It's Brittana, bitch

Youreterriblemuriel: n. 1. flawless human being; 2. author of delightful fanfiction, filled with humor, insight, and scenes that will give you feelings; 3. devoted Brittana fangirl (see icon); 4. astute observer of Brittana condition; 5. someone you should follow now; 6. Jeune’s Sweet Beta (see “The Only True Paradises” and “Pas de Deux”); 7. passionate reblogger; 8. Professor of Media Studies at Brittana U; 9. skilled equestrian; 10. JJ’s Tumblr wifey, who just has this knack for being awesome in every way… JJ loves her a lot, which is why she submitted this definition. Also see “Tumblr-taken” and “Just so we’re clear.”

May 3

Part 1: STARS (Brittana Week, Family/Future)

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Brittana Week 2013 Collaborative Collection

For this year’s Brittana Week my shmerpaderp friend (and new writer, thank-me-very-much), Annalise, and I have decided to do something a little different with the prompt lineup.

We are working collaboratively to string together a few small, related pieces based on a selection from the Brittana Week prompts. We will alternate authors every other prompt and each story will be, in some way, a continuation of the previous fill.

At the end of it, we expect to have a few chapters lined up for a small fic. Here’s hoping it turns out well and makes sense in its completion!

Enjoy!

Muralise


Part 2: Trouble is here


STARS

“Damn it!”

You look down at your foot to see you’ve stepped in the paint pan. Again. Wet yellow latex oozes between your toes. In your frustration you drop the brush on your other foot leaving a yellow blob of paint. The brush tumbles sideways onto the carpet and as you bend to pick it up you smack your head on the window frame.

“Son of a bitch!”

You grab your forehead with your hand before you realize, too late, that there is now yellow paint in your hair.

“Motherfucker!”

One hand on your foot, the other on your head, you hop toward the overturned five gallon bucket that is the only thing to sit on in the room.

“Fuck!”

“Fuck!”

“Fuck!”

You sit and start wiping paint off your foot with the now useless sock until there is more paint between your fingers than between your toes. You wipe your hands clean on your equally ruined jeans.

You grumble.

“Babe, what have we said about your swearing?” Brittany asks, as she enters the room carrying a lemonade in one hand and a cold beer in the other.

She is a goddess.

“I know, I know. I need to watch my language so I don’t make a bad first impression when she gets here.”

Brittany smiles at you as she hands you your drink. You’ve never been so excited for a beer in your life. You take a quick swig before you remember you’re not supposed to be drinking.


“Thank you,” she says, kissing you on the forehead. You surrender your bucket to her and sit at her feet. “Maybe you can practice your fake swearing later tonight. I particularly liked ‘son of a wet biscuit’ and ‘fudgesicles’ when you used them last week trying to get the new mattress up the stairs.” She gives you a sly grin and you forget all about the spilled paint and your sock and your sore head.

She glows.

You smile back and take another sip of beer and then splutter.

“Why’d you bring me a beer? You know I’m not drinking these days.”

“Because you’ve been such a good little home-repairwoman and deserve to have a treat.” She toasts you with her lemonade and takes a sip through her bendy straw.

“Also, you don’t have to do everything I do.”

Oh yes you do.

You made a promise to her that you were in this thing one hundred percent. Everything equal, all the way, and you’ll be damned if you’ll ever let her down.

“It doesn’t feel right, B. If you can’t drink, I don’t wanna.”

“It’s okay just this once.” She beams at you.

You beam back. You don’t know if you’ve ever been more in love with her than you are right this moment.

“And I’ve got another treat for you,” she says. “I ordered a pizza. Meat lovers with extra mushrooms.”

“But you hate mushrooms,” you say, puzzled.

“But you love them, so I can just pick them off. Also, I added pineapple.”

You eye her.

“What,” she shrugs. “I had a craving.”

Your snort turns to laughter and she joins you a second later, her face scrunched up, her belly heaving.

God, you love this woman.

After several moments, in which you both try to stop laughing but start again every time you catch the other’s eye, you climb to your feet and take her hand, pulling her up with you. She wipes a happy tear from her cheek.

You lead her across the room to the new, plastic-wrapped mattress that leans against the wall, flip it onto the ground, and then help her lower herself onto it.

“Wait here, I have a surprise for you too.” You cross the room and flip the lights off, enveloping the room in darkness. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust but when they do, you cross to Brittany’s side, sitting next to her. The mattress is just big enough to seat both of you.

“Look up,” you say.

Brittany gasps.

The fluorescent paint you bought on one of your many trips to Home Depot is dotted across the ceiling. Each spot glitters, lending a muted glow to the room.

“They’re beautiful! Oh San!” She pulls you into her warm embrace. Holding her is more awkward these days, but you wouldn’t give it up for anything. You bury your head in her neck and inhale her wonderful Brittany smell.

You sigh. This is heaven. Complete with stars.

“When did you do this?” She asks, and your force yourself to pull away. She’s staring up and there is definitely the shiny glint of a tear on her cheek.

“Last weekend when you were napping. I saw you looking at them in that decorating book and just knew we had to have them in this room. I want her to be able to look at them every night as she falls asleep.”

She pulls you in for another hug, longer than the last, and you imagine you might never want to move again. Your hand finds its way to her belly and you begin to rub. It’s become a habit these days; a gesture that soothes you when you’re anxious, or comforts you when you’re scared; when the future seems to loom large and uncertain.

Brittany thinks the belly likes it too.

You sigh in unison.

“Let’s make a wish,” Brittany says, “on our stars.”

“Okay, I wish for her to be healthy and happy and for her to get here soon. But not too soon.” Your hand gives a extra firm rub, as if to keep everything in place, and you think you might feel a teeny tiny nudge in response.

“And I wish for… a pony,” Brittany says, chuckling.

“BRITTANY! You’re supposed to wish for a healthy baby, or an easy labor, or…” you inhale, afraid to admit your most sincere wish of all, “us to be good parents and not fuck, er… fudge her up.”

“Silly, I don’t need to wish for those things, cuz we already have most of ‘em.”

You sigh. You’re not so sure, but you’ll take Brittany’s word for it. After all, trusting Brittany has gotten you this far.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be great,” she says. “And so will she.”

You rub her belly once more. For luck.

She leans over and kisses you on your head. “Hey, your hair’s almost the same color as mine now.”

You laugh. Oh yeah, you’ll need to wash the paint out of your hair.

“Are you sure you like this color? What if she gets here and doesn’t like it?”

Brittany cocks her head and gives you one of her looks. You bite your lip.

“The Second Earl of Tubbington chose this color and I trust his judgment completely. Remember when you didn’t think lavender would be a good color in the kitchen and he proved you wrong?”

You grimace.  She’s right, although you’re still not sold on the teal he picked for the cupboards.

“Britt, we only picked this color because it was the only paint chip that he didn’t eat.”

“Yeah well, I like this shade of yellow. It’ll be perfect for her. It’s neutral and sunny and will make a perfect background for the unicorn mural.”

You groan.

“Britt, do we really need to have a unicorn mural?” You look at her beseechingly. You’re not sure you have another home improvement project in you.

“Yes. I’m giving birth to a unicorn and I want her to know that from the moment she gets here, she is the most special girl in the world.”

You lean over and place a tender kiss on Brittany’s lips.

“She will be,” you say.  ”Just like her mom.”

 

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