i forgot what it was to dissect myself peacefully. i don’t think i ever did it at all. i’ve been gnashing my teeth for a scalpel and a pair of kitchen scissors and digging into my skin like a groundhog, burrowing the same way every single day, stitching up stitches over stitches over stitches. i swallowed books and let them fall out of my gutted ribs. i chewed on metal until my teeth broke off. my lungs were a collage of nicotine and the look on your face when you told me that i didn’t like you. i liked you so much that i swallowed that too, and that was the problem.

i could write about the way you look always. i think i have. when i shoved a knife down my throat during christmas break, you all turned away. the only time my blades were relevant was when they were choicey, when you could grab them and impale me. a dissection is in process. i am the rotting limbs i study, and you carved your name into my skin over and over and over again. i thought i was used to dissection. i was not. 

if you look under the light and tilt your head at just the right angle, you will see all of the names. some were taken to me by others with their knives and my skin and a car that swallows whole. some were slitted throats and gaping mouths. some were burn prints from lighters and too-hot candle wax and all of your sexual fantasies. it’s easy to objectify a body, especially when it is made of what i am made of. 

but i have to admit, most of those names were carved by me. i hid them so well; i mean, i tore gashes down my neck with my own fingernails and painted a smile over it. i carved organs out with library cards and pressed a knife to my frame when i was thirteen. i learned greek and carved your names into the corner of my mouth, repeating the process every day like a religion. you ask me what god is, i tell you that he’s the four letters engraved into my thigh.

the point is i stripped. so used to those carvings as i was, looking in the mirror and counting them all. every letter had a different weight and i hated it. i draped myself in survival tools and hung hooks from my ears. the only artistry i have ever committed is the one where i am tearing myself apart. i didn’t show anyone those carvings, but when people started looking, i didn’t try to stop them. i hated those pieces, those names and necklaces and so much lace shoved down my throat i stopped breathing for five straight minutes in which no one flinched and everyone moved around me except for me.

it was time for someone else to examine those carvings, so i closed my eyes and let them. another dissection or not, i was ready for my body to fall out all over my hands. but when i opened my eyes, the scalpel was untouched in your hands, gleaming and bright, wiped clean from my last execution. and you looked at me with such untapped affection that it hurt worse than when i bled for five years.

we stopped talking about the names in my skin, burrowed into my lips and stitched into my fingers. you hid the scalpel, hid the knives, hid the scissors. the first time you put your arms around me, you didn’t stop. gentle gentle gentle. girls of shattered glass are hard to hold, but you always knew before i told you. you knew when to hold me. you knew what i wanted. you plucked my brain and pulled out the rotting books and the crimson pieces of tissue, and you held me. and you didn’t stop.

you told me you loved me over fifty times and every time was a different way. you didn’t ask about my skin. you made me coffee and let me cry and you knew. we didn’t talk about it, but that was the gift you had given me when you took away those blades. i communicated with carvings and screaming and blood, because i learned early that in order to make a difference, you take a slice out of the world and eat it whole. 

when you finally told me that you loved me, no stalling or qualms or hidden messages, i was long past the point of throwing up. i sat with a smile, my scars just scars, and realized that i wasn’t carving myself in that moment. i realized that i hadn’t wrapped my hands around that scalpel for at least a week.

Toritsuka’s Guide To Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Blood, Violence

Characters: Most of the cast

A very, very self-indulgent zombie apocalypse themed post. Not sure if I’m going to add a reader to this?

The world goes to shit when Toritsuka is getting his first (willing) kiss.  He hasn’t seen her face yet but any girl who doesn’t run away at “hey cutie wanna smooch me?” must be beautiful.

She doesn’t seem to dislike the idea of kissing or start screaming bloody murder the minute Toritsuka leans in. It’s not as picture perfect as he thought his first kiss would’ve been-- kissing under the bleachers after skipping graduation is hardly scenic but Toritsuka’s a wise man, it would be dumb to waste this opportunity.

She’s close, so close he can feel the puffs of her breath on his face and—holy shit her breath stinks. Toritsuka stumbles back with a groan, hand clamping over his mouth to resist the urge to vomit. It takes less than two seconds to stand back up (leaning away from our first kiss is douche behavior) and he’s ready to apologize (and offer a few mints to her), “I’m so sorry—” he steps back to avoid the obvious slap he might receive; Toritsuka looks up – half of her face is a sickly green, and there’s a gaping hole where her eye should be.

He vomits on her shoe. And then runs, screaming bloody murder.

Toritsuka’s feet take him back to the school, because where else would he go?! Home is too dangerous, what if he runs into another not-cute-girl who wants to kill kiss him? He bursts into the gym – or well he tries, but Hairo’s blocking the way. The red head is built like a tank, and he refuses to budge, “What the fuck? Let me in, I’m going to be sick—”

At his words, a loud sob breaks through the room. Toritsuka stops his panic-induced struggling and turns towards the sound. It’s Teruhashi, this is a sight he never thought he’d see, but she’s curled into the corner, crying. Still as beautiful, but she’s crying. Mera and Yumehara sit next to her, Mera eating a packet of biscuits with vigor but the distress on her face is clear. Yumehara is staring blankly into the wall, scratching her arms vacantly. The blue graduation dress she’d spent ages gushing about is dirty and tattered.

The lights are flickering – they’d been working perfectly fine when Toritsuka had left from boredom – and whenever it swings and creaks it elicits another round of hushed sobs. Any words Toritsuka has dies on his throat, he goes lax in Hairo’s hold.

“Have you been bitten or scratched?”

The words come from Nendou, the weirdo sitting next to Kaidou – and Kaidou is obviously trying (and failing) to resist the urge to cry. Toritsuka mutedly shakes his head, and the redhead finally pulls him in before crushing him into a hug, “You aren’t dead! Amazing!”. Toritsuka balks, Hairo’s words cracking the tense atmosphere.

“Why would I be dead?!” Toritsuka once again struggles in Hairo’s hold, the other male not even flinching as he slams the doors shut. “Answer the question? Did the teachers find out I left after I received my diploma—”

“The teachers aren’t here anymore—” Kaidou’s wail interrupts his sentence; at the look of pure confusion on Toritsuka’s face, Kaidou adds, “You don’t know what’s going on, do you? Are you an idiot or something?”

“What’s going on?” His words have Kaidou staring at him incredulously. The blue haired male stops crying for a second, little laughs coming out. He’s in hysterics—Toritsuka would’ve cursed him out but Hairo flexes his muscles once and suddenly Toritsuka’s out of breath. Damn his hold is tight.

“You’re an idiot.” Those words have Yumehara murmuring in agreement, “The news—the news s-says that there’s a parasite and its killing people,” and that’s the most Kaidou says before he breaks into another fit of sobs and mumbles incoherently about “the doings of dark reunion”.

Whatever the fuck that means.

Hairo finally sets Toritsuka down. He gasps, inhaling that sweet, sweet oxygen that Hairo deprived him of. Kaidou is obviously a lost cause, the boy crying about the “Jet Black Wings” and Nendou’s too busy laughing at Kaidou. Not that Nendou was ever an option-- has Toritsuka ever mentioned how annoying Nendou is? A whole real girl liked Nendou before him! It’s times like this that Toritsuka truly understands that life has no balance.

A screeching sound snaps Toritsuka out of his jealousy induced reverie. Hairo’s pushing up chairs against the door he’d just come from. Toritsuka’s brow furrows from confusion, “Why are you pushing chairs against that door? There’s another one over there.”. He points at the curtains, many people forgot about that door when they hid it beneath the frilly curtains. That’s how he’d escaped their boring graduation.

Mera frowns, “There’s another door?” Her words come out muffled due to the food in her mouth.

“Close your mouth a bit Mera, some food is flying out.” Teruhashi takes a break from dabbing her eyes with tissue to kindly remind Mera. Said girl turns around, stress clear on her face,

“Eating relaxes me!”.

“Relax differently then I—” Yumehara’s words are cut off by a low growl. Toritsuka’s blood turns cold.

“Did you guys hear that sound?” Nobody gets to answer, another growl reinforces the idea that they are going to get mauled to death by something. Sure, they could exit through the door Hairo just finished blocking but that doesn’t account for whatever they could run into outside.

The curtains ruffle, the thing behind it obviously struggling. Teruhashi pales more than Toritsuka thought humanly possible—and this is the perfect opportunity to be her knight in shining armor but any thought of approaching her ends when the curtains rip at the seams. It’s a… thing.

The thing is hunched over, frothing at the mouth. It’s jaws gnash with each passing second, Toritsuka should move, should leave before the thing tries to kill him but his legs refuse to move. Is this how he’s going to die, at the hands of an ugly zombie? Even though it’s a staircase and a few tables away from them, Toritsuka can see his life flash before his eyes. He hasn’t even gotten his first kiss and he’s going to perish in obscurity.

The zombie growls, its maw opening to show a deformed set of teeth. Mera sucks on a lollipop. Toritsuka says his goodbyes.

And in the moment where he’s supposed to die—Toritsuka doesn’t die. The zombie falls down. Toritsuka’s eyes widen in surprise, the zombie nothing more than an unmoving splatter on the floor.

“Are you alright?!” Toritsuka never thought he’d be happy to hear Kuboyasu’s voice but in this very moment he could sing praises for the other boy. Kuboyasu’s suit is skewered, and tinted in red – its probably blood, but Toritsuka isn’t willing to think about why.

“Yes, I’m fine – I was about to protect the ladies,” the withering glare Yumehara sends his way shuts him up.

“Toritsuka’s still alive?” The voice is annoyed, and immediately Toritsuka knows who it is.

“Saiki!” The pink haired male stands next to Kuboyasu, dark green suit surprisingly neat and tidy. His glasses are in immaculate condition unlike Kuboyasu’s blood stained pair. “Why would I be dead?” Toritsuka sputters indignantly, “I can keep myself alive just fine.”

“Ah? You said you were going to be sick when you came in—" Toritsuka frowns, glaring at Nendou. The idiot smiles in return, and it takes all Toritsuka’s willpower to not throw a chair at the goof.

Saiki walks down the stairs, a frown etched on his face and holy hell Toritsuka has never been so happy to see him in his life—

When the thing came in, and Saiki and Kuboyasu killed it almost instantly, it hit Toritsuka: Saiki and Kuboyasu must be the protagonists of whatever horror story Toritsuka’s got himself in, and everyone knows the protagonists are typically the best people to be around. Unless you’re a woman – then you’ll become the damsel in distress, and nobody wants to be a real-life damsel in distress.

The only path to survive is obviously to stick close to Saiki (Kuboyasu’s a muscular freak so that’s a no), and the best way to do that is to let Saiki know he’s dependable!

“Saiki, I love you so much!”

“No.” Saiki’s words are the nail in the coffin.

“But without you I’ll die!”

Mera turns to face him, a chicken wing in her mouth, “I don’t think this is the time for a confession, Toritsuka.”

A Hatchling’s Tale 

Don’t forget to leave me a comment and/or kudos on AO3 if you enjoyed this piece! 

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“Tell me a story.”

It was Donald’s nightly request.

Putting Donald to bed was always an arduous affair. It started early in the evening with Scrooge chasing Donald around for hours to wear the boy out. More often than not, it was Scrooge who would end up exhausted while Donald would still be zipping around full of energy. Then came bath time, and the usual struggles that came along with it. Most kids hated baths and getting them in the tub was the trouble. For Donald, it was getting him out. The wee bairn could stay there all night, sailing his little tugboat bath toy around the bubbles until the water grew ice cold. Scrooge had to all but pull Donald out of the bath, kicking and screaming. After that came the ordeal of wrestling Donald into his footie jammies, always difficult when his baby much preferred running around in a towel and causing havoc around the house.

Sooner or later, Scrooge would catch up to his duckling and carry him giggling and squirming to his bed. He’d tuck him in tight, pulling the blankets up to Donald’s chin and kissing him on the forehead. Then—and only then—was it time for a story.

               The mattress dipped as Scrooge settled his weight upon it. “What story shall we spin tonight then?”

               Donald’s face scrunched up as he considered his options. “I got one!” He snuggled closer to his uncle, leaning his head against Scrooge’s side. “Tell me the story of when I hatched.”

“When you hatched?” Scrooge swung an arm around his duckling, pulling him in for a snug embrace. “Alright. That I can do.”

               Scrooge cleared his throat with aplomb before he began. “It was May Day when your mother laid you—"

“No! Stop!” Donald slapped his covers with irritation. The sudden interruption startled Scrooge so much, his glasses fell off his beak and onto the bedspread.

               Scrooge felt around blindly for his glasses. “What’s wrong?”

               “That’s not how it happened.”

               Finding his bifocals, Scrooge placed them back on the bridge of his beak. With his glasses back on, Donald’s sullen face was suddenly clear to see. “Laddie, I’ve barely even begun!”

               “And you’re already messing it up, unca!”

               “If you’re the expert, why don’t you tell it?”

               An inspired smile spread across Donald’s beak at the idea. “I will tell it! I’ll tell the real story of how I was hatched.”

And so began Donald’s tale:

Once upon a time, in a far-off land, a man was engaged in fierce battle with a powerful witch. The man was Scrooge McDuck, the richest duck in the world. And the witch? She was the fearsome Magica de Spell, the most powerful spellcaster the world had ever known. The two were perched atop the famed Mount Vesuvius engaged in a battle that had raged for hours now. So deeply embroiled in their turmoil were they, that they failed to notice when the ground beneath their feet began to rumble. A sound echoed forth like hell had opened its maw and grew in intensity until a cacophony emerged so loud it was heard in the farthest reaches of space. With its terrible cry, a gush of lava issued from the volcano’s throat and poured down the sides of the mountain. Forgetting their scuffle, Scrooge and Magica rushed down the mountain, hopping over streams of red-hot lava carving its way through the igneous rock. Only one moment was spared to glance back at the oncoming threat, but to the pair’s great surprise, riding the crest of a magnificent flare of magma was an egg!

               “An egg?” Scrooge asked.

               “My egg.” Donald informed him. “Please don’t interrupt, unca.”

               “Darling, you’d be hard-boiled.”

               Donald placed a tiny finger on his uncle’s beak. “Shh. This is my story, unca.”

Upon seeing the definitely not hardboiled egg, both Scrooge and Magica knew they had to have it.

Once they had fled to safety, their fight began anew. But this time it was over who would get the privilege of raising such a clearly rad baby. For hours they fought, Magic hurled spells with all her might and Scrooge did some sick backflips and roundhouse kicks.

               Scrooge laughed. “I am not, nor have I ever been, capable of that kind of athleticism, kiddo.”

               “Shh!”

Magica’s might was great, but Scrooge’s love was a force even greater than the witch’s spellcraft. He overcame her might and defeated Magica de Spell. She skulked away from the fight, cursing Scrooge McDuck’s name, and swearing to return to visit me and shower me with love.

               “Mm-hmm.” Scrooge nodded. “That’s definitely why Magica always bothers me.”

               Donald allowed this one interruption. “I knew it!” He whispered to himself.

Scrooge examined his newly won bounty. My egg was dark-blue with a sick yellow lightning bolt across its circumference. Detailed on the eggshell was a tableau of my birth, the volcano’s eruption, the legendary fight, my unca’s victory—all of this had been foretold.

               “Your eggshell was white. With a few off-white speckles.”

               “That isn’t cool at all! That’s boring!”

               “The cool part was the life generating inside.” Scrooge booped Donald on the beak, but Donald frowned despite the affectionate gesture.

               ANYWAY—tired and sore from the long battle, unca—I mean Scrooge—scooped me up into his arms and cradled me. It was time to begin their long journey home. It was an expedition fraught with peril… Scrooge crossed stormy seas that teemed with sharks, bounded over cragged pits filled with monsters and their terrible gnashing teeth, and battled with a tiger in the dense Amazonian jungle who wanted to eat me! Through all this, Scrooge prevailed, and he dreamed about the duck that would soon emerge from his egg. He was certain he’d be amazing, and strong, and handsome, and—

“Cute as a button!” Scrooge supplied with a smile.

Donald poked his uncle hard in the side as punishment for interrupting his tale. “I’m not cute! I’m super cool and awesome!”

“And adorable.” Scrooge whispered this addition under his breath so as not to incur more punishment from the temperamental duckling.

               Finally, after many woes and trials, Scrooge arrived back home and collapsed into the awaiting arms of his beloved.

“My what?”

Donald gawked at his uncle. Surely, he was playing dumb. “Duckworth!”

A blush colored Scrooge’s white feathered face. “My b-beloved…? You mean my… beloved butler? Pal? Workmate proximity associate?”

A scoff emanated from Donald’s throat that sounded near identical to the kind Duckworth would let out whenever he was fed-up with Scrooge’s shenanigans. Donald ignored his uncle’s blundering and continued on with his story.

               Home once again, Scrooge relayed his epic tale of discovery, danger, and thrill. As he recounted each harrowing detail, cracks started to form in the shell of my egg. I was ready to hatch! With a decisive karate kick, I burst from my egg, vaporizing the shell in an instant and leaving behind only a fine powdery dust. I emerged from my egg clad toe to tip in a pirate’s outfit. Complete with pirate boots, eyepatch, and a cutlass.

Scrooge clutched his sides as he chortled. “You weren’t born with a pirate costume on!”

“What was I wearing then?” Donald leveled his uncle with an incredulous eye.

Scrooge wiped away a tear from his eye. “O-ho, that was priceless. Dearie, you were naked when you hatched.”

Donald’s beak gaped wide with shock. He couldn’t believe the blasphemous words his uncle had uttered. No pirate outfit? No clothes at all? “Unca! I was not born…” Donald lowered his voice to a whisper, “naked.”

“You sure were. Naked as the day, well, you were born! You had the cutest little tush.” Scrooge pinched Donald’s behind with a wink.

“Ouch!” Donald slapped away his uncle’s hand. “I was not born naked and I do not have a cute tush!”

Scrooge heaved his shoulders up in a shrug. “I think the pictures in your baby book would prove otherwise, but have it your way.” He ruffled Donald’s messy head of feathers. “Is that all then? That’s the story of your hatching?”

Donald crossed his arms testily. “Yes! And it was way better than your lame story.”

Scrooge yawned and pulled his angry little duckling into a warm hug. “If you say so, dear.”

“I do say so.” Donald’s eyes fluttered shut as he wormed deeper into his uncle’s feathers.

Their argument ended there as the two of them drifted off to sleep, cuddled together in Donald’s small bed. Perhaps they’d renew their argument in the morning, but for now, they were just happy to have found each other.

starlight and seasalt, chapter 1

@geraltwhumpweek

Title: Starlight and Seasalt

Ships: Geralt/Jaskier

Prompt: Day 6, Monster

Medium: Netflix

Warnings: Chronic pain for this chapter. For the whole fic, mutilation and manipulation of a child.

Word count: 2642

Summary: Ever since the trials, Geralt's legs have hurt. An ache that never quite leaves him, an ache that flares into a blistering pain on bad days. Ever since the trials, the smell of saltwater has made Geralt want to scream, and sob, and go back home .Ever since the trials, Geralt has felt wrong in a way he can't explain.  (Geralt wasn't quite human, before the trials. He's just been made to forget that.)

Author’s note: This is chapter one of the mer!geralt fic that I’ll be posting over on my AO3. Enjoy!

Geralt can’t really remember a time in his life that he wasn’t in pain. He must have been free of it once, before the trials, when he was still a child playing knights with his mother. But those memories are distant, faded as an old dream, replaced by the crush of his real life and a persistent throbbing in his legs.

Other witchers don’t feel the same kind of pain. He asks Eskel about it, only to be met with a confused and sympathetic smile. He asks Vesemir about it, only to be met with a shuddering sigh and a shaken head.

“Probably a side-effect of the extra mutations,” he says. “I—I’m sorry, Geralt, we can try giving you some herbs for the pain?”

The herbs never really work. The sharp, stabbing pain in his legs accompanies him all through his training, and will continue to accompany him for years yet. Some days it fades down to a dull throb, but other days it feels like he’s on fire, like someone has jabbed a thousand needles into his kneecaps.

He learns to ignore it. He has to. If he dwells on it, if he falters and winces every time it flares up, it could very easily be the end of him. Just one lucky shot from a monster would be enough. Just one second.

***

When he becomes a witcher, his Path meanders closer and closer to the ocean. He’s always wanted to see it after all, has heard plenty of older witchers talk about its endless horizons and glimmering waves and soft, warm beaches. His heart tugs when he hears those stories, an ache building and burning in his chest. A yearning.

And now that he’s free and directionless, he figures he might as well head there. So he takes contracts as he heads towards the sea, easy monsters for a young witcher, ghouls and drowners and the odd wraith. Maybe his first big fight will be against a kraken of some sort, that would be interesting.

He could slay some giant ship-eater, earn a big sack of coin, and travel down the coast. Charter a boat and make his way to the islands. Do whatever he wants.

He nudges his horse into a gallop as soon as the sharp scent of salt fills the air, excitement mounting in his chest as he flies up a hill and towards the faint sound of crashing waves. It sounds like soft thunder rolling through the air after a summer storm. It sounds like destiny.

The hill reaches its peak and he sees the ocean.

It spreads out and out and out in all directions, a wide green blanket broken only by tiny bursts of white seafoam. Gulls scream in the sky overhead, wheeling down towards the water and snatching up fish from the surface. Wind whips against Geralt’s face, peeling his hair away from his sweaty neck.

It’s beautiful. It’s awe-inspiring, it’s everything the older witchers said it would be, and—

And his heart hurts. It aches like someone he loves has died, like something important has been taken from him, like a childhood dream has crumbled into ash. A sob breaks out of his throat and he claps a hand over his mouth. Witchers don’t show their emotions. They can’t show their emotions. Remember that.

But there are no humans around to judge him so he lets himself slide from Roach’s back, hitting the ground with a yelp as his legs flare with pain. He staggers over to a scraggly, twisting tree growing out of the sandy soil and slumps down against it, breathing heavy. Tears burn in his eyes, clog up his nose. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to be.

Why is he so upset—he doesn’t—he doesn’t understand—

He feels like he’s missing something, something important, something that would explain why he’s crying like a child at the mere sight of the ocean. But as soon as he has that thought, as soon as he tries to grab on to it and think, it slips out of his mind, leaving him confused and shuddering as the sobs roll over him like waves.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths in and out. Control yourself.

He picks himself up and stumbles back over to Roach, each step feeling like he’s treading on shattered glass. He doesn’t let himself turn to look at the ocean again, no matter how much it tugs at him. Just swings Roach’s head back around and heads inland again. Riding away from the ache.

***

He doesn’t come back to the sea for another seventy years.

***

He tells Jaskier about the pain a few years into their friendship and a few months into their relationship, when he wakes up one morning and can’t move his legs. Every little shift sends a wave of fire up his body, and he has to bite into the pillow to stop himself from screaming.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, stirring beside him. Even the faint movement of the mattress has  Geralt biting down harder. Jaskier’s voice is thick with sleep but rapidly clearing, worry threading through his words. “Geralt, hey, what’s wrong? ‘S the kikimora bite acting up?”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Legs,” he groans.

“Your legs are hurt?” Jaskier says, and the worry is bleeding through his voice now, infecting every part of his being.

“Mmhmm,” he says, and his lungs are getting tighter and tighter, seizing with the pain.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Jaskier gasps and he’s up with a flash, yanking back the covers from Geralt’s bare legs. He shivers as the air hits his skin. It feels wrong in a way he can’t articulate.

“Did the kikimora land on you funny?” he asks, running his hands down Geralt’s legs as he feels for contusions, broken bones, misaligned tendons. Geralt shudders at the feeling of his too-warm, too rough fingers, burying his head further in the pillow. Normally Jaskier’s touch is soothing in situations like this, but now it just compounds the burning.

“Stop,” he grunts, and Jaskier’s snatches his fingers back instantly.

“Not the kikimora,” he manages to say, dragging the air through his aching lungs. “Just—legs get like this sometimes.”

Jaskier makes a soft sympathetic sound.

“What can I do to help then?” he asks. “Potion, herbs, anything?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Doesn’t work. Just keep the blankets off. Pressure makes it worse.”

“Okay. Alright” The bed shifts as Jaskier crawls back up and settles next to Geralt’s head. His fingers find their way into Geralt’s hair, soft and hesitant, gently stroking over the crown of his head.

“Is this alright?” Jaskier asks and, loathe though Geralt is to admit it, the external stimuli does drag his mind away from the pain, if only a little.

“Mmhmm.”

“Good. Just—focus on me and try and go back to sleep, if you can.”

“M’kay.” Gods, he sounds like a child.

Jaskier starts humming under his breath and Geralt focuses all his attention on him, on the sound of the melody, on the gentle, consistent strokes running through his hair. The pain still burns through him but his legs feel like distant, unimportant parts of himself.

Lovolulu, genevoga.

“Rest, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

***

Jaskier is always ready to help him after that, to take his mind off the pain with gentle words and touches, to let Geralt lean on his shoulders sometimes, when they’re walking back into town after particularly difficult hunts. He even stops protesting when Geralt doesn’t let him take turns on Roach, seemingly understanding that Geralt’s insistence on riding her isn’t born from possessiveness.

Geralt is grateful to him, in an aching, nameless way. No one in his life has taken his pain seriously. Even Vesemir gave up on helping him, when the herbs didn’t work. He was left to stumble through it alone, to gnash his teeth together and keep walking when his knees were full of needles, to sob silently into pillows in shitty inns when the pain kept him from sleeping.

“My sister had a bad arm, growing up,” Jaskier tells Geralt once, as they sit quietly together in an inn, eating their fill after a contract. The pain is building in Geralt’s calves, cramping his muscles and making his skin feel like tightened leather. “Twisted it wrong in a fall and it never quite worked the same again. She always said warm water helped. Didn’t make the pain go away entirely, but it lessened it, somewhat. Loosened up her muscles a bit. Do you think—?”

“I’m willing to try,” Geralt says with a shrug. He’s willing to try practically anything.

They finish their meal and Jaskier slips out of the room, heading downstairs to order a bath. Geralt hobbles over to the bed and sinks into it, staring up at the ceiling and feeling, for a reason that he can’t put his finger on, that it’s wrong somehow. That he shouldn’t be here.

He shakes the feeling away. Too much time camping recently, if he thinks being indoors is wrong.

Jaskier comes in with a few servants, lugging a tub and several buckets of hot water, and Geralt sits up and does his best to look like his legs aren’t on fire. Based on the concerned looks Jaskier keeps shooting him, he doesn’t think he’s succeeding.

The tub is filled and the servants thanked in a matter of minutes, and then Jaskier is offering him an arm.

“Come on,” he says, his brow pinched. “Lean on my shoulder, there you go, dear heart.”

Geralt leans against him and breathes. The air is hot and dry and wrong.They stumble over to the tub, and each step feels like a mile.

“You’re doing so well,” Jaskier says, brushing his fingers over Geralt’s arm. “So good.”

The praise would send a bolt of heat rushing through him in any other context, but right now Jaskier just sounds worried, and the pain building and rolling through him makes it difficult to think of other things.

“Sit down, yeah on the edge of the tub, just like that.”

Jaskier’s hands flutter over him, tugging off Geralt’s shirt, boots. When he starts working at Geralt’s pants, Geralt turns his head away, biting his lip to stop himself from cursing. The feeling of the fabric moving and scraping against him sends jolts of lightning racing up his spine.

“Just a moment, darling,” Jaskier says, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s jaw as he works. “Just a moment, can you lift your hips for me?”

Geralt lifts his hips. Stars explode behind his eyes.

Jaskier pulls his trousers and smalls down, and then rests a hand against Geralt’s heaving back.

“Into the tub now, that’s it, there you go.”

Jaskier guides him down, settles him in the warm water. Geralt closes his eyes. For a moment, the pain recedes, pulling back like a retreating wave. Gods, Jaskier is a genius.

And then.

Like a tidal wave.

The pain slams back into him, worse than he’s ever felt in his life. His legs are on fire, blistering and burning and surely they must be dissolving, had the servants put something in the water? Some kind of potion to melt away his flesh? Surely that’s the only explanation for the agony.

He screams.

Jaskier’s hands are on him, and his voice is in his ear, high and strained, but Geralt can’t pick out the individual words. He doesn’t—he doesn’t speak—

“La mevoga lu!” he hollers, thrashing frantically in the water. “La mevoga lu, la—la zebevoga!”

There are hands on him, hoisting and grabbing and twisting, tearing him in half, tugging his tail apart.

Lovolu looks frantically down at where they’re tugging at him and sees smooth skin and feet and—

He screams again.

***

Everything is floating around him. He’s drifting on his back in a calm bay, watching the stars, flicking his fins back and forth to keep him afloat. This is his first time seeing the surface, and he can hardly breathe for how beautiful the sky is.

***

“Geralt?”

Geralt’s head pounds like he’s been chugging Cat all night, and he buries his head deeper into the pillow, letting out a groan that sounds pathetic even to himself.

“Geralt, love, please wake up.”

Jaskier. His voice is all raspy and watery, like he’s been crying for a long, long time. Geralt’s eyes flick open immediately, and his hands press down on the mattress, trying to heave himself into a seated position. What happened? What’s wrong with Jaskier?

His arms tremble and give out immediately, sending him crashing back down into the mattress. A jolt of pain shoots through him, from his fingers to his toes, and he gasps, trying to curl in on himself.

What’s wrong with him?

“Don’t try to move,” Jaskier says, and he’s still crying, Geralt can tell from the hitch in his voice. He ignores Jaskier’s order to roll onto his side, twisting his neck so that he can see him. He looks dreadful, all red eyes and dark circles, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions.

“Hey,” he croaks. Gods, his throat is as dry as a desert and as prickly as a thornbush.

“Hey,” Jaskier replies with a watery laugh. He reaches down and runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, smoothing it back ever-so-gently. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Hmm we were. Eating. Dinner, right? After that contract for the ghouls?”

Jaskier’s fingers spasm against his skin, but he doesn’t pause in his stroking. A purr rumbles in Geralt’s chest, and a smile cracks over Jaskier’s face when he hears it.

“Yes, we were,” he says. “But then—your legs were flaring up, do you remember that?”

“A bit. Were just a bit achy.”

“Just—” Jaskier rubs at his face. “Right. It—it got worse. Quite a bit worse, you couldn’t really walk all that well. So I suggested putting you in a bath, do you remember that?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Okay. That’s—that’s probably for the best, you—you started seizing, almost as soon as you were in the water. Or—that’s what it looked like at least, you were thrashing around a lot. And screaming.”

That would certainly explain the pain in his throat. But it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t remember a lick of it. Unease creeps over his neck. He doesn’t like the idea of losing time like that.

Jaskier bites his lip.

“You were shouting something,” he says. “In—do you speak another language, Geralt?”

“Bit of Nilfgaardian,” he mumbles, testing out his arms again. This time they hold, and he carefully levers himself into a seated position. “For when I need to take contracts down south.”

But why the fuck would he be screaming in Nilfgaardian?”

“Right, yeah, that makes sense. But um—you weren’t speaking Nilfgaardian. Or Common. Or Elder. I don’t know what it was, but it definitely wasn’t any of those.”

The unease swells into dread.

“I was speaking a language I don’t even know?”

Jaskier nods. He reaches down and takes Geralt’s hand. Geralt squeezes back, as tight as he can with his still trembly muscles.

“I—I’d like to bring you to a mage,” Jaskier says. “See if we can figure out what’s going on, okay? With your memory and—and maybe with your pain as well. Alright?”

He’s never visited a mage, in all these years. Not after being told by the mages at Kaer Morhen that there was nothing that they could do for him.

But speaking an unknown language…that scares him. Losing time scares him.

Scaring Jaskier scares him.

“Alright,” he says. He brings Jaskier’s hand up to his lips, brushing a kiss across the skin. “Alright. We’ll go to a mage.”

168 - Secret Blotter

Life is 10 per cent what happens to you And 90 per cent false memories of what you think happened to you. Welcome to Night Vale.

In an effort to bring more transparency to the Sheriff’s Secret Police, a chronicle of one night’s dispatches will be released to the public. This action comes at the behest of the City Council, who voted unanimously on a resolution to ban plastic bags.

Now, OK, while those two things may not seem related, Sheriff Sam misunderstood the vote as a rallying cry against tyrannical surveillance and a personal threat, involving being thrown to the pit of vipers behind the bowling alley. Sheriff Sam, who has a paralyzing fear of vipers, proposed a compromise in which Secret Police dispatches would be temporarily divulged, so the public can get a better idea of what agency does and how tax dollars are being spent. A plan which was readily accepted by the Council, though they continued to roll their eyes and gnash their teeth and chant softly: [creepy voice] “Viper pit! Viper pit! Blessed be the viper pit!” Which is just how they express a “yay” vote on procedural issues.

As a result, Night Vale has its first ever police blotter. Let’s dig in. 9 o’clock PM. Missing person reported inside the Ralphs. Night manager on duty says employee went to stock some cases of Lime-A-Ritas in the new walk-in beer cave and never came out. Reporting officer thoroughly checked beer cave and confirmed it was deserted. Three cases of the beverage were left haphazardly in the middle of the floor, and a loading dolly had tipped over onto its side. Manager states employee originally brought in four cases. Manager added one missing case of Lime-A-Ritas to the report. When asked if this kind of thing has happened before, manager changed subject and asked if officer would like to look at some of the children’s drawing contest submissions. Officer was amenable to this request.

9:16 PM. Noise complaint. Dog barking in an unknown language annoying residents. Dirty white fur, human face. Gone when officer arrived on scene.

9:25 PM. Two underage residents attempted to sneak into an R-rated movie by pretending to be one tall person in a trench coat. When confronted by officer, they turned into a swarm of flies and dispersed.

10:01 PM. Noise complaint. A sound resembling television static was being emitted from a shower drain out in the Hefty Sycamore trailer park. When recorded and played backwards, it turned out to be a broadcast from a 1952 episode of the game show “Beat the Clock”, where contestants competed to see how many pieces they could smash a clock into. A plumber was called.

10:15 PM. A resident of Desert Creek searched for “easy tortellini recipes”, but none of them were easy enough. It was so late already, and they needed to get to bed soon, but they were also very hungry and needed to eat dinner first. They wanted something quick, but they also wanted a real dinner, not a false dinner like… cereal? They became hyperaware that the more they deliberated on what to make, the longer it was all taking. And factoring in the decision-making time on top of the meal prep time was becoming additionally stressful in relation to the desire to get to bed soon.

11:30 PM. A Coyote Corner’s swimming pool filled with blood and began swirling furiously in a counter-clockwise direction. Home owner appeared distressed. Officer advised home owner to drain pool.

11:31 PM. Multiple residents awoke in a cold sweat from the same dream. It wasn’t necessarily a nightmare, but it was definitely not pleasant. The only thing they could recall afterwards was that it was showing, and that there was a tree with seven limbs.

12:00 AM. Witches.

2:00 AM. That time of night when everything starts getting hazy. Were you headed to a crime? Checking a surveillance station? Listening to a wiretap? Going home? Returning to headquarters? Signalling an invisible helicopter? Sometimes you lose track. An old local legend comes into your mind, and you try to recall the details. It’s been so long since you heard it. You watch the headlights bounce along the dirt road ahead, and your eyes begin to play tricks on you, sensing movement in the dark margins where the light doesn’t penetrate. You turn off the lights and slow the vehicle. They weren’t tricks after all. There is movement here, a dark writhing mass entering the roadway. You are forced to stop the car. Eyes flesh open in the dark. Many sets of eyes. This isn’t part of a half-remembered legend. This is something very, very real.

More of the blotter soon. But first, let’s have a look at traffic. You’re hunting in a pack near the Old Highway. The smell of blood is in the air. Headlights bounce over the rise and your stomachs rumble. The moon flees behind the clouds and you fan out, along both sides of the road, moving parallel to it like a lazy river. The car approaches and slows. It shuts off its headlights, as you knew it would. Some of you push ahead to the car, blocking its path. Others move to the rear and others remain at the sides boxing it in. You converge, surrounding it more tightly the door opens, then closes again, the fleshy creature inside cursing softly. You hear a crackle of radio static, but you know it is inconsequential to you. You consume the metal shell first. There are explosions of air and the hiss of leaking fluids. Then the glass, crunchy and cool in your collective gullet. And finally, the screaming delicacy in the center, the cloth-wrapped package of meat and bone. There are other things afterward, less enjoyable, but consumable nonetheless. Papers and electronics, and the pleather, and cold French fries in the back. Nothing must remain. By the time the moon emerges from the clouds, the old highway will be deserted once more. This has been traffic.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s show is brought to you by TickTock. The only app that tells you exactly how long you have left to live. The sleek countdown display synchs easily with all of your devices, so that you can check your mortality at a glance. The premium edition provides additional details, such as manner and location of death, and updates to the minute, as you make different choices throughout your day. You’ll find yourself asking questions like, why did returning a library book just subtract 4 years from my life? How did leaving late for work change my final outcome from drowning in gulch to birds of prey? Why does it say “tomorrow” all of a sudden? [panicking] It must be some kind of glitch, right? OK, OK, I’ve updated the app but it still hasn’t changed. It still says “tomorrow”. I just got checked out by a doctor and they said I’m in great shape, I’m staying home from work, I’m not answering the door, I’ve closed the blinds and I’m sitting on the couch, surrounded by pillows, not moving, not even blinking, I’ve done everything dammit, EVERYTHING!!! WHY DOES IT STILL SAY “TOMORROW”???!! Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. This has been a word from our sponsors.

Back to the Sheriff’s Secret Police blotter. 2:30 AM. Responded to an officer distress call on the Old Highway. No sign of officer or vehicle found. Must have been a false alarm.

3:15 AM. Nude man ranting in middle of old highway, carrying a case of alcoholic beverages. Identified as the night shift stocker at the Ralphs. Claims he entered the walk-in refrigerator at work, reached up to place the case of beverages on the shelf, and abruptly found himself in a network of ice caves. He eventually climbed up a snowy mountain where he met a robed figure he refers to as “The Oracle”. “The Oracle” foretold of a hungry darkness with a thousand eyes and urged that the portal must be cloooosed. The Ralphs employee also reported that “The Oracle” had slurred speech and seemed unsteady on its feet, and may have been inebriated. After this exchange, he then found himself standing in the Sand Wastes nude. He does not know where his clothes are. Officer escorted man back to the Ralphs to finish out his shift.

3:35 AM. Domestic disturbance. “He won’t stop practicing the flute!” a Cactus Bloom resident reported, indicating his dopplegänger who stood in the corner of the bedroom, staring unblinkingly at the wall and playing the same halting scale on a wooden flute. Officer advised resident to take a melatonin and try to get some sleep. “If he doesn’t stop, I can’t be held responsible!” the sleep-deprived resident threatened. “Sounds fair,” the officer agreed and left the premises.

4:00 AM. An alarm clock went off in Old Town. A woman attempted to get out of bed, but her cat walked sleepily onto her person and began purring, preventing her from rising. Her cat is elderly and the woman knows its number of purrs are finite and must be honored. Eventually, she put on coffee and took a shower. She used Herbal Solution shampoo for a lifelong dandruff condition, though she has not seen any improvement after years of using the products. She continues using it, because she likes the way it smells. It smells medicinal, like it’s helping, and it does tingle, like the label promises. The tingle means it’s working, the label says. So it must be working.

And now a break form the police blotter for some sports news. Night Vale High School – go Scorpions! – has added a concession stand to be used during sporting events. The parent-teacher association proudly unveiled the new stand at last week’s baseball game, dedicating the plywood structure to the memory of favorite AP auto shop teacher, Nick Teller. Teller reacted with confusion at this news, as he is still alive. “Oh, of co-, no, of course you are,” the PTA responded awkwardly, “but we just wanted to honor – your memory, as in what a great memory you have. You-you know how you’re really good at remembering stuff? We just wanted to, yeah uh, honor that,” the PTA went on, seemingly unable to stop explaining themselves, whilst standing in front of the dedication plaque, which featured several doves, a Celtic cross, and an image of clasped hands. Teller admitted he does have an excellent memory and is very honored. The following concessions are available at the Teller memorial stand: Special allowances, the granting of rights, the acceptance of certain things as truth, the yielding of certain other things as untruth. Also, RC Cola and popcorn.

Oh, which reminds me, we actually have another word from our sponsor, Royal Crown Cola. Invented by Ferdinand the 1st, king of Naples, who built a museum of mummies inside his palace to house the bodies of his slain enemies. “I am parched from building this museum of mummies,” he famously said, and the rest is history. RC Cola – the drink of ruthless monarchs.

In local news, I have the results of the Ralphs drawing contest. Local school children were encouraged to submit a drawing to the store this week, depicting their favorite Ralphs product. I’ll start with the runners up. The third place drawing comes to us from Ella Snider, a student from Night Vale Elementary, and it shows a large black scribbled mass with a lot of eyes on it, with the Ralphs building on fire in the background. Very creative, Ella!

The second place drawing comes from Jace McCoy, also from Night Vale Elementary, and this one also shows a black mass with many eyes and a big bright red splatter of blood across the page. Nice use of color, Jace!

And the grand price winner comes to us from Heather (Fathusam) [0:16:52] of Daggers Plunge Charter School. Her drawing features a beautiful black mass with lots of lovely eyes, and it’s holding a box of store brand frozen pizza rolls. Congratulations, Heather!

Back to the blotter. 4:01 AM. Distress call from the Ralphs. Upon arrival, officer was pulled into the manager’s office. The employee from the earlier incident was also present, huddled under a desk. Manager frantically indicated the surveillance window that looks out into the store, which he normally uses to spy on shoppers and report on what they are wearing for his Customer Fashion newsletter. Shelves of products were being knocked over and consumed by a vast dark nothingness. The back of the store then burst into flames. The manager implored the officer to quote, “Do something, please, or we’ll all be killed!” Officer used the intercom system to tell the nothingness to vacate the store immediately, and advised it of trespass and vandalism laws. The nothingness took the form of many dark shapes with many eyes. A tank of fresh seafood exploded and numerous shellfish were damaged. Officer advised the shapes that they were all under arrest. “Stop talking to it!” the manager cried and knocked the intercom mic out of the officer’s hand. Approximately 1000 eyes turned to look at the office window. Interesting. Well.

Let’s have a look at that weather.

[“Best Friends” by Curtains: https://curtains.bandcamp.com/]

4:35 AM. Situation escalated at the Ralphs. Officer, manager and employee embraced one another under the office desk amid the shattered glass of the surveillance window. The building trembled around them, products flew through the air, half the inventory was sucked into oblivion, and a great fire blazed, spreading to the bakery section. After doing an estimated 200,000 dollars worth of damage, the darkness and its many eyes entered the beer cave and did not come back out. Officer investigated the beer cave and found it to be empty. “You have to shut down the cave!” the Ralphs employee implored the manager. “That’s its doorway to our world!” The manager hedged and responded that a big heat wave was coming and if they hoped to recoup any of their losses, keeping the beer cave open was going to be instrumental to the store’s survival. “People will spend big on frosty cold beverages,” the manager responded. “Not to mention they’re gonna like standing around in there for a nice cool-down.” The employee wrapped his robe tightly around himself. Oh, the manager had lent him the robe, one of the many fashion items the manager kept in his collection, since the employee still didn’t know where his clothes had gone. “OK,” the employee said. He picked up a Lime-A-Rita and guzzled it down in one continuous gulp. Then he said, his voice already a little slurred: “I’ll have to try to shhhhtop it myself.” He ran into the beer cave and promptly vanished.

5:40 AM. Tree with seven limbs seen growing out of a hole in the vacant lot out back of the Ralphs. Snow observed on the branches, which melted off quickly as the sun rose.

5:45 AM. Real pretty sunrise.

Well, that concludes our Secret Police blotter. I dunno about the rest of you, but I personally feel a lot more safe and secure getting a closer look at what our Secret Police do. On behalf of Night Vale Community Radio, thank you for your service. I’m sure we will all rest a lot easier knowing that our fate is in your hands. Our sleeping bodies are under your watchful eye, and our every thought and action is being monitored for the greater good. As Secret Police mascot Barks Ennui always says: Stay tuned, stay, vigilant, report your neighbors. Woof. Woof.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Six out of seven dentists have no idea where that seventh one disappeared to. Honest, they all have rock solid alibis and that blood could have belonged to anyone.

What A Wonderful Idea (Part 2!!)

hello my beautiful followers, thanks for tuning in!! i hope you enjoyed part 1 and i hope you’re ready for part 2! i’ve had this name picked out for my oc bucky baby since i was 12😅 please enjoy!! (you can read part one here!)

Warnings: fluff, birth (<not too graphic), sickness/puking, sadness, pain

Ever since you convinced Bucky to have a baby, it seemed that was all he cared about anymore. His training performance declined, as Tony would remark snarkily on the daily. He was very clingy and always hugged you, kissed you, and told you he loved you.

One morning as you turned slowly to face Bucky, you felt a wave of sickness rush over you. Making your way clumsily out of the warm covers, you ran to the bathroom and puked. Bucky immediately got up, despite the harsh cold of your room, and held back your hair. You leaned back into his arms and closed your eyes, panting softly.

“Are you alright, doll?” He asked with concern shining in his blue eyes. You shivered from the cold and fell even closer into him.

“I don’t know,” you sighed. You reached up at the edge of the sink and grabbed a hair tie, pulling your messy hair back carelessly. As Bucky rubbed circles on your shoulder, a lightbulb went off in your head and your stomach jumped.

Were you finally pregnant?

You did a 180 and looked your boyfriend, your (Y/E/C) eyes gleaming with confusement and excitement. “Buck, I think I might be pregnant,” you whispered. His jaw dropped and you quickly turned around to puke visciously again.

When you were done and fell once again into his arms, he was stuttering as millions of questions flooded his mind.

“I-.... Wow, (Y/N)... what do we.... I mean.... Maybe Bruce should run some tests... I-“ He ran a hand through his hair. You smiled and kissed his lips softly.

“It’s just a hunch, love, don’t get your hopes up too high if it...” you trailed off quietly. Bucky shook his head with determination and helped you off the floor to get you dressed for testing.

“No, it’s happening. And if it’s not then we’re trying again right away,” he stated. You giggled.

“How right away is ‘right away’?”

He shot you a smirk.

Bruce was found sitting in his lab writing on all sorts of papers. You and Bucky opened the glass door of the lab quietly and the scientist looked up.

“Oh, h-hey guys,” Bruce said and took a sip of coffee. “What do you need?”

You looked at Bucky, who was grinning from ear to ear, and squeezed his hand.

“Bruce I need you to run a pregnancy test,” you said sheepishly. He nearly dropped all his papers and his brown eyes grew wide.

He stared at you and shakily got up. Bucky walked over to try and help him and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Y-yeah, alright, okay. I uhm....” Bruce stammered as he walked over to a little table and got in the drawers. The lab was under the main spaces of Stark Tower, so you hoped none of this rattling was waking anyone (who wasn’t already awake) up.

“And Bruce?” Bucky added, “Maybe try and... you know... not say anything until it’s official or otherwise said?” he asked. Bruce ran a hand through his graying hair and nodded.

After all the procedures were said and done, you sat on top of a table and bit at your nails as Bucky paced. Bruce furrowed a brow in concentration and tinkered with objects you didn’t know the name or use of. You caught sight of your boyfriend’s face as he paced; his blue eyes were stunned with fear as he bit his lower lip... He always looked so hot.

After a few moments, Bruce put the objects down at looked at you. You caught Bucky mid-pace and turned him to face the man about to tell you the news that may change your life forever.

“So guys, uhm...” he started as he glanced back down. Bucky threw his hands in the air impatiently.

“Okay look, don’t get technical, yes or no?” The Winter Soldier spat. You pulled his hair back to calm him down and exchanged an agreeing glance with Bruce. The scientist sighed and stood up, patting down his somewhat-wrinkled purple shirt.

“Congratulations (Y/N).” He looked up and said warmly. The next thing you knew, Bucky had lifted you off from the table and was spinning you around in a hug. You remembered the night you hugged in your room when the two of you had agreed on having a baby, this was just like that. You laughed and hugged him back, as Bruce smiled the two of you rejoicing.

Bucky gently put you down and kissed you deeply, and you could feel a tear run down his cheek. You pulled away and smiled, wiping his eyes. Bucky turned to Bruce and shook his hand and clapped his back.

“Thank you, thank you so much Bruce,” he said weakly. Bruce nodded.

“Of course, I’m so happy for the two of you.”

You walked up to Dr. Banner and hugged him, allowing a few tears to spill from your eyes as well. You walked back over to your boyfriend, who kissed your messy hair and put a hand on your stomach.

Your wonderful idea had come true.

You were nervous about telling the team, but Bucky reassured you that there would be nothing but support from all of them. As you stood in front of your closest friends, your hand tightly in Bucky’s, you slowly stuttered your words until you finally broke the news.

Steve was beaming, Nat hugged you tightly, Sam nodded with a sly smile, Thor proposed everyone have celebratory shots, Clint stared blankly, and Tony had a look of pure fear on his face.

“I-... How the...” Tony walked up to you. “Him? You chose him to get you pregnant?” He asked with that oh-my-god-what-were-you-thinking tone. You smiled.

“Indeed, Mr. Stark.”

Bucky rubbed the top of your hand with his thumb, smiling warmly at you. You returned it and looked over to Steve, who was crying.

“Steve... Are you crying?” Sam asked. Steve wiped his eyes on his shirt and sniffed, Nat patting his shoulder and trying not to laugh.

“N-No... I’m just really happy for you, Buck.” He looked to his best friend. Bucky walked over and hugged Steve. Your heart skipped a beat, and you wanted to start crying, too.

“Oh come on, (Y/N), don’t start getting emotional this soon!” Nat chimed in.

You rubbed your teary eyes and smiled.

~•~•~•~

“One... two... THREE!”

Streamers popped a bright pastel pink on the balcony of Stark Tower, and you screamed, punching the air in victory.

“IT’S A GIRL!” Wanda squealed. Bucky ran to pick you up and twirl you around, careful not to squish your three-month pregnant bump. He was laughing and you hugged him tightly around his neck. You had convinced him to let you put his hair in buns and color one pink, the other blue. He looked adorable.

He set you down and kneeled to kiss your small bump, hiding under your blue and pink floral dress. You saw Tony give Sam money with a glum face, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

Steve made his way over to hug both you and Bucky.

“Ready to be a girl-dad, Buck?” He asked. Bucky chuckled.

“I think, but I’ve got the best people in the world to help me out.” He smiled and kissed your cheek. You rubbed your stomach and smiled widely; you couldn’t wait to have a beautiful baby girl and see Bucky holding her.

~•~•~•~

It was a cold December day. No sun shined through the magnificent windows, and the tower was quiet. Everyone was feeling this gloomy day and nothing was going on. Red and green decorations were already everywhere in anticipation for the upcoming holiday. Team members shuffled about quietly, drinking coffee or murmuring tiredly to each other.

You layed in bed with Bucky, although it was late in the afternoon. The blackout curtains were pulled back to let in what little light was provided. Bucky rubbed your 9-month pregnant belly and you sighed; this baby wouldn’t let you be comfortable for the life of her!

As you lay with minimal comfort, a sharp pain rushed through your stomach, and you groaned loudly, crunching into the fetal position.

Bucky suddenly sat up and put his hand on your arm, leaning over you and looking at you with worry.

“(Y/N), are you alright?” He caressed your cheek. You looked up into his blue eyes, your hand touching his.

“Bucky, I’m about ninety-five percent sure this baby is coming right now and- ohhhhhhhhhhhhmygodowowow...” Another contraction raced through you and you clenched your teeth, breathing harshly.

Next thing you knew, Bucky had you in his arms and was running you down to Bruce’s lab. His hair was flowing behind him, and he was only wearing pants. You had on a nightgown and made sure Bucky was covering what needed to be covered as you bounced around in his arms.

“BRUCE BANNER!” Bucky kicked open the glass door. Bruce dropped his pen and looked over, seeing your scrunched face and hearing your whimpers from the pain. “Are you qualified to deliver a baby? Please tell me you are?!” Bucky layed you down gently onto a small white bed in the lab. Bruce swallowed, running a hand through his hair.

“I-I-!?! Uhm... I mean I guess-“

You gnashes your teeth and gripped Bucky’s hand tightly.

“Get this thing out of me please,” you choked. Bruce scrambled over to you and checked you out, and you kicked your legs slightly in pain. Bruce looked at Bucky with a you-know-what-I-have-to-do-to-help-her uncomfortable look, and Bucky put his face in his hands.

“Is there possibly... I don’t know... another woman who could just-“

“James just let him do ittttttttt,” you whimpered in pain. Bucky nodded and starting stroking your hair. This was the beginning of a very long process.

As you laid on that bed for hours, contractions became more painful and frequent. Tears would form in your eyes and Bucky would try to help you through them the best he could. You couldn’t sleep or eat. You just wanted to meet your baby girl and let all this pain wash away.

“Hey (Y/N),” a voice said softly. You opened your eyes and saw Nat walking towards you with a small smile. You let go of your stressed out boyfriend’s hand and grasped hers instead. Your eyes met and you shakily sighed.

“It hurts...” You gulped. Nat squeezed your hand sympathetically. Your hair was tied up, and so was Bucky’s. All you could hear in the quiet room was Bruce rummaging through some of his medical tools and the beeping of your heart monitor.

“She’s going to be out soon though,” Nat cooed. You nodded. “You ready, Barnes?” She added with a wink. He just looked at her with a blank face with dark circles under his eyes.

“I-“ He failed at words. He shrugged and sighed. “I’m just so tired already.”

Another contraction pierced through you, and you squeezed Nat’s hand tightly. The Russian didn’t even flinch.

A tear fell from your eyes and you threw your head back against the pillow. Bucky walked over to you and kissed your head, putting a hand on your stomach.

“I can’t do it Buck,” you choked. Bucky’s eyes gleamed with sadness; he didn’t like seeing you in pain and he wanted to meet his daughter, too. “Make it stop, m-make it stop...” you pleaded.

“Hey, hey,” Bucky whispered. You gulped and locked eyes with your boyfriend. “It’s going to be alright. I’m so sorry you’re in pain, I know it’s hard... But I’m so thankful that you’re doing this, and we’re going to get the best present ever out of this.” He cooed. He lifted your chin and kissed your lips softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

That sappy speech and perfect kiss made you burst into tears. He held you close as you cried onto his shirt.

The glass door opened slowly and Sam and Steve looked in. Nat let go of your other hand and smiled at the boys as she passed them out the door.

“Hey (Y/N), how are you and baby Barnes?” Sam asked. You looked at him through your teary eyes and sniffed.

“She h-hurts like a motherf-“

“Language.” Steve cleared his throat. You couldn’t help but giggle as you wiped your eyes. Bucky shot a smile at his best friend and walked over to hug him.

“You look like hell, Buck,” Sam commented. Bucky rolled his eyes and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Yeah, right. Well I’m not the one doing all the hard work here.” Bucky shot you a wink. You stretched out on your bed.

“Mhm, yeah you know it. And Sam once you’re an uncle you’re going to be looking the exact same as hell over there,” you retorted. Steve chuckled and made his way closer to your bed.

“We’re here to help you through all of it, (Y/N).” Steve smiled and held your hand.

You were right about to start crying again when Bruce came over with an urgent look.

“Hey, sorry to break things up, but...” He shot you a look. “(Y/N), are you ready to start pushing?”

Bucky basically threw Sam out of the way and grabbed the back of Steve’s shirt and took his place at the edge of your bed.

You looked at Bucky and started hyperventilating.

“Buckyyyyy...” you whimpered as you slowly spread your legs apart to start pushing.

Bucky grabbed your hand and looked over at Steve and Sam, who were just staring in shock.

“GET OUT!” Bucky roared.

~•~•~•~•~

Lots of pushing, screaming, and agony later, Charlotte Haley Barnes made her appearance into the world at 2pm at 7.5lbs, 9 ounces. She had a head full of curly brown hair and the tiniest fingers.

Bucky undoubtedly cried when she first came out and screamed for her mom. You held her close and cried too, kissing her little head all over.

“Look at her James,” you cried with happiness. He smiled and kissed you passionately. His daughter, it was a new feeling that he had and his heart filled with so much love. You loved him so much despite his past and gave him such a miracle that he didn’t think he deserved.

After Charlotte was cleaned, Bruce brought the tiny girl over and you held your heart.

“You wanna hold her, Buck?” He asked. Bucky nodded and received his daughter cautiously, afraid that the slightest touch might break her. He smiled and stared at her, chuckling lightly. She opened her eyes to reveal her bright baby blues, staring into her daddy’s replicas.

The team made their way in, looking at your daughter and Bucky beamed with pride.

“She looks exactly like you, Buck,” Steve smiled.

Wanda and Nat hugged you and told you how well you did and that they were proud of you.

“I’m personally terrified, I’m sure she’ll be able to beat me in a fight before she can walk,” Sam stated plainly. You giggled.

“I’m quite sure, she gave me some very explicit previews throughout these nine months,” you shuddered. Bucky rubbed your shoulder as you sadly smiled, reliving your pain.

Tony patted your shoulder uncomfortably, and Bucky eyed him up and down.

“You’ve officially created another super soldier, now we’ve got three.” He cleared his throat. “Good job, if that’s how you want to put it I guess.”

“Wanna hold her, Tony?”

Tony shrugged. You handed him Charlotte and she immediately started to cry. He gave her back to you and you giggled.

“Yeah, okay that’s fine.” Tony stepped back by the crew again.

Charlotte stopped crying and fell asleep immediately. You looked at her tiny face at peace. You made this perfect little girl (well, you and some help...). You and Bucky had officially started a family, and you were ecstatic.

Your wonderful idea.

Your wonderful little Charlotte.

*sniffs* i’m not crying you are...

i hope you loved this as much as i loved writing it! and this won’t be the end of charlotte, i promise!

feel free to request, please!

Smile.

“Oh, c’mon sweetheart, I just want to see you smile for me”, he calls, voice slurred.

I duck into the alleyway looking for a path out, hoping to avoid an interaction. 

It’s a dead end I think while staring at brick walls and a grimy looking dumpster against one wall. I’ll have to hide. I can wait him out. 

I rush over to the dumpster, desperate enough to try the lid, but it’s too full for me to fit inside so I settle for wedging myself as close as possible behind it, hidden from anyone who glances into the alley. 

[He’s drunk enough that he may pass by my hiding spot completely.] -keep?

I hear his voice growing louder as he makes his way down the street, and it’s beginning to sound expectant. 

“Where are you sweetie? I just wanna see your sweet little smile,” he repeats, stretching out the words into a sing-song manner. 

I push my back against the wall as I hunch down, trying to make myself as small as possible. My breathing is too loud, I’m too easy to see I think, beginning to panic. I force myself to focus on the dirty puddle that has gathered from whatever liquid has seeped out of the dumpster and the rain from this morning. I stare at it and begin to count backwards from 10.

10.

My heart is beating so loud, the blood thumping in my ears. 

9.

He’ll hear it.

8.

Why isn’t anyone near by?

7.

The moon casts enough light to see by, but I pray he won’t see me. 

6.

My breathing is beginning to slow. It’s ok- I’ll be ok. 

5.

The puddle is clear enough for me to see part of my face in it.

4.

I focus on my reflection, eyes tracing my own features. 

3.

I can hear his feet kicking the gravel in the alley my direction, and my eyes dart up to see a piece of gravel roll in front of me. Oh god- please don’t find me.

2.

I turn my gaze back to the puddle, determined to block it out, to stay hidden, but start when my reflection stares back at me. 

1.

My eyes blink rapidly, but she’s still there. I’ve finally snapped, I think dumbly. She slowly raises a finger to her lips. 

0.  

I squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to clear this hallucination from my sight, but when I open them again she’s crouching next to me with a finger to her lips still. Holy shit, is all my mind can come up with as I gape at her.

“Hey little bitch”, he says, voice roughening as he becomes impatient, “I said show me your damn smile.” 

This girl- this thing’s mouth curls at the edges as she begins to stand.  No I mouth, hand reaching out to stop her, but too afraid to touch her. She steps out of our hiding spot, moving to stand directly in the dim moonlight. 

He slows as she faces him, and I can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “Now where have you been hiding from me sweetheart? I just wanna see that smile.” 

I watch her, paralyzed, from my spot to her right. 

He’s too drunk to see what’s wrong. 

Her limbs are too long, her skin a disturbing pallor. 

And then she smiles. 

I hear his shuffling feet stop, a muffled noise under his breath. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” this- this thing asks in a voice too sweet, too sharp, “I thought you wanted to see my smile?”

Its smile is all sharp edges, the grin of a predator that cause my hair to stand on end. Its head turns just enough towards me that I see her wink, grin growing as she turns back to him. 

Her- its mouth is filled with long shards of glass, like a broken mirror. They press against its thin lips as it grins even impossibly larger. I can see his reflection in them. He looks scared. 

Good.

I hear him stumble backwards, cursing suddenly. It steps slowly towards him, teeth pressing against its lips enough that I can see blood well up under their points. 

Its voice is rough as it mimics him, “C’mon sweetheart, don’t ya wanna see yourself smile?”

It lunges for him on the last word, inhumanely long limbs bridging the distance even as I hear him scramble backwards. I turn back to the puddle and begin counting, hoping this nightmare will end. 

10.

I hear him cry out 

9.

Gravel crunches as they fall- 

8.

The sound of glass gnashing together causes me to break out in a cold sweat.

7.

His scream gets cut off-

6.

A wet sounding tear as blood splatters on the wall. 

5.

I press my eyes shut. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry- 

4.

The sounds feel magnified with my eyes shut and I shudder with each one.

3.

I hear the sound of bone snapping and something hitting the ground near me.

2.

I can hear it eating, gorging itself on my would-be attacker. 

1.

Silence. 

0.

I press my hands to my face, take a breath, then open my eyes. I’m still facing the puddle, and it stares back. 

Go, it mouths.

I jump back frantically, back hitting the wall, then duck out from behind the dumpster, staggering forward. There is a pool of dark blood in front of me and I pause in front of it. 

There is a shard of mirror laying in the shallow pool. 

I look around, tense. I snatch the glass from the puddle of blood, edge digging into my hand, and cover it with my sleeve, scared of what I’ll see. 

I run the rest of the way home. 

The Battleground

Vulnerable parent moment: I struggle tremendously with being a strict/authoritative parent and punishing my kids. Like, at all. Ever. When you come from an oppressive upbringing with lots of extreme punishments (physical, spiritual and/or otherwise), it seems natural that as you grow and have children, you lean more towards passivity in your own parenting. Thus, in contrast to my own childhood, I am often my children's doormat (which I KNOW is not a good thing). Well, crap. Now what? Lately — especially with my pregnancy/depression-related fatigue, constant morning sickness and unending headaches — I seem to just bend to their whims. Tablets all the time? Fine. Change the TV program at 5 minute intervals? Sure, mini masters. Changing your mind on what you want to eat 10x (even though I already prepared it and set it in front of you)? Okay, I'll start over. I'm not PROUD of this. It's weak and it's teaching my kids that they run this motha'. Quite literally. And it shows! They're much more receptive to David's "tough love" approach. They even LISTEN to him. What is that like?! But, I just... can't. It causes my psyche — which has slowly been rebuilt over the years, and resides in a place of utmost fragility — to quiver in the most dangerous way. Today, though. Today, I sacked up and made my kids stick with their first choice for breakfast. And what did they choose, you ask? A sugary, cinnamon cereal that was purchased this weekend when they grocery shopped with daddy. Both of my little people shrieked with delight and agreement as I suggested the box for this mundane Thursday's premiere meal. After vetoing eggs & pancakes (and ruefully accepting the information that we were out of their usual protein waffles, and that the bananas weren't yet ripe), we had a winner. Topped with a splash of their favorite almond milk, we [THEY] settled down for the meal. Lucia ate a whole spoonful before she announced that she didn't want any more. August half chewed his first bite, then allowed the contents of his mouth to fall — ever so repugnantly — back into his tiny, turquoise bowl. After patiently informing my little friends that they would not be receiving another option, they screamed; they brandished their claws and gnashed their teeth (and I now learned "WHERE the Wild Things Are"... why, they're here — thrashing on my kitchen floor!!). Determined to peacefully stick to my guns, I set their tablets on the highest shelf, moved the remotes from reach, and secured the new (amazing) fridge lock my husband purchased. "Eat your food or no other options for the day!" I felt like such an asshole, but not unreasonable. For a while, their trumpeting fits — like tiny, unfounded Trump supporters — rocked my headache to maximum proportions. All this warring... it was like Facebook in real life. Yet, now, ten minutes later, they are peacefully playing. Like the children of yesteryear, their imaginations are percolating with scenarios; playing doctor (and critically wounded patient), as well as taking turns arresting one another. The food has not yet been eaten, and you bet your sweet ass all hell WILL break loose when those little bellies start rumbling and they aren't offered the usual fair (a homemade granola bar, a strawberry grain bar, a handful of berries, a bowl of raisins, or peanut butter on a spoon, to name an excessive few). So, Ashley, you wimpy wench, why not just swat those bums and move on? Sounds like a good approach if you ask me. While I'm all for a good spanking, I've recently developed three qualms with this tried-and-true method. 1. Lucia's been taking it upon herself to spank others when they are acting "naughty". No one in the family has escaped her tiny, infuriated hand on their bums. It's slightly funny, but mostly annoying. She thinks she's doling out justice, despite being told only mommy & daddy are allowed to do so. 2. I am starting to question the "action vs. consequence" structure involving this punishment. While it tends to nip the current situation in the bud, what message is it sending? "You hit your brother, so now I'm [essentially] hitting you back." Wait, what? Hmmm. We all know, OR SHOULD KNOW, that "an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind". Perhaps this method isn't for me... 3. And lastly, another reason this method is starting to feel like it's "not for me" is a very personal one. Here comes some more vulnerability. Are you ready? I have a BAD temper. Nature AND nurture played a big role in this, and frankly, I have the world's shortest fuse. Like my father before me, I have the super villain power of snapping without a moment's hesitation. Seeing red and raising my voice (to that of a screaming eagle) are not strange responses when I fly into a rage. And I'm scared. Scared. I'm scared I'll spank my children out of anger and not punishment. I'm scared that I'll grab them like that mom we've all seen losing it on her kid in public (you know, the one you mentally debated calling CPS on). More than anything, I don't want my children to fear me. I value respect, and I know there is a difference between honoring someone... and obeying out of sheer terror. When I reflect on my childhood, a top memory that surfaces is sitting in the playroom; digging through the tiny dresser that was filled with my beloved Barbie accessories. I was looking desperately for a specific shoe, when, like daily clockwork, the downstairs entrance of our raised ranch swung open and slammed closed. Absolute panic and anxiety churned in my 9-year-old body. Dad was home, and the rest of the day was now going to be lived walking on broken glass, with a guaranteed side of crying and falling asleep scared & confused — dreading waking up to live the scary pattern another day. Wow, quite the digression, huh? Anyway, if you're still here, thank you! And congrats! Your Adderall/coffee/mom-strength has definitely kicked in, because this blog is LONG! Where was I... oh, yeah. Spanking. Perhaps I'm not actually "all for a good spanking" after all. Not by my hand, at least. I'm blessed to have a partner who balances me out. His levelheaded attitude and constant energy allow him to parent in a way that seems near effortless. Our children cheer with delight when he arrives home each afternoon, and excitedly chase him around — eagerly awaiting his every word and action. While I'm still trying to reach homeostasis in my own daily routine, I do know a couple things. One, that my kids WILL grow up knowing they are thoroughly and ferociously loved. And two, that gross, soggy cereal is STILL sitting on the table waiting for them... (and I'll probably only make them eat a few bites before I cave and make them PBJs).