I want to thank/blame gold_pen_leaps for tossing out an idea in the New Tideland discord the other day that kicked off a series of silly ideas that have been HAUNTING me.
Her original premise was, What if Murderbot thought Gurathin and JollyBaby were dating and got weird and jealous about it?
Which, very funny to begin with. But then, because none of us have hinges in there, we rapidly progressed to, What if Gurathin and JollyBaby actually ARE hooking up? What would that even be like? (I proposed Gurathin reassuring Murderbot that he's not in physical danger because it's "just port stuff" and I'm still giggling at myself) WHAT IF bots who are interested in humans (humanfuckers?) think Gurathin is devastatingly hot because he's augmented?
i can't stop thinking about how reader absolutely refuses to sit with her legs closed (it's just not that comfortable... at least for me). she's on the couch, legs sprawled out as she watches the tv. or she's got one leg resting on the chair as she works on her computer. then, here comes her perv boyfriend andrew cody to make her regret it (but not really). the moment he catches her sitting like this, he rests his hand between her legs, giving her crotch a firm squeeze. it always makes her yelp out of surprise, but yet she continues to do it knowing what'll happen. anyway, i'm gonna go jack (abbot) off now lol, later gators :3
Pairing: No-Outbreak!AU, Joel x Teacher!Reader, same timeline - established relationship, marriage
*This one is set post-wedding but pre-pregnancies. I’ll place it chronologically in the masterlist, but it truly can be read as a standalone like all the others.*
Summary: As your therapy sessions get more intense, you start to experience physical symptoms of trauma processing - in this case, migraines.
Warnings: angst, fluff, mental illness, trauma processing, vague discussion of past abuse but no specifics. (Reader is still pretty blank-slatey, but has a history of trauma prior to meeting Joel)
Word Count: 1.7k
A/N: Okay divas, two years later the continuation of “A Simple Request” is in the works. This self-indulgent, very self-insert-y nonsense is me taking a break from my much more well-crafted story.
Maybe i’ll post a WIP of the third part of ASR soon if anyone’s interested? As good-faith promise that I’m actually working on it? lol. y’all enjoy my wayyy too personal word vomit here 🫶
_________________________________________________
The migraines are new. You’re not sure when they started, but it certainly took you a long time to figure out what they were. You’d grown accustomed to headaches, but these were different. A pain that started in your brain stem and grew up the side and back until you were wading through the world in a pulsating helmet of pain. Often you’d wake up with them, or they’d settle in just after therapy, later that night.
When they wouldn’t respond to your regular Advil or Tylenol, you tried everything: wearing your blue light glassed all damn day, mindfulness at your desk during the brief silence of your empty classroom, drinking so much water you had to pee damn near once a class period, but no luck. With no discernible cause, at a certain point you just got fucking curious - could it be related to the somatic stuff in therapy? You know the body stuff is fairly new but incredibly integral, and you’ve also done enough research to know symptoms can appear that feel super disjointed. Fuck.
You do some googling and it starts to make sense. That CPTSD subreddit reads your mind like usual, and sure enough, other people have had similar experiences. The real trouble with these is that they’re getting too consistent to hide from Joel. It’s becoming more and more difficult to brush off or distract him when they start to appear. When more weeks pass and the headaches get more intense and consistent, your ability to power through them wanes. Coupled with the exhaustion from the day, your Thursday nights become a wash. You have no choice but to tell your husband what’s going on.
Joel knows about your past, that’s not what worries you. He knows about the difficulties you’ve endured with your mental health, of course the ones you still suffer, and the early experiences that put you in the weekly therapy you’ve been in since before you met. Moreover, he knows why you’ve committed so hard to getting deeper these past few months. You two have talked about having more kids, about wanting a baby. You’ve talked it out with Sarah too, making sure she’s comfortable and securely aware that she means the entire world to the both of you. She’s excited to be a big sister at this point, and y’all can hardly wait. But there’s work you need to do first, and you told Joel as much.
At first he insisted the way you are with Sarah is evidence you’re more than ready to become a mother for the second time, but you know too well what unhealed wounds can do between mother and child. You explained how they can pass from mother to child, these unhealed parts. You tell Joel you won’t get pregnant without doing a good bit of the work first. You know the journey is lifelong, but your body has to be yours and yours alone while you take on the physical toll of this early healing.
Joel understands you, and admires the dedication you have to your little family. He may not have the words for it, but damn if he isn’t impressed and grateful for the mission you’re on to sever the cycle you were born into. If it’s something you need, he wants you to do it. He made it more than clear that he’d be there, supporting you, every step of the way.
While he doesn’t fully understand it, he isn’t surprised when you tell him what’s happening with the migraines. That they’re probably gonna get worse before they get better while you release and re-experience traumas stored in your mind and body over the next few months. He expresses worry over this price you’re paying, but is assuaged when you ensure it’s better for you in the long run. He believes you, and acknowledges you’re doing it for more than just you. And that he appreciates it.
When Joel comes home one Thursday night to find you curled up, room dark and blinds closed, space washed in an uncharacteristic silence, he knows what’s going on. Gently as can be, he just sidles up next to you and brushes your hair back from your face, half-squished into the pillow. When he lays the back of his hand against your forehead, checking your temperature just in case, your eyes slide open and he knows damn well what he’s dealing with. He lets out an almost-silent “Hey darlin’. Let’s get you settled, hm?” before setting about doing what he can to care for you.
Joel gets the ice packs, recently-acquired migraine-specific meds in case you forgot them, refills your Emotional Support Water Bottle with fresh, cold water, some source of caffeine, and anything else he can think of. He’ll handle dinner too, of course — weekly schedule be damned.
Joel’s muttering nonsensical words of comfort while lying next to you when you speak for the first time:
“We really oughta switch thursday nights out at this point.” Though your words are somewhat muffled into the pillow, he can make out enough to know you’re referring to your weekly dinner schedule — you’re Tuesday & Thursdays, Joel’s Monday, Wednesday, and grilling on Sundays. You take most summer nights because it just makes sense, and Fridays and Saturdays are take-out, date nights, or social events, reliably.
“What makes you say that, darlin’?” he asks, and in the deep blue-gray of the room you can just make out his strong brow furrowed in confusion. You lift your head and turn just enough to be sure Joel can hear you clearly, though your voices both remain hushed.
“You’re always so sweet, and you know I appreciate it, but don’t you get tired of this Joel?” you ask, an injured desperation plagued your voice and you look at him — even in the dark he can see how wide your eyes are, glistening with a mixture of guilt and pain. “Week after week, you get home from working all day, and I’m just fucking laying here in the dark? Can’t do shit, I’m terrible fucking company, not even making dinner on my night” your voice is breaking, and his face does the same, crumpling at your distressed tone and undercurrent of fear and helplessness in your troubled words.
“Sweetheart, what the hell gave you that idea? Never in my life have I been tired of taking care of you. And I never will be,” he says in a gentle whisper, stroking your hair lightly, testing the waters for comforting touch at the locus of your pain.
“But being this fucking useless, on the regular?! You can’t tell me it doesn’t get old,” you rebut, and he knows where this is coming from. He’s seen this fear in you before, and he knows it’s a remnant of whatever you talked about in therapy today. The dregs of old moments of abuse, feeling burdensome at the hands of people you trusted, had no choice but to trust. He used to get angry thinking about it, about the people who treated you that way. Now he’s just grateful you’re here, laying in front of him right now, stronger and more resilient than any goddamn soul he’s ever seen.
“Baby, the only thing that bothers me about this newest ritual of ours is seeing you in pain. You know I know it ain’t your fault. You can’t help hurting, honey. And don’t you dare think I don’t know it’s because you’re workin so hard, sweetheart,” Joel pleads, his own voice beginning to crack now, thinking of everything you’re having to do to keep yourself safe. Everything you’re doing to prepare yourself to expand your family, the sacrifices you’re making for the child you’ll have together before they’re even on the way. Your eyes fall, shying away from his own, and he pulls your gaze back up to meet his own.
“I know you need this - all of this work - for you and for us. I hate seeing you hurting so much, sweet girl, but knowing you dealing with this now will keep you safe, keep you here with me? I’ll lay right here in the dark with you, shoveling cheerios in every damn week for the rest of my life, if it’ll help you, baby” he’s smiling at you now, but his eyes are wet with empathy and concern. His voice is rougher now, like he’s talking through tears he won’t let slip - like holding strength for the both of you is paramount in this moment.
Joel rubs your back with a pressure you recognize. He wants you to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he’s here, in every possible way. You reach out to touch his cheek, applying a pressure of your own. One that tells him to let the emotion flow if he needs to, and you know he’s recognized it when you feel hot tears slowly slide into the crevice between your palm and his stubbled cheek, before swiping a thumb beneath his eye, collecting the wet traces of love he can’t contain onto the pad of your finger.
You’re crying now too, and he shushes you in his thickened voice, knowing you need to keep the fluid. “C’mon now, baby. I’ll never tell you not to cry when you need it, but tears’ll only make your head feel worse. Gotta keep you hydrated.” He grins and you release a wet chuckle of your own before scooting closer to bury your head in his neck, tucked tight under his chin. His arm tightens around your back like he wants you melted into his chest, like he knows he can keep you safe if he can tuck you right in next to his other beating heart.
He’s rocking you both ever so lightly now. Not enough to aggravate the pain in your head, but enough to will you to sleep through it. When you wake in a few hours he’ll make sure you eat something, and once you sleep again you’ll wake up Friday morning right as rain. This isn't uncharted territory for him, and he’ll play cartographer for as long as you need. Lord knows you’ve mapped miles and miles since joining their little family a few years back. The two of you will scribe new paths in graphite back and forth and together, erasing and replotting whenever needed, for the rest of your days. As long as you’ll let him.
