#Dungeons and daddies nark | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

outtoshatter · 26 days ago

Text

Piece by Piece

A little strange one shot I wrote!

5k, Rated: T. No archive warnings apply. Tags: memory loss, demon cafe, coffee shop AU, established relationship.

Also on Ao3! 🔒

The café sat on a long, empty stretch of highway surrounded by tall, bare trees with thin branches reaching into the sky. There was nothing else for miles in either direction. Across the street, mountains loomed in the distance, shrouded by mist. The rest was scrubby, tough grass and the occasional animal that wandered too close and got stuck, staring at café’s brightly lit windows. Cars often stopped at night, desperate for any place to stretch their legs. During the day, most kept driving, seeking somewhere…safer. Nick didn’t blame them. There were no fuel pumps at the café, but on the menu, they offered a full tank for the price of one treasured memory. Some were desperate enough to pay the price in the dead of night, after walking—stiff legged and fearful—past their regulars. There were other things on the menu. They accepted cash and all major credit cards at Dusk ’til Dawn but there were some things that simply required a…higher form of payment.

Customers came and went all night; demons, witches, humans, demigods, even the fair folk on occasion stopped in for drinks, food, and deals. By the time dawn rolled in, the place was empty and quiet—but open, always open. They rarely got more customers during the day, after the café emptied at sunrise.

Except for him.

Two days a week, midday, alone, travel-worn but stubbornly stopping in anyway.

Nick wiped the counter listlessly, gaze darting to the door and away every few seconds. He turned his back to it and went to restock the cold food.

Jack, the only other living thing in the café, was snoring quietly at the desk in the back; her head was tipped back so her long, spiraling horns rested on the wall behind her.

Nick’s tail lashed with the urge to disturb her, but he didn’t feel like fighting, so he grabbed what he needed and went back out front.

Watery sunlight stretched across the black and red tiled floor, over empty booths and two-top tables. The air was cold and stale, and the music had gone silent when Jack’s playlist ended at dawn. He kept the door in his peripherals while he stocked the cooler.

A dented green pickup truck bumped into the lot twenty minutes past noon. It had a small cab and bed, serviceable and nothing more.

Nick stood at the register, tail coiled tight against his hip. There were grooves in the counter where he kept rubbing his claws, but he couldn’t help himself.

The driver jumped out. Despite the chill outside, he was wearing only a t-shirt and jeans that looked like they’d seen better days. His arms were scratched up and streaked with either mud or blood.

Nick hoped it was blood.

The door creaked when the man pulled it open. His gaze was already on Nick, tired and searching. He stepped over the threshold without the hesitation their other human customers showed, and walked straight to the counter.

He grinned and tilted his head. “Back again.”

“Yes.” His rough voice in the silent café sent a shiver down his spine. He set both hands on the counter—brown, long fingers, scarred and bearing fresh wounds—and stared into Nick’s face.

He stared back, amused. Whatever he’d been looking for in the last several weeks, he hadn’t ever found it here, so he didn’t understand why he kept returning.

Lark sighed, slumping ever so slightly.

“What’ll it be this time?” he asked now that the ritual was over.

He was a regular, but Lark never ordered the same thing twice. There may soon come a day when he ran out of things to try.

Nick wondered idly if that would be the day he stopped coming.

“I’ll take the number seven drink, and the black rye sandwich.”

“The Scorpion Mocha,” Nick said with a grin. “Are you sure you can handle it, human?” His tail lifted to dance across the counter, the sharp tip getting close but never touching his fingers. “No refunds.”

His lips quirked. “I think I can handle it.”

He was sure he could. It wasn’t nearly as spicy as some other drinks on the menu; just a mocha with a kick of heat. He made the drink in silence, and the sandwich, listening to Lark’s soul humming. He could feel his desire for whatever he was searching for, but his reasons were still a mystery.

When he turned to deliver the drink and sandwich, Lark had moved to his usual bar seat. The smears on his arms were mud, Nick noted now that he was closer. He set the plate down first, then the cup, which was decorated with scorpions and flames drawn in Sharpie.

Lark snorted softly when he saw it, turning it around to look at all the sides. He traced one of the scorpions with his thumb, his expression clouding over.

Nick rested his elbows on the counter, chin propped on the heels of his hands. His tail arched up, hovering above his own left shoulder, exposing how eager he was to watch him try the drink. “You know, most humans order the same thing.” His tail flicked, sweeping away his statement. “Actually, even our other customers tend to order the same thing every time.”

He hummed, curling his fingers around the warm cup.

Outside, the sky spat rain at the windows. The only sounds were the wind and the faint buzz of the We’re Open sign. He lifted the cup to his lips.

Nick’s breath caught. He watched with rapt attention, gaze locked on Lark’s mouth curving around the edge of the cup, his lashes lowering as he tipped it up. Never had he found such fascination in someone sipping coffee.

A flush spread over his cheeks, chasing out the sleep-deprived pallor he’d been sporting when he walked in. He drank deeply, throat bobbing. “It’s good,” he said when he finally lowered it.

“Of course it is. We only serve the best.” He spread his hands out and flashed a grin. “Care to try one of our more potent menu items?” He stretched his tail up to tap the menu board above his head. “A full tank, a brand new tire. Something stronger? They can be yours for a price.”

Lark’s gaze lifted, and pinned him in place with its intensity. He didn’t speak for a long moment. The silence was smothering. “No,” he said at last. “You don’t have what I’m looking for.” He sounded so disappointed.

Nick leaned forward on his hands again, kicking his legs up so he was lying in midair. He believed in providing exemplary service to his customers. “Well, if you tell me what it is, I can get it, and the fee would be fair.” He slid his tail over, this time skimming the pointed tip over his wrist.

He laughed dryly. “You can’t.” He started on his sandwich, dismissing Nick’s offer.

He was insulted. He’d been working at the café for only two weeks before Lark had shown up for the first time, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t deal as well as any other demon. More, at that; the café had rules, and he knew how to get around them. He must have, if he’d been doing business outside the café.

Had he done business outside of the café? He couldn’t remember, but he must have. Surely, he must have. That’s what they did. His feet dropped back to the floor. The café shimmered around him, the walls wavered and the floor felt unsteady.

It didn’t matter, he decided. He was in the café now. It didn’t matter where he was or what he did before.

Lark stood. “The coffee was good,” he said, rapping the counter with his knuckles. “Tip is under the plate.”

He watched him leave woodenly, watched the shoulders of his t-shirt darken in the rain, watched him take long strides back to his truck.

He looked back at the window once before getting in.

After the truck was gone, Nick jolted back to life. He dove at Lark’s empty plate, tossing it aside—glass shattered against the floor—and pulling the paper envelope to himself.

There was a CD inside; there had been art on the top at some point, but it was long gone, rubbed down to random spots of color. He turned it over in his hands.

It was only a CD, but it felt right in his hands, familiar. It felt as though it was pulsing, syncing up with his heartbeats.

He glanced at the mess—the shattered plate, the empty cup—and stepped over the plate shards.

Jack yawned widely when he threw open the door to the back. “Another one?” she asked sleepily, scooting her chair in so he could squeeze past her.

“I broke a plate,” he muttered. There was an ancient radio shoved in the corner of one of the shelves, plugged into a dusty extension cord that trailed behind the desk.

Jack sighed, annoyed. Smoke curled out of her nose, trailing in a yellow line behind her as she clopped out.

Nick smacked the radio until the CD player opened. His fingers trembled when he put the disc inside; it took two tries to hit the ‘play’ button. He stood poised over the shelf, hands curled around the edge. His tail lashed behind him.

The music that pumped from the old, crackling speakers was unfamiliar. The singer’s smoky voice, the beat, the guitar, it wasn’t anything he’d heard before.

His blood stirred in his veins. A shiver moved down his spine. He couldn’t look away from the dented left speaker, like he had frozen. Listening was…not quite painful, but uncomfortable, and yet he couldn’t turn it off. Like being filled up, like the song was pouring into an empty space he didn’t know was there.

He stood there through every song, frozen, shivering. When it stopped, he creakily peeled his fingers from the shelf and pushed the button to open the player.

The disc felt flat now. Dead. Whatever made it pulse against his hand before was gone. He turned it over, got a distorted glimpse of himself in the bottom and turned to his locker. He fumbled the combination before getting annoyed and snapping the lock off to yank the door open.

At the bottom, a collection of junk had accumulated, all tips from Lark: a faded old t-shirt; a chipped coffee cup with words on it that had long since flaked off; a cellphone charger with a kink in the middle; against the back wall, there was a calendar with circled dates and notes written in water-smudged ink; a postcard with writing on it that he couldn’t read; a dented water bottle with a pair of reading glasses hooked through the handle; an empty tube of cherry Chapstick; and a single, unlabeled Gameboy Advanced cartridge. A small paper bird hung from the top of the locker with a piece of string and a paperclip.

Nick skimmed his fingertips over it, remembering the strange feeling they’d all given him. He added the CD to the pile.

Jack had cleaned up the plate by the time he returned; she shot him the finger and went outside as soon as he was behind the counter.

The rest of the day was quiet and uneventful. At sunset, Jack turned on her playlist again. Two regulars strolled in for their vanilla lattes and settled in at their favorite table to watch the door. A faerie with one arm made of twisted, mossy wood from fingertip to shoulder entered and ordered a cup of cream. She paid with a mortal’s last breath, which was enough for free refills for three nights.

Nick made drinks and deals and he did not think of the items in his locker or the way each one had pressed into him until it’d changed the shape of his own mind into something new and unfamiliar.

____

Lark returned three days later, like clockwork.

Nick wiped the counters and watched the windows while Jack slept in the back, and then—his truck was there. He waited at the register, running his claws against the grooves again.

There was blood on Lark’s face this time, crusted around a long cut on his jaw. He’d changed his t-shirt for a long sleeved gray shirt with a splatter of blood on the shoulder. He did his ritual, searching for something that wasn’t there.

“So?” Nick asked eagerly. “What’ll it be?” He pressed his toes down into his boots to keep himself on the floor.

Lark’s tired gaze lifted to the menu board. “Hmm.” He was pale again, his eyes glazed, and yet his soul was still humming.

“Still hopeful,” Nick said aloud.

He looked at him. “What?”

“You’ve been looking for weeks, but you’re still hopeful.”

“I’ll find it.” He nodded at the menu. “Number twelve.”

“Honey and caramel iced coffee,” he recited without looking. “No food?”

“Not this time.” He paid with a card, like always, and went to his usual seat.

“I could give you a fair deal,” Nick called while making his drink. “Surely you’re tired of searching. I can find what you’re looking for…”

“You can’t.”

His hand clenched on the honey bottle, claws punching four holes through the side. He whipped around. “That’s rude.”

Lark watched him, calm and tired. Dull sunlight streamed over his shoulders, caressed his short curls and skimmed the cut on his jaw; it gilded him among the deep, rich colors of the café. He didn’t belong, and it was clear even without their regular patrons around.

Sharp fury scraped through him. It rubbed against his nerves. He wanted to break something. He wanted to trap him here.

Lark said, “You’ll understand eventually. But you can’t get me what I want.”

“Then why do you even want it?” he snapped, and turned back around to finish making his drink. He had to clean honey off his hand before taking it to him; he slapped it on the counter hard enough to splash, but Lark didn’t complain. He watched him try it. He couldn’t help himself. How many drinks were there left for him to try now?

Lark drank the whole thing. “It’s okay,” he said. “Not my favorite.”

Nick’s shoulders stiffened. First he insulted his ability to fulfill a deal, now this.

He smiled as if he’d noticed the annoyance on his face. “I’ll see you next time. Tip is by the cup.”

He watched him go. Watched him stand next to his truck for a couple seconds. Then he left. Nick leaned over the counter.

An old marker this time. The label was worn away. It shivered in his hand when he picked it up. It fit so easily in between his fingers, like his hand was used to holding it. He flicked the cap off with such ease, it was like muscle memory, except he had never seen this marker before.

Enraptured, he dragged Lark’s abandoned receipt closer and set the tip to the paper. The marker was so comfortable in his hand. His wrist moved, sweeping it across the slip. His breath was thin, a reedy whistle in his throat. Lark. Nick. Lark. Nick. Lark Lark Lark Lark Lark. Nick. He wrote their names so many times, they overlapped and became unreadable, and he kept writing still. He drew lines over the mess, cracks in a glass, until the marker, like the CD, felt empty and dead. He stared at his ink smeared fingers.

____

“Is it always so dead here during the day?” Lark had broken their routine. He spoke before searching Nick’s face.

“People feel better making deals at night,” he said. He searched Lark’s face in return. The cut from the previous week was scabbed over and healing, but he had a bruise coming up on the other side of his face.

He nodded. “Number twenty three.”

Nick grinned. “Poisoned apple.”

“Is there any poison in it?”

“Not unless you pay extra.” He snickered. “It’s got caramel, green apple flavor, fresh cinnamon on top, and a witch’s laugh.”

“And what does that taste like?”

He hummed. “Magic,” he said at last. “You’ll have to see for yourself.”

“Okay.” He paid—he got a sandwich this time, too, which probably meant he knew exactly how sickly he looked—and went to his usual seat.

Nick worked quickly. This was one of his favorites. He thought, Lark doesn’t like green apple flavor, and paused with his hand on the syrup pump. Ridiculous. How could he know that until he tried it? He made himself put it in.

The sandwich press beeped cheerfully right when he finished the drink. “Order up,” he chirped, setting them both in front of Lark. He rested his chin on his hands to watch again.

Lark ran his thumb over the doodle of a cauldron he’d made on the side. His next breath was uneven, like he’d been about to say something and changed his mind. He lifted the cup to his mouth. The steam curled out around his face.

Nick kicked his legs up so he was lying in midair again. His tail coiled around his waist.

He took a drink, then winced and swallowed.

“What?” His feet the floor again. Disappointment stung for just a moment.

“Green apple,” he explained with a grimace. “I don’t like it.”

“Why’d you order it?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to see if it was good with the other flavors.”

Nick nodded slowly. “No refunds.”

He laughed. “I know.” He held his gaze and pushed the cup toward him. “Do you want it?”

Something about his steady stare and the coffee sitting between them made him want to say no. Panic wriggled between his ribs and into his lungs. “Of course,” he sniffed, snatching it.

His lips quirked before he turned his attention to his turkey and brie sandwich.

Nick sat cross legged in the air before him, drinking the coffee. He knew Lark had paid for the drink—fairly—and that he had given it freely, but he still felt…indebted. He finished the coffee with a sigh and flicked a finger at him.

He jolted. “What-?”

“One lost night’s sleep returned to you in exchange for the coffee.”

His brows furrowed. He already looked a bit better. “I didn’t ask for-”

“Nothing is free. And it’s a fair deal,” he added with a smirk. “Besides, you looked awful.”

“You’re a real charmer.”

He blew him a kiss.

He glared then, frustration giving way to anger. He stood abruptly and slapped something on the counter, then stalked out.

Nick watched him go with his mouth open.

Hooves clacked against the floor tiles. “Did he take a deal?” Jack asked, noticing his expression. She had on a tight black t-shirt that rode up when she stretched her arms above her head.

“No,” he muttered. “He just left.”

She shrugged. “As usual.”

He moved to his plate. For a moment, he thought he’d left money, but it was just a half-empty pack of gum. It read Pink Lemonade flavor! on the front. He picked it up between two fingers. Flipped it open. Stared at the seven sticks of gum left. He could smell them.

He plucked one out and unwrapped it. He didn't give himself a chance to question it before he popped it in his mouth. The flavor made his jaw ache. Tears pricked his eyes.

He chewed until the flavor was gone, and then he put the package in his locker with the rest of his tips.

Jack side-eyed him when he returned, but she didn’t ask.

“Who hired me?”

Her brows went up. “What?”

“Did you hire me? Did I apply?”

She laughed. Outside, a trio of vultures took wing at the sound.

Nick didn’t ask again.

____

The sky was pure, cloudless blue, framing Lark in the doorway for a second before he staggered inside. He was covered in plaster dust head to toe, and there was another cut on his arm. The knuckles of his left hand were split open.

When he reached the counter, Nick said, “It’s not going to work.” He wanted him to keep coming back, but all of this effort seemed so wasted.

Lark’s eyes were hard when they met his. “Maybe, maybe not,” was all he said. Then he nodded at the menu. “Number eight.”

“Graveyard Dirt,” he recited without turning away. “Mocha with dark chocolate cake crumbles, espresso whip, topped with smoke salt and chocolate shavings.”

He flashed a tired smile. “Yes.”

“Your teeth will fall out.” He blinked after the words left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say them; he didn’t even know why he would.

Lark looked satisfied. His soul blazed with hope. “Not yet they won’t.”

He shrugged, forcing himself to move past the moment of confusion. “Is that all?” When he didn’t answer, he looked up from the register and found himself trapped by his eyes.

He was searching again, but this time, whatever he saw only made him straighten with resolve. “I’ll take it to go,” he said.

Nick’s heart dropped. “Okay,” he said woodenly. He turned, shoulders stiff, to get the drink started. Anger stirred in his chest. Why was he doing this? Why did he keep coming back? And now he was changing their routine. Leaving. Would he leave a tip? Did he want to make a deal?

He exhaled noisily and flipped on the blender. That must be it. Lark was finally tempted to make a deal, and instead of asking, he was running away.

But he’d be back.

They always came back, once they realized there was something they wanted.

Nick added the whipped cream and thought, None of the chocolate shavings. This time, he followed the instinct and left them off.

Lark looked down at it with some surprise when he shoved it across the counter. “Didn’t you say it came with chocolate shavings?” Smoke from the salt topping spilled over the lid.

“Yes. You don’t like them. You say they taste weird and stale.”

A slow smile spread over his face, the sort that started small and then took over his entire face. Something about his bunched cheeks and chipped left incisor made Nick’s throat ache. He stabbed a straw through the whipped cream and took a drink while he was wrestling with the strange feelings. “Delicious,” he said. “Might be my favorite. Tip is on the counter,” he said over his shoulder.

It took a full sixty seconds for Nick to lower his frozen gaze to the counter, and by then, Lark was long gone.

A keychain, shaped like a red poker chip that read Las Vegas on it. The chain was broken in the center, like it’d fallen off someone’s keys. The middle of the chip spun when flicked.

He picked it up. The metal was warm to the touch, like a living thing. It felt like it expanded and contracted with his breaths. He lifted his arm, dangling it in front of his eyes. He flicked it with a claw, sending the chip spinning. Sunlight glinted and flashed off the silver parts, but he didn’t look away, didn’t so much as blink.

The quiet squeak echoed in his head.

Flash.

Laughing in a car with his boots on the dashboard.

Flash.

Back in the café.

Flash.

Shaking the keychain in the dark, next to someone’s ear until they woke up.

Flash.

Café again. Jack grumpily cleaning out the blender at the sink.

Flash.

The keychain in the air, tossed to him from someone he couldn’t see, a bubble of joy in his chest.

Flash.

Sunset outside the café windows. The memories pushed into him like blunt fingernails digging into his skin; they filled yet more of that empty space.

He wanted to tear them out. He wanted to look closer. He wanted it to stop. He wanted Lark to come back. The door creaked.

“Time to work,” Jack said, her eyes glowing with hunger.

Nick put the keychain away and got to work.

____

Wednesday again. The sky was yet again clear blue, the air chilly and still. The highway was quiet. Jack was sleeping in the back. Nick sat on the counter, legs dangling, drinking a coffee he’d made for himself. He flinched when the green truck came into view. He eyed his cup, then the open sign, and wondered if he lobbed the cup hard enough, it would break the sign.

Too late.

The truck bumped to a stop in its usual spot.

Nick looked down. He didn’t want to watch him come in. The silence in the café felt like a cushion. He wanted to keep it.

The door creaked.

He didn’t lift his head until scuffed boots stopped in front of him. His cup shook in his hand.

Lark studied his face with his usual intensity. His shirt was too thin for the weather; there were goosebumps on his arms.

“You’re back.” He didn’t know why his voice came out so forceful, like he was accusing him of something.

“I got thirsty.”

Nick turned in place and dropped himself behind the counter. “What’ll it be today?” His fingers trembled.

He nodded at the menu. “Last one. Number forty-eight.”

He jabbed the screen so hard the register rocked. “Sunflower coffee. Blended black coffee with sunflower seed butter,” he said coldly.

Lark didn’t look bothered by his tone. The cut on his jaw had healed, but it left a scar behind.

He didn’t have any marks. No scars or cuts or lines to tell him where he’d been. Just a pile of junk in the bottom of his locker. “Here.” He shoved the cup across the counter.

“Thanks.” He held his hand out. “Your tip.” His fingers were curled around it, concealing whatever it was.

A chill crept down Nick’s spine. He clenched his hands at his sides until his claws dug into his skin. “No,” he said in a soft, shaken voice. His throat was tight.

“It’s the last one,” he said gently.

He shook his head. He couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t taking it, couldn’t fathom what might happen if he did. Something terrible, he thought. Something missing. He knew, he had known, something was missing. He just didn’t know if he wanted it back.

Lark sighed. “Okay.” He lowered his hand to the counter, setting it down with a soft thunk. He turned and left.

He left.

Nick stared at the place where he’d been with burning eyes. Eventually, he lowered his gaze to the counter.

A simple house key with no design or identifying features. There was a shiny spot worn on the flat side.

“Are you going to take it?” Jack asked. Her long hair was wrapped around and between her horns, creating a web above her head.

“I don’t know.”

She leaned against the counter to his right. “You took the others.”

“He said this was the last one.”

She looked at it. “You don’t have to take it.”

It called to him, though; he yearned for it. It was almost painful, the effort of keeping himself from reaching out.

“Do you want it back?”

Panic skittered through him. “Back?” he asked without looking away from the key.

“Nicholas,” she said patiently, “we both know what’s in there.” She sighed and pushed herself off the counter, disappearing into the supply closet.

He broke with a gasp and swiped the key from the counter.

It seared into his palm. It sank its teeth into that last empty space and flooded him. Overtook him. Filled him up until he overflowed.

Lark tossing the keys at him in a gas station, arms full of snacks. Nick shaking the keys in Lark’s ear to wake him up for a late night drive. Swapping at dawn. Magic dancing at their fingertips and then fumbling—one wrong word and then-

Pain shot up his legs. He’d fallen to his knees behind the counter. He remembered

coming apart

breaking

too many pieces

He remembered Lark. He remembered splitting and being only a part of himself. Wandering. Finding the café.

Lark. Lark. Lark. He stared at his hand. The key was still there, but he knew if he checked the locker he’d claimed for himself, everything would be gone. He swiped tears from his face and shakily pulled himself to his feet.

There were clouds in the sky, the fluffy white sort that stood out against the blue. Nick stood an arm’s length away from the door, staring out.

“You could stay, you know,” Jack said. “You don’t have to go, either.”

He did. Lark was out there. It was his turn to find him. Fear gripped him. Did he want that? He’d spent weeks looking at him like a stranger, telling him to give up. Telling him that whatever he was searching for, he was never going to find it.

But Lark hadn’t faltered once. He’d come looking for Nick twice a week. Returned pieces of him twice a week. Hunted them down in between his visits. By the state of him, it hadn’t been easy.

Nick had to go.

She sighed. “Well, have some coffee for the road.”

“I don’t have money.” He looked back at her.

“The drinks are your pay.” She pushed a cup across the counter toward him. “Consider it a farewell gift.”

He took it.

______

The journey took three days. Nick bought rides by making deals, something he hadn’t even known how to do before, that came so easily now. If it was fair, he could make it happen. He spent the time sorting through memories, before-the-incident, after-the-incident, apart-Nick, and newly-whole-Nick. He still felt like he was overflowing.

Home. The sight of their house nearly cut him off at the knees. He staggered up the yard—noted the dented green pickup in the driveway—and to the front door. The key slid right into the lock. He held his breath and turned it.

The scent hit him first. He couldn’t quite describe it—warm candle wax, the laundry detergent they used, something unnamable that all meshed together to smell like home. Tears flooded his eyes. He stumbled over the threshold and closed the door behind him. It was dark and quiet inside, still, as though the house itself was waiting, too.

He wasn’t at all surprised to find Lark slumped over, asleep at the table. His heart clenched so hard, he thought it might break. The urge to rabbit back out the door passed through him, but of course that wasn’t what he really wanted. Should he wake him? He clearly needed the sleep…but after all he’d done, he would want to know Nick was home.

Before he could decide, Lark’s head lifted from his arms. He had a red mark where his cheek had been resting. He blinked slowly, until the sleep daze in his eyes was replaced by blazing triumph. “I knew you’d find me.”

Nick hiccupped a laugh and fell into him, taking his face between both hands and kissing him. Their mouths fit together just right, one last piece of Nick’s soul finally slotting into place. He kissed him until he was dizzy with it, until all the overflowing bits of himself found their places. He tipped his forehead against Lark’s and whispered, “You look awful.”

His grin was sharp. “So do you. I think I like it.”

They tripped into their bed together, and slept tangled up in each other as though if they just held on tight enough, they could keep from coming apart again.

#dndads #dndads nark #dungeons and daddies nark #i wrote it for that prompt list #dadtober #but i didn't see any fics so i felt weird about it...#ANYWAY #nark #demon nick #soul magic #oneshot #5k #gia writes #coffee shop au #established relationship

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