god ruthie

Ginger Tea and Cucumbers

Note: It’s been awhile since I updated, mainly because I’ve been working on my dissertation for school. Anyway, I couldn’t find it in myself to do the Wes prompt, so I did the next in my line of requests. Awhile back I had anon ask: ““I know you had mentioned Emma had a hard pregnancy with Beth and wondered if you would write about that?” As always @welllpthisishappening has been an absolute inspiration and thank you @hi-rwt for being a queen and reading my shitty writing.
Summary: For the past week, Emma has been so sick that she’s convinced that she might be tethered to her toilet by an invisible cord. Her mother and husband seem to have a better idea what’s going on with her than she does.
Rating: T
Word Count: 5,600+


Hell isn’t a place. Hell is a state of being.

Emma Swan had decided this as she was purging her stomach into the toilet. She had been horribly sick all week and at this point she was convinced that there was some invisible tether keeping her attached to her bathroom. She had been camped inside of it for the past few days and she was starting to think that it was in dire need of a remodel. Sunshine yellow was getting a bit too old.

On top of the possible remodel, Emma was now convinced that dry toast was the worst breakfast choice in the world. Crunchy wheat bread was not something that came back up smoothly and she was now hundred percent certain that there were pieces of grain or crumbs lodged in the back of her throat. It was, all and all, a horrible feeling and there was no other way to describe it other than hell.

The only comfort she felt in that moment came in the form of the cool porcelain pressing against her cheek. A part of her was grossed out that she was resting her head on a toilet seat, the other half was beyond caring.

As another bout of bile and bread came back up, a hand curled itself into Emma’s hair, pulling it out of the thin line of vomit expelling from her mouth. At first, she thought it was her husband, but then a small slender hand reached forward to give the toilet a flush.

“Sorry. I needed a courtesy flush. It kinda reeks in here,” her mother called softly over her shoulder.

Emma closed her eyes, sighing a bit as the hand in her hair began caressing the top of her head. She leaned back into the touch. It felt almost like heaven.

“Sorry. I got used to the smell…” she croaked, voice raspy from her near constant retching.

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Saving People...

To the Cast of Supernatural:

I need to make June 16th a better day to remember.  And I think fans and the cast of Supernatural might be the people for the job.

4 years ago, my 17 year old sister Jules went on a run around the neighborhood.  She was a star track athlete and running was her life.

An hour after she left, we received a frantic call from the police; a man had lost control and hit her head on with his SUV.

She lived. Her brain lived. Half of her was broken.  We spent weeks in hospital.  Almost a year healing her.  She was lucky.

But she often doesn’t feel lucky. She remembers being alone, she remembers choking on blood, even if she could she doesn’t run on the street anymore.  Her comeback to running was short lived.  Of course she is blessed that she can walk, but before she could nearly fly.

June 16th, really the whole first half of June, is hard for her.  She doesn’t like to drive near the intersection it happened. Even the weather triggers nightmares and memories I wish she could forget.

Being trapped in bed, jaw wired shut, we sat 24/7.  A lot of those hours were filled with Supernatural reruns on TNT.  When she finally came home, DVD.  We healed her body and a year after her accident we both went and got the Supernatural tattoo for fun.  Band-aids on bullet wounds perhaps, but you need to find some light during the darkest times.

Today is June 12.  She texted me frantically this morning.  A particularly bad PTSD attack hit her while she was driving.  It was too upsetting and she is on her way home and we will likely stay in, re-watching Supernatural for the millionth time.

I was just wondering, if there was any way for you to do a quick shout out, anything really, that I can show her the morning of June 16th when she is too upset to get out of bed. When nightmares of screeching brakes have no doubt kept her awake through the night.  

If there is anything you or your friends can do to help save us, save our world, that day.  Please do it.

And to the fans if you could keep this going, that would be amazing. Keep fighting your own darkness.

Thank you,

Jessica (older sister of Jules)

Pittsburgh, PA

god the kit and ruthie breakup was really so tragic because ruthie saw how sad kit was about being too poor to afford their regular christmas traditions so she offered to pay for everything and gave kit one of her old dresses and she meant it as a gesture of love and kindness but kit was so embarrassed and humiliated that they weren’t on equal footing anymore and she didn’t want to be a burden on ruthie, she didn’t want ruthie to see her as a charity case, and she meant her rejection of ruthie’s offer as an attempt to maintain her dignity but ruthie interpreted it as “kit doesn’t love me or want to spend time with me anymore”

Jack Thompson, girl daddy

I had a coworker once who only wanted daughters. “I think I’d be a good girl daddy,” he declared one day out of the blue.

“A what?” we (his female colleagues) asked in unison.

“You know, a girl daddy,” he said earnestly, “the father of only daughters.”


But, I ask @frommybookbook yesterday, what if Jack Thompson has daughters?

He marries a nurse he meets in the hospital. Let’s call her Gloria. She’s one of Violet’s friends. She’s kind and funny. She’s looking for a husband, but she’s not a pushover. She’ll call Jack on his bullshit when he’s being an asshole.

Their oldest daughter, Susan, is born a few months after the Sousas’ daughter. She’s a beautiful baby, big blue eyes, hair that’ll be blonde if it ever comes in. Gloria wants at least three kids, so Jack’s not worried about getting his boy. He, Peggy and Daniel are almost friends these days (or at least not enemies), and the girls can have tea parties or whatever.

Then Joan arrives.

She’s beautiful, too. Blue eyes, blonde hair, just like Gloria, just like Susan. Jack takes one look at his infant daughter in her big sister’s arms and begins worrying about high school.

So it’s no secret that Jack wants a son, but he’s not a bad father to his girls. He can’t be. He’s too competitive. And Sousa, the bastard, he’s Mr. Mom. He even stayed home with Michael and Colleen for a while while Peggy got S.H.I.E.L.D. up and running. Plus, Jack wants to do better than his old man did. So yes, he sips pretend tea from a little cup and does his best Marge impersonation during playtime. Heaven help the agent who says something one day when Jack pulls a pink barrette in his pocket during a briefing.

When Gloria gets pregnant a third time, Jack’s so sure John Jr. is finally on his way. He’s ready with “It’s a boy!” cigars.

World, meet Ruth Ann Thompson.

Gloria can’t stop laughing at her husband, who’s acting as though the universe has tricked him somehow. Because she sees how Jack holds their latest bundle of joy, swaddled in a pink blanket, hears him whisper the same promises he made their older daughters when he thought no one was listening.

I swear to God, Ruthie, if a guy ever mistreats you …

They only ever planned on three, but well, accidents happen. Jack’s trying to break up a fight between 9-year-old Susan and 8-year-old Joan over whose turn it is to use the bathroom when Gloria utters the words that make his blood run cold: “I think I’m pregnant.”

Because Jack Thompson is a man with only daughters, and five women under one roof will be the death of him.

“Maybe you’ll get that boy you want,” Sousa says, not bothering to look up from the case file Jack’s brought over to the CIA for a signature.

Jack snorts. He’s so sure he’s getting another daughter he tells Sousa, “Tell you what, if it’s a boy, I’ll name him after you.”

“Margaret’s a nice name, too,” Sousa calls as Jack’s leaving.

Over his dead body.

But then. But then. The doctor says three magic words: “It’s a boy.”

Oh, how Susan, Joan and 6-year-old Ruth Ann fuss over their baby brother. Jack reminds them all to be careful, but he’s already made peace with the fact his son will spend his formative years being his sisters’ baby doll.

A promise is a promise: they name him John Daniel Thompson.