#you can see the blood on his belly button spikes which just goes to show how painful this must be for him

[atwas-gaming]

Why is Kraid like that??? I mean, every incarnation of Kraid I've seen so far, he shoots pieces of bone from 3 belly buttons, and apparently grows and regrows talons at such an alarming rate that he can afford to shed them as weapons. And he spits up his own gastroliths, which sometimes are on fire. And then he's usually sitting in something incredibly painful, like lava, or a spike pit. It's really no wonder he's always in such a bad mood, he must be in constant pain every second of his life. I'd like to get my hands on the sadistic bioengineers that keep bringing him back like this.

[captainsourwolf]

okay hear me out.

everyone knows about link’s crush on john mayer. it’s no secret, he happily told everyone on camera his crush is the singer. nobody is surprised of course, least of all rhett, because rhett is the one that gets to hold his hand and love him and fuck him and kiss him and do all the things john mayer just wishes he could fucking do with link neal.

which okay, maybe rhett’s a little jealous sometimes. but he can’t help it. john mayer gets brought up and link’s eyes light up, this spot on his throat that ticks when his pulse rate spikes starts jumpin’, he gets this weirdly euphoric look on his face because he gets to talk about his stupid crush. the last time he reacted like that to rhett was when they were in college and he thought he was being smooth hiding his feelings.

okay so rhett is a lot jealous. sue him.

one day at the creative house he walks in and link’s playing an old john mayer cd and rhett’s blood instantly boils. he follows the source straight into link’s office where link is bebopping his head along to some stupid song about something stupid and rhett clenches a fist before he can even stop himself.

“link,” rhett would huff when he’s ignored only to feel bad a second later. he’s had crushes before. he remembers what it feels like.

but this different. this is link getting weirdly giddy when the other man is brought up, this is him bringing the singer up any chance he gets, it’s link acting like a teenager experiencing his first boner because someone made him feel all tingly.

rhett hates it. supremely. with everything in him.

which is why he can’t be blamed when he slaps his hand on link’s dumb boom box he just had to have and effectively stops john mayer’s crooning. link jumps in surprise and finally notices rhett has entered the room.

“hey—! i was listening to that!” but he isn’t angry, just peeved, cheeks flushing a bit when he glares at rhett and gets up to turn it back on.

rhett is taller and bigger so he blocks the boom box and crosses his arms.

“maybe im tired of listening to john mayer all the time,” rhett snips and link huffs and his mouth pops open into a perfect ring and he looks a bit murderous for a second if rhett’s bring totally honest. “your crush is cute, but come on, do we gotta listen to him all the time?”

link gets all huffy again and throws his hands in the air. “it’s not a crush, shut up, man,” he grumbles. but the spot on the back of his neck that gives him away all the time flares up and he reaches up to scrub at it.

“you loooooove him?” rhett teases. he can do that. he can tease, even if it means reverting back to when he was a high schooler that thought the way to a girl’s heart was through jokes and rude comments. he grins a little when link looks away, to the side and down, rubbing that spot even harder.

“shuddup, rhett.” there’s no venom to it, just a bit of amusement and embarrassment to go with the pinkness rising up his neck.

“you wanna hold his hand and swoon over him while he sings to you?”

link’s blush disappears under the collar of his—surprisingly enough—john mayer sweatshirt. the one that’s cream colored and splashed with pinks and blues, and looks soft against his skin.

“rhett—“

rhett grins a cheeky little grin and leans against the table the boom box is on.

“want him to wine and dine you? show you a good time?”

link’s tells are starting to pop out: shifting on his feet, scrubbing his neck, pushing at his glasses, fidgeting with his wedding ring. rhett is hitting every button and it sends a thrill through him knowing he’s making link a bit hot under the collar.

and of course that’s when he notices the blush deepen when he says “show you a good time” and the subtle way link is trying to adjust his pants. rhett swallows and licks his lips and thinks he could have some fun with this. he is jealous after all. get link hot, get him off, remind him rhett is the one he should be blushing for.

“want john mayer to kiss you, link?” rhett shoves away from his perch and stalks towards him. link licks his lips and looks down at the floor, shuffles his feet.

“you don’t—“ link shrugs and huffs. “you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

rhett bumps link’s chest he gets so close. dips down and kisses his hot cheek, his ear, tugs on it with his teeth a little.

“you wanna fuck him?” rhett whispers and tugs again. link whimpers a little, a tiny thing rhett almost doesn’t hear. when he registers that’s what he heard, he rears back enough to see link’s cheeks ruddy and hot and giving him away. rhett swallows, shuffles closer, feels an unmistakable bulge pressing into his leg.

link is hard. the realization makes the jealousy burn in rhett’s gut.

“do you want him to fuck you?” rhett murmurs and that’s the clencher. link’s cheeks turn tomato red and it disappears down his neck into that silly sweatshirt and his cock twitches on rhett’s hip.

link swallows so hard his throat clicks and he shoves rhett back, hardly far enough to put any space between them, but still. he glares up at rhett with no heat, digs fists into rhett’s shirt, yanks him down into a kiss that’s more bite than anything.

they don’t do things half-assed that’s for sure. link is naked and bent over his desk in no time, rhett naked and two fingers deep with spit and lube they keep hidden in the desk and leaning over link’s backside to get at his ear. breath hot and damp and making link shiver.

“wonder how good it’d feel to have john mayer’s fingers up your ass, baby? think his are as thick as mine?” link moans so loud rhett feels it in chest. his dick twitches at the sound.

link is a needy whiny mess. looks fucked out already spread out on his own desk, back heaving, cock dripping a sticky trail on his thigh and the floor. rhett can see his eyes where he’s leaning close, can see how dopey and unfocused they are just from rhett finger fucking him and talking about another man. the jealousy only makes him harder, makes him get a little rough with it, crooking his fingers just right to make link jerk and moan.

rhett pulls his fingers free and link whines and chases the feeling. he’s on his knees behind link biting an ass cheek and dragging his thumb over link’s stretched hole, teasing and kind of all over the place, not really knowing what he wants to do just that he wants to do it. so he makes link turn over, gets his mouth on a thigh, on a hip, on his balls, at the base of his cock.

“such a good singer, must have a nice mouth, too. surely he does.” link’s head thunks on the desk and he whines again, raises his hips to try and get rhett’s mouth on him. “think he can suck a cock with that nice mouth?”

“rhett—“

rhett licks him from root to tip, sloppy and messy, precum and spit wetting his beard, shining up his lips.

“want him to suck you off, link? fuck his mouth the way you do mine?” rhett gets a weak kick to his thigh and fingers winding in his hair. link leans up, on his free elbow, peers down at rhett all fucked out and horny and desperate. he growls and yanks rhett’s head back to look at him, at his flushed and sweaty face and his perky nips, taut belly, his cock throbbing and wet. “admit it,” rhett huffs a laugh and digs his fingers into link’s thighs.

“what if i do?” link admits, voice too rough around the edges.

that just won’t do.

rhett growls this time and shoves link’s hand off his head then stands, fits himself between link’s thighs. they stare at each other a moment, link smirking in challenge, rhett glaring. he roughly grabs link around the knees, hikes his legs up till he’s resting his calves on rhett’s sweaty shoulders. he drags his cock along rhett’s, the tease, and moans, smirk widening when rhett chokes a little.

“come on, then, fuck me, rhett, bet john mayer—“ it’s enough for rhett clamp a hand over his mouth, use the other one to slick himself up and line up and slip the head of his cock in link’s tight hole. link’s clipped off moan and the way he shudders it out makes rhett’s head spin.

again, they don’t do things half-assed, ever. rhett gives him his time to adjust, barely enough, and fucks into him messy and quick. link licks his palm and bites at the meat of his hand but rhett doesn’t budge. he keeps his hand there and pulls out and thrusts back in, starting up a steady rhythm. doesn’t take long to build a pace that punches the air out of link’s lungs.

link’s legs slip and wind around rhett’s waist. he yanks rhett forward and down, brow knitting when rhett’s cock hits deeper, smoother. rhett finally removes his hand and winds it through link’s hair and presses their chests together.

this close he can see the thin ring of blue left, the freckle beside his eye, the sweat beading on his upper lip. he tilts link’s head back and bites at his throat, takes his time sucking a bruise into the delicate skin over his jugular. he soothes it then goes back in for more and fucks link harder, making the desk rattle and groan under their combined weight and pace.

“this good enough?” rhett asks, having to stop and catch his breath before he can continue speaking. he starts a slow grind, barely out and right back in, making sure link feels it when he shoves his cock deep and presses his pelvis right up against link’s ass. “could he do it better?” the legs around his waist tighten.

“want that crooner to fuck you like this?” link’s breathing changes, hitches a little around his throat, and he’s scrambling to get his fingers in rhett’s hair, on rhett’s body. they slip on his back and end up around his waist, back in his hair, down again to his belly before finally giving up and squeezing around rhett’s neck. “want him to screw you against your desk all nice and slow? or get you on your belly and hold your head down and make you feel it?”

link gasps and rhett is done with the grinding, the slow pace, and sits back, holding onto link’s thighs. link can’t get a grip on anything in time and nearly bangs into the wall behind him, moaning loud and strangled, and reaching for rhett.

it’s always a punishing pace when they’re like this. rhett can’t help it. he likes to watch link fall apart like this, a sweaty mess, mouth open around choked off and desperate sounds, back arching as rhett fucks him. and he likes it when link finally blissfully falls apart.

rhett watches link’s face contort, his brows knitting so tight he’ll have a headache later, hands searching for something to hold onto. he’s almost there and he hasn’t even been touched since rhett got him up here. rhett loves it when he’s so horny for it that he cums untouched.

this time there’s an edge to it, a sting, and rhett can’t help himself from catching link’s eye, watching when he finally focuses enough to catch on.

“he fuck you better than i can, baby?”

and link loses it, jizzes all over himself in thick spurts, seemingly never ending as rhett screws him through it and he keeps cumming, speechless with it. he clenches around rhett’s cock, still a tease even when he’s just blown his load so hard he’s probably seeing stars. rhett likes that part, too.

link starts muttering little yeah’s and come on’s, fighting the over sensitivity and squeezing around rhett’s dick to milk it out of him. doesn’t take much, he was already about there, so when link sits up and drags fingers through the mess and reaches between them to feel where rhett’s fucking him and slick him up, that does him in. his hips stutter and he moans and folds in on himself, nearly loses his footing and takes link with him.

after a moment he finds he’s got his face buried in link’s neck, breathing evening out, mouth still hanging loose in satisfaction. link’s got him held up with an arm around his back, other propping himself up on the desk so he doesn’t fall.

takes a second but he gets himself together enough to unstick himself from link’s body. his dick slips out and with it a trickle of his release. link’s quiet moan and the way his ass clenches makes him chuckle and use his middle finger to plug it back in.

“it’s so gross when you do that.”

“you love it,” rhett laughs again and link flutters around him, sighing in resignation.

his blush is back. rhett sees it traveling from his cheeks to his neck to his chest. he’s embarassed, probably a little turned on still if the way his dick gives a valiant effort at twitching is anything to go by. but overall he’s spent and he lays back.

it’s quiet for a moment as rhett just waits for link to chill, to get himself together enough to face rhett’s amused stare. when he finally looks he has this softness there, in his eyes and around his mouth, only for rhett.

“you know you’re the only one,” he states it simply, quietly, pink in his cheeks flaring up for a moment.

rhett gathers him into a hug and kisses his temple.

“as if id ever believe john mayer could fuck you as good as me,” he whispers.

“oh my god. i hate you.”

rhett shakes his head, knowing better.

“nah, you love me.”

[joelmillerthirstqz]

Your writing is fantastic and it would be great to read some rough, shove-y sex with Joel 👀 also needy, clingy sex would be cool too

yooooooo hello these are 100% my interests, i will work on (them)!

Late-October Update: First part, Shove, is up on AO3 :)

Joel crosses his ankles as he leans against the porch railing, Molly predictably taking up Eugene’s offer to sneak out of the town Christmas party to smoke. How the hell he’d been dragged along as a bystander was beyond him, but his brow snaps into a line when Ellie and Jesse emerge from the other side of the porch, dulled music pulsing the walls of the church.

They sidle up to Eugene, who greets them warmly and offers them the lit joint, Joel’s mouth hanging open in protest, which, to his credit, he rethinks. Ellie gives him a look before taking a drag, and he segues his aborted comments into:

“I’m runnin’, if Maria comes out here,” he notes.

“Head to Jesse’s place and go down to the basement if you’re spooked, we’re just leaving too,” Ellie mutters, abundantly drunk, handing off to Jesse before disappearing inside presumably to give some form of goodbye.

Molly piques an eyebrow and Eugene beams.

“Careful, Molly, Alex’ll be excited to see you,” Jesse warns in his soft drawl.

Molly grimaces.

“What’s that possibly mean?” Joel tightens.

“You know how he’s lookin’. You’ll be fine,” Jesse slugs her on the shoulder and she looks at her arm and back to him, realizing the composure in his voice was not necessarily a sober man’s. Joel looks like he’s trying to fit his own smug smirk down the neck of his beer bottle.

—

Jesse’s basement is a smoky disaster zone, most of the patrol group burrowed in to drink, smoke, or evidently crawl all over each other. Joel has the sense memory of descending into a basement when he’d visited friends at school or been forced to go get Tommy from some A&M party.

Sarah’s mom was already gone by the time he got tackled into a wall by a pretty blonde a few years younger than him one night, in a hazy room like this. Fun-chasing as Tommy was, he saw the sliver of opportunity for a carefree night for his brother and sobered up, picked up Sarah and stayed the night at Joel’s, texting his brother to come home when he wished.

None of it feels particularly real now—someone else’s memories—until he refocuses on the Molly, forever baffled by the way she looks at him with her whole attention.

“Joel,” Molly urges, smiling at him from the bottom of the stairs and holding her hand out for his. She’d accepted his coat on the walk over, and tall as she is, the sleeves offer just the tips of her slim fingers.

He takes it briefly, still subtle enough, and meets her near the bottom. Ellie manifests from a corner, somehow having beaten them there.

“Best behavior. Welcome,” she grits, shoving a—flagon? Jug? Some type of container full of harsh whisky towards them. Dina watches her interaction curiously, chin in her hand. When Ellie rejoins her, Molly sees her mouth a “you did good!”

“You good?” Molly asks, taking the flask.

“I feel eight thousand years old, why?” Joel takes it back briefly for another hard swig.

Jesse’s steel toes thunder down the stairs behind them, hooking an arm over Joel’s shoulders.

“Anyone who goes out and shivs those motherfuckers is welcome. Also, this was Eugene’s idea, my place was just far enough from the—” his eyes widen in the realization of ‘I’ve said too much.’

Joel raises his hands.

“To my grave,” he vows, Jesse snagging the sloshing liquid Joel’s trying to steady and busting between them to slink into the dark opposite end of the room, from which raucous howling resounds.

“You think Tommy knows?” Joel glances around conspiratorially.

“Maybe. Want to get absolutely tanked?”

Joel can’t remember the last time recreational drinking in Jackson had been more than a few beers or a single whisky; some of his less adroit coping skills in Boston spring to mind readily. Molly’s dimples are showing as she smiles at him and he breathes deep and dives.

They work through three shots together, overhearing Eugene telling Firefly stories that’d make Tommy clobber him over the head.

“No, they called these body shots, idiot,” one of the patrol group younger than Ellie’s age emphasizes from the far corner. He takes a shot and slams his chest into his companion and Molly bursts out laughing.

“Outbreak babies. Christ,” she comments.

“You’re going to need to fill me in,” Joel admits, not fully recognizing the words strung together as a phrase.

Molly grabs him by the collar and whispers in his ear, his face tinging pink as she speaks, carelessly grazing his ear with her mouth. If anyone was starting to do the math around them, they definitely weren’t preventing much tonight.

Recognizing it quickly as she speaks and intimates what they could do later, “You don’t think Ellie’s—” Joel slurs together.

“Joel, yeah, I definitely do,” Molly nods, leaving him to put his hands on his head and feign stretching, scanning for his kid and finding an empty couch where she’d Dina had been progressively draping limbs over her.

“College, that right?” one asks, her patrol nickname less a sign of erudition and more a signifier of the younger group begging for stories of what they assumed had to have been a great time.

“Not even close,” she folds her arms.

Joel’s looking back over at her with an unfathomable expression.

Molly raises an eyebrow at him.

“Molly!” Both Joel and Molly snap around at the sound—an inebriated Alex, ever hopeful that Molly would take interest, ambling towards them.

“Alex,” Molly acknowledges.

“Look I’m juss gonna—” he gears up, puffing his chest out.

“Heyyy!” a chorus around the room lights up as Tommy comes into view, pausing at the stairs to beckon a more hesitant pair of jeans to finish the descent.

“Look what I brought,” Tommy announces, taking Maria’s hand faux-courteously and ushering her into the room. She takes a quick glance around the room for anything really out of line, but her eyes are back on Tommy.

Molly exchanges a glance with Joel, mouth turning down in a smile she’s clearly biting the inside of her cheek through. Tommy slots in by Eugene, squinting up at Joel like he can’t process his brother’s presence, Maria swarmed by red-handed occupants trying to earn her favor with the spectrum of tipple they offer.

“I think we’re skewing the demographic a bit,” Molly turns and starts, realizing Joel had pulled much closer and they’re inches apart.

If he leans in and whispers to her with an ill-contained smile, hand on her lower back, it’s not his business if anyone chooses to see it, even if it’s intentionally around the side visible to the whole room.

—

They barely make it back to Joel’s house in one piece, Molly fully face planting into the foot of snow twice. Joel almost offers to throw her over his shoulders but realizes he’s already swaying plenty and opts for an arm around her waist, which slows their progress considerably. Joel stops them every few seconds, guiding her momentum towards him to kiss her indiscreetly.

“Y’know, never personally did one of them body shots,” he murmurs, Texas inflection pouring out of him.

“How forward,” Molly teases back.

“I think you’re supposed to be lyin’ down, actually,” he jokes, getting his keys in on the fifth try and tugging Molly inside by the waist.

“Didn’t even make sense—” she complains, Joel’s hands on either side of her face as he kisses her. She grants him easy access, inviting the taste of the dark liquor into her mouth. He grabs her knitted hat and spikes it to the floor with far more force than necessary as he gets through her buttons with surprising dexterity.  

They kiss messily between being successfully liberated from each layer of her clothing and Joel finally scoops her hips up, forcing her legs around his waist and into the dining room with the table they were already perfectly certain could handle a decent amount of stress.

“Pity my missed youth,” he implores, even as Molly is reclining and clearly interested in humoring him.

“Just get over here,” she falls back to her elbows as he hovers over her, balancing on one hand.

“You know, you’d usually come at it from the side,” Molly instructs.

“That so? I think I can do it this way,” Joel laughs, pouring the bottle he’d retrieved right onto her breastbone with no warning.

“Jooooel! Fuck!” Molly squeaks when the cold liquor slides uniformly down both sides of her abdomen, quickly chased by his hot tongue. He seems to get to her navel before the liquid can even pool there; thorough in laving the sticky liquid off of her skin, returning to her belly and swiping it clean with broad strokes.

“That was not nice,” she chastises, fisting his barely-long-enough hair in one hand, other hand pawing at the rest of him.

It makes Joel tilt his chin up at her, a look that would be sharp if they weren’t both so obviously besotted and hammered at once.

He twists free with next-to-no effort, moving back down and biting the side of Molly’s abdomen, tugging the skin a little as he pulls back.

Molly lets him look pleased with himself for a second, leaning heavily over her with a cocky smirk. She bites his lower lip, always searching for the appreciative grunt it earns, and isn’t surprised that he enjoys the pressure right up until she draws blood. Even in the low light (nobody drew the curtains against the reflective snow) his eyes are almost completely dark and he’s running them over her body and back to her face raptly.

Joel grasps Molly’s thighs, hard, and drags her roughly to the edge of the table, almost pinching.

Molly slaps him, not too hard, stinging on the ridge of his cheekbone. His mouth drops open for a second and she can’t help herself with how captivating he is, slowly tabulating what various replies may cost him with a clench of his jaw.

Joel watches her curious expression considerately and notes the flush along her front, returning the gesture with an extraordinary sense of control for being drunker than he’d been in years.

“Harder,” he challenges, eyes glinting in the snow-reflected light. Molly obliges, and they smile like they’ve stumbled on inventing a new art form together.

Molly lurches them together, grasping the back of his neck and kissing him feverishly, Joel reciprocating as their fingers overlap to get him out of his shirt. Joel shifts one knee next to Molly on the table, and the nervous groan it gives in reply makes him sigh and drag her down to the floor with him.

Molly straddles him as he kicks out of his jeans. It takes two seconds for him to flip them, slamming her back to the floor a little more roughly than he would’ve sober. He hooks the back of her right thigh over his shoulder and moves his mouth to suck on her clit without pretense.

“Joel!” Molly whines, arcing up on the chilled floor, interrupting it with a gasp when his first two fingers spread her. He glances up and tries not to break his pace, but Molly’s so fucking stunning, wreath of cropped auburn spilled on the floor, eyes boring into him with a soft upturn to her mouth.

“Hush,” he grumbles, smacking her thigh as he rises to his knees and drags her hips towards him.

Molly always feels as receptive as her demeanor towards him would suggest when he first slips inside of her, but tonight it feels like she’s thrusting into him somehow. Her shoulders stick to the floor as she’s far too wobbly to curl forward while he’s got her suspended well off the ground. Molly locks her thighs and shoves one heel into Joel’s lower back, knocking him off his knees enough to push forward into his lap.

“God damn it, Mol,” he protests thinly, gazing up at her as she grinds onto him, palms fanning over his broad shoulders.

“C-close,” she mumbles, throwing her head back and basking in the rough treatment he’s lavishing on her breasts.

Joel strokes the side of her face with a reverence she’s going to tease him for in the morning before lightly slapping her again and grasping her hair in a mostly connected movement.

Molly comes hard, exclaiming loudly enough that he feels compelled to cover her mouth with his opposite hand. Molly’s shivering pulls him over fast, certain and uncaring that she’s drawing blood along his back. Joel cries out between some kind of euphoric giggle as she nips his palm, absurdity starting to dawn on her.

They both rock for a long minute as he comes, Molly affectionately kissing along his high cheekbones and stroking where she’d scratched.

Joel strokes her back in kind, boneless and comfortably counting the thrum of their heartbeats against each other. He huffs a soft laugh first.

“Don’t start. Was that good?” Molly asks.

“If you’re good, yeah,” Joel can’t stop touching her face at the most restrained of times, and he cradles it in two hands now. He seems to beam up at her, thoroughly contented.

Molly kisses along his cheekbones once more and he nudges her with his nose.

“C’mon, put a drunk old man to bed,” he jokes, patting her lower back gently..

[promptistrashqueen]

Sunshine from a Stranger

So maybe this is what I wrote in the little spaces of time I had when working at not-my-desk on specific days at work and maybe I had my boss email it to me without telling her anything about the file she just sent externally. WHoops. Omegaverse part 1.

Alpha.

The word brands itself against the wall of Prompto’s skull as an unfamiliar scent sweeps over him. He cringes, ducking out of sight as the other’s shadows pass. Voices pick up, quiet as a breeze, but Prompto’s a good listener.

“I will not be held accountable for this rash adventure!”

“Iggy, if you’re not gonna pull the stick outta your ass to kick so-“

“Shut up.”

The last speaker, despite the command, sounds gentle and Prompto has an irrational moment of hoping it’s true because he knows, if he can smell them…it’s only a matter of time.

Curfew is more than a suggestion in Gralea and Prompto knows that, really he does but, his suppressant is gone and there were too many alphas between him and home during daylight hours. He peeks out, careful, but there’s no sign of the other’s. He can still smell them though, heavy and strange in the air. He doesn’t dare come out while they may be near.

A spark of blue catches his gaze overhead and he looks up, tensed to run, only for a hand to cover his mouth from behind, pulling him further into the recess between buildings. He lashes out, elbow moving to smash into his would be captor’s diaphragm-or it’s supposed to. Another large hand catches him and he struggles harder, the alpha scent cloying and overwhelming.

“Hey, quiet or they’ll catch us.”

Prompto goes still, breathing hard through his nose at the sound of the same gentle voice as before. He can hear, now that he’s listening, the heavy footfalls of the night patrol. His heartbeat evens out by the time they’ve faded into the distance and the hand over his mouth drops in time for him to spin, hands up to fight since he knows he can’t run.

The alpha who held him is, Prompto hates himself for the thought, beautiful. His black hair sweeps forward to cradle his cheeks and grey eyes look out from under serious brows. The alpha raises his hands unthreateningly and Prompto notes the other two, one large and very alpha, the other lean, poised and patient, copy the motion.

“Sorry…I know we scared you but, I need your help. How do we reach Zegnatus?”

Prompto is torn, ready to fight as his panic is shoved down in favor of grit and he sees the way the other two alpha’s gaze flickers over him, evaluating his threat level. He looks them over in return, noting the control they’re displaying despite the narrow opening they’re all sharing, despite how quickly his unsuppressed hormones are responding to the nearness of them. It’s nothing intense but most alpha’s he’s met in Gralea would already be drooling. These ones show nothing except the slight dilation of the youngest’s pupils, and Prompto can’t even be sure that’s him.

“I-“ Prompto starts, then stops, thinking. The alphas are certainly foreign and they need his help. If he plays his cards right and they are what they seem, a fool’s gamble, he might be able to leave this place.

“I can show you the keep, I can even get you inside but…you have to take me with you, wherever you go when you leave.”

There’s a moment of silence, the graceful looking one trying to pull the younger into confidence. Prompto’s nerves make his hands tremble, and then-

“It’s a deal. Help us and we’ll protect you and get you to Insomnia.”

Prompto nods, tries not to let his surprise and relief show. The Crown City of Lucis is a fairytale to Gralean’s, a place where the alphas don’t die of rut-poison and omega’s aren’t traded like a cattle. It’s a beacon of hope that’s just too far to be real.

Prompto checks the coast is clear and leads them out, cautious and efficient. It takes practically no time to reach to heart of the city and the outer defenses of Zegnatus Keep. It rises above them but Prompto doesn’t spare it a glance, hurrying through a concealed passage into a small area for deliveries. The door for receiving is small, a revolving thing made to prevent subterfuge.

There’s a displeased growl behind him as the others see it and he feels his pulse spike at the sound.

“It’s the only way in that’s not the front gate.”

The largest of them glares at him, “Convenient Iggy and I don’t fit, ain’t it?”

Prompto doesn’t have a chance to respond before the youngest, built slight for an alpha, makes a low sound in his throat. It sends chills over Prompto’s skin and a low curl of heat in his belly. The other two stand straight and collected, ready.

“I’ve promised you freedom, I trust you to want it enough not to betray me. You and me can go, if you know how that thing works.”

Prompto swallows and nods, “Y-yeah. You get in and someone presses the button, the door will turn, then you have to get out, press the button on the other side to send it back.”

The alpha nods, then gestures and Prompto steels himself, crouching into the small conical door. There’s a “snick” sound and he feels himself turning. An empty room greets him and he slides out, looking around quickly and pressing the button to return. The chamber moves so slowly and his heart is in his throat because it would be so, so easy for the alpha’s to abandon him. When the chamber comes back he feels his chest loosen a bit. The scent precedes him but the alpha steps out and Prompto relaxes more.

“Where are we?” he asks softly, stepping closer to Prompto, probably in effort to stay hidden. Prompto looks up at him, eyes adjusting to the different light and giving him a moment to gather himself as he’s buffered by the way that the alpha smells.

It’s amazing, the first touch of snow, currant, a touch of something metallic and most of all the way Prompto always imagined home. He realizes, as the other waits that he’s not answered yet.

“I-I’m not…uh, somewhere in lower area, the labs and stuff are a couple floors above us.”

The alpha nods, taking a step back and Prompto breaths properly.

“When I was here last time the elevators worked without a card for a few floors but we’ll have to get a passcode to go any further. The labs are clearance level two at least and the scientists are…well...I hope

you have weapons.”

Prompto says it all while looking around the gray room, evaluating which of the doors is best. He’s not looking at the alpha so it catches him by surprise when a body pins him to a wall.

“When you were here?”

The alpha’s voice is low, darker and Prompto feels his fear spike, souring the air, though he doesn’t back down. It makes sense, the concern that he’s admitted to spending time in the seat of enemy power.

“Yes, when I was here, being experimented on as a kid. It happens to a lot of omegas here.”

He expects the alpha to back up, to be suspicious and distrusting, a grudging partner. He doesn’t expect the anger. It’s stranger because it doesn’t seem to be directed at him as the alpha’s eyes glow a bit violet.

“Those bastards…” The words are low and he almost misses them but it gives a little hope, both for what the place they come from is like, and for himself in this moment. The way to alpha is acting it’s clear, he’s here because he’s not pleased with the empire.

Prompto shrugs, he can feel the way he’s starting to shake a little, being boxed in makes him uncomfortable and he can’t shake the way that the alpha is looking at him. It pops in his head, in the way that panic sometimes makes thoughts race through, that he should really learn the guys name.

“What’s your name?”

Oh. Or the alpha will beat him to it as he looks at him, eyes more intense than Prompto can really tolerate and yet…he’s not like the others Prompto has met, there’s no demand, just something fierce and instinctual.

“Prompto. Yours?”

He watches the shift of the alpha’s eyebrows, the way his lips tilt up a little and then he’s turning away, shrugging a little.

“Just call me Noct.”

Prompto snorts a little, it’s a weird way to say it and he slaps “Noct’s” back lightly, “Well,” he starts, false bravado firmly in place, “you ready to do something dumb?”

Noct laughs a little, but the tension doesn’t leave him and he nods, “Dumb is my middle name.”

Prompto can’t help the twitch of his lips or the response that bubbles up, “Dude, lame.”

They grin at each other and there’s something so strange about it all. Prompto’s life is tense and dangerous, he’s on his guard around alphas and other Omega’s shy away from him, something about his scent. Here, in the heart of the Empire, he should be terrified silent but he finds himself almost enjoying the moment, with the new alpha who seems to like him for more reasons than what is between his legs.

Noct tips his head toward the barely visible opening in the wall, the greys of the room making it blend in. Prompto doesn’t need to be asked, he just nods in response, the gravitas of the situation settling back

in. They are in the midst of the enemy, in more ways than one, and if he’s not careful he’ll end up back….well, if it comes to it he’ll take death over capture.

As they climb the stairs, quietly as possible in the narrow corridor, the thought chills Prompto and he taps Noct’s arm lightly.

“If,” He says, in a fast whisper, “If we’re caught, don’t let them take me alive.”

The words take a beat to register and then Prompto is privy to a whole range of horrified emotions crossing the alpha’s face.

“I-“ Noct seems to struggle, “I promise.”

Prompto feels a rush of gratitude, for the lack of questions or cajole, for the way that Noct just gives his word, trusts that Prompto knows himself.

After that neither of them speaks and Prompto helps lead Noct through the confusion that is Gralea. Stealing a passcode is a bit tricky but Noct moves in a blur of blue light, and returns with MT blood and a passcard between his fingers.

They’re well into the labs, the only area that Prompto’s familiar with and fortunately the place Noct was headed for when they speak again.

“What are you here for?”

The words are barely a breath, they’ve been lucky so far, magitek are blissfully oblivious as they sneak past, but Prompto knows there are others here, somewhere.

“Information. Proof. Computers.”

The answer is succinct and Prompto nods, checking the path to the nearest control room, and leads Noct forward. The alpha gives him a slight nod in thanks and wastes no time in what he’s doing, pulling a small clear card from his pocket and sliding it into the computer. A black box appears but Prompto doesn’t bother reading it, keeping a lookout instead, and Noct keys in a few commands.

It’s only a minute, maybe two, but standing still in Zegnatus feels like an eternity. Noct withdraws the card and they’re off again, moving faster now they know the path. The last set of stairs are in sight and Prompto watches his companion make a mistake.

Noct doesn’t look around the last corner, just turns it and there’s a sound that Prompto knows all too well, the high pitched sound of an MT alert.

It’s not loud and there aren’t units nearby, but he knows it’ll get louder if they don’t do something. He turns the corner a split second later, in time to watch the alpha take the unit down.

It’s…shocking. There’s the blue light again, a wickedly sharp sword and the way the alpha moves is graceful and deadly. Prompto’s heard of the magic users, of course, knows that somewhere linked in the near-myth that is Insomnia there are those who can wield the type of power Noct seems to have, he just didn’t think it would be so…so..

“That was awesome!”

Noct smiles at him quickly and they push forward, more careful again as they make their way back to the tube.

“You should go first.”

Prompto frowns at the words, confused.

“They’ll think I abandoned you or killed you in here.”

Noct shrugs, “I’ll be right behind you, and if I go first they’ll try to drag me away, they’re not happy I’ve promised to bring you with us.”

Prompto shifts, uncomfortable and worried now, “It doesn’t have to be all the way, just past the Gralea border really.”

Noct evaluates him for a long moment, but doesn’t relent, motioning for him to go. He slides back into the capsule and finds himself looking into Noct’s eyes for reassurance, and more surprising, he finds it in the warmth of the blue.

There’s a snick and Noct is disappearing from sight, the other two alpha’s coming into view. He’s dragged by his arm out of the pod and too his feet by the big one and finds himself unable to muster words at the fear that permeates him, this is it, the darkness he was waiting for.

He closes his eyes and waits for the hands to pull and the other alpha to join, instead he hears, “What the fuck?” and there’s a shuffling until he’s on his own feet, curling in on himself and sinking to the ground.

“Please.” His voice is small and he tries again, “Please press the button for Noct.”

There’s another noise of surprise and he focuses on keeping himself together, Noct, he thinks, might keep them away. The graceful one is leaning forward, doing as he asked and he hears the capsule turn again.

“Took you long en-“ Noct’s voice, disgruntled as it is, cuts off.

“What did you do?”

He sounds angry and Prompto curls in on himself further, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Noct kneels beside him, “Stop apologizing Prompto, I wasn’t asking you. What happened?”

He just shakes his head, but the big one is answering.

“I grabbed him when he came around. Damnit, you should’ve come first! He’s an enemy, he could’ve trapped you!”

“If I had come, you would have left him.”

There’s a silence after the icy words and then the other alpha speaks, “You gave him your promise of safety Noct, we may not like it, but we respect it. Either way, we need to move, now.”

Prompto can feel the agreement from Noct and he forces himself to calm, standing up again, “Follow me, the fastest way to the border wall is patrolled, we’ll have to go another way.”

The big one glares at him but Prompto won’t let him scare him again, and Noct nods, “Lead the way bud.”

The four of them make their way through alleys and carefully cross a square that the largest alpha nearly strangles Prompto for taking, but the MT no longer patrol the area, no Gralean’s are stupid enough to cross the open path.

They reach the border wall in good time and Prompto swallows hard, the electric shield is already up. The alphas don’t pause though, one of them throws an orb and it bursts against the energy, creating a hole. Prompto slips through it with Noct and they scale the deceptively low wall.

On the narrow ledge before the cliff face that the wall backs up to there’s a car, it’s beautiful and Prompto sighs appreciatively before claiming a spot in the front, next to Noct.

“Don’t kill us.” The alpha with glasses says drily and Noct just laughs at him before he pulls away.

Prompto is too giddy to be afraid, the nightmare of his life as a Gralean omega is fading in the distance after all, but even he is aware that Noct’s driving is, well, terrifying. They survive it though, despite the moments when it seems a bit shaky.

The sun is starting to rise when they finally stop, miles and miles from anywhere that Prompto’s even heard of. There’s a single strip of buildings and a hotel that Noct makes a beeline for the second he turns the ignition off, leaving Prompto to scramble after him. He doesn’t want to be alone with the other two if he can help it and he’s grateful when they stay behind, the big one, Gladio he’s heard Noct call him, shouts after but doesn’t follow.

He catches Noct easily and the alpha smiles at him a bit, “You ready to slum it?”

Prompto frowns, he knows the word but isn’t sure what Noct means. A slum is where the poorest of the poor live, the omega’s who sold their bodies and the dying mostly. This place is nice, it’s bright and the sky is open and blue, the bleak cold doesn’t seep into his bones and he can’t see anyone laying in a heap of blankets.

“uh-I guess, I mean…shit.” Noct seems to have realized the error because he starts trying to explain, faltering.

“Sorry, you’re just so normal, I guess. I don’t meet many Niffs where I live.”

Prompto just shrugs and smiles, “No big deal, it’s not like you’re stuck with me much longer anyways.”

Noct doesn’t laugh, he just looks at him blankly for a long moment, “I wouldn’t mind if we were.”

He doesn’t give Prompto the time to answer, dinging the bell on the front desk and greeting the man who steps out of the back. The arrangements for rooms are lost on him as he thinks, Noct seems to like having him around, wants to spend time near him.

He wants it to feel comforting, it’s a nice thought at the very least, but the long-standing wariness seeps in. Does Noct expect him to repay him for helping him get out? He thought that showing them the way into Gralea was payment but maybe…Noct is an alpha and there are many things that he might want.

Prompto hates it, the way that the thoughts rush forward and taint his view of Noct. The alpha in question turns to him and smiles and Prompto offers a slight one in return.

“I got us two rooms.” It’s said casually as Noct walks back to the door, leaning out to call the other two over, but Prompto freezes. Two rooms. Two rooms and four of them, so he’s sharing a room and no doubt it’s with Noct. Noct, who doesn’t want him to go yet, who he owes. Noct who’s staring at him in concern.

“What’s the matter? Did you not want your own room? I thought, I mean, you don’t seem comfortable around us yet…”

The relief that floods Prompto is so pure he gasps a little, “No! I-that’s perfect. Thank you.”

Noct just gives him another odd look and hands him his key, “Iggy’s going to buy you some clothes, Gladio said he’d guard the door if you wanted, but I think he’s itching to get some sunshine. I can stick around if you want?”

Prompto answers slowly, his first instinct is to let the alpha decide, but he recognizes that the alpha is giving him choices, that he’s asking him without strings.

“I think…I would like to look around here a bit, if you’d come with me?”

Noct’s face lights up and he smiles, “Yeah! Sure.”

Prompto isn’t sure what they should do, since he’s never been to this part of the world and really, he’s not sure if there is anything to see really. Noct follows him back out into the sunlight anyways and Prompto pauses to enjoy the rays against his cheeks, his heavy coat and thick pants are alright for the moment, but if the heat lasts here he’s going to need something else.

Noct seems to realize this as well, looking the omega over and then gesturing, “C’mon, let’s get you something to wear so you don’t die.”

Prompto bites his lip, looking back at the blue of the sky. He’s always known the danger of cold but he supposes that heat might be a threat in itself. Noct shakes him from his thoughts with a light nudge to his shoulder and Prompto smiles, a little startled at the touch.

The alpha nods toward a building near the end of the row and Prompto takes the lead, comfortable for once with another at his back.

[oneandonlykysra]

Autobiographical:  It’s Like This

This was written about a year ago and is a pretty accurate account of my struggle with infertility and the end of it.  I’m posting this now because - due to a recent stint with cancer my doctors all agree I should not try for a second baby which was the plan for April before I found out about the cancer.

It’s Like This

by Kysra

Here’s how it is:

Ammonia cooling on fingers shaking in the lamplight.  A clear Solo cup on the vanity, half-full and leaking (Need to get the disinfectant and clean that) with a stick – a lackluster reminder of coffee spoons I’ve had to give up – rising from the foam.

I should have brought a book, the porcelain warming beneath my lower cheeks even as the decision is made to get my feet and flush the nothing in the bowl and wash my tainted hands. The rest of a small eternity is spent half-pacing forth and frantically looking for something to do, willfully forgetting the empty sink, folded laundry, and dusted furniture.  

The book shelf is full but the contents have been read at least once.  The waiting is the hardest part (After all, what is two years of trying?).

Trying to be nonchalant is more difficult.   I barely know the date anymore, don’t really keep track of the days of the week or months of the year.  My calendar is all about the day of my cycle – Is it a fertile day?  What is my temperature?  Oh, it’s day 12, I should be seeing a spike now.  Why is my mucus drying up when it’s day 9?  Maybe I should start doing the ovulation kits today . . .

There are highs of course – the build up to getting that phone call, “You can trigger tomorrow at 8 A.M. and be here the next morning first thing” (like fertility is some sort of gun and synthetic hormones are the bullet); the hellish two week wait where every symptom imaginable is . . . imagined; and finally, today, when all the chemicals, mood swings, barely there self-hatred, public scrutiny and untamable Hope (too important for a mere lowercase) come to a head.

Returning to the bathroom takes some effort.  My breath is ragged from taking the ten steps from the hall.  A glance tells me everything I already knew, the screaming silence of a single line echoed in my heavy sigh.

I get the disinfectant, clean the mess.  The stick is in the garbage first.  I don’t want to see it anymore.

***

There are times I want to stand up, deform my jaw, and scream until my uterus explodes.  

“Do you want to hold her?”  The baby is staring at me with a baleful look that says, ‘I don’t know you. I don’t like you.  I don’t like how mommy’s fingers are digging into my pits either.”

I shake my head and make some excuse about not holding kids under a year old.  (It’s true but not the truth.)  

Social gatherings are almost as hellish as the two week wait only somewhat shorter and somewhat missing the desperate itching of anticipation that WILL.NOT.DIE.  I weather them with a staid sort of semi-calm that just barely masks the sinking isolation that I actually feel.

Because, seriously, when you’re going through a fertility journey alone (and make no mistake, even partnered infertile people are alone in their suffering) it seems as if the entire fucking population is in some stage of successful procreation just to spite you.

And in some weird twist of crazy, despite the bellowing green monster behind my eyes, I still like seeing baby bumps and talking mommy-shop and playing peek-a-boo.  If I can’t be a mommy (yet), I guess being ‘doting auntie’ isn’t such a short change.

It doesn’t stop me from crying myself to sleep though.

***

The thing is, after you’ve been molested as a kid, you never think of your body as fully yours.   Infertility reinforces this.   Unexplained infertility twists it into a psychosis.  Because if your body isn’t yours and it’s defective anyway, who the fuck is in charge?   YOU.  So you become a little reckless, a little crazy because this body isn’t yours but you’re the one having to deal with it.

You’re willing to do things most sane people would never entertain.  You take drugs and supplements and drink strange drinks and eat strange food and it doesn’t matter how much money it all costs or how many doctors you see or how many hours of work you miss.  You will allow anyone to touch, poke, prod, and manhandle your lady parts even though you hate being touched in even innocent places and want to kick these people in the face until their eyes are gouged.

And you do it, because this body that isn’t fully yours is telling you it wants to be an incubator for a brand spanking new baby.

And even though you know that spanking new baby and your spanking new incubator body will be touched, poked, prodded, and manhandled even more, perversely, even as you would prefer drinking acid under normal circumstances . . . you want it more than anything on God’s green Earth and you will do the aforementioned things-most-sane-people-would-never-entertain for as long as you can stand it.

***

Driving an hour and a half and missing work time stinks in and of itself, but being escorted to a claustrophobic little office with a huge cherrywood desk (cheerily justaposed as it is to the sickly yellow wall paint) and told, “At your age, with your medical history, and how you’ve responded so far, I have to think something is wrong with you” is just the straw that breaks the weary, beaten down camel’s pack-laden back.

My doctor is a certifiable jackass of the first water.  I don’t trust him a wit and even if I did think he had my best interests at heart, I would still want to bitch slap the smirk off his face.

I attempt to breathe through my nose, a painful weight in my chest, and try to stem the prickling in my eyes, nose, and whine that’s bouncing around between my vocal cords.

Something is wrong with you.  Story of my life.

He goes on talking about my three options (another IUI, IVF or laparoscopy) and I do my best to pay attention through the ringing in my ears.  I can feel the heated wetness of tears brimming at my lower eyelids and my nose is starting to run.  I faintly recognize my voice – stronger than it has any right to be – saying I want to move on to IVF.  

Nevermind that the last two years have cost me more than $30,000 already, I will find a way to finance the procedure even if I have to sell (excuse me, I mean donate) my precious eggs.  Who cares if it will absolutely kill me if they work for some stranger and I never reap the benefits of my own gametes, at least I’ll be able to give myself that good old college try.

He leaves to find the financing information and I let the tears come.   It’s not hard wracking sobs.  It’s not a steady drip.  It’s not a satisfying cry.  

It’s a weak, shuddering cry that cools my red cheeks and staggers my breath and drains my energy. I feel frail sitting here in this room with its pomp and polish.  I’ve never felt so lonely and in need of a simple hug.  

But there’s no one around (despite wishing for a nurse) and I probably wouldn’t accept a hug anyway. It would be like an agreement on my colossal failure.

Something is wrong with you.

I end up crying all the way back to work, through the day, on the way home, and into a bottle of tequila until I fall asleep on my bedroom floor.

When I wake, I feel scummy and dirty and to-my-toes sad.

My three options are in the back of my mind.  The doctor told me to let him know what I decide as soon as my period comes; and wouldn’t you just know it – “The Red Flood begins,” even my voice sounds weighted and empty as I look down at my soiled underwear. . . like Eeyore on estrogen.

After work, I pass my house and find myself at the park.  The green grass and canopied trees are brimming – ironically – with life, but I bypass them to walk all the way to the back where I can see cars pass but they can’t see me.  

I lower myself slowly to a swing, grasp the suspension chains and begin to rock.  The rocking becomes a creak-pull, the creak-pull smooths out to a soft aerial glide.

The sobs are not unexpected nor is the conversation-like prayer that breaks from my lips.  I want God to know how angry I am, how sorry I am, how hopeful and trusting and thankful I am.  I want him to know I’ll accept whatever outcome I’m given but how I will never understand how he could give me this imperative for motherhood yet not allow me to conceive.

“I guess that’s something I’ll just have to live with, right?”

Something is wrong with you.

That evening I call the doctor to let him know I choose the laparoscopy.

***

Missing a cycle hurts but (a grudging but) it was most likely necessary to my sanity.  I feel a renewed sense of positive anticipation and it shows in the smile on my face and the spring in my step.

I’m not even snarky with the doctor as he pulls the bandages off my “bullet holes” and he goes over the surgical report.  

Endometriosis . . . weeds in my garden.  Burned out but bound to regrow.  Time is of the essence.  “You will never be more fertile than you are right now.”

So how do we proceed? “You can do another Clomid cycle or a monitored cycle with injectibles . . . “

“I want to do IVF.”

“Well, then you just wasted a surgery.”

“I want to do IVF.”

“IVF isn’t going to give you a better chance of conceiving.  I recommend injectibles.”

“I’ll need to think about this . . . “

“Let me know what you decide before your next period.”

In the bathroom at work, I look down at my underwear with something between exasperation, laughter, and horror on my face.   The blood there taunts me.  

“Well, shit.”

***

Ask a woman who’s gone through fertility struggles what drugs she took and they will always fall into three categories:  stimulation, trigger, or arrest; and all of them take your sanity and stomp on it . . . because apparently, being through the emotional ringer every month when you see that negative test isn’t enough.

That being said, I dealt with the daily injections with grace (and the occasional rage-filled mood swing).  I say my prayers morning, noon, and night focusing my inner eye on the space just between my hips and beneath my belly button (where most of the medicine is injected).  I don’t complain about the near daily monitoring visits or the amount of time I have to make up at work.  And I never tell anyone I have decided to quit after this cycle.

I’m tired, and more than that, I’m stressed to the point of nightly body tremors and hair falling out. If I don’t quit, I might just give myself a heart attack.

Monitoring only makes my feelings of failure and inadequacy worse.  All it takes is the transvaginal ultrasound to make the air in my lungs thin out and my stomach drop.  My follicles – despite the stim drugs  - are not growing.

The nurse doesn’t seem overly concerned, but after every visit, I go to work with the knowledge beating down the crown of my head that it isn’t happening this month either.

And then it happens . . . Day 11.  The wand is prepped and inserted.  I crane my head back to see the blown up screen.  And there it is:  Big Bertha.  

The follicle takes up the entire screen  - a morbidly obese cell at once Frankenstein-ish and terrifically beautiful.  I have an insane urge to shriek, “It’s ALIVE!!!” but settle for tittering impotently.  Nonplussed, the technician says, “Oh yeah, that one’s ready . . . 18 millimeters.  You’ll probably trigger tonight.”

My jaw is still dragging on the floor.  Yesterday, that thing was only a tiny speck of light on a gray board and now it was Follizilla.

Another day comes and I pack my trigger shot with all the care of a desperate woman at the mercy of her ovaries.  I cannot take it till 8 A.M. and tomorrow I will lay on the table one more time, open my legs for a stranger in a lab coat one more time, and submit to the rigors of the dreaded two week wait.  ONE. MORE.  TIME.

I am almost giddy at the idea of – what will most likely be – freedom from fertility-related insanity.  So giddy, I book a trip to Cedar Point Amusement Park because after two and a half years of frequent doctor visits, blood draws, fertility drugs, acupuncture, teas, supplements, injections, ultrasounds, fertility yoga, inseminations, and negative pregnancy tests (not to mention painful HSGs, laparoscopies, and hormone-induced mood swings), I was ready to get on a few roller coasters and scream my grief to the world without worrying about being committed.

The trigger shot is injected.  The work day is done.  I have trouble sleeping, think maybe I’m not ready to let it go just yet.

I ask God silently for guidance, for peace; and that night I dream of a baby in a gray jumpsuit and dancing with Batman.

Maybe I need to be committed after all.

***

It is the stupidest, most crazy thing ever but as I walk into the doctor’s office and say hello to the receptionist, “You should go get some breakfast down the street.  It’ll be about a half hour before they’re ready for you,”  I realize I chose this blouse and these shoes and this hair style and put on make up because I feel sexy and –WORSE- randy.

Grinding my teeth, I go down the street and have a light breakfast then make my way back to the office and promptly lock myself in the bathroom.  

After two and a half years of charting my cycles, I am an old pro at feeling myself up for cervical mucus and for the first time ever, I have buckets of the stuff.  My underwear is soaked.   It’s mystifying but also exciting (in more ways than one!); and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

Failing any other ideas, I clean up as best I can, wash my hands three times, and step into the waiting room.  I have a book in my bag (along with an mp3 player with a new “insemination mix” and a few snacks, some water) but I can’t concentrate for all the involuntary rubbing of the thighs.

I am about to go absolutely batshit (in the most self-loving way) when my name is called.

The nurse is one I’ve never met before but I like her instantly.  She has long blonde hair in braids and reminds me of my mother. “We’ll take good care of you,” she says, and – for once – I believe her.

The doctor is also one I’ve never met before – an old lady with graying frizzed out hair and square-frame glasses.  She’s looking over my chart when she enters and looks me in the eye while shaking my hand. I am completely in love with her in an instant because after so many inseminations performed by so many doctors (never the same one twice), I finally feel safe.  She feels like a grand-mother.

It is done and over with in a seeming instant . . . I’m actually surprised because there was no pain, no discomfort, no violation and ask if maybe she forgot to do something.  She laughs and says she wishes me luck and just as she’s leaving, I remember to ask, “Can I have some progesterone suppositories, please?  I always have low progesterone . . . and this is my last shot.”

My main doctor – the one I want to slap – wouldn’t be happy with me right now; but I never did buy that the suppositories “wouldn’t fix my problem”.

Papers are ruffled as she looks through my lab reports, “I’ll get you some samples . . . Honestly, I don’t know why they haven’t given you this before.”

I want to scream, crow, beat my chest and poke Dr. Jerk in the shoulder and say, “BOO-YAH!!” Instead I say a quiet thank you and wait alone for the nurse to bring the samples.

As I move to get dressed, I can’t help but think, “Man, I hope I don’t leave a huge ass puddle on this table.”

***

It starts here:

Barely there, shuffling feet against carpet, heat radiating off skin like an invisible sunburn.  I haven’t seen or spoken to my family in a week (even though I live with them) because I wake up, eat, leave, work, get home before everyone, take a shower, cook a quick dinner (steak- rare- and macaroni and cheese), and then go to bed before 6 P.M.

Progesterone  - apparently – is a hard task master; and yet, I’m sort of relieved.  Being so tired means I can’t really think about the two week wait and all that entails.

I loyally take my temperature when I wake (yet another thing I will be SO happy to never worry about again) at around my 4 A.M. bathroom break, and a negative pregnancy test on day 20 revealed that the trigger shot medicine was out of my system.

All in all, I feel like I’m going through the motions rather than expecting anything to change.  Even when my temperature fails to begin falling around day 24 like it usually does, I know it’s most likely the progesterone. Nothing to do cartwheels over.

On day 25, I go to work (so tired I am caught dozing off in front of a spreadsheet that once had figures and now has a running commentary of ‘RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR”) and feel a stitch in my back that feels something like, “Damn cramps.”

I shift and stand and bend and stretch but the pain gets worse till I imagine a storm cloud rolling into my belly, all black and gray and shot with lightning.  I laugh a little at the visual even as I wince and try not to be disappointed.

Carol offers me some pain relievers but I refuse – there’s still a small, itsy-bitsy, microscopic chance and I don’t want to screw it up with chemicals.   I’ve come this far, I can bear the pain, thanks.

I’m bone tired when I get home but manage to see my mother before heading off to bed, the sunlight still filtering through my window.  

“I’ve been worried about you,” she says, “You should call the doctor.”  I tell her it’s just the progesterone and soon I’ll be off of it, don’t worry so much.

I sleep hard that night.  Dreamless and restful, interrupted only once at 4-ish A.M. with a full bladder and the bleary knowledge that – oh yeah, still have to take my temperature.  I get up when the stick beeps, carry it into the bathroom, don’t bother to turn the light on (I know where the toilet is well enough).

Sighing as I feel the cool porcelain, I vaguely remember to hold the nearby cup under the stream before my bladder erupts.  I don’t care that I get some on my hand, care even less that a little bit runs down the side to create a urine ring on the vanity.  

These things can be washed. The months of disappointment can’t.

I do this every night and always forgo testing after convincing myself it’s too early.  I’m testing tonight just to give myself closure. The blood hasn’t come yet, but the pain of the day promises a negative.

Squinting as hard as I can to see the numbers spelling out my temperature,  I add two degrees for every hour until I usually get up.  It takes a moment but I suddenly realize how high that number is.

My brain wakes up and my heart trips.  

No.  No.  It has to be a mistake.  I’m calculating wrong and I’m too tired to get my hopes up.  Resolved, I finish my business, wash my hands, dip the test applicator into the cup, cap it and set it aside.  

Going back to bed is hard, a not-to-be-ignored what if? whispering softly against my doubts.  Sleep doesn’t come, despite that ever-present progesterone induced exhaustion, and I get up to look at the damn test and put this whole wasted chapter of my life behind me.

In the dark, I find the test, see the digital readout spells the result.  

It’s one word.

That’s about all I can make out but it’s enough.  To make sure, I bring the stick close to my face (cursing myopic eyes), but there’s no mistake.

Pregnant.

Squeezing my eyes shut then opening them again . . . the letters do not change nor do their order or meaning.

I put on the light.

Pregnant.

I shuffle into my dark room, don my glasses and return to the light.

Still Pregnant.

My thoughts are jumbled and I can’t decide what to do.  I pace towards the family room – no – and turn to the hall, to my brother’s door – no – I try to lie down – need to move – and I’m up again, pacing and talking to myself – jibberish – and trying to contain the fireworks zooming just beneath my skin wanting to explode from my mouth in a squeal and whoop of joy!

I open my mouth, muscles tight and eyes squeezed shut, and scream silently.  Then I jump up and down like a monkey on a caffeine high.  Yes, yes, yes!!!!

Then, I’m down on my knees, face upturned to the ceiling.  Thank you.  Thank you God.  Thank you.

And my hand finds that place between my hips, just above where the storm was brewing yesterday.  I don’t know you yet, but you need to know  . . . I love you more than anything and I need you to be strong and scrappy and grow because my one soul-deep wish now is to meet you and hold you and care for you.  I know you won’t always be happy, but I will do my best to be the best mommy I can be. I love you so much.

I give a little laugh and whisper, “I think we’ll need to cancel that trip to Cedar Point.”

And here’s how it is:

Infertility sucks. Fertility treatment even moreso; but I would do it again for the pleasure of seeing that Big Fat Positive and seeing the little hatching egg on my fertility chart and watching my waistline grow and change into some alien pod with moving skin and being unable to sit down or stand up from sitting because there’s an entire new person with bones and joints and independent movements nestled somewhere in the vicinity of my lungs (I can’t breathe!)  . . .

I would do it again to feel the elation of hearing that first cry – at once so new and familiar, to hold that weight that my hips know so well in my arms, to introduce myself and child to the crazy learning/bonding experience that is nursing, to change that first diaper, to barely sleep during that first nerve-wracking night,  . . .

And to stare into my child’s face every day and know without a single doubt or regret that it was all worth it.

[buddyrabrahams]

10 biggest NBA trade deadline takeaways

[clears throat and does best ancient Roman accent]

ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED? IS THIS NOT WHY YOU ARE HERE?!?

After countless visits to the Woj bomb shelter and copious mashing of the F5 button, this year’s NBA trade deadline is now in the rearview mirror — but not before New Orleans became a Boogie Wonderland, Jeanie Buss executed Order 66, and Danny Ainge slept through all of his alarms yet again. As the salary cap dust finally begins to settle, let’s go for a deep dive into the 10 biggest takeaways from Trade SZN 2K17.

1. The Southwest Division has become a meat grinder

In their shocking acquisition of three-time All-Star center DeMarcus Cousins from the SacrHAHAHAHAmento Kings, the New Orleans Pelicans managed to melt our faces off and give the ultimate middle finger to small-ball all at once. Cousins will join forces with Anthony Davis to form what is easily the NBA’s most fearsome frontcourt duo since Tim Duncan and David Robinson, and he very well could lift the team to a Godzilla vs. King Kong-esque clash of styles against the Golden State Warriors in the first round of the playoffs.

But while the Cousins bombshell dominated all of the headlines, the Houston Rockets upgraded their own weapon system by trading for former Sixth Man of the Year Lou Williams, a top-tier bench scorer and yet another threes-and-free-throws enthusiast to toss into Daryl Morey’s cauldron. And with the omnipresent San Antonio Spurs again cruising to a 60-plus win season, the Memphis Grizzlies modernizing nicely, and the Dallas Mavericks somehow still kicking, we may officially have a new Division of Death in the Association.

2. The East is now as wide open as it’s been in years

A faint glimmer of hope shines intermittently in the distance to signal the possible end of LeBron James’ reign of terror over the Eastern Kingdom. That glimmer may actually be the Ibaka Flocka Flame that the Toronto Raptors lit this trade deadline, a get that should improve their spacing and help remedy their chronic problem of bleeding easy buckets at the rim in crunchtime. Their late addition of P.J. Tucker as a LeBron-stopper of sorts has the potential to be huge as well, especially he was had for the price of a negative asset in Jared Sullinger and a pair of inconsequential second-rounders.

But don’t sleep on the Washington Wizards either now that they no longer have a cardboard cutout of a second unit thanks to the acquisition of Bojan Bogndanovic from Brooklyn. Bogdanovic’s friskiness off the bounce and his 36.6 percent career mark from deep give the Wiz a legitimate sixth man instead having to trot out The Ghosts of Power Conference Studs Past in Trey Burke and Kelly Oubre Jr. Now as long their starting five continues to swipe lunch money, Washington is set up to a be yuge headache come playoff time.

And to think that we haven’t even gotten to the team that’s mathematically closest to the Cavaliers yet…

3. The Boston Celtics are still waiting for the right time to pounce

“This will be the year that Danny Ainge finally awakens from his trade deadline slumber,” we repeated to ourselves as we slowly rocked back and forth in the fetal position. But alas, Ainge has once again taken the advice of the Magic Conch Shell and done nothing.

Paul George? Sike. Andre Drummond? Ask again later. Jimmy Butler? LOL.

In fairness, there’s not as much urgency to deal for a superstar when the Celtics have already witnessed one emerge in-house this season in Mighty Mouse Isaiah Thomas. Ainge may also want to see a healthy Avery Bradley get more reps with this current core and wait to see where that much-ballyhooed Brooklyn pick will actually fall so as to make a more well-informed decision about the future of his team. But time is of the essence with the Cavaliers, who are just three games ahead of Boston entering the second half of the season, beginning to show signs of mortality, so it’s still tough to justify the Celtics sitting on their hands instead of throwing them.

And since we keep mentioning those pesky Clevelanders…

4. The Cavaliers are walking a dangerous tightrope

LeBron James just hit all of his prospective playmakers with a resounding “It’s not you, it’s me.” Granted, a pre-deadline move was a longshot with the capped-out, asset-deficient reality the Cavs were forced to work with, especially since they gave up what little they had left to acquire sharpshooter Kyle Korver. But it’s still a highway to the danger zone to maintain status quo when the roster only runs six or seven deep right now thanks to the respective injury absences of J.R. Smith and Kevin Love.

Fortunately though, deadline inaction is far from nuclear Armageddon for the Cavs. The buyout market is still a viable place to acquire cheap, albeit exiled, talent in order to retool for a playoff run. Ditto for the often-overlooked 10-day contract cycle, which they recently took advantage of with the signing of ex-No. 2 overall pick Derrick Williams. So while time is very much ticking on Cleveland, there’s still an ample amount of sand in their hourglass, and hopefully that means their title defense doesn’t fall flat (no pun intended).

5. Several more months of Carmelo Anthony rumors await us

#StayMe7o he did indeed, much to the chagrin of those of us who felt compelled to bang our heads repeatedly against our keyboards thanks to the constant bombardment of Carmelo chatter and the gross societal overuse of the phrase “no-trade clause.” Well, those therapy sessions now look like a pretty darn good investment with Anthony surviving the trade deadline and ensuring that many more months of Melo-brand Instagram shade, indecipherable Phil Jackson subtweets, and Spike Lee sideline struggle faces are looming on the horizon to assault the senses of the NBA fandom.

Where do the Knicks go from here? At 23-34, they’ve all but clinched another season of futility. Meanwhile, Derrick Rose will likely be gonzo after the year, but Joakim Noah will still be around to clog cap, and Kristaps Porzingis will continue to have his development stunted by the team’s Melo-centric offense. Then draft season arrives followed shortly after by the 2017-18 campaign, and we fire up the Anthony hot stove all over again. Are we having fun yet?!?

6. The Lakers are done playing games

Jeanie Buss means business if you didn’t gather from the Red Wedding she stunningly pulled on her brother Jim and Mitch Kupchak just 48 hours before the deadline. The same goes for Magic Johnson, who, upon ascending to his new perch as Lakers president of basketball operations, traded away Lou Williams, got the team involved on the Paul George front, and took calls on Nick Young, all faster than you could say “Abdul-Jabbar.”

Now none of those moves were game-changers in and of themselves, but they affirmed one message to Laker Nation: our long national nightmare is over. Johnson is already working to rebuild the franchise’s reputation in the eyes of marquee talents and scheming with new GM Rob Pelinka and the rest of the front office to put the Lakers in a position to realistically and financially be able to acquire that talent. So rival executives best be vigilant of no-look passes zipping by their ears, because it’s Showtime in Los Angeles again.

7. Doc Rivers is perfectly content to run it back again

Another team somewhat surprising in their silence this year was the Los Angeles Clippers, who took a pie to the face last deadline by swinging an eleventh-hour deal for Jeff Green, who played for the team for all of two months, in exchange for Lance Stephenson and a future first-rounder. Welp.

Perhaps the sting of that belly flop of a trade necessitated the exercise of more prudence this time around, but the Clips are in a good spot regardless. Merciful point god Chris Paul is on the verge of an early return from injury, and Blake Griffin has been Hellboy in basketball form since his own return.

While the temptation to gauge themselves against Golden State and panic into a Carmelo Anthony-type deal must have been enormous, there’s intrinsic value in the 2011 Dallas Mavericks model of keeping a nucleus intact for several seasons in the hope that they can eventually break through the glass ceiling. Though the Dubs have all but assured that the ceiling [commander-in-chief voice] just got ten feet higher, it sounds like that’s the conventional wisdom Doc Rivers is going for here.

8. The cavalry is coming behind Russell Westbrook

Those 10,000 “Save The Brodie” shirts I ordered off eBay were not purchased in vain.

Though the loss of Westbrook’s blood sworn dance partner, Cameron Payne, is absolutely devastating (not really), the reinforcements have arrived for our beloved triple-double addict. Doug McDermott will offer Billy Donovan a versatile offensive threat to close games with in those situations where the foul stench of Andre Roberson’s jumper is too much to bear. The addition of veteran forward Taj Gibson should also unlock a number of juicy tall-ball lineups next to Steven Adams in case rookie Domantas Sabonis isn’t ready for the bright lights of the postseason or if Enes Kanter isn’t the same upon returning from his upholstery-related injury.

All things considered, the cost is quite minimal for the Thunder. Joffrey Lauvergne proved to be little more than a 6-foot-11 whoopee cushion in the increased opportunity presented by Kanter’s absence, and Payne is a low-upside option at a position of abundance who simply hasn’t looked serviceable since undergoing foot surgery. With the Thunder only 3.5 games out of a top-four seed in the West, let Westbrook’s piercing battle cry shepherd the weak through the valley of darkness.

9. Is The Process still being trusted?

The trade of Nerlens Noel to Dallas was a bolt from the blue, especially since he had finally appeared to find his calling as a defensive dynamo sixth man for the Sixers. In selling off Noel, a Day One Process OG, is Jerry Colangelo beginning to trample all over the carefully-crafted sandcastle that his predecessor, the Honorable Sam Hinkie, built?

In conjunction with their earlier trade of Ersan Ilyasova to the Atlanta Hawks in exchange for the injured Tiago Splitter and two future second-rounders, Colangelo seems to be presiding over a radical shift in team-building strategy by the Philly front office. Gone are the days of building exclusively through the draft in favor of clearing out roster space and cap room, perhaps to work more closely with the free agency pool in future years.

With that in mind, dealing Noel, who is due for restricted free agency after the season, makes at least a remote inkling of sense, even if it’s still difficult to justify the late 180 of choosing to keep Jahlil Okafor over Noel. So while I can at least somewhat understand why Colangelo pulled the trigger, as a fanatical disciple of the Holy Gospel according to Hinkie, I can never forgive him.

10. Paul George survives the deadline

As it turns out, Larry Bird was just teasing us all along. Though the PG-13 fever dreams abounded from Boston to Los Angeles, George remains with the Pacers through the deadline. It’s an interesting way for Indy to maintain the outward appearance of long-term commitment to the four-time All-Star while also gathering intel as to what his trade value might be over the summer and come next season.

In the end, it stands to reason that the time wasn’t ripe for the picking to move George. The Pacers are still a playoff team and George is under contract through 2018. But as Carmelos and Butlers before us can attest, this by no means symbolizes the death of the rumor mill, for George or other potentially-available stars. So as winter gives way to spring gives way to the playoffs gives way to the summer, there shall be no rest for the weary. Long live the National Basketball Association.

from Larry Brown Sports http://ift.tt/2lvZhIM