

"Ohoho, I have so much to quiz you on! What are your thoughts on the practical effects? How about the fight scenes? Give me your opinions on everything.”

And as April settled in to talk, occasionally tossing a sushi piece for him to retrieve, Cain found himself gradually relaxing, smiling softly.

Maybe….maybe he could trust one human, at least.

[blahdom]

It's him, it's me

Born in 1951 and died in 2010, he was known as Ibung by all his peers and kin. I called him Papa. This is him in the photo, taken when he was in his early 30s, I think. Nowadays, his and my mom’s friends often comment that I look a lot like him.

We were never close. While I was little, he was often away for work, mostly in other cities, and only home on weekends. At some point in his life, he became so absorbed in his obsession with starting his own ventures. He initiated a couple of them, but none of them landed well. After the 1997 recession, he finally gave in. He spent most of his time at home, mainly moving about on the front porch tending to the goldfish aquarium or caring for our pet birds, or when inside playing solitaire on our desktop computer. From time to time, ideas for new business ventures would emerge through friends or relatives. His eyes would spark again during these moments. But they never developed into anything solid.

As I grew older, I became increasingly rebellious toward him. Despite everything, he continued trying to connect with me.  This usually occurred during the rare times we drove alone together to out-of-town destinations. Then he would give me pep talks about how to become a successful businessman. He also took charge of my education, pushing me toward earning a BA in Economics focusing on Management. This was one of his dreams for me—just as he had hoped during my early teenage years that I would become a swimmer like him—that I would follow in his footsteps as a business manager, or at least as an accountant. His dreams were simple, yet I continued to harbor resentment. It took me some time to realize that my anger was never about or at him. I was angry towards all the unjust things that the world had offered: to me, to those I saw around me, to him.

I believed the distance between us grew so wide that it had become unbridgeable, and I made sure of that by choosing to stay in Yogyakarta, away from parents' home and from him. This continued until around November 2009, when my mom told me to come back. He had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and was given just three months to live. The doctor advised that the only thing we could do was provide him with comfort in his final days.

So, I returned to my parents’ house in Jakarta and stayed there for an extended period. Most of my time there was spent driving him to various alternative healing therapies throughout the city. I also assisted him with moving to the bathroom so that my mom could wash him. Eventually, he began to experience constant back pain as the cancer had already spread throughout his spine. I would wake up in wee hours whenever he rang the bell, signaling that he needed someone to rub his excruciatingly painful back. Usually, my mom was deeply sleeping next to him, too tired to even hear the bell. One night after rubbing his back, he said softly to me, “Thank you.” I didn’t respond.

In his final days, shortly after his 60th birthday on February 14th, more or less 3 months after his diagnosis, his condition declined rapidly. After a few days in the hospital, he lost consciousness, and soon after, he could only breathe with the help of a machine. One morning, while my mom, who had been staying with him outside the intensive care unit, went home for a quick shower, the attending doctor approached me with a somber expression and informed me that all his vital signs had ceased. He was being kept alive only by the machines. She asked me what should be done next. I called my mom to return to the hospital, and when she arrived, I shared the news with her. My sister was there too.  After spending the entire morning thinking, my mom told me that the decision was mine to make. My sister wasn't very helpful either and left the decision up to me. I chose to unplug the machine. A few hours later, he passed away surrounded by those who loved him.

I bathed his body together with a few male relatives, under the guidance of an official corpse-washer provided by the hospital. We wrapped his body in a shroud and brought it home, where we prayed for him. During the wake, everyone kept mentioning that he seemed to be smiling. “Husnul khatimah“, they said. Both my sister and I were asked to give eulogies. My sister quickly wrote something and delivered it through her tears. I did not say anything.

We then brought him to the cemetery. My brother-in-law, a few male cousins, and I went into the grave where his body would be laid to rest. As others lowered him down, we received him from below. We untied the shroud, and as the only son, I was asked to recite the adzan in his right ear. I refused, and my brother-in-law took on that role. Afterward, I stared at him for some long seconds and kissed his forehead. At that moment, I smiled all teary-eyed and thought, “There, it took a while until we get here, but finally, we have our closure.”

This happened 14 years ago, and it’s very rare for me to think about him ever since. But not tonight. As I write this, I can sense a deep presence enveloping the air—it’s him, and it’s me too.

[rememberingmybestfriend]

PB&Js & Ambien

A year ago today I had my last Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich. You should know that I LOVE PB&Js! Even as an adult I had one for lunch each day along with a protein shake. I remember reading about different athletes doing the exact same thing and thinking, “They stole that from me!”

I am pretty weird about PB&Js, because as I like to shout from the mountain top, I was only one of like six people in the world who made them correctly!

You spread the peanut butter (Skippy or Jif) on a slice of bread. Then you wipe off the knife, scoop out some Jelly (Welchs grape) on top of the peanut butter and cut it in half. 

How can the entire planet be wrong?!?  They put peanut butter on one slice of bread and jelly on the other slice…like a terrorist??

My kids, coworkers, friends and strangers would all mock me, but I am a man of principle. I’ve always stood up for what’s right, even in the face of adversity.

Adversity is why I no longer eat PB&Js. Here’s why…

For 10 years, every day at lunch, I would share the last piece of PB&J with Baxter, my constant companion for 16 years.

Baxter gave no fucks. He didn’t care about ANYTHING in the world, other than being next to me. 

I remember when I first started dating after my divorce. If someone came over to watch TV with me, Baxter would get on top of the couch and walk across the cushions and fall in-between us. I laughed my ass off every single time, though it usually wasn’t appreciated my dates. 

When I would travel, whoever was taking care of Baxter would send me pictures of him staring at the door or out the window, waiting for my return. I know people thought it was cute, but it tore me up.  

Baxter was with me in the darkest period of my life and he was with me when I finally realized my dream of living in San Diego. We had a ton of fun, going to dog beaches and walking in the most beautiful weather in the world. 

I remember a “Low Rider” event where it was all dachshunds, corgis and bassetts (Baxter was a dachshund/corgi mix). The last Corgi Beach Day we went to there were over 900 corgis on the beach. 900!!! It was nuts and it was heaven!

During our time in San Diego I met another dog person, Jillian, who ultimately became my wife (she actually laughed at Baxter’s couch trick). She had two dogs of her own. There was Pearl the puggle and Ozzie Waldo the Shih Tzu. All three of our dogs were over 10 years old. 

In 2019, life brought me back to Tulsa. Along with Baxter, Jillian, Pearl and Ozzie Waldo. Shortly after moving back, Baxter got sick. Several vet visits later it was discovered he had cancer in his spleen and one of his adrenal glands. I took him to OSU Vet Surgery Center for a pre-surgical check and said I wanted to wait two weeks for the surgery so I would have some extra time with him in case anything went wrong. They said I had two days…..I didn’t even have 24 hours.

That night, Baxter’s tumor burst and I rushed him to the ER in Tulsa. This was at the beginning of Covid, so I couldn’t go in with him. I handed his limp body to a tech and went home and waited for the eventual call.

Around 6:00 am the next morning, I realized…the call never came. I went and picked him up and raced back to Stillwater where he had emergency surgery. Again I came home and waited for the call. Later that afternoon the phone rang and was told the surgery was a success and he could come home in a couple days. This is a picture of us after I picked him up...

Baxter never needed chemo, but I had him checked out every 90 days like clockwork. A year later, his step brother Ozzie Waldo got prostate cancer. Ozzie was a fighter and went through a dozen radiation treatments in Dallas and became cancer free.

A few months later Jillian found blood outside of our new home and we assumed it was from Ozzie peeing. We made plans to take him back to the cancer doctor. Later that night Baxter started bleeding from his nose. It wasn’t Ozzie’s cancer that had returned, it was Baxter getting a new form. Nasal cancer.

Baxter and I made our own trips to Dallas for radiation treatments. Again during Covid, so I could never enter the doggie hospital. I remember the night after his first treatment he bled all over the hotel room. It looked like a crime scene. I cleaned up as best I could and left a huge tip for the maids.

Baxter eventually beat that cancer too, but damn it was long and brutal. It’s normal for dogs to still have bloody noses and he had his share. It’s the most terrifying thing because there's a LOT OF BLOOD from those damaged arteries in his nose.

After Baxter turned 14, his back legs started giving out. He went to a lot of acupuncture and laser appointments that would slow the progress, but he was half dachshund and back issues are part of their life as they get older.

I was so fortunate to work from home the last 10 years of his life.  I moved around a lot throughout the house each day. I’d sit at my desk where Baxter had a bed right next to me. During work Zoom calls, coworkers as well as customers would ask, “How’s our boy doing?” 

If I got up to get a drink, Baxter followed. If I got up to use the bathroom, Baxter tagged along. I have a home gym and he thought he had to follow me on every exercise.

As Baxter’s legs started getting worse he would STILL follow me everywhere. I would plead with him, saying “I’ll be right back!” but he had to be next to me, even if he had to drag his beat up old body with just two legs.

Ozzie’s cancer tragically did return in December of 2022, and we said goodbye to him on the last day of the year. 

Two and a half months later, a couple days after Baxter turned 16, I had another scan done. No cancer, but they found a clot in his artery. I did some research (I know too damn much about dog diseases) and it was not good. 

If the clot broke free it would be a horrible death. They gave him some blood thinner, but that wasn’t helpful with the bleeding that would still come from his damaged nasal arteries. 

The next morning I could tell he wasn’t feeling well and I said, “Fuck it, I’ll cancel my plans and just hang with him in the living room all day.”  Later he started bleeding so much. Our living room was covered in blood. I realized it was getting close. 

I had promised him after that last vet trip that he would never have to go to a clinic again. I called a service that helps people say goodbye to their pets at home, and set up a time for the following Wednesday. Once again, time had other plans. 

By noon I knew we weren’t going to make it to Wednesday. I called a vet close to our house and made an appointment for later that afternoon. 

I laid next to Baxter and told him all the things we did together over the years and how much I loved him. We also split a whole PB&J sandwich. Later that afternoon I said goodbye.

I am so grateful for those 16 years. I am grateful that I had the ability to keep him around longer than most. I think about him every single day. 

Later on, at the end of 2023 my doctor kicked me off of Ambien after almost 20 years. Pro Tip: Never tell your doctor the truth.

I bring up this seemingly irrelevant fact because with Ambien….you don’t dream. I didn’t give a crap about dreaming, I just needed to sleep. 

Eventually, after multiple attempts, I got a new prescription that allows me to get 8 hours of sleep….along with a lot of dreams.

One night, Baxter came to visit. I knew he wasn’t real but was overjoyed to see my boy one more time. I am sure he wouldn’t care if I still have PB&J sandwiches but it was “our thing” and I don’t want to share those memories. 

[dzpenumbra]

4/20/23

Blaze it. Says the guy who unceremoniously quit smoking weed like 3 or 4 months ago. And is too afraid to start smoking again because I'm super prone to freak-outs and I live alone. Yay.

I'm tempted to smoke at some point, I have been for a while. To the point where I've been tempted to ask my new doctor for an emergency xanax prescription or something, so I have something to help me come down a bit if I'm freaking out.

I hate that I'm still dealing with this, it's so fucking lame. I can't drink because it fucks up my stomach. I can't smoke cigarettes because apparently, given public opinion and ungodly restrictive pricing, it's literally the worst thing you can do to your body. Somehow managing to oust injecting neurotoxins into your body for no reason other than to make it cosmetically appear that you're good at sucking dick. I miss having a substance to help me relax. I have coffee to make me go up, and that's it. Nothing to chill me out.

I've been dealing with stupid weed freak-outs since I was 17. Freshman orientation, the first week of college. I remember walking around campus right after smoking a bowl with my friend Raphael, and we ran into our RA... who told us we were late for an orientation thing that was going on in the auditorium. And we walked in, and there were like... maybe 10-15 people spread out through the audience, and a speaker on stage. And the dude pointed out both of us entering, stopped his fucking presentation and pointed us out, saying something like "glad you could finally join us..." or something. And I was supremely fucking high. And his coy tone, and presence, and the feeling of being trapped and called out, and the bright red seats, the whole vivid scenario... turned into a hellscape for me. Very literally. I was like... "oh... I'm in Hell, this is like... the orientation for Hell. I died." Like a fucking psychological horror movie, like I got tricked into crossing over to the afterlife. Because that's how my creative brain works. And I handled it pretty well, I think I went and sat there for a while, maybe I stuck the whole thing out? Maybe I said fuck it and left halfway through, I don't remember. But... that was... I think... the first big freak-out of that caliber I ever experienced. The first of many.

I've been trying to research the hell out of them since. That was like... 2004. We've learned a lot since then. I think the most accurate term I have been able to find for them were "panic attacks", but those don't always really feel like they describe... the immersion of these experiences. Like... I was very convinced. I was in Hell. That's just where I was, and now I need to figure out what to do. I was terrified that I was going crazy for a while, especially back then, mental health was really not nearly as openly discussed and commonly known about back then. I was mostly concerned that I was having the beginnings of schizophrenic episodes. And that I was going to be hospitalized or something, institutionalized or some shit. That my life was basically over before it really started, and it was my fault.

Add to this that I didn't have anyone to talk to about the entire process. No good friends, who could've like... sat me down and gone "yeah, I get freak-outs too sometimes, they're super intense, but like... it's just a thing that happens, and you just need a trip-sitter kinda person to help you through it." Nope, definitely did not get that advice at any point in my life.

I've learned very recently that what these experiences are... are an alteration in the salience network of the brain. From what I have read, and I would really love to learn more about this so please do chip in if you know any more detail about this... The salience network apparently... moderates between the conscious and the subconscious. The "you" voice, You the experiencer; and the thoughts you have, memories that come to you, dreams you have, the "voices in your head". Apparently the salience network keeps the balance between those two, and weed can fuck with that. Which... is why it can help with stimulating creative thought, and why I was trying to use it in therapy to help bring down the walls I was building to stop myself from seeing a lot of the causes of pain I was in, but to do that in a safe supervised environment, so I could have emotional support and help grounding if I got overwhelmed. What I read, to help sum it up, is that disruption in the salience network can make a delivery guy knocking at the door be convincingly perceived as the FBI knocking on the door. It can make an anxiety chest pain be convincingly perceived as an imminent heart attack. Shit like that. It is not uncommon with weed at all. But I was not educated about this.

I kept smoking after that freak-out, regularly. I surprisingly didn't really have any more problems until one day, when me and... Raphael again... we scraped our bowls and made a big resin ball and smoked a bunch of it right before my English class. Like I went... right there. It culminated in a gigantic panic attack. And what I experienced there, at the time I was convinced were... hallucinations? But... I've learned so much about perception of reality since then, I realize how clumsy and naïve that definition would be. I have done mushrooms and acid and seen actual visual manifestations that weren't there. Like... shadow creatures, and little people dancing in fireplace embers, and geometric swirls in the clouds. In fact, my most vivid hallucination ever was after doing coke for 3 days straight, not sleeping at all, and drawing on my friend's wall in a blacklit room while we were listening to Mindless Self Indulgence. Poetic, yeah? XD I was so exhausted that I just lay down for a minute and I vividly saw a cat come over to me. A calico tabby cat, I did not for a second doubt it being real. I reached over to pet it and my hand went right through it and I immediately fell asleep. There was no cat in that house, there were two dogs, I was literally dreaming while still awake. Those were hallucinations. But what I experienced in the English classroom? That was a salience dysfunction issue. That was hearing the class laugh at a joke the teacher was making, but being so caught in my head that I didn't hear the context, so I was convinced the laughing was 100% pointed at me. It was feeling tingling in my body from my body high and was convinced that I was going to lose bowel control and shit myself in the middle of class. For ages, I haven't had a way to describe why this was so... traumatizing, why I was even classifying these as hallucinations rather than... insecurities? Anxieties?

It's because of how visceral and experiential they were. It was because of how real they were. It wasn't "I'm worried they might be laughing at me". It wasn't "I feel like they're probably laughing at me". It was "they are laughing at me." To the point where I went to the teacher after class and asked the teacher why they were laughing at me! I'm not even kidding. Same with the body sensations, it wasn't "man it would be really embarrassing if I farted in class". It wasn't "maybe my stomach's upset." It was "I am going to lose bowel control, it's just a matter of when." Very dreamlike. Like... in a dream... you don't question that you're in a cafe in an airport, but it's underground for some reason... and you're talking to a rock star idol of yours and just shooting the shit. You don't question it, it's just what is occurring. My phobias were being treated as the primary reality, and the toggle switch between critical/analytic mind (conscious) and intuitive/dreamlike/creative mind (subconscious) was impaired, so I couldn't snap myself back into questioning it. Especially back then when I had zero experience doing it and didn't even know what was happening.

I think this weakness is also part of why I am so experientially creative. Why my art and my inspiration come to me so effortlessly and easily. My theory is that it's the same conduit, the same process. I think I have a naturally more porous boundary between my conscious and subconscious, maybe less mediation, not sure. And I source my creativity directly from my subconscious. So... this weakness is not just a strength, it's kinda the core of most of my artistic identity... aka, my identity.

So yeah, because of my lack of ability to like... manage that properly... to ground myself in those moments and actively bring control back to my conscious mind. And my lack of desire to like... live in a terrifying psychological horror movie... I stopped smoking weed. And avoided it like the plague, for 15 years. Until 2018.

I have to use the bathroom, we'll be right back with more WeedTales after this quick break.

I gave weed a shot again after I broke up with my ex for good. Maybe a month or so after. I wanted to get off of meds, and I wanted something natural to help me do it, because I'd been through benzo withdrawal before and I really really wanted something to make the process more bearable. So I gave weed a try. And it really helped. It really did. For a while, too. Until I saw a Darren Brown special while stoned out of my mind, which fucked up my sense of reality and made me question literally everything I knew about fate and predestination and free will and shit. And not in a stoned college student going "whooooa wouldn't that be cool tee hee" 3rd person like they're watching a movie kind of way... like a "you just woke up in a hospital in 28 Days Later" kind of way. In a very very real, experiential way. It was an existential crisis, a... "what the fuck am I?" "Do I even choose anything at all?" "Do I even exist?" And it started to freak me out at existential levels, like a waking night terror. And I had no one to call, so I rode it out. And I went to the counseling center the next day to tell them about it. They had me with an emergency person I was seeing for the first time. I tried to tell her about it, how I felt like I was dying... which isn't entirely accurate, but it was the best I could sum it up in like... the 15 minutes I was offered. And she referred me to an outpatient program at a mental health facility. Which is kinda not cool, in hindsight.

After I got back, I started making more and more art. I learned more about meditation and trance induction techniques. I kept leaning in towards the void. It really was like a call of the void thing. The thing that freaked me out the most, that fucked up and derailed my life so many times, it just kept calling me back. The oceanic abyss of the subconscious. Dream recall, painting dreams, sourcing stories from dreams to make mini graphic novels, stream of consciousness poetry and writing, divination practices, intuitive drawing, shit like that. I was developing a process of prying open the door between the conscious and subconscious mind, and shoving a doorstop in there... So that I could dive in that endless ocean of inspiration and grab an unpolished gem whenever I wanted. That is development of an artistic process. And ritual.

Doing that alone... was terrifying... and to top it off, made me lose all my friends and family. And I'm glad they're gone. It pains me to say it, but I am. This weird spiritual dream artist is the person I have been since I was like... 16? Maybe even younger? And don't get me wrong, I am lots of people... but that's the one that like... I feel most alive and where I belong being. And they not only didn't support me, they actively tried to convince me what I was doing was "dangerous" and "self-destructive"... and implanted those ideas into my subconscious mind, to turn me against myself. And it worked. And the freakouts started again, in full-force, regularly. And I went off to a retreat seeking sanctuary... to finally safely get off of meds and to be around people who would actually offer me the support I needed. Unfortunately, the price I had to pay for that was abandoning my creative process entirely.

I was in there for 8 months. When I left... I was lost and trying to re-find myself. And a month later, the pandemic started.

I didn't start smoking weed again until last summer. So, summary, my weed smoking periods were... 2003 -> 2004, Spring -> Summer 2019, Summer -> Winter 2022. That's it.

When I last smoked, it was after my dog died. And I was not sleeping at all. I was sleeping from like... 3AM to dawn. Then getting up and making yogurt and granola and listening to music and carving and reading books on modern Druidry and shit all day. Weed helped me sleep again. I mean that sincerely. Some of the best sleep I've gotten this year was when I was high. In fact, most of my first journal entries on here were written while I was high. It was part of my bedtime ritual.

Sleep and bedtime have been my biggest thorn in my side since I was a teenager, the core of most of my mental health issues, I would wager. The sleep ritual of smoking to ease the body and let go, then journaling to kinda purge the chaotic and dark thoughts and resolve any issues I'm carrying? It brought me a peace that made falling asleep and staying asleep really easy.

And now... now, I'm struggling to sleep again. And it feels like when my dog died. This is day 3 or 4 now, I don't know anymore. And I don't think it was the neighbors this time, but I could be wrong. I did the same "get up after 5 hours of sleep, eat cereal, then get into the comfy chair, pop in the AirPods with noise cancelling and pass out again" thing.

So... I guess where I'm at with weed is... because I have like... at least 1/8 just sitting in my house, and a bottle of tincture too. If I were to smoke right now... what I fear is going to happen... yep, fear of Fear again... What I fear is going to happen is that I'm going to be woken up by my upstairs neighbors making noises... and my salience is going to be all fucky... and I'm going to wake up thinking there are people in my house, or some other unpredictable surreal narrative. And that wouldn't be so bad if I had someone I could text or call and sorta work through the anxiety attack, to help me ground, like I fucking tried to do in 2019 and my asshole "friends" would rush me off the phone and fucking roll their eyes at me. If I had that available, to just go "yo, I just woke up and I'm still a bit high, but I'm hearing sounds in my apartment and it's kinda freaking me out, could you just like... chill with me, or help me sort through whatever thoughts I'm experiencing, and help me reset my vibes?" That is literally the only thing I've needed for the past... at least 4 years. A good goddamn friend that's there when I need it. That's it.

But... since I don't have that? I'm genuinely scared. Because that feeling, it's like knowing with at least 85% certainty that when you lay your head down on your pillow tonight, you're going to have one of the worst nightmares you've ever had. And no one will be there to hold you and comfort you when you wake up. Motherfuckers wanna tell you "you're being dramatic" or "suck it up" or "grow thicker skin". <shakes head, grimacing>

So yeah, happy goddamn 4/20. If you don't have a severe anxiety disorder, consider yourself lucky that you have a natural outlet available to you that isn't an existential liability. I am very envious.

After all this... why am I still drawn to weed? You'd think I'd avoid it again, like I did for 15 years. Well... because I think it's the key. I think it's the key to building the skills I need to conquer my everyday anxiety limitations. I think a lot of what I'm dealing with in like... being anxious about driving while tired... or being anxious about being mugged on the streets and shit... I think it's so difficult because of how real it feels. Because it's a powerful real feeling. And I think if I can train dealing with bigger, more visceral freakouts... these everyday things will be child's play. It makes sense in my head, on paper... maybe less so. It's a theory.

Today was basically just... yoga, nap, shower, work on the "whiteboard" animation, practice guitar a bit, dinner, work more, watch stream, and... here I am. Nothing big, nothing too notable. Just... more sleep deprivation. And it's really taking a toll. So... yeah... I think that's a big part of the push towards weed. But ultimately? I think getting my sleep schedule more regulated will do more good than just smoking.

But I mean... I've naturally gravitated to this sleep schedule for 13 years. I've been nocturnal for my entire adult life. At what point is adjusting my sleep schedule arbitrarily... unnatural? Idk. Feeling a lot of "I could be wrong about that, better not say it with certainty" tonight. Depression, I guess.

Gotta end on a better note than that! Um... I made potato skins and mac and cheese for dinner. With the skins from the baked potatoes last night. It was really good! :) That's something. Alright, I'm off to bed, my eyes are like 1/3 open.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

Tied to the Pier | Damian Wayne

✦ pairing — older!Damian Wayne x gender neutral!Plus Size Reader

✦ word count — 4.2k

✦ summary — you feel tied to the pier where your mom asked for her ashes to be spread and for some reason, Damian does too.

✦ warnings — angst, grief, parental loss, reader has (or had, better said) two moms, allusions to terminal illness, loss is openly talked about, there's explicit description of the texture of human ashes, dialogue heavy, light fluff.

✦ author's note i — I saw a tweet on Saturday and I couldn’t get it out of my head when I was trying to write something else this morning. The tweet will be in the reblogs/comments in case you’re curious.

✦ author's note ii — I even wrote a version of this from Damian’s point of view so let me know if you’re interested in reading that.

════════════════════════

An invisible force tied you to the pier, rendering you unable to move as the ashes fell onto the water.

Your mother took a deep breath, wiping her hands with the damp towel she had been carrying on her forearm. She stored the urn in her bag, eyes on the water just like yours.

She slipped her hand in your free limp one and squeezed it to steady herself with your body weight as leverage.

The red flowers in your grasp would wilt, much like your heart.

You wished it would rain already. The thundering hadn’t ceased for over ten minutes and yet it only played with your emotions. Not unlike the doctors had when they said your mom would make it.

Your nose started itching as if you hadn't cried enough already in the past weeks. Your mother sobbed and you broke.

This time you squeezed her hand, making force as you grilled the flowers more tightly. Tears kept coming, and there was something overwhelming about crying on the same pier you had seen your mom so happy that you feared you would never stop.

Leisurely, your mother and you were able to move. You could still see through your tears, albeit straining your sight due to the headache, and so you walked behind your mother back to the car.

You almost bumped into a man as you trailed behind her. He moved to the side so you would follow your mother. You nodded at him in acknowledgment, silently thanking him.

He stopped walking. You went on.

You saw him again, the very next time you visited the pier. A couple of days had passed, you hadn't planned on being back so soon, but the flowers in the shop were too vibrant to be ignored.

He was there when you arrived, leaning against the cap rail. It was a lovely day to be there and the rippling of the water was so subtle it could become soothing.

According to your mom, there had been a rumor years ago that the pier was haunted — strange sounds that had nothing to do with water and more with tormented cries followed people whenever it was dark.

She said it was an urban legend, that some got so into it that started adding details about a fisherman who murdered an entire family.

You hadn't paid any mind to urban legends when you were a teen, but the way most of them revolved around a tragedy started making sense as you grew older.

Perhaps you would one day be the subject of it, the young person tied to the pier, roaming it up and down to be close to mom.

The stranger felt your presence as you walked closer to the ledger. He craned his neck and looked at you. “Red flowers again.”

“My mom liked them.” Looking down at the flowers between your forearm and your chest, you told him, “Sedums are supposed to be a cure for broken hearts.” You didn’t know why you told him, perhaps because he had seen you cry already.

Not many people had, yet you couldn't bring yourself to care that a stranger did.

However, you cared about the reason behind his presence. “What brings you here, stranger?”

“The quiet.”

You hummed. Your mom loved that area for the same reason. Boats rarely needed to be tied to the pier anymore, and on busy days, people would hurry their way out of there.

So she tied you to it with the memory of every laugh and wise word that slipped her lips on those spring evenings she took you there and showed you the secrets of the universe.

At least to you they were. Her kindness and wisdom would have changed the world if she had more time.

If only you had her strength, the faith in humanity she carried on her wool sleeve.

“It's Damian.”

“Mmmh?”

“My name.”

It felt familiar, but you were sure you had never seen him before the day your mother and you said goodbye to your mom.

You gave him your name, keeping the 'pleased to meet you' for a day when you felt anything other than sorrow.

Your ringtone startled you. “I’m sorry,” you apologized for the noise.

You let your mother's call go to voicemail and unlocked your phone to text her you would be home soon.

You took a flower from the bunch you had against your chest and offered it to Damian.

He took it between his long fingers, gently, careful not to damage it.

“Have a nice rest of the day,” you told him.

His eyes lingered on you. He nodded. “You too.”

════════════════════════

You had been looking forward to this the entire day, to sit in silence with yourself and the water before you.

Raindrops fell on you. This time the thunder hadn’t raised any warning, even he was quiet.

Rain making her appearance a month too late sounded fitting, it would have been perfect if this was a movie and not your cruel reality.

“You’re going to fall ill.” Damian’s smooth voice prompted you to straighten your back.

You didn’t take your eyes off the water, watching the raindrops form ripples. “I got the flu shot.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t get ill.”

“I know, but I guess I enjoy lying to myself.”

“Did you bring an umbrella?”

“No.” The umbrella would have been useless, a nuisance. Your negative answer, however, didn't please Damian at all. “It was deliberate, don’t worry.”

You caressed the flowers on your lap. The rain couldn’t be good for them, but you were willing to sacrifice them this time.

“It’s been a month…”

“It has.” Your throat constricted. Two months without her, a month since you freed what was left of her.

He sat beside you, allowing silence to fall between you. You wondered if he needed it as much as you did, the quiet tied him to that stupid maybe-maybe not-haunted pier, after all.

Damian shuffled his jacket off and draped it over your shoulders. You were glad he didn’t try to get you to put it on, it probably wouldn’t have fit.

Nothing about this was normal, you barely knew his name yet he had been so kind from the beginning.

He could have made you move to the side that evening, he could have ignored you the next time you saw each other, he could have gone home instead of getting drenched in rain beside you as flowers died on your lap.

“Have you ever lost someone?” you broke the silence, forced to raise your voice as the rain challenged you to speak.

“Yes.”

“Does it hurt still?”

He hesitated to answer. And you knew, you weren’t stupid, it would always hurt. You wanted him to lie, to tell you the pain would go away.

“Yes.”

You hummed even though only you could hear it.

Wishing he had lied, or at least sugarcoated it, you swallowed the lump in your throat as best as you could. He didn’t move, his eyes were on you but he didn’t make any sound, not one you could hear at least.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll get sick?”

“I got the flu shot.”

You snorted. “I walked myself into that one.”

He smirked, smugly lifting his chin. The gesture made him adopt a boyish look.

You were sure you could find some kind of meaning in the water dripping down his brown skin under the grey sky if you looked hard enough.

His vibrant eyes didn’t belong there, on an unkempt pier in the middle of a stormy day. But they were the only lively thing in a 10-mile radius, and he took them off of you just when you thought you would be able to make it out of there without a heavy heart.

Damian lifted his arm and stared at his wrist. So he was one of those people into watches. It made sense, he had this air about him, like he always knew where his head was.

He cursed under his breath upon seeing the time. “I have to go.”

“Be safe.” You considered giving him a flower, but they were almost dead and gifting him something dead when his eyes carried so much life felt unfair.

“You aren’t leaving yet?” His tone carried something unknown, something you weren’t ready to dissect.

“I’m taking the subway later.”

He cocked his head to the side, away from the water and the pier. “I’ll walk you to the station.”

“Okay.” Truthfully, you didn't want to be alone on the way there.

His steps were steady, silent. If you had to make a comparison, you would say he moved like a cat.

He was taller than you, than most people, which meant his steps were bigger than yours. He’d stop from time to time so you would catch up until eventually, he slowed down to your pace.

That was nice. It felt like having a friend, one that wouldn’t leave if you stayed quiet for longer than he expected.

Those weren’t the high standards you should have had, but were the ones your material reality had bestowed upon you.

You trotted down the stairs with him trailing behind you, and it felt weird. You had assumed he would walk you to the stairs and let you go home with rotting red flowers in your bag.

The white-tiled walls around you were blinding in comparison to the grey atmosphere outdoors. You weren’t sure how you felt about that. At least you were already dry.

Stopping near the turnstiles, you turned around and faced Damian. “Thank you...” You wanted to say something else, but words didn’t come out.

“You too.” He blinked rapidly, as though finally understanding what he said. “I mean, you're welcome.”

In any other circumstance, you would have voiced how cute he was.

════════════════════════

It was the first time you were all alone at the pier.

Alone with your head, with the void swallowing you little by little. Loneliness nagged at you in a way it never did in the confines of your room.

Your mother refused to come with you and the only other company you had ever had there —apart from your mom— was Damian.

Contacting him was impossible, you didn’t have his number — you didn’t even know his last name. Besides, what would you say?

The still water wasn't good company. Not even her could make you feel calm.

Your mom would have made you feel calm. If only she could be there.

“I brought you flowers again,” you softly spoke. “I've been trying to find out if I can put them into the water, but the articles online contradict each other.”

She used to buy flowers every other day, mostly red and pink ones. She’d put them in the living area of the house, sometimes in the bedrooms if she had bought extra.

“You wouldn't appreciate it if I polluted the water by mistake... we compost them at home, just like you did.”

You used to wonder why she never planted some, but now that you stopped by the flower shop so frequently, you understood it was part of a ritual for her.

“It's messier than you made it look, but we manage.”

Would managing be all you could ever do from now on? Here you were, talking to the vast sea, knowing it wouldn’t answer, knowing your mom couldn’t possibly talk back.

You went back home with a bunch of flowers and a clouded mind, only avoiding wandering the city by reminding yourself you needed to have dinner ready before your mother got home.

By the time she came home, dinner was cold and you were pretending to be asleep in your childhood room.

She was avoiding you, coming home by the time you were supposed to be asleep so she could wake up once you were gone for work.

You shifted on the bed, facing the sage green wall. The glow from the sconce over your bed provided the perfect task light for you to read a book.

The book had been abandoned a little less than an hour ago, when you gave up on trying to focus on anything other than how lonely you were feeling.

You had friends, some you had made in school and others were from work. You could have texted any of them, invite them for coffee on the weekend.

But they weren’t who you wanted to see. You didn’t understand why Damian was so special in this context, of course there was something about him you had never seen in anybody else, but that didn’t explain why you preferred his company over people you had known for years.

You wished you could call him, at least message him on Instagram. Hell, you would use Facebook just for him at this point.

You pulled your phone out and gave it a shot. You felt stupid typing Damian Gotham on google, but you felt even more stupid when the familiar face appeared on the preview images.

Damian Wayne. How could you not realize you had made acquaintances with Bruce Wayne’s son?

You decided to keep to yourself that you knew who his family were the next time you came face to face with him.

The drive to ask why he hadn’t been there last week was hard to fight, but you weren’t entitled to an explanation, at least you didn’t think so.

He nodded at you in greeting. “Are you wearing sunscreen?”

Of course that was something he would ask. “I am and I have a bottle in my purse so if you need some, you just gotta ask.”

He huffed a small laugh. “What kind of flowers did you bring today?”

“Gaillardias.” You lifted them up so you could show them to him. “They’re supposed to mean happiness, I think.”

He stared at them, analyzing them before nodding in approval. His eyes were still on the flowers as he asked, “Did you come last week?”

“A little later than usual, yes. There were a lot of people around at noon.”

The air was cold still, but the sun shone with the promise of spring. Clouds were nowhere to be seen, it was a good day to be outside.

Your mom would have enjoyed it throughly.

“Where do you think she is right now?” You made a face and explained, “Not religiously or mystically, just… where do you think the water took her to?”

Damian squinted as the sun hit his face. “Morocco, perhaps.”

“Mmhmm.” You closed your eyes. If you squeezed them hard enough, you could picture her in a pretty sundress walking down one of the gorgeous Moroccan beaches you had seen in pictures.

“She’d like it,” you gave your veredict as you opened your eyes. “Essaouira would be perfect for her, now that we mention it. I’ve never visited, but the photos I’ve seen and what I’ve heard... it’s just so mom.”

She’d wander the twisty lanes in search of an art gallery or a flower shop and thrive in the bustling scene of the tiny coffee shops.

She would have made friends there, you were sure.

“You knew her well.”

“I like to think I do.”

Damian glanced to the other side, away from you. “What is it like?” he asked, almost timidly, “How does knowing something like that about someone feel?”

“Like a superpower,” you quickly answered. “Or at least what I think a superpower would feel like. I tend to forget that empowered people are real.”

“Hmm.” He directed his attention back to you. “You don't like them?”

“I think they're okay. It's nice that some of them do good.”

He nodded. Could he sense you weren’t finished? Did he know you didn’t seem to shut up once he had gotten you to talk?

“But what I'm talking about…” you trailed off, waiting for him to cut you off. He didn’t. “It's not altruistic,” you admitted, “it would be useless in battle, pointless for somebody like Superman, for example.”

The mention of Superman piqued his interest.

You felt compelled to continue talking, “It would be seen as selfish by some, you know what I mean? People rarely treasure loving somebody. At least when the time is right.”

Perhaps it was selfish to an extent, feeling superior for loving someone. It was exilariting too, and heartbreaking when that person was gone which was inevitable because nobody is invincible.

“I was lucky to know mom like I do, to love her this much… But even I was like those people who don't treasure loving somebody. I didn't tell my mom how much I loved her; not enough.”

You were surprised that you didn’t cry upon admitting all of that. Perhaps the tears would come at night, they often did.

Damian stared at the flowers again. “Superman would like you.”

“They say he likes everybody.” You shrugged. “Not a bad thing if you want to save people.”

“I suppose.”

You caressed the petals of the biggest flower in your grasp. “Damian...”

“Yes?”

His attention was on you again, you felt the intensity of his gaze as though he knew you were hesitant to look at him.

“Do you pity me?”

“No.”

“You went along with what I said earlier…” It pained you to say, “We both know the water probably didn't take mom anywhere, but you went along with it.”

“I imagined you didn't want to hear there was a possibility the ashes you scattered had sunk in.”

“You know, they don't look like ashes.” He shifted beside you, eyes on you as though trying to come up with something to say. “They were coarse, coarser than sand, and—” You made a pause to take air. “Some shards of bones remained, I guess they always do, I don't know.”

“Was it her wish?”

You nodded. “She didn't like cemeteries, she liked this place even though it smells and is unkempt.”

“You could be describing the entire city.”

That you could. “A shame, isn't it? She loved Gotham, refused to move many times. She'd say the hassle was worth it, that we wouldn't find any place like it.”

“My father says the same.”

If anybody knew something about Bruce Wayne was that he loved Gotham. But you didn’t care about what Bruce Wayne had to say.

“Do you believe him?”

“I have started to.”

“The architecture is pretty.” It was only fair for you to say something positive about the city. “I just wish they would stop trying to modernize it.”

“Do you like architecture?”

“I don't know much about it as an art, but I like what I know. Sometimes things are just pretty.”

Amused by your answer, Damian pursed his lips and nodded.

“Is this the awkward part where you tell me you're an architect?”

“I am not,” he assured you. “I studied a few things, architecture wasn't one of them.”

“Did you enjoy that?”

“I enjoy learning so in a way, I did.”

You smiled. It was small, but it felt good to do it in earnest instead of as a mask. “That's good. I studied pedagogy.”

“It suits you.”

What a lovely compliment that was.

════════════════════════

You left the flower shop in awe of the colors. They hadn’t looked this bright in months, they were in fact so bright that for a moment you forgot what you were upset about.

Fights with your mother were getting more frequent, having accelerated after your aunt from California stayed a few days and commented that you needed to get out of your head when your mother told her you visited the pier a couple of times a month.

Your mother agreed with her, she even called you childish.

Moving out was in your plans, it had been before your mom was diagnosed, but moving out because your mother was becoming hostile wasn’t ideal.

You would talk to her once the novelty from your aunt’s comments wore off. For now, you would bring flowers to the pier.

Damian walked in front of you, unknowingly leading you. Or maybe he knew, maybe he could feel your presence behind him and simply decided to go forth.

He moved to the side, much like he had done the first time you saw him, and silently acknowledged you with a lift of his chin.

You waved at him. This was the first time you somewhat greeted each other.

He leaned his forearms against the railing, staring down at the water.

You stared down too, taking in the sparkle of the sun reflecting on the water.

“I almost didn’t come,” you blurted.

Damian turned his head to look at you. Doing the same, you faced him. He was waiting for an explanation.

“Mother says it’s stupid to come, that we weren’t supposed to tie ourselves to a place just to honor her...”

“She’s right about the last part.”

You twisted your mouth. “Maybe.”

“You also have a right to feel differently from her.”

“It feels… unfair. She lost her companion in life.”

“And you lost—”

“My mom. And I’m scared,” you confessed. “I’m terrified mother will get over it and I just won’t. What will I do when she meets somebody else and replaces mom?”

“She wouldn’t be replaced, that’s not—” He interrupted himself and collected his thoughts. His eyes twitched as he did it, pushed by his cheekbones. “The only way to replace a person is by having the intention to do so, and from what you’ve told me about your mother, she wants to heal, not to forget.”

“Am I being childish, then?”

“No.”

”I feel a little bit childish now,” you insisted. His words made sense, they were logical and you knew them to be true. You were supposed to know better than to feel like this.

“You said it yourself, you’re scared,” he reminded you, eyes on you. You couldn’t hold his gaze. “It’s okay to be scared,” he assured you. It sounded like a promise. “It’s good that you’re scared.”

“You’re oddly good at comforting people,” you softly said. “For somebody so serious and closed off... never-mind, it makes sense, you have time to observe people.”

“I’ve learned from a few mistakes.”

Perhaps he wasn’t as closed off as you thought. “Of course you have, you love learning.”

“I have to admit I refuse to take some lessons.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with being a little prideful. It gives people character.”

Amused, he said, “Any of my siblings would call me stubborn.”

“I don’t have siblings, but isn’t that their job? Nagging at you?”

“If it is, they are wonderful at it.”

You breathed out an amused laugh. “Do you have a favorite?”

“The oldest.”

“That was quick.”

“I— I love them all.” He made a pause. “It’s a different kind of connection... Dick— Richard...” Running a hand through his perfectly combed hair, ruining the hairdo, he sighed. “Dick is always easier to talk to.”

“For what it’s worth, you too are easy to talk to.”

“Likewise,” he said in a low voice.

Was he bad at taking compliments or were you losing your mind? Perhaps the stress was getting to you.

You pulled your phone out and checked what time it was. Time always went by far too quickly when you were with Damian, and this instance was no different.

“Are you short of time today?” he asked.

“Not exactly. I have a job interview in the morning and I need to be ready quite early.”

He hummed before opening his mouth. You waited for his comment, a comment that didn’t come as he closed his mouth again.

Damian swallowed saliva, scratching the tip of his nose. “Could we… see each other somewhere else?”

“Excuse me?”

He inhaled through his mouth and pushed himself off the railing.

You watched him struggle to find another position, speechless as your brain failed to process his words.

Damian gripped the edge of the railing with his farthest hand, neck craned to face you. “I don't have a problem with keeping you company here.”

You found yourself blinking rapidly, hoping he would add more context to his sentence.

He did. “It’s just that... if I'm being honest, you're the only reason why I keep coming, you're what ties me to this pier.”

Oh.

Your throat let out a sound before you could find the words to say. Your body was eager to answer. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”

He let go of the railing and twisted his body to fully face you, leaning his elbow on the cap rail. “I didn't want to pressure you.”

“You're so kind...”

“I'm honestly being selfish right now.”

You didn’t think so, perhaps that meant you were selfish too.

“I do want to see you somewhere else, I—” You breathed out a nervous laugh. “I have feelings for you, how could I not? But I need time.”

He nodded and you didn’t like the way his eyes avoided your face.

“Not space,” you clarified, “just time.”

“I can wait.” He reached over and placed his hand on top of yours. “Just keep my intentions in mind along the way.”

You couldn’t help but smile at him. “Believe me, I will.”

“Good.”

“Here.” You offered him the red flowers you were carrying. “Why don’t you take them home with you?”

He tilted his head, eyes flickering between the flowers and your face. “What are they?”

“Petunias.”

Damian smiled as he slowly withdrew his hand from yours and took the flowers. “I’ll walk you to the station.”

[havin-a-wee]

Doctor's Orders

pairing: gynecologist!harry x reader/doctor!harry x reader

word count: 2.3k+

warnings: smut, fingering

this is so long overdue i apologize but this is a request! i kinda love this piece so i hope you guys do too!

PLEASE REBLOG IF YOU ENJOY

You sucked in a harsh breath as you heard your name being called from the front desk, the smiley old lady gesturing for you to follow her. You timidly walked behind her, your feet shuffling on the obnoxiously patterned carpet that lined the hallways.

You aren’t one to fear doctor’s appointments, in fact, you have never been apprehensive about going to one until right now. This appointment was something you’ve been avoiding for a while since you had moved to London, but there came a point where you couldn’t put it off for any longer. Back in the states, you were comfortable with your gynecologist, and you had no issue talking to her about problems you were having regarding your genitalia. But now that you were in a new city, you didn’t have the comfort that came with visiting a long-term doctor and faced new ones for the first time since you were a child. The rest of the doctor’s visits were pretty standard, but your private parts were something you struggled with understanding, Sure, you have seen porn and had sex, but it was never a fulfilling experience. In fact, you have never reached an orgasm. About a year ago you gave up on looking for men to help you and made it a mission to bring yourself to a climax. But alas, none of your efforts seemed to work. At this point, you were convinced that something was wrong with you, hence the gynecologist visit. Male gynecologist, that is.

Over the past month, you have spent a lot of time researching gynecologists in your area. The first one that came up was the one you are at now, but considering his gender you continued your hunt. But it kept leading you back to this one doctor, Dr. Styles, and that was why you are currently sitting in an exam room in his office.

You reassured yourself by looking up his name on your smartphone, scrolling through the 5-star reviews. The number of people who seemed to absolutely love this guy helped settle your nerves, so you read through them as you waited for a knock on the door.

That knock finally arrived a few minutes later, and you picked your head up and looked at the wooden door. “Come in!”

A head popped inside from behind the door as it was pushed open, and the doctor’s eyes found yours while he made his way into the small room. He’s tall, with a mop of chocolate brown curls on his head and bright green eyes accompanied by a friendly smile. He sat down, eyes never leaving yours until he placed his computer down and the screen lit up.

“‘Ello Darlin, m’Dr. Styles, but y’can call me Harry if you’d like.” He stuck out a hand, and your palm swiftly met his, the two of you looking at one another as you shook hands. His hands were enormous, and the rings placed on his fingers were cold to the touch. “Considering you’re a new patient, I took a peek at y’records and such, and I saw that y’ve always had a female gyno.”

You nodded your head slowly, opening your mouth to respond but getting cut off by Dr. Styles. “So I just wanted t’let y’know tha’ theres nothing t’be ashamed off, and I know what I’m doin’ so I promise you’re in expert hands.”

“Yeah, I was nervous, but I couldn’t ignore the amazing reviews people have given you, so I made an appointment.” You appreciated his reassurance a lot, and it really helped in the easing of your jitters. He turned back to his computer after nodding in response to you, clicking on a few keys before diverting his attention back to you.

“So what seems t’be the problem today Y/N?” An initial wave of shock hit you when he said your name, but it quickly dissolved when you remembered that he literally has access to all your medical information, so of course, he knows your name.

“This is a bit of an odd thing to come in for on my first appointment with you, but I think my vagina doesn’t work.” You let out a breathy chuckle at your own words. Dr. Styles seemed unphased by your forwardness, and you assumed he had heard a lot more abrasive things than that. “I’m a 22-year-old woman, but I’ve never had an orgasm. For the past year I’ve been focusing on doing it without a partner, but no matter how much time I spent or how many fancy toys I buy, I just end up feeling unsatisfied and disappointed.” He nodded along as you explained your issue, placing his chin in his hand while his elbow was placed on the desk.

“Have y’had any STD tests recently?”

“Yes, I had one last week, I’m clean and I’ve never had one in the past.”

“Is there any possibility tha’ you’re pregnant?”

“No, I haven’t slept with anyone in over a year.” You knew what questions he would ask, so to avoid wasting time you were giving him all the information he would need.

“When y’are sleeping with someone, do y’feel any sort of pleasure?”

“Yeah, but it’s just never enough, I guess.” His lips curled into an expression of concentration, and he pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. The room was silent for all of around 30 seconds, but soon enough Dr. Styles spoke up.

“Based on yeh’ history and what y’telling me, it seems that y’just haven’t found the right bloke.” Your eyebrows lifted in surprise at his simple answer. It couldn’t be that simple, could it? “M’guessing y’can’t get y’self off cause’ y’tense and not fully relaxed. And the guys y’ve been with ave’all been doin’ a rubbish job.” He chuckled along with you, and you couldn’t help but agree with him. There was no one you could think of that had actually made you feel good the entire time and had actually focused on your pleasure and theirs. Most of the hookups you took part in were with frat boys who would stick their dick into anything with a hole. “But just in case, lemme’ check y’out just to make sure.”

He stood up from his chair and you swung your legs up on the cot, laying down on it. While you had waited for the doctor, you changed into the gown you were provided with, so there was only a thin piece of fabric between you and the curly-headed man that had taken a seat at the end of the seat.

It was now that you were faced with a dilemma that your anxious brain hadn’t even thought of prior to the appointment.

Dr. Styles was attractive. Like, really, really attractive.

Dr. Styles was attractive. Like, really, really attractive. And probably because of the nature of your discussion (and the fact that your body is severely desperate for sexual release), your core had been heating up since he first stepped into the room. So now, he would lift the skirt of the gown and see a pool of velvety wetness coating the inside of your thighs.

The back of the seat was propped up, allowing you to see him. This was a good thing for him because he could talk to you while he does his job, but it means you will have to look at him after he sees the mess you’ve made.

“May I?” His fingers gripped onto the edges of the gown, and you swallowed hoarsely before nodding your approval. While you know that he probably has witnessed much more embarrassing situations than the one you were in right now, it didn’t make the predicament any better. As you suspected, he kept a straight face when he lifted the flimsy material from your legs. Without taking a second glance, he turned to a bottle on his desk and pumped a dollop of lube onto his glove-clad fingertips. He used his other gloved hand to spread the lubricant, only turning back to you when his two fingers were both well coated in the substance. “Y’alright?” Once again, you nodded at his question. “Tell me with words darlin’, wanna make sure y’comfortable.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What kind of exam are you doing exactly?” That question popped into your mind right before it rolled off your tongue because you noticed he had never specified exactly what he was looking for.

“M’just gonna use m’finger,” he held his lube-covered fingers, “and feel around, just t’make sure everythins’ fine.”

“Ok, sounds good.”

“M’gonna start now, s’gonna be cold at first.”

You hissed when his fingers met your sopping hole, and you had to resist the urge to kick your legs while he slowly pushed his fingers inside of you. The feeling was strange, but definitely not unwelcome. The contrast from his icy fingers to your warm center was sending a tingling sensation down your spine. You could feel his fingers push around inside of you, caressing your walls. And you know you shouldn’t. But his fingers were hitting all the right nerves, and you couldn’t help but find the experience immensely pleasurable.

Despite your best efforts, a small moan of satisfaction escaped your lips. Immediately, you went stiff, and you could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks. You just moaned while your doctor had his fingers inside you. For a moment you thought he would ignore the sexual noise that you had just made. But he suddenly looked up at you, his eyes previously locked on his fingers.

“Well, if y’moanin’ just from that, y’more sexually deprived than I thought.” He chuckled, and you cracked a small smile, but that was before his words actually hit you.

Was he, hitting on you?

Maybe not flirting, but that definitely wasn’t something that doctors say to their patients very often. His smirk was also giving you the idea that he had certain intentions.

“Everything seem good down’ere, so I think tha’ problem is with the guys y’gettin with, not you. What type of people do y’usually sleep with.”

“When I was sexually active, it was usually frat boys, so I guess I should’ve known I wasn’t the problem.” You let out a small laugh, Dr. Styles seems to have found it much more amusing, as his chuckle came from deep within his chest. A small movement came with the laugh, which also reminded you that his fingers were still very much inside of you.

“It seems y’need someone who knows his way around,” he cleared his throat, and you smiled as you realized what he was hinting at. “and y’my last paitent of the day, so m’more than happy t’help y’out.” He looked down at his feet shyly, and you found it adorable how he was nervous about what he was proposing. But you were on the verge of tears from how hard it was to hold back your physical response to his touches. Your body relaxed when the words came out of his mouth, and you let out the whine that had been building up in your throat.

“Yes-Harry, god yes.” It was the first time you were using his first name, but the smirk on his face showed his approval.

He quickly removed his fingers from your heat, and you whined again, this time in frustration. Losing contact left you feeling cold, but that feeling only lasted a fleeting moment, as soon as he was pushing his fingers into you again, this time bare.

“Y’already so wet love, what got y’this worked up hmm?”

“Y-you, Harry, I want you.” You tripped over your words, but they came out clear enough for him to understand because he began moving his fingers at the encouragement. His fingers began to pump in and out of you, and you knew he must have been right about not being with the right guys before, because the simple movements left you as putty in his hands. You barely got any pleasure from fingering in your other sexual encounters, but you were already a moaning mess underneath the man. He lifted his other hand, which had also had the glove on it removed, and placed the pad of his finger on your puffy clit. You mewled loudly and his smirk widened.

“Any o’those boys ever make y’feel this good darlin’?” You shook your head furiously, and he smiled, rubbing circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. You were already seeing stars, and you could feel an unfamiliar knot forming in your stomach. “Y’so pretty, did y’know tha’?”

You couldn’t muster up enough strength to respond to his second question, but the loud moan that you let out was enough of an answer for him. His movements sped up, fingers pumping in and out of you and his other thumb pressing circles on your button.

“Harry-”

“Think y’close darlin’? Ready t’come fo’ the first time?”

“Yes, yes..” Your voice trailed off when a guttural moan rumbled through your throat. Although you haven’t had one before, you were sure that he was about to bring you to an orgasm. There was a tight feeling in your stomach and you knew it was just about to burst.

“Fuck-”

The knot burst and your orgasm rolled through your body, reaching every nerve inside of you. The feeling was euphoric, and your senses were heightened as your body experienced this new feeling.

“Thas’ it, good girl,” he cooed, slowing his movements and removing his fingers from your now overly sensitive clit. He worked you through your orgasm until fully removing his fingers from you, and you let out a sigh as he did so. “Definitely not somethin’ wrong with ya’, I can tell y’that.”

He smiled up at you and you returned the gesture, your smile only faltering when he turned away to write something down. You took the opportunity to get up and change, quickly dressing while his back was turned.

He turned in his chair to face you once again, handing you a small piece of paper. You took it from between his fingers to see a phone number scribbled on it in black ink.

“Is Doctor Styles giving me his number?” You said it in a cheeky way, smirking back at him.

“Yes, and he’s telling you to text him when you get home. Doctor’s orders.”

[gingercauldron]

Quiet Brilliance (Spencer Reid x BAU! Reader)

A/N: Here is my offering to the Criminal Minds fandom. Also this is my first time really writing fanfic? Just really wanted to have Spencer impressed by the reader and fall in love with them. So I hope you enjoy!! This is totally not an excuse to somehow make random stuff I’ve read about relevant in BAU cases lol

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU! Reader

Synopsis: Spencer notices how intelligent you really are, as well as how shy you are about it. He can’t stop thinking about you, your brilliance, and how much he just wants to hold you.

Warnings: None really, just fluff, and normal Criminal Minds content

Wordcount: 1.9k

No one in the BAU seemed to give you enough credit.

Not that it was their intention, of course, but Dr. Spencer Reid could not help but notice all of the times that your quiet brilliance went by as unremarkable. He might have had an eidetic memory, carrying a labyrinthine of facts and figures in his head - but you knew things that even he had not come across. He could tell that you were a researcher, that you would explore through files for knowledge because you wanted to.

When Spencer would pull a fact or statistic out of the air, you would be listening raptly. On several occasions you would scribble something down afterwards, and it made Spencer’s heart swell. This was how he first became so attuned to you when you joined the team. After that, he made sure to observe you.

He noticed that you would duck your head into files of each case, going through detail after detail with a furrowed brow. You would write in a frantic scrawl on post-it notes as a cue to do further research.

The most endearing part of it all, was that you would do the same thing even if there wasn’t a case. You would carry a tome with you, with the tails of post-it flaps coming out the side, each one crowded with writing. You were smart, Spencer learned, and he wondered why it wasn’t seen as big of an asset as it truly was to the team.

At first he could pretend that his interest was merely for the good of the team, learning more about you and what you were capable of. Obviously you were hired for a reason, likely your careful observations and sharp psychological profiling — but there was so much more. Spencer was finding it harder to pretend that this interest was not at all motivated by the affection that was developing for you.

He had three PhDs and was the so-called “resident genius,” but he wondered if you could give him a run for his money. The thing was, because you were quiet and private, he didn’t know — and that in itself was exciting.

On one case where you were observing the body at the scene, a particularly strange case where the jaw of the victim had swelled with tumors, you quickly told everyone to back up.

“What is it?” Hotch asked.

“It looks like possible radiation poisoning because of how localized the tumors are — like the unsub had the victim consume radium.” You said. “I could be wrong, of course. We could check her teeth.”

“Teeth?” Morgan asked.

Spencer quickly replied. “Radium has properties that make it glow in the dark, it was used as a novelty for that reason well into the 1970’s before restrictions were placed on it, actually. If the victim had been ingesting radium it is possible her teeth might glow. In 1938 a case was settled where a group factory workers sued their employment because they had been encouraged to lick paintbrushes covered in radium in the course of their work, resulting in massive tumours around the neck and jaw.”

“And the factory workers had tumours like this?” Hotch asked. He was asking Spencer now, not you.

“Remarkably similar.” Spencer replied.

Spencer glanced at you, but it didn’t seem to bother you that he had jumped in. In fact, the only that seemed to be upsetting to you was the fact that the unsub was on the loose.

“I’ll call some radiologists in.” Hotch said, already lifting the phone to his ear.

It turned out, that you were right. It was in fact radium, and you made sure that the team was safe by telling them to keep their distance from the body. The radiation levels on the body were dangerous.

On the plane home from that case Spencer had sat beside you, and he couldn’t stop thinking about your astute observation. You smiled up at him when he settled next to you, looking back down at the book in your lap.

“Hey, Y/N?”

You looked back up at him. “Yeah, Spencer?”

“That was a good catch with the radium.”

“Oh, that. Thank you.” You beamed. “But you would have caught it if I hadn’t.”

Would he? With all of the gruesome things he had seen they all morphed together, he wasn’t sure that he would have jumped to radium, of all things, as quickly as you had. That he would have been as cautious in avoiding the body to investigate if you hadn’t said something.

“I mean it. It was good catch. It was pretty brilliant, actually.”

“Thanks, Spence.” You said softly.

He knew he should let you get back to your book that was covered in post-it notes, but there was a thought that kept nagging at him. “Y/N?” He said again.

“Yeah?”

“Did it — did I overstep when you were telling the team about the radiation? Because if I did—”

“No, I got to stop you there. You helped. I’d rather not have the attention.”

He furrowed his brow, but didn’t say anything more, letting you return to your book.

After that it seemed that the rest of the team was starting to pick up on your fierce intelligence, too. It was hard to ignore the books you carried with you, but Spencer thought it would have been impossible to not notice you. Not just because you were utterly beautiful, but because everything about your mind was captivating.

Morgan remarked on it when you found a pattern in the artwork of a string of victims’ homes. The artwork looked nothing alike, but you picked it up.

“This painting.” You said, pointing at it. “It’s German expressionist.”

“Okay?” Morgan said.

“It could be nothing, but the last victim had a print of German artwork in their home — it was from the dada movement — but they’re both from the same time period. The other two victims had books on the Bauhaus — an influential German design school that operated between the first and second world wars.” You explained. “I wouldn’t have said anything, but the average joe wouldn’t have German post-World War One art. All of our victims are interested in the same time period for art — seems like too much of a coincidence.”

Morgan stared at you.

“What?” You asked sheepishly.

“Did Reid just possess you for a moment there? How’d you know all that?”

You shrugged and changed the subject. “I’ll call Garcia and see if she can connect the victims through local art groups or galleries.”

Morgan stared at you as you walked off, phoning Garcia. Spencer came up beside him and squinted at the painting on the wall.

“I think I know how the victims might be connected.” Spencer said to Morgan, analyzing the painting.

“The art?”

Spencer looked at Morgan in surprise. “You know about German art?”

Morgan snorted and shook his head. He gestured to you. “Y/N is calling up Garcia right now. Can’t imagine how she knew anything about it.”

Spencer furrowed his brow. “I knew it, though.”

“Exactly.” Morgan patted Spencer’s shoulder and left to talk to Hotch.

You put the phone down and turned noticing Spencer looking at you. You smiled when you saw him. He loved the way you smiled at him, as if he was the only other person in the entire world. He felt his heart rate increase and new, scientifically speaking, that he was completely infatuated with you.

“Garcia found a connection.” You told him.

You said nothing to him of the connections you had made first, but it made him appreciate the fact that he knew all the more. You downplayed your accomplishments. He wanted nothing more than to be by your side so that he could learn about every one of them.

Rossi noticed during a case, when Spencer was reading one of the unsub’s journals. Flipping through the book quickly and absorbing the information.

“Hard to believe the kid can read that fast sometimes.” Rossi said to you. “He reads 20,000 words per minute.”

“It’s over 60 times the norm. He’s pretty amazing.” You said back.

“The norm?”

You nodded. “Yeah, average adult reads between 200 to 300 words per minute, he reads around 333 words per second.”

“You some kind of whiz kid, too?” Rossi asked.

You scoffed. “Hardly. I just read a lot.”

“So does Reid.”

“You know what I mean.” And with that you left Rossi, effectively stopping the conversation.

Spencer smiled, having overheard you two. Whether you wanted to or not, you would slip little bits of information that show just how much you were thinking. You couldn’t hide your mind completely, and Spencer couldn’t stop thinking about what conversations would ensue in just spending a day with you alone.

Your voice saying he’s pretty amazing kept playing in his head and he could feel his face flush. Did you know how that sounded? You thought he, of all people, was amazing - not his brain, or his skills, but him. Did you mean it to sound like that?

Rossi turned to Spencer. “You know your face is red.” He said.

Spencer stared at Rossi, but he couldn’t make his mouth form any words. A grin spread across Rossi’s face, reading Spencer like a book.

“It’s okay Doctor, I won’t tell anyone.” Rossi said, and got back to his own work.

The rest of the day Spencer could hardly focus on anything, constantly aware of where you were in the bullpen - or distracted when you left the bullpen to see Garcia because that meant you were gone. He tried to keep his head down and look at evidence, but you were so close and you thought that he was pretty amazing, and it was nearly impossible to think about anything else. By the time he felt satisfied enough with the work he had done that day to maybe pack up it was already dark out.

Spencer saw you reading at your desk in the bullpen. Everyone had gone home already, but you were there scribbling notes down. When Spencer neared your desk he saw the book, a book he had been reading two days ago.

You looked up and smiled at him in surprise, with those dazzling eyes of yours. You pushed your hair behind your ear and all that Spencer could think about was what it would feel like to touch.

“Hi, Spence.” You said. “What’s up?”

Spencer swallowed, and his world came to a standstill. The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. “I think I love you.” His eyes suddenly went wide when he realized what he had said.

He turned around on his heel and rushed towards the door. He could hear your chair scratch against the floor and you called out.

“Spencer!”

He stilled, his hand on the door. He wanted to run, to get as far away and hopefully have you forget about it and not lose your friendship. He never wanted to disappoint you or make you uncomfortable, but he couldn’t turn his back on you either. He turned his head slowly, afraid to see your face.

You didn’t look angry. You had a small shy smile on your face.

“I think I love you, too.”

He dropped his hand from the door. “You do?”

You nodded. “I do.”

He laughed, feeling giddy. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” He confessed. “About your kindness and your brilliance, and just, you. I just — can I kiss you?”

“Why, Dr. Spencer Reid, I would like nothing more.”

That was all he needed before he was across the room, holding your face in his hands and kissing you. Spencer, with his eidetic memory, could not remember having ever been so happy.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Hi! Can I ask for a continuation to the supervillain finds drugged and terrified villain on doorstep? Maybe (idk where you’d wanna take it but ig this is just a suggestion) sorta fluff but the villain is terrified of supervillain? Idk where im getting at lmao just write what you wanna write and have fun with it :)

Of course! Thank you both for the asks. I loved that prompt and found it really cute. This one has about the same balance of fluff and angst as the first part, so I really hope you enjoy!

Continued from here.

CW//Medical mentions, past trauma, past drowning, past torture, injuries, food

The medics had left far too quickly.

At least, that was Supervillain's impression of the situation. Only perhaps half an hour after they had been called, their medical team had arrived in full force. Upon the injured villain they had swarmed like flies, with stethoscopes and thermometers and tools that their boss had no clue at all how to identify.

And then, they were gone. The leader of the team made a full report on Villain's injuries, and the care that they would require. Strangulation wounds, malnutrition, half-healed frostbite, and, of course, the beginnings of hypothermia had all stricken the heroes' victim.

But, so the leader had stated, none of these afflictions would require hospitalization. In fact, hospitalization would have likely produced a more negative outcome. With weakened lungs, on account of repeated and merciless strangulation attempts, even the most common of hospital-borne respiratory illnesses could send them to the grave. After all, the whole purpose of a hospital was for it to be full of sick people.

That was all that they had said, before piling up into their emergency response vehicle and leaving the premises.

Leaving Supervillain alone with nothing but a page of written instructions, and a half-dead Villain upon their couch.

Would it have been simple to pass the job onto a henchman? Or even better, a villain with genuine medical knowledge? Perhaps. But every last villain had scrambled off into hiding, and as smart as their henchmen were, this was not their responsibility.

It was the responsibility of a leader to take care of their sick.

And that was exactly how Supervillain had ended up in their kitchen, gingerly spreading butter of two pieces of steaming toast. Though the scent of freshly-toasted bread was nearly irresistible, the food was not for them. The whole situation had left them far too nauseous to even consider food.

But Villain was starving.

Placing down the knife into their sink with a clatter, Supervillain took the plate in one hand, and a topped-off glass of water in the other. They had taken the liberty of warming it-- though a cool glass of water may have been a mercy to some, to the pyrokinetic, it would have, in the best case scenario, caused discomfort. In the worst... Well, they didn't know.

After all, they weren't a doctor.

But, doctor or not, public enemy number one still moved gingerly across their kitchen floor, through the hallways, and all the way to the room where their new, accidental, ward had been settled. So it seemed, the medical examination they had been through had drained whatever energy that Villain had had remaining, seeing as afterwards they had immediately passed out upon the couch. Given that Supervillain was far from the kind of host to allow their guest to sleep on the couch, they had-- gently, of course-- carried them to one of the home's many spare room, and settled them upon a bed.

When Supervillain had left the room, Villain had been neatly tucked beneath the covers, snoring peacefully, if not a little shallowly.

Now, when they entered, toast and water in hand, the bed was empty. Instead, the sheets lay bare, blanket torn away.

They soon discovered why. As slight as the movement was, it was not difficult to tell that the blanket laid in a corner was breathing. The slightest flutter of sympathy danced within their chest-- why was their ward hiding?

"Villain?" They did their very best to make their voice quiet, hospitable, even though they were neither of those things. "I brought food. Are you hungry?"

There was no reply.

Supervillain realized in that moment that, throughout Villain's entire, brief, stay in the home, they had yet to speak a single word. Come to think of it, actually, they had hardly even been awake earlier. Though the medics hadn't believed a blood test to be necessary, the effects of heavy sedation were rather obvious.

This was the first time that Villain was awake, and they had awoken alone. Dammit.

With a soft clack, they set the plate and the glass upon a bedside table, moving towards the shuddering blanket in the corner. The combination of wool socks and carpeted floor made their footsteps almost silent, leaving the room quiet as they knelt down before the blanket. Up close, it was rather simple to see the form of the villain that had hidden themself beneath it.

As much as they would have liked to leave Villain alone and to their own devices, according to the doctor's words, 'they won't be able to survive on their own for a while.' They would need a caretaker, and, through chance alone, Supervillain had wound up in that role.

They grabbed the bottom of the blanket first, about where Villain's feet would be, and gently began to drag it off of their form. As soon as their head was uncovered, they stopped, leaving the fleece to protect the rest of their body.

Anyone could tell that Villain had been crying, sobbing, even. Half of their face was covered in dried tears, cheeks red and eye whites a similar color. As soon as their face was revealed, they struggled to cover it with their hands, revealing the shivering in their limbs.

"Hey, hey." Supervillain reached a hand slowly forth, but stopped short of actually laying it upon Villain, believing that that likely wouldn't aid in their terrified state. "You're okay. I know you're scared, I know. But you escaped. You... You can tell me how you did that later. But you're safe, now. You're in my house.

It's me. It's Supervillain."

That only served to send another wave of terrified shivering through their body, as though they had been struck by a cane.

"If you don't want to talk, I won't make you, okay? But you're hurt. Will you at least drink some water?"

It was as though an emotional grenade had gone off.

In an instant, Villain curled in on themself, burying their face in their knees and curling almost to a fetal position.

"No no no no please no- Please, no. Please let me breathe please I'll behave please not the water please please please no no no."

Supervillain stopped, and noted with a start something they had not made much notice of beforehand: When Villain first arrived, their upper body had been soaking wet.

Someone had tried to drown them.

"Villain." They struggled not to allow their to crack, but fury and sorrow combined were making that a nearly impossible task. "No one is going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you ever again, okay?"

From the tear-stained blanket, Villain lifted their head, shaking, pinprick pupils staring up at them.

"T-Then." They sniffled. "Then why are you here?"