Three Simple Words - the two of you have a routine for the day after a full moon. What Remus doesn't expect, are those three words to fall from your lips.
James Potter
Returning the favor - James is a knight in shining armor for anyone in need of help. Especially students who call in the middle of the night.
Warnings: swearing, alcohol, stalker behaviours (briefly mentioned)
Blurbs: (1) - (2)
Golden Trio Era
Ron Weasley
Blurbs: (1) -
Queen / BoRhap
Roger Taylor
Long Distance: Roger can't sleep and calls a random number left of a napkin. He expected to find someone to help tire him out. He never thought he'd find love. [Reposting and major editing of an old fic I had posted on an old blog]
Warnings: SMUT, +18 ONLY - MINORS DNI; swearing & cursing; unclear timeline (lmao); Brian is a bit of a douche. It's a long ass one, over 20K words. Read at your own risk!
It is a skill, the way anything practiced long enough becomes one. You've learned the exact amount of warmth to put in your voice when you hand him his coffee, enough to be kind, not enough to be anything else. You've learned to laugh at the right moments in the firehouse kitchen, to keep your eyes from lingering too long when he pulls his shirt over his head after a call, to ask about Christopher with the easy affection of a friend and nothing more. You have built an entire architecture around this feeling, load-bearing walls of jokes and casual touches and careful distance, and most days it holds.
Today it does not feel like it's holding.
It's a little after seven when you walk into the station and find him at the table, phone in hand, smiling at it in that soft unguarded way he has, the one that makes him look ten years younger. You know that smile. You have wanted that smile pointed at you for the better part of two years, have catalogued every version of it — the tired one after a bad call, the proud one when Christopher scores a goal, the private one he doesn't know he's doing.
This one is new. This one is for Marisol.
“Good morning,” you say, and your voice comes out normal, which feels like its own small miracle.
He looks up, and the smile doesn't dim, just redirects, still soft, still easy, and that's almost worse. “Morning,” he says. “You're here early.”
“Couldn't sleep.” True, though not for the reason he'd assume.
He sets the phone face-down on the table, an old habit, considerate even now, and you hate that you notice these things, hate the inventory you keep of every small kindness he doesn't know is a knife. “She's good for Chris,” he says, unprompted, like he needs to say it out loud to someone. “Patient. Doesn't push him.”
“That's good,” you say. “That matters.”
“Yeah.” He looks down at the phone again, that smile threatening to come back. “I don't know. It's been a long time since I felt like this about someone.”
You keep your face very still. This is the part you've practiced hardest, the part where you get to be his friend and nothing tells him it costs you anything. “I'm happy for you, Eddie.”
The worst part is that you mean it. You have never once wished him anything but good, even when the good wasn't yours to give him.
· · ·
Hen finds you on the apparatus floor an hour later, restocking a med bag you've already restocked twice.
“You're doing the thing,” she says.
“What thing.”
“The thing where you organize gauze like it owes you money.” She leans against the rig, arms crossed, not unkind, just watching. “He told you about Marisol.”
“He did.”
“And you said something supportive and normal and now you're alphabetizing trauma dressings.”
You almost laugh. Almost. “I'm allowed to be a good friend and also organize supplies, Hen. Those aren't mutually exclusive.”
“No,” she agrees, gently. “They're not. But you've been in love with that man since the Bradford call, and I think it's exhausting you, and I think you're never going to tell him, and I don't know which part of that to be sadder about.”
You close the bag. Your hands are steady, at least. “There's nothing to tell. He's happy. That's the whole story.”
“That's not a story,” Hen says quietly. “That's a sentence you've decided to live inside of.”
You don't have an answer for that, so you don't give one. She doesn't push, just squeezes your shoulder once on her way past, and you're left alone with the rig and the gauze and the specific, familiar ache of being known better than you'd like to be.
· · ·
Christopher is the one who almost breaks you, later that week, and he doesn't even mean to.
You're at the Diaz house because you're always at the Diaz house, some standing fixture of Tuesdays that started as favor and became habit became — this, whatever this is, the thing you don't name. Christopher's at the table with his homework, and you're across from him, and he says, without looking up, “Dad likes Marisol a lot.”
“Yeah, buddy. I know.”
“I thought maybe he'd like you,” Christopher says, still writing, entirely matter-of-fact, the way kids say the truest things without knowing they've said anything at all. “You're already here all the time. It would've been easier.”
Something in your chest folds in on itself, quiet and total, like a building coming down with no sound. “That's sweet, Chris,” you manage, “but it doesn't really work that way.”
“Why not?”
Because loving someone doesn't obligate them to anything. Because you can be the safest person in a house without ever being the one it belongs to. Because you have spent two years choosing, every single day, to stay close enough to matter and far enough to not complicate his happiness, and that choice does not get easier just because an eight-year-old can see the shape of what you're hiding.
“It's just not how it worked out,” you say instead. “But I'm always going to be around. That part doesn't change.”
He accepts this the way kids accept most adult evasions, with a small shrug and a return to his math, and you sit there with your tea going cold and your face arranged into something normal, and you think: I have gotten so good at this. I have gotten so good at being fine in rooms that are quietly ending me.
· · ·
Eddie walks you to your car that night, the way he always does, some old chivalry he's never dropped even after you told him a hundred times you're capable of the twenty feet to your own driver's seat.
“Chris likes having you around,” he says. “I like having you around. I don't know what I'd do without you, honestly.”
You look at him in the porch light, at the face you have memorized in every weather, every mood, every version of tired and joyful and afraid, and you understand with total clarity that he means this as the highest compliment he knows how to give. That to him, this — steady, present, essential, unromantic — is the good thing. The safe thing. The thing he's not spending on you because he doesn't think he has to spend anything to keep you.
“You'd be fine,” you say. “You're stronger than you think you are.”
“Maybe.” He smiles, that easy, uncomplicated smile that has never once been the other smile, the one from this morning, the one that isn't yours to receive. “Still glad I don't have to find out.”
“Me too,” you say, and it isn't even a lie, that's the cruelest part — you would rather have this, all of this, the almost and the ache and the Tuesdays, than nothing at all. You get in your car. You drive four blocks before you let yourself cry, and even then you keep both hands on the wheel, because you have never once let this feeling be bigger than your ability to carry it.
Somewhere behind you, the porch light goes dark. He goes back inside to a phone with her name on it, and you go home to an apartment that only ever echoes, and neither of you knows that you spent the whole night standing in the same two feet of driveway, wanting entirely different things from the exact same moment.
· · ·
You don't stop showing up. That's the thing nobody tells you about unrequited love that lasts — it doesn't announce itself as suffering. It just quietly becomes the shape of your ordinary life. You keep bringing Christopher to practice. You keep learning Eddie's coffee order's small seasonal shifts. You keep being, unfailingly, the person he calls first when something is wrong and the person he doesn't think to call when something is finally, wonderfully right.
And if some nights you sit with that math a long time — how you can be so necessary and so unseen in the exact same breath — you never let it show at the station, never let it slip in the driveway, never let Christopher's small unknowing kindness become the thing that finally cracks you open where anyone could see.
You have gotten very good at loving him quietly.
You are still learning how much that costs.
Note: Let me know if I should write a second part when Eddie finds out how yn feels
I keep seeing the take that authors on AO3 need to stop deleting their fics and instead to orphan them without any explanation of the consequences of orphaning a fic and as an author I really need to say something to this.
Stop telling people to just orphan their fics.
Orphaning a fic means giving up any and all ownership over it. No way to claim it back, edit it or delete it. Yes it's an archive but an author should still have the right to delete their work if they feel like they don't want it to be up anymore.
Readers always scream for authors to orphan their fics instead of deleting because they feel like they have a right to the fanworks that is shared with them for free. If it's so important to you to not lose a fic, download it. Also comment and encourage the authors, instead of telling them to give up all ownership to their work.
To authors, if you think about deleting your fics, there are other options you should employ first. If you don't want it connected to your name, put it into an anonymous collection. As long as it's in there, noone can see you wrote it, you still can edit ot or delete it and moderate comments on it. You can even move it to anther account, just create another one, add it as co author and then take your main account off. Then you can still edit it from your second account but it's no longer connected to your account.
If you don't want it to show anymore put it in a unrevealed collection, that way, the fic won't show up but it's still there, you can still see it, read comments and make it public again.
If you feel the urge to delete your fic, try one of these options first and see how you feel about it after a while, you can still delete or orphan afterwards, but this hopefully makes your decision easier.
Only orphan a fic if you're 100% sure. This is permanent, there is no way back from that, AO3 support will NOT help you if you did it on accident or change your mind. Don't listen to people telling you to just orphan it, make very sure, this is what you want.
(this came out of a conversation in the comments on a previous post about an author threatening to stop updating a fic because of lack of engagement)
So there’s this idea that fic writers should write for themselves and not care too much about stats or engagement,
and i totally get the sentiment behind that. if writing becomes entirely about stats and external validation, something important does get lost - creative freedom and joy, conviction in your own writing
but i also think:
“i write for myself, but i post for others.”
because posting fic is not only self-expression. it’s social. ao3 is called an archive, but emotionally it often functions as a community space.
people post for connection, for participation, for others to bear witness to their pain and trauma and grief,
and i don’t think most people are asking to be admired so much as acknowledged. there’s something deeply human about wanting another person to encounter something that mattered to you and go:
“ok, yeah, I see what you were trying to say. I see you.”
especially because fanfic is often people processing very real feelings through fictional characters at a safe distance, one step removed,
and then uploading that deeply personal thing into a shared archive and hoping somebody else might connect with it.
And i think that’s why it hurts so much when you summon up the courage and post a fic into the void and you get nothing back,
i get so emotional every time i think about fanfic culture. it's just so beautiful that people are writing and anonymously posting these thousand-word stories about characters we all love and not even getting any money or public fame from it. it's literally just for the love of the game.
shout out to everyone who participates in fanfic culture, be it reading or writing fanfics. you are contributing to such a lovely thing <3
i hate ai. i hate that everyone wants to be skinny again. i hate that everyone dresses the same. i hate microtrends. i hate that people are losing their creativity and sense of self.
I’m not editing out their name because whatever. But I had all but abandoned this fic and now I am going to finish this Wolfstar age gap fic out of nothing but spite.
The age gap is noted in the tags and also in the notes right before chapter one. Some people need to touch grass.
@overcaffeinated-underwhelmed sending you all the love!
trigger warning: medical inaccuracies, mention of illness, swear words, mention of panic attacks, blood
word count: 3.5k
—
“Did you call her again?” A simple question that an anxious Jack didn’t appreciate.
“Of course I did Robby!" he snapped "A million fucking times”
“I’m sure she’s fine, maybe she’s running late?”
“When have you ever known her to be late to a shift? Or late to anything, ever?” Anxious footsteps echoed in the staff room along with his heavy breathing coming from both of them.
“Alright go home, check if she’s still there”
“I already checked the security alarm — it was set two hours ago, which means something happened between here and home” he said quietly, reality sinking in that something indeed must have happened.
Years of being married to Jack and you never once did this. Never ignored a call or failed to update him. And more importantly, never not turned up to work. You worked the night shift, just like him, but today he was covering the day shift. Regret filled him as he thought ot himself that he shouldn’t have agreed to this. Maybe if he were at home with you then he would know where you were.
"Jack..." Robby said quietly as he approached him "I'll start by calling nearby ERs..."
A knock on the door from Lena interrupted the eerie silence that followed Robby's words. Both men snapped their heads in her direction. The moment Jack saw her expression, he knew. Instinct, gut feeling or love. Whatever it was, he just knew something had happened.
“Jack, she just called — she’s requesting we have a team waiting outside.”
—
“H—hello?” You blinked at your phone a few times, giving your tired eyes a few seconds to adjust. An unknown caller was ringing you, one hour before you’re meant to wake up for work and two hours before your shift. “Who are you sorry?”
The person on the phone spoke too slowly for your liking, and they rambled on about needing you to come in. You wondered if they were either new to the job or just really terrible at doing it.
“Sorry, do you have the right number?”
They asked for your name, and after confirming, the person on the phone then explained that they were calling from an ER, telling you that your dad was in the hospital, although now discharged and he needed to be picked up.
“I need to speak with him” you were now fully awake, and fighting back nausea, “put him on the phone.”
“Ma’am, I can’t do that, it’s policy so please—“
“I don’t give a single flying fuck about your policy, put my dad on the phone!”
“Ma’am, as I said —“
“Do not fucking ma’am me right now!” The hammering of your heart in your chest was making it incredibly difficult for you to stand, and the shaking of your hands made it impossible for you to put your clothes on. “Why is he in the ER and why did it take you this long to contact me?!”
The voice on the other end launched into a not-so-rushed explanation; something about police, procedure, questions but, the words blurred together into meaningless words.
“Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes”
Then you hung up before they could say another word.
You grabbed your keys and phone, rushing out of the door, giving your dad a call on the way there. No answer. Another call, followed by a million more, and he still wasn’t answering. The ride was a lot longer than five minutes; it felt like an eternity.
There were two men in your life you cared about: your dad and Jack. And knowing that your dad was in the ER, not knowing why or how long for, given his health struggles… Thoughts started rushing through your mind, mainly terrible, awful ones.
“Call Jack,” you choked out to the automated system.
The screen lit up.
Calling… Jenna.
“No, no— cancel!”
You slammed the button and tried again, voice cracking. “Call Jack.”
Calling… Jason.
“Fuck!” Your hand hit the steering wheel hard enough to sting. “Who the fuck is Jason! Cancel call!”
Another attempt. Another wrong number.
You pulled up outside the hospital and slammed on your brakes, jumping out of the car. The driver’s door hung wide open behind you as you sprinted toward the entrance.
First it was anxitey you were feeling as you walked through the doors.
Then it was anger.
Pure, strong, pulsating rage.
Your dad was asleep on a chair, slumped over, with no shoes, no blanket. Just himself and a bag of medicine in his hand.
You rushed over to him and immediately checked for a pulse. “Dad it’s me”
He opened his eyes, his beautiful, tired eyes and managed a smile.
“What happened, dad?”
“Hi sweety, I’m doing…okay. His speech came out in it's usual way, since the stroke, slow and slurred.
“I need to know what happened and what they did” you managed a small, forced smile.
“I don’t remember much”
“How long have you been here for? Do you know where your shoes are?”
He shook his head.
“Okay, wait here” you got up and marched over to a small window — the woman behind it sipped slowly on a hot drink as she scrolled through her phone.
You cleared your throat, but that didn’t seem to have caught her attention over the loud music blasting from her phone.
You tapped your fingers gently on the counter, as if to say, I’m here and I’m waiting.
Nothing.
You slammed your hand on the glass window and that seemed to get her attention.
“Busy night?” You said sarcastically, “My dad over there, I need to know what happened”
The woman looked up slowly, chewing her gum like she had all the time in the world. You saw too many teeth and too much tongue.
“Did he not tell you?” She looked back at her phone.
“Obviously not, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking you”
“He fell, but the doctor said he’s all good” she said casually, eyes flicking back to her phone.
And then your patience string finally snapped.
Two hands now slammed on the glass window, and this time, it was a yell. “Look at me! And tell me, what the fuck happened to my dad!”
“If you don’t calm down, I will call security”
“If they are as useless as you, then please do!” Another yell filled a very empty ER. You wondered if it was empty because their care was poor or because they discharged patients, so they were another department’s problem.
She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. You shook your head, gave her not one, but two middle fingers and walked back to your dad. “C’mon we’re leaving” you said calmly as you helped him stand up “we’ll talk in the car, okay?”
“Yes, sweety” he nodded slowly.
You helped him get up and carefully made your way out to your car. You sat him in the back, so he didn’t see your tears run as you drove him to PTMC.
“Dad I need you to try very hard to remember… it’s okay if you don’t but anything that can help me.” you said “What happened at home?
“I fell” he said weakly “And the… neighbour heard it, so he called an ambulance”
“Does anywhere hurt?”
“My… head” he said slowly “shoulder too”
“Dad, did they put you in a big machine? To scan your head?”
“No I was in one bed the whole time”
“Did a nurse… like me, come in and poke a needle in your arm?”
He mumbled something and you couldn’t understand him. You were normally pretty good at understanding him but he seems to have gotten worse. Your mind was scanning for possible injuries, and illness, and of course, further strokes. You called the emergency line at PTMC, this time not asking the automated system to do it for you.
“Lena It’s me” your voice broke and you didn’t hide your tears from your dad this time “I need help — I need someone to meet me outside with a gurney, please. Dad’s had a fall, and it’s a long story but Lena I need… help please”
“Okay sweet, we’re waiting. Drive safe okay? I’ll let Jack you called”
Jack. Shit. Your stomach dropped. You forgot to call or update him. You looked at the time, and you should have started work hours ago.
You said quietly, “okay, see you soon”
You kept glancing into the back seat as you drove. Your dad was slumped there, drifting in and out of consciousness, his head rolling slightly with each turn.
“Hey, Dad… stay with me, alright?” you tried, voice shaking as you spoke to him between breaths. “What did you have for breakfast today? Did you eat anything? Tell me about your day…”
By the time you pulled into the ambulance bay, there was already a small crowd of anxious faces waiting. Jack opened the back door, and the team helped your dad get out and onto a gurney.
“Male, 78, head injury” you said quitely as you leaned against the car, legs slowly giving up “he—he was at a different ER and uh…”
“Previous history of stroke” Jack cut in, completing the history because he knew it would be too difficult for you to say it, “response might be slow, but this is usual for him. Do not speak on his behalf and do not finish his sentences for him”
He smiled at your dad giving him a gentle tap on the shoulder.
“Good to see you, son”
“I’d say likewise but I don’t like seeing you like this” he said, focusing all his attention and love on him.
You followed them into the trauma room and watched Jack assess, calm and collected, as always.
Someone drew bloods, and you noticed that there were no puncture wounds anywhere on his arms. They didn’t even do the basic checks on him, and you felt the same anger as you did before rise in your chest.
You stood in the corner, leaning against the wall, feeling like you might pass out.
“They thought I was drunk” he mumbled, “but they didn’t understand that’s who I am”
You put your hand over your mouth to silence a small sob.
“I’m sorry that happened” Jack replied softly, “and I’ll make sure they’re aware of how bad they treated you. Let’s get you better, alright? We need to rule out any injuries to your head. Do you remember the big machine that looked like a doughnut?”
Your dad nodded.
“We’re gonna take you up there, I’ll stay here if that’s alright? Need to make sure she’s okay,” his voice was gentle and caring — another reminder why you loved him so much.
“Take care of her” he said slowly “she’s been crying the whole drive here”
Jack gave him a small smile and rested his hand on his “it’s because she loves you”.
One of the nurses smiled warmly at the exchange, but when her gaze shifted to you, her expression abruptly changed. Her jaw dropped, eyes widening in panic.
You frowned at her. “Ww—what?”
She lifted a hesitant finger “You’re bleeding”
Jack’s head snapped in your direction, along with everyone else’s. Warm, dark blood was steadily dripping down your face. You touched it, realising with a jolt that it wasn’t sweat from anxiety — it was blood pouring out of your nose.
“I’m fine” you said quickly as you reached over for a wipe “It happens, when I’m stressed”.
Jack gave you a look of this has never happened before.
“I’ll be right here, Dad, okay?” You went over to him “I’m not going anywhere”
Despite the weakness in his hand, he still managed to squeeze yours.
As they wheeled him out, Jack was by your side, anticipating the sobs that were about to happen. He quietly but firmly said “Can everyone clear the room, please?”
He pulled you against his chest, blood and tears soaked into his scrubs as one arm wrapped securely around you and the other rubbed slow, soothing circles across your back. He rocked you gently, whispering comforting words that everything would be okay, that you were both safe now, and that he had you.
“I’ve got blood all over you” you mumbled as you pulled back “sorry”.
He grabbed the wipe from you and carefully cleaned your face. “Don’t worry about that. C’mon, let’s get you somewhere private sweetheart”
You nodded. He took your hand and led you to an empty room down the hall. Once inside, he pinched the bridge of your nose to slow the bleeding while wiping away the rest of the dried blood.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call — I tried, then the stupid car wouldn’t understand what I was saying”
“It’s okay, baby” he whispered, “I was worried sick, thinking the worst has happened, but I’m glad you’re safe and back with me”
“You should have seen him Jack” you cried “all alone in an ER with no shoes on, no phone, no ID, nothing. They didn’t do a basic blood test on him and h—he hit his fucking head!”
He sat on the bed next to you, and you leaned back in his arms “Which hospital was that?”
“Uh… the one closest to his house I can’t remember the name” You had an awful headache coming on, and the lights suddenly became too bright.
“I know which one” he muttered, “that’s a terrible hospital, really poor inspection reports too. I bet with my complaint coming their way, they’d have the department of health knocking on their door by the morning”
“And the woman behind the desk my God — absolutely useless!”
“You feeling okay?” He said gently as he leaned some more, “You’re squinting, are the lights too bright?”
You nodded and softly said, “Just a headache”.
“Okay, sweetheart, get some rest. I’ll go wait for your dad's results okay? Then I’ll be back with you”
You shifted off the bed and said “No, no I need to get ready for my shift and—“
Jack titled his head playfully and gently pushed you back into the bed “no, you’re not. You’re going to rest, and I think we both agree that you’re in no state to work”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right”
“I’ll be back, get some rest” he kissed your lips and got off the bed, turning the lights off on his way out.
“Hi, this is Dr Jack Abbot from PTMC” he said as he stood by Lena at the hub “I need to speak with your attending”
He ensured that there was no please, added at the end of it.
After listening to what felt like the worst holding music ever, someone picked up the phone and joyfully said “Hell'oooooo”
Jack frowned and muttered what the fuck. “Who am I speaking to?”.
The attending gave his name and all of the medical titles he seemed to have collected over the years.
“Listen — doc. I have one of your patients here; it seems like you’ve discharged him inappropriately”
Jack continued, giving him patient details and medical history, asking for a request on what tests they’ve already done.
The attending said “Uh… so we didn’t think he needed a CT scan because this wasn’t the first time he’s had a fall”
“You…” Jack took a deep breath in “didn't….think to give an elderly man a CT scan after hitting his head?”
“As I said, the man who appeared drunk at first, has been in a couple of times and—“
“The man had a stroke you ass—“ Lena nudged Jack hard and he bit his tongue “Did you even check his chart?”
Jack was now pacing around the hub, feeling the pressure spike in his veins and feeling the same headache that you had. It infuriated him the lack of urgency and the poor medical advice he had to listen to from a guy who somehow managed to collect at least four titles.
“Let’s say he was drunk. Did you check his alcohol levels?” …. “oh you didn’t. Okay” …. “By the sounds of it you didn’t a lot, did you?”
A nurse walked back with your dad’s results on the iPad and Jack flicked through them as the doctor rambled on.
“Well, I’m not going to tell you what the results of his CT scans were, but let me tell you this… you will be hearing from James Lee in the morning”.
The doctor stuttered, “J—James? You know James?”
“A very good friend of mine, yes. I’ll pass your regards to him”
James worked for the health department, and he was in charge of inspections and operations. Having inspected PTMC multiple times, he and Jack became friends over the years. “So I would suggest you send over every bit of detail you have on our patient, and I’d like to have it in the next 30 minutes” he said, “actually make it ten because my patience has run out” … “oh you don’t have my email? Figure it out.”
He hung up then slammed the phone on the desk.
“Absolutely appalling!” He snapped looking at the results “He’s had another stroke —by the looks of it, it happened a few weeks ago!”
“What?” You said from behind Jack, and you felt yourself stumble, “he had another one?”
Jack’s head snapped in your direction and he was by your side within seconds “Sweetheart, the results just came through"
You nodded but the words didn’t feel real.
Suddenly, everything felt distant. Like people didn’t exist and life didn’t mean anything. Everything was distant and hazy, and your body no longer felt yours. That anxiety that was bubbling this whole time? It had finally poured over, but not in a way you expected it to.
The room fell silent or maybe that was just your hearing.
You felt Jack’s hands reach for you, but you brushed him off and stumbled down the hall, pushing outside into the night air. Traffic sounds were muffled by the loud ringing in your ears.
Then, like an imaginary snap of a finger, lava erupted in your chest.
Suddenly, your chest felt tight, and you couldn’t breathe.
You gasped for air, but you felt as though your lungs no longer worked.
You tapped on your chest a few times, a movement you thought would awaken your lungs, but that didn’t help.
You gasped again as you stumbled and reached for a wall that seemed to keep moving further away from you.
This time, hands wrapped around your waist and steadied you.
“… can’t breathe” you gasped, clawing at your neck, hoping it’d open up your airway.
That lava now burned your chest, and you felt heat slowly wrap its hand around your neck
“Ja—ack can’t breathe”
Jack quickly lowered you to the ground and knelt in front of you, grabbing both of your hands.
“Close your eyes, and trust me, please, baby. Close your eyes”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“Now I want you to focus on my hands that are touching yours. Forget about everything else but focus all your attention on my touch”
His warm and gentle thumbs moved in slow circles on your palms.
“Good, you’re doing so good baby” he said softly “now I want you to take a slow breath for me”
“I—can’t”
“Yes you can” he whispered, “just try once okay. Just one… slow… deep breath”
You took one slow, painful, deep breath.
“That’s it” another gentle whisper, “now breathe out slowly”
You let out a shaky and warm breath.
“Now let’s do that a few times. Another one c’mon”
Eyes still shut, another painful deep breath in and a shaky breath out. The pain seemed to have eased with every deep breath, but the ache in your heart was worse.
“That’s it, you’re doing great” he whispered as he leaned in “now this next one, I don’t usually recommend or do on patients”
His lips gently pressed against yours. Suddenly, you felt safe, and despite your breath catching in your chest, you felt alive again.
“Good job baby” he whipsered against your lips “you did so well”
You nodded, eyes still closed but slowly coming back to yourself.
“Last one is having to listen to my ugly voice okay?”
You let out a small, broken laugh.
“I need you to open your eyes and pick one”
You slowly opened your teary eyes. Jack had his phone resting on your lap, screen glowing with house listings.
“Jack…what’s this?”
He was smiling despite the obvious anxiety on his face “Pick a house”
“Baby, we already have a house”
“I’ve had this thought for some time… so I’ve saved a few options.” He said “A house big enough for three”
“Are you pregnant, Jack?” You managed a small joke despite the heavy feeling in your chest.
“I wish” he chuckled softly “but I’d like him to move in with us. I've thought about it for a while and after what happened today... That’s the right thing to do and also… You would be a lot less anxious. I don’t ever want to see you have a panic attack ever again"
“You’d really do that for me?”
Jack looked at you like it was the simplest thing in the world.
“Loving you doesn’t mean just you, it means loving your family and the person who raised you”
You leaned forward and pressed your forehead against his, fresh tears now covered your cheeks and this time, from overwhelming relief instead of fear.
You whispered, “thank you”.
He cupped your face gently. “We’re in this together. I promise you we will figure this out together, every step of the way”.
If you have a fucked up sicknasty fanfic you've been thinking about sharing but are unsure, this post is your sign to run to AO3 and Just Do It:
1. Someone somewhere wants to read it. Even if it's only one person, that person matters
2. Your creativity matters and so does your ability to share it
3. Serial harassers in fandom spaces are beginning to express discomfort that sites like AO3 completely strip their ability to do anything about fic they don't like, sometimes going as far as leaving entire fandoms due to the influx of "problematic fiction without a chance for consequences to the author". Posting your fanworks to AO3 actively contributes to making harassers feel unsafe and powerless in fandom
4. Militant anti-fanfic content creators also cannot do anything about fic posted to AO3
5. You can post anonymously to AO3, with the ability to de-anonymize at any time
6. You can moderate comments before making them visible on your fic, restrict comments to logged-in users only, or turn off comments altogether, meaning you can post anonymously and completely turn off comments if you choose
I wanted to finally share this Sirius and Remus drawing I never got around to post.
It took me a while to finish, and at first I felt like I could do it better so I put it aside and thought I’d redo it later. But as time passed, I started to like it more and more. Maybe it was the time I spent on it, or maybe I just got used to seeing it.
What I mean to say is: even if you feel stuck with where you are right now, or think “this isn’t good enough”, take a moment to recognize it for what it is: growth. Later on, you will realize how much you value those little steps your past self took, and see that it’s thanks to them that you are where you are now 🌱
