#and i am so tired. i am tired of feeling numb and waking up feeling like i drained more energy while asleep somehow

[daenysx]

Happy sleepover!!! I brought blankets and snacks so we can cuddle up and watch movies :,)

May I request poly!marauders at 4.40am?

happy sleepover! we're definitely cuddling up with blankets, my angel

4.40 AM | POLY!MARAUDERS

it's the sound of storm that wakes remus up.

he checks up on you briefly, your eyes are still closed. your neck must feel numb when you wake up though, you put your head in a strange angle on his shoulder. maybe he should try to adjust you to sleep better-

"holy shit-"

maybe he shouldn't.

when he turns his head he sees sirius's huge eyes, a few curse words whispered on his lovely mouth after the growling sound from the sky.

"it's okay." remus reaches for his boyfriend's arm to soothe him. "just a storm."

"i thought it was a dream." sirius says. "freaked me out- wait, how can they keep sleeping with all these sounds?"

it's amazing really, you and james don't even hear the sounds of the wind and trees, or the storm. remus tries not to move to let you keep sleeping. you're cute with your small sounds of breathing and your tired body all melted on him in the safety of sleep.

"they've been so tired." remus answers, fondly. "cover prongs' shoulder, it's getting cold here."

sirius does as he's told after kissing james's shoulder. he doesn't stir awake, the raining sounds behind work as a lullaby. his hand move in bed, though, sirius is quick to hold it with a gentle squeeze of his fingers.

"will you be able to fall asleep again?" remus asks him silently.

"i'll try. you?"

"yeah." remus answers. "she makes it impossible to stay awake anyway, look at how she sleeps."

"adorable."

the room is a bit chilly but the bed is warm. they both lie awake for a minute in the silence until another struck of the sky interrupts.

"go back to sleep, moons."

"you first."

"i will, promise." sirius whispers. "don't worry."

remus would very much like to rub his back until he falls asleep but it's not possible with you and james between them. he can only trust sirius to keep the promise.

"love you." remus whispers. sirius smiles lazily in the darkness. "wake me up if you can't fall asleep."

"love you."

dreamer girl sleepover ♡

[hello-sweetheart]

Fame and Fortune

Do you dream of glory? Crowds of thousands all adoring beneath you. The roaring cheers echoing in the arena. Countless of small white lights held up like beacons creating a sea of waving stars all for you. Breathless exhilaration has your chest heaving, skin glistening and damn. To feel like a god: never ending, eternal.

What would you be willing to do to get it?

What are you willing to sacrifice for fame?

Who are you prepared to lose?

Could the love of millions be worth the love of one?

——

[Backstage: Corroded Coffin Global Tour-Los Angeles, Ca]

Eddie is pacing, more than just pre-show nerves numb his hands. His cigarette burns quickly, ash falling on the carpeted floor, but no amount of nicotine filled lungs will fix this. Gareth, his drummer and long time friend, is watching him pace, eyes pleading.

“Is it worth it, Eddie?

We all got what we wanted; why are we miserable? You can’t lie to me, we all feel it. I see it in everyone, even you! You haven’t been the same since—“ He receives a withering glare from the frontman and sighs, speaking softer.

“I miss mom and my little sister. It’s been so long since I’ve seen them… I’m no longer drawn in her crayon family portraits, did you know that? Does Anne even remember me, anymore?

How can you keep going like this and expect us to do the same? I’m grateful—I really am—for you. You got us where we are now, a fantasy that we never even dreamed would become reality. It was amazing, I’m glad I got to experience it all with you, but I’m tired. I’m so tired guys.

I just want to go home.”

The long drag he takes burns his throat,

“Look, we’re all tired, I get it. Really, I do, this tour has been… particularly grueling I’ll admit, but come on. This is our last show, the big finale! We’ll give them all we got and then we’ll be able to take a break to freshen up before doing what we do best: creating kick ass music.

Like always. You’ll feel better after this, we always do after the last show—“

Gareth cuts him off, his patience clearly stretched thin.

“No, Eddie, listen to me! It’s different this time. I’m happy with the money we’ve made, we all have enough to live comfortably and I’ve been thinking that, you know, it’s time to settle down. I can’t do that if I’m always working. This, the band, it doesn’t… it doesn’t make me happy anymore.”

Jeff stands and his imposing figure makes Eddie pause from wearing a path into the floor.

“He’s not the only one, man. Im sorry, but its killing me. We don’t expect you to give it up either, you can keep the band name, find new members, keep signing… But for us? We can’t keep going, man. This is the end of the line.”

‘Not him too. Fuck. Fuck!’

“No! What am I—I’ve given up too much for this, you can’t just, fucking, bail on me!” This band, playing with his friends, it’s become his entire world. He’s lost too much to get here.

“Woah, woah, hey! No one fucking told you to and you know it. We’ve always had your back no matter what, but anything you chose to do is on you. Not us. The least you could do is extend us the same fucking curtesy and respect the fact that we’re fucking done with this bullshit.”

His gaze is venom as he looks at band, Grant and ‘Freak’ silent but agreeing with the rest. They refuse to meet his gaze.

“Fine. Do whatever you want.” He turns and leaves. They’ll be starting in 15 minutes.

Fucking cowards. Ungrateful bastards.

A memory plays in his head. Brief and intrusive. The voice of someone long gone from his life rings in his mind.

“I’ve missed you, Ed. Are you done at the studio, yet? When are you coming home?”

“Steve, this is important. You know this. I’ll be pulling a few more all nighters here—this album has to be perfect, baby.”

A crackling sigh is barely audible through the phone.

“I know, I know. I’m just being selfish. I’m sorry. Miss waking up to you next to me.”

“Miss you too, baby. You’re my world you know. Love you more than anything.”

“More than music?” It’s a timid question.

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he’s the only one to laugh into the receiver.

“Right… night, Eddie.”

“Wait, Stev—“ fuck. It was only joke. Whatever, he’ll apologize tomorrow.

Right now, he has music history in the making.

[xadenviolct]

Men would rather see the realm put to the torch, than see a woman ascend the iron throne.

Needless to say, there are so many quotes from media (books, movies, television, etc.) that have spoken to me today (especially). From Padme to Leia, from Hermione to Katniss, from Aelin and Feyre and Violet, from every single warrior who has fought for a better world and never given up and always hoped for the better--

Media has always been what has gotten me through times like this. When the utter stupidity (which, I feel, isn't even a strong enough word to truly express the severity of the whole thing) is so great, and I've gone between utter and complete disgust and rage to disbelief and numbness.

And run the entire realm of emotions in between.

So forgive me if this post is a bit... disjointed. It's a true "let me get my thoughts down because I need to write them somewhere before my head utterly explodes" kind of thing.

I don't even know where to begin, in many ways. Because how do you truly put into words these feelings? How do you truly express the utter and complete disgust with mankind that you feel, when you didn't even set the bar very high to begin with? When you had it set extremely LOW, even, because of multiple factors:

They are in a CULT. Led by a con man. There can truly be no denying that whatsoever. And cults, by definitions, do not follow logic and reason and sense.

People are stupid. And hateful. And tend to vote "party" no matter what (in a lot of cases).

The American education system (especially in regards to history, civics, literature, etc.) is utterly horrible--and certain Powers That Be want to keep it that way because an ignorant populace is always easier to control.

And those are just SOME reasons I set the bar low. But at the same time, I had the smallest little nugget of hope:

Surely, the hypocrisy will be called out and stopped? Surely, the utter hate & division (and bullying & insulting & name-calling) will make some people open their eyes? Surely, the fact that so many prominent members of the Republican Party (lifelong senators & military leaders, etc) who have openly endorsed the Democratic candidate--as well as spoken on the dangers of re-electing that man--will show people that there are GIANT FLASHING WARNING SIGNS going off?

Surely, America can learn a little bit from history?

Right?

As a woman, it sickens me even more to see this country say, once again, that it will elect a man like that over a woman. For no other reason than the fact that he is a man, and she is a woman.

Because there can be no other reason, no matter what anyone tries to claim.

That this was even a question at all in the first place, and that there were those who were "undecided" at any time over which candidate to choose, proves that.

Because while a lot of the American system needs fixed (and while yes, the two-party system doesn't always give you "the best" options), it is VERY clear that we're not changing that part of the process any time soon.

So the USA really looked at a black woman who was intensely qualified on every single level, who ran a wonderful campaign in a shorter time than any other candidate in recent history, who spoke of trying to heal the division, to work with everyone, to make this a UNITED country--

And the majority of voters really said:

No, we will take the rapist. The felon. The schoolyard bully. We will take the fascist whose entire campaign was nothing but insults and name-calling. Of division and spreading hate. Of basically declaring those who didn't side with them "enemies".

The majority of American voters really looked at Kamala Harris and Tim Walz, and decided that everything they (American people) claim to hate about politics (division, lies, hypocrisy)--in other words, the entire campaign of Donald Trump and JD Vance--was the better option for this country.

Disappointed is not strong enough. Disgusted is not strong enough. Angry, sick-- There is no word that I can think of that is strong enough to fully express everything I've felt today, with this country.

There are times I have been "embarrassed" by America. Many actions in the early 2000s from President Bush. In 2016 when the nation first elected Trump. I thought I was in an alternate nightmare reality then, because I could not believe they were really that stupid.

But to see them do so again? To see, in the last 4 years since he lost in 2020, for him to do nothing but whine and argue and deny the facts like a fucking toddler throwing a damn tantrum*, only for this nation to say, "Yes, we want to elect this man again"--

I want to scrub the blood, the American identity, from my very DNA. I want to never see an American flag again. There is nothing to be proud of in this nation, when that ends up as the majority decision.

*And I would also like to note that Kamala acted like an actual adult, in that she conceded the race. That despite how utterly sick & disgusted we are, the Democratic Party is not whining and throwing some god-awful tantrum and fit, claiming CHEATER?

But hey, America, you wanted the toddler. You wanted the schoolyard bully.

Because god forbid we elect a black woman instead!

And now, I have something to say to all the so-called religious people. To all the so-called Christians.

Every single atheist and agnostic person I have ever met is far, far more "Christ-like" than you will ever be.

And when you die, and you stand before the God you believe in, be sure to tell Jesus just how much you hated your fellow neighbor. Just how much you did not follow what should be so easy:

"Love Thy Neighbor."

Because I know you just love quoting and throwing scripture at people, so have this one:

"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you invited me in. I needed clothes and you clothed me. I was sick and you looked after me. I was in prison and you came to visit me. Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and fed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?' The King will reply, 'Truly, I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'" (Matthew 25: 35-40)

So I'm sure your Jesus knows of the hate in your heart. Of the true depth of your hypocrisy. Of claiming to do good in his name, when your actions are the complete opposite of what his words and teachings are.

Because while I may not believe any longer, I have the knowledge and the background and the understanding of what the Christian religion should be. What it is supposed to be.

And it is because of people like you that I do not. That I have seen far more "good people", "righteous people" and "kind people" that are not religious than I ever have of those who tie themselves to a particular faith.

So yes, as you stand all holier-than-thou in your churches, only to spew hate and bigotry every other day, know that your actions speak far, far louder than your words.

And if you truly believe (as you claim), then God knows that. Knows what is truly in that heart of yours.

I am sorry you feel like you must bring the entire country down with you. I am sorry that you feel like the entire world must succumb to your religious doctrine, your religious faith. I am sorry that you cannot grasp that "separation of Church & State" and "freedom of religion" are so integral to what the American society is supposed to be...

Because if you only want CHRISTIAN faith, and CHRISTIAN knowledge and CHRISTIAN doctrine and prayer-- but rebel at the idea that the Islamic faith or the Jewish faith or the Hindu faith or the Pagans or any of the other many, many other religions (and those who do not tie themselves to a particular religion at all)--would have equal opportunity and share and have their faith and "commandments" posted and beliefs made law...

Then you are a big, fucking HYPOCRITE.

But I honestly could expect nothing less.

You have a right to your religion. Your belief. Your practices. You can raise your children as secular or as religious as you wish. You can make your health decisions based on what you believe, based on your personal choices, your personal circumstances.

That is YOUR right.

What so many of you fail to understand is that you do NOT have the right to tell everyone else to live by your religion or your belief. To practice a faith that you hold. To make health decisions based on a religion that has nothing to do with them, or a government dictating what can and cannot be done in health decisions between a patient and a doctor.

The only people that should be allowed such a decision? The patient and the doctor. Anyone else that the patient wishes to bring into the conversation is the PATIENT'S choice.

Not. Yours.

Not the government's.

To finish this off (for now?), I'll say this...

I know it is tiring. It is exhausting, always fighting this fight. To prove, time and again, that we matter. That we (as women, as poc, as lgbtq+, as disabled, as mentally ill, etc) are real and living people deserving of a quality of life as good as anyone else. That none of us should be treated like second-class citizens.

And right now, I'm too utterly disgusted with everyone and so completely depressed-- I have gone in waves of feeling utter screaming rage, insane laughter, and numbness.

But then I go back to the beginning -- to media, to what has always been there:

"It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Fold in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. Because they were holding on to something. What are we holding on to, Sam? That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for."

So we will fight. Because despite the bad, despite the disgust and the exhaustion that weighs so heavily, there is still that good. There are still those who try to fight for that sanity. For reason. For logic.

“I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.

"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

[pleasedontcareaboutme]

i think i finally realized why ive been feeling so damn depressed lately again

sorry for writing this here. im really hurting actually. im not good. i feel a bit helpless too. idk who to talk to bc i dont want to burden anyons and i donf feel like anything could console me right now

Like. fuck me man. thanks for saving me but. why the hell are you not here. i dont want to do this without you. i hate only being able to remember you. i was supposed to grow old with you, not without you.

And. honestly. even with all this bullshit i say here, all the endless times i spend trying to write down my feelings, abt you, about all the pain ive felt my life, it doesnt get better. not at all. and no words, no poetry takes it away and i truly feel like nobody will ever truly understand how suffocated i felt all my life.

and i want to change thanks to you but. i dont know. nothing's satisfying enough.

no matter what, i truly only feel great when im in that daydream like world you created.

and these past days ive been thinking a lot that. i really wouldnt mind dying right now. not at all. because at least i know what happiness feels like. and i want to stay in that state. probably, even in this life your music will bring me happiness, but i want to be trapped in it.

im tired of being so unseen, and even when im seen, im hurting. but i dont know whats hurting. i think im just really tired thats all.

and. ye. i feel brave tbh. i still havent posted my video to instagram, bc im not brave for that. i dont know. and i feel like a hypocrite bc everything is true that i wrote there but at the same time these are my thoughts currently

in a long while i looked up suicide methods again. i feel so hopeful, but im not really sure if really for the future. jm sorry this is probably alarming. i will probably not kill myself but. idk. im not sure actually. i dknt know what to say. i wasnt cut out for this wordly shit.i feel unlovable but even if im loved, i donf want to be. i dont want anything. just let me stsy in this quiet place snd just. disappear. i wouldnt want my family to hurt if i die but i wont know about it anyways. idk man. i feel strongly i could die calmly this time and thats nice. bc 6 years ago i was terrified, and hurt. but now im content and kind of ready idk man. its not a terrible feeling, its a "this is it, it was nice while it lasted" ig.

there are no clouds in my head actually. i truly dont feel like im thinking irrationally, i feel like this would just be like. the end goal i was looking for. to feel true love once. it was nice.

no goodbye yet bc idk how id kms even if i do. But ill tell u guys if i found something.

[thefairyquill]

I've been having a hell of a time with death lately.

I think my hyper awareness to it increased right around June- my grandmother had been sick for a long time, which wasn't something at the front of my mind often when I could help it, but it was there. It was a mild day. I was cooking something. I drizzled olive oil onto the pan, and went to get something while I waited for it to heat up- and came back to see that the oil formed the shape of a birds skull, specifically that of a corvid.

I don't really believe in omens, or signs, or anything of the sort. I do believe in the human brain finding patterns and meaning in it's surroundings, and sometimes even adding signs where there are none- I believe in people seeing things more often when they're thinking about them, even if it's below the surface. I believe that anything can be a sign if you want it to be.

Regardless though, the next day I found out my grandmother had two weeks left to live, and after that I started seeing death everywhere.

On the way to her funeral, there had been a motorbike accident, and the body was lying on the road, covered in a transparent blue plastic tarp, flowing in the wind made by passing cars, showing off a dark, reflective helmet visor, still fully intact. Dead insects littered the hot pavements. After my return, I went out with my friends- one got hit by a car, thrown almost 3 metres out onto the road, and her limp body sent me into an inconsolable panic, but she lived, somehow totally unharmed. Another found a dead rabbit in a park, its insides being swarmed by flies. Yesterday I saw two rats, playing with each other in the car park bushes, and today I stumbled upon one dead, tiny body swarmed and eyes bloody.

These things are all normal. I am only drawing the connection because of grief and fear. My brain is creating the pattern, drawing additional lines to try and make sense of it. But there is nothing to make sense of. Sometimes, living things just die.

[fortes-fortuna-iogurtum]

hey friends is it normal to just feel. numb. because I think that maybe it is not. but what would I know anyway.

[lovsome]

i think im gonna ask my therapist to get me an appointment with the private psychiatrist she suggested

[oflgtfol]

sigh. i have seasonal affective disorder

[bowsers-sweaty-asshole]

.

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"My everything." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

(Not my gif!)

A sleepless night after your and Daryl's baby was born.

A/N: Just a cheesy imagine hehe sometimes I like to imagine a soft dad!Daryl. I wrote this imagine for my Tom Holland page, so if you ever find it, you know why. Sorry if you see any grammatical errors. Hope you like it! Thank u.

Marley Rose Dixon was one month old now.

She was born in a warm room full of candles, in a blissful and foggy night in which the world of her mother and father was painted with beautiful colors again after walking in a grey world for so long, announcing her arrival with a loud cry that showed her freedom and her desire to live until the doctor (luckily, there was a few in Alexandria) placed her on your chest for the first time.

Marley was named after Daryl's older brother, and you didn't mind because despite everything, you knew how much he loved his brother. At first, the news wasn't easy for either of you two to take in (the option of abortion was considered at length), but the thought of a baby gave you both the hope that something better and more beautiful could come, too. And boy, it did.

Right there, the moment she was born, her blue eyes — identical to her father's — sparkled with the glow of two small diamonds, treasures hidden behind her long lashes from the first time she opened her eyes and gazed, serenely, at her parents, and the new world around her, a better world you two were trying to build for her.

But from that moment on, she cried, cried and cried from time to time.

At 2:54 am, Alexandria is submerged in a cozy dream far from the fear and death, unlike you, and it seems unreachable for you as you walk through your dark room taking soft steps and soft bounces, holding in your arms a small human being created from a great love and blah, blah, blah, other nonsense things you used to believe before being deprived of such a necessary resource, for your sanity and mental health (you didn't sleep much before her, and Daryl even less, but still), But you chuckle, numb from lack of sleep, tired, but at peace with yourself as her little head lies on your right arm and your left one gently caresses her back, wrapped comfortably in a white blanket with pictures of little elephants, just like the pillow in the shape of the same animal that Uncle Rick found for her during a run.

You love her, you are crazy about her, even if the days became difficult and the nights were exhausting, (even with the monumental help Carol and the rest of the family gave you), but all the reward is in being able to hold her in your arms, warm and safe. Daryl calls her his angel, his princess, and at the time, it is an appropriate nickname for someone who cries to make her demands heard.

You chuckle, again.

"Is she tellin’ ya a good joke?" Daryl walks into the room, holding a bottle of warm milk in his hand.

You and Carol taught him how to do it, and now, he is an expert. His brown hair is tousled, but it usually is so no one could tell the difference, eyes tired from lack of sleep, shirtless and in gray loose sweatpants he refused to wear at first.

“15 minutes to make the milk? I was starting to get worried actually." You raise an eyebrow, speaking softly. "Why did you take so long? The milk is in the kitchen, not in another country."

"Sorry, sweetheart." Daryl apologizes as he hands you the bottle, sitting on the edge of the bed to watch his daughter stop crying the moment she feels the bottle against her pretty pink lips. "I closed ma eyes and just fell asleep in the kitchen."

You frown, continuing to stroke Marley's back.

"In a chair? On the counter?"

At the sound of your voice, Daryl's head falls until he almost hits his chest with his own chin, waking up from his light sleep before looking back at you. It's still funny to you how easy it was for him to go without sleep all those years, but after a month with Marley, Daryl considered killing walkers an easier task.

"What? No. Standin’. Didn't know that was even possible."

You shake your head gently, looking away to your baby who is enjoying a meal at 3 in the morning, resting peacefully, just like a princess, in your arms with eyes closed, body relaxed, arms outstretched to pretend to hold the bottle in your hand.

“Even dad can get a nap; you sleep whenever you feel like it… so, where is mom's nap? I mean, I've slept an hour every night since you were born, the room is a mess like us, and my breasts hurt too much."

Daryl chuckles.

"Can't help ya with that, darling. In fact, I think that's exactly what got us into this mess."

"What?"

"Yer boobs." Daryl babbles, smiling wearily, eyes closed as he falls against the edge of the bed, only to stop holding his own weight when he can no longer bear it. “Yer incredible, amazing boobs. They’re amazing and I love ‘em so much, but they were the temptation that brought us… this beautiful gift."

You shrug your shoulders, agreeing with him.

"They are amazing, and she is beautiful when she doesn't cry.”

"That's when I love ‘er the most." Daryl answers, and a second later, you both chuckle in unison.

“Although, it was kind of your fault for wanting to do it without a condom, you horny bastard.”

Daryl chuckles, and because he wasn't used to doing that before you, that tiny sound was endearing.

“Ya regret it?”

"Never." You say with confidence, because you know that he did not regret the decision either. You laugh quietly, after a while. “But… you know what I was thinking?”

“Um?”

“That this would be a good time to save money so that she can go to a good college.”

Daryl wasn't used to making jokes, so with the help of the moonlight coming through the window, fighting the darkness of the room, he raises himself slightly to look you in the eyes, his brow slightly furrowed.

“Jesus, I’m just kidding.”

Daryl chuckles, falling on the bed again, one arm over his eyes.

“Ya think is a good idea if we teach her how to kill walkers when she gets older? Marley could be the new little ass kicker.”

You smile to yourself, because for some reason, your daughter's name on his lips is like sweet honey. And, although you wanted to protect her from that world, the rules had changed, and in order to survive, she was going to have to learn to take care of herself too. Fortunately, it was still too early to think about that.

So, asleep again, you leave Marley in her crib near the bed before returning to it, laying down next to Daryl as he rolls over onto his left side, taking advantage of the time that you still have until the baby wakes up again, just to repeat the cycle you have been living in since Marley was born.

But life still feels good despite the fatigue and the occasional physical pain, because she was everything you never imagined you could have, not in that world, and she, more beautiful than you had ever dreamed of during the wait.

"Thanks, peach." Daryl whispers, so close to you that you can feel his nose against yours, his hand caressing your waist over your shirt, but you're so tired that it takes you a few seconds to gather your strength to respond.

"Why?"

"For our baby, for lovin’ me, for givin’ me a home. Ya two are ma everythin'."

You smiled, sighing.

"You're welcome, love. We are very, very lucky to have you." You say, taking a breath to answer as you look at him: eyes closed, body finally relaxed after having her on his chest most of the day. He is a good dad, the best. "But still, the next turn is yours alone."

Daryl, amused, looks blindly for the warmth of your body to pull you against him, tickling you slightly and that have you both smiling softly despite the absolute exhaustion, a few seconds before you both can fall into a deep sleep, finally.

[girlgenius1111]

I'll Make It Through The Winter If It Kills Me

putellas!reader stops taking her antidepressants because she doesn't think she needs them anymore, keeps it from alexia, but she eventually finds out. super angsty, but fluff follows. warnings: mentions of self harm.

-----

You weren't stupid; you didn't think you knew better than your doctor. You were just so tired of everything feeling so... dull. Feeling so empty, even when things were good. Even when they were bad. It felt like your emotions were in sight, but just out of reach. Like you could graze them with your fingertips, the sharp sting of anger, the thrill of excitement. No matter what you did, though, you couldn’t get your hands around them. You couldn’t make the feelings stay. You weren’t sure you’d know what normal felt like if it hit you across the face, and no matter what you told your doctor, she kept encouraging you to give the meds a longer chance. 

It wasn’t really intentional on your part, to stop taking them. It just…happened. You missed one day. And then another. And then it had been a week, and even though your head ached, and you had a bit of a hard time sleeping, you felt… better. Not great, not really even good, but better. More like yourself. 

That lasted another week, before suddenly, you were back where you started. The joy you’d rediscovered in living faded away, plunging you back into a cave of misery. It wasn’t numbed now, either. It was encapsulating, suffocating. You weren’t okay, not at all. You didn’t know what to do, though. You didn’t want to go back on the medication, and you knew you wouldn’t survive if you kept going like this. You told yourself that you just had to let your body get used to the lack of the medication, and once it adjusted, you’d feel normal again. You’d been high, and now you were low, and the next step had to be a middle ground. The trouble was keeping yourself going until you got there, as well as keeping your sister off your back.

You hadn’t meant to start hurting yourself again, either. It just happened, it was just the coping mechanism you turned to. It was just supposed to be temporary, until everything balanced out and you felt normal again. It kept going, though, you kept going. Until you had to be careful about changing in the locker room, and you couldn’t go a day without doing it. It was the only thing that made you feel, the only thing that made it better. You just needed time. That was it. Just time. 

-----

“Wake up pequeña, I am not going to come in here again.” Alexia said with a sigh, poking her head in your door to find you still very asleep in bed. You both knew she’d be back in 5 minutes, ready to drag you out by your ankles, but you grumbled a response and sat up. You’d only gotten to sleep a few hours ago; sleep had evaded you, even as you felt more exhausted than you’d ever been in your life. It was just an adjustment, you, told yourself. Everything would even out. 

“If I come in there and you’re still asleep, so help me,” Alexia shouted from the hall, before throwing your door open rather aggressively. You turned to look at her blankly, wrapped up in your duvet, sitting on the edge of the bed. Your sister paused, taking a closer look at your face. 

“Do you feel okay? Are you getting sick?” She asked, entering the room and pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. You shook her off, discarding the duvet behind you and moving with as much energy as you could muster over to your dresser. 

“No, just sleepy.” You answered shortly, and Alexia narrowed her eyes at you. 

“You look sick.” She argued, crossing her arms over her chest in a rather intimidating manner. 

“Thank you.” You replied sarcastically. “Now get out, you’re going to make me late.” 

Alexia scoffed indignantly, but walked to the door regardless. “I’M going to make you late. Me. You lay in bed till the last minute, and it’s MY fault.” She mumbled, shutting the door behind her a little harder than necessary. 

She wasn’t really that bothered, but she did dramatically complain about you to Olga once she reached the kitchen. Olga, however, didn’t quite share her exasperation with you and your inability to get up on time. Instead, she saw this as cause for concern: you hadn’t been this hard to wake up since before. When things were bad, and they didn’t know. Looking back, the signs were obvious, and Olga wasn’t about to miss them again. Or let her rather emotionally oblivious girlfriend do so either. 

“Ale. She’s been sleeping a lot recently, no?” Olga asked quietly, grabbing her girlfriend’s hand to get her attention. 

Alexia looked up from the coffee she was making for you, turning to the brunette in confusion. “I haven’t noticed. She’s hard to wake up sometimes, that’s all.” 

Olga restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Sometimes, she wondered if Alexia really was oblivious, or if she was just in denial. 

“Not like this. The last time she slept this much, she wasn’t doing well, remember?” 

Alexia turned back to your coffee, stirring absentmindedly, lost in thought. 

“You think she’s having a hard time?” She asked finally. 

Olga shrugged. “I’m not sure. She’s been acting a little off recently. It could be nothing though.”

“But it could be something?” Alexia replied. She was never so aware of her shortcomings as a sister than when Olga saw something she didn’t. That was the good thing about being with someone who was so different from her, though. Olga was there to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks with you, a role she’d taken on without a second thought when you moved in.

Olga didn’t have a chance to reply, because you made your way into the kitchen, reaching instantly for the coffee Alexia was making, one you knew was for you. Ale always got up a bit early to make her and Olga coffee, climbing back into bed and drinking it there. 

Alexia handed you the coffee silently, and if you noticed that her eyes lingered on you longer than normal, you didn’t say anything about it. 

-----

It wasn’t accidental that Alexia had the two of you sharing a room over the next away trip. Ever since her conversation with Olga, she’d been keeping a closer eye on you, and she wasn’t loving what she was seeing. Normally, she’d pawn you off on one of your younger teammates over away games, needing time with her friends, and knowing you needed time with yours. Now, though, her overprotective instincts were kicking in and she didn’t trust anyone but herself to keep an eye on you. 

Alexia noticed that you put on a good show, but when people weren’t looking… you looked so desperately sad that your sister longed to drag you away from the group by your ear and pry whatever the problem was out of you. She didn’t, though. Olga had given her a harsh warning before leaving, as did Alba, that you wouldn’t respond well to being cornered, to being forced to talk. You needed to come to her. So while Alexia kept you very close, she made an effort to remind you that she was there, whatever you needed. 

The first real, tangible, issue that Alexia figured out was that you weren’t sleeping. She’d passed out before you, as expected, but when she stirred a couple hours later to the sound of you sniffling quietly from your bed, she was immediately wide awake. 

You were so tired. Nothing you were trying was working, you just couldn’t sleep. It felt pathetic to be crying, but you were exhausted, you had a match tomorrow, and you just wanted your brain to turn off, even if it was only for a bit. You were trying to keep the volume down, though, because Alexia was famously a light sleeper, and her bed was only a few feet from yours. 

Your efforts proved unsuccessful when Alexia sat up in her bed, flicking the light on. She squinted over at you, finding you curled up on your side, furiously wiping at the tears on your face, horrified at being caught. 

You were expecting 20 questions from your sister. She liked to fix things, and this situation would definitely be something that worried her. Alexia surprised you though. 

Even though there were 20 questions on the tip of her tongue, she remembered both her girlfriend and her other sister’s warnings not to push you. Instead of pestering you like she wanted, she flicked the light back off, sliding out of her bed and gently nudging you over until she could slide onto the edge of yours. 

“Ale, what-?” 

“Shh.” Alexia whispered, scooching closer and cuddling up to you like she used to do when you were little, and wanted nothing more than her affection. If Alexia was feeling particularly nice, she’d let you curl up against her while the family watched a movie, or while she finished her homework. “You can’t sleep?” 

You wondered how she knew. Sometimes, Alexia could be completely dense when it came to your feelings. Other times, though, she was incredibly perceptive.  “No.” 

Your sister’s presence next to you, though, was already helping, and you felt your eyes drooping as you rested your head against her chest. 

“Do you want me to sing you a song?” Alexia teased. 

You appreciated that she wasn’t forcing a conversation now, more than you could articulate. 

“No, I think my ears bleeding would keep me up more.” You replied, laughing quietly when your sister huffed indignantly, shoving you away from her, before very quickly pulling you back into her arms.

“You like my singing, I’m a good singer.” She retorted, even as she tucked you back under her chin. “Really, nena, how can I help?” 

“Stop talking.” You murmured groggily, cuddling in closer to your sister. Alexia smiled against your head, but stopped talking, rather proud of herself for solving this problem for you, even if it was just temporarily. Even if it was just a symptom of a much bigger problem. 

You slept that night, without waking up, for the first time in a while. You tried not to let yourself think about the fact that if Alexia fixed this problem, she might be able to help you, just in general, if only you’d talk to her. 

-----

Alexia hadn’t meant to snoop. She’d done you a favor, picking up your new prescription, and she was just putting it on your nightstand. Was it possible that she opened the drawer and peeked at your old bottle? Maybe. She was glad she did it, though. Because she found it full. And everything suddenly made a lot more sense. 

-----

"Pequeña?"

"Yeah?"

"Why is this full?" Alexia asked calmly, holding up the little pill bottle and giving it a shake.

"That's- that's my new bottle." You replied, looking away from her accusatory stare.

Alexia shook her head. "No, this is your new bottle. I picked it up for you today." She held up a little bag from the pharmacy, and your stomach sank. Your sister would not like this, not at all. She wouldn't like you doing something so unhealthy, and she wouldn't like you lying about it. There was nothing you could say, she'd caught you.

"Nena, I asked you a question." Strict Alexia was making an appearance, and you kept your eyes locked on the ground in front of you. "Hey. Don't shut down on me. What's going on?" She walked closer, arms crossed over her chest.

"I stopped taking them." You said finally, looking up in time to see your sister sigh heavily, and run a hand over her suddenly very fatigued face.

"Why?"

"I just did." You told her.

"That's not good enough. This is why you've been so anxious recently? So depressed?"

You shrugged noncommittally. Alexia was silent for a minute, before her expression changed, face tightened. You knew what was coming before she asked.

"Roll up your shorts." It's given as a command, not as a request, and you backed up on instinct. "Nena,"

"No. I'm an adult, Alexia. I can make my own decisions."

Alexia regarded you carefully, her eyebrows pinched with concern. "Roll up your shorts, please. I won't ask again."

You hated when Alexia got like this. You knew she wasn't really as angry with you as she seemed, she was worried. It just felt so much like you were in trouble. Maybe because you knew you were doing something you shouldn't be. Alexia's worry always manifested as frustration, anger. Maybe because for her, she was angry with herself, for not seeing a problem sooner.

"Alexia, I said no." You turned away from her, stomping towards your room.

"Nena, come back." Alexia demanded, going after you when you didn't respond. She reached your door just as you shut it and locked it, and Alexia felt a spike of panic run through her. Your behavior over the past few weeks was beginning to make more sense and, honestly, she didn't know what headspace you were in, how deeply the lack of the medication was affecting you. If you were back to doing this, it could be bad. Alexia knew she wasn't the expert in helping you with this, but she did know that, right now, she was not comfortable with a locked door in between the two of you.

"Nena, open the door." She fiddled with the knob, even as it wouldn't budge. "I'm being serious, open the door. Now."

You weren't really hearing her. You were thinking about how disappointed she must be in you. She'd been horrified to find out that you'd been doing this to yourself the first time, almost a year ago now. She'd yelled, and you'd run out of the house, all the way to Mapi's. You'd sat on the terrace with Ingrid, talking about everything and nothing, while Mapi gave your sister a piece of her mind. You were sick, she'd told the blonde. You needed support. You weren't doing it for attention. Alexia needed to do better.

And she had. She'd apologized for yelling. She'd gone with you to every therapy appointment for two months, knowing how nervous they made you. She sat outside the room, answering emails or looking at her phone, just in case you needed her. She supported you, wholeheartedly, when you took a few weeks off from the team to focus on your mental health, as you got your medication figured out. You weren't good at communicating your needs to your sister, and she wasn't good at reading your mind, but somehow, it worked.

Repetitive pounding on the door broke you out of your thoughts, and you looked towards the door, half expecting to see your sister's fist emerging through the wood.

"Nena, open. Now, por favor." Alexia begged.

Your anger with yourself only grew. Your sister sounded close to tears and it was all your fault. All your fault. Shakily, you stood up from the bed and walked over to the door, unlocking it. Alexia practically fell into the room, head swiveling frantically as she looked for you. Your eyes dropped to the ground again, and you looked so small, so very shattered.

Alexia knocked the wind out of you a little with the force of her hug, squishing you into her arms and holding you tight against her chest. "You can't do that, you can't lock the door. Not right now, not when I don't know what's going on with you. Please, pequeña, I won't make you talk to me, just don't lock the door." She was pleading with you, and you'd never heard your normally very calm and collected sister so panicked. 

Maybe it was the pleading that got to you, or maybe you were just so tired of pretending to be okay. Either way, words you never thought you’d say out loud were spilling from your mouth before you could stop them. 

“I’m scared, Ale. I don’t have control anymore, I thought I did, but I don’t, and I’m scared. I’m so tired, I don’t think I can do this anymore. Please help me, I need you to help me,” you sobbed, the admission feeling both terrifying and relieving all at once. At least the responsibility wasn’t on you anymore. Alexia would take care of you, take care of this. 

“Okay, okay, nena. It’s all going to be okay. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’ll get you help, we’ll get you whatever you need. Whatever it takes. I love you so much, pequeña, we’ll get you better, I promise.” 

Alexia kept you wrapped up tight in her arms for a while, and it only reassured you more. As long as she had you, nothing would happen. She wouldn’t let anything happen. While your sister was around, you would be safe. Even if she was keeping you safe from yourself, she’d do it, no matter what. 

-----

me: you need to stop making everything have a part 2. just make a longer one shot. 

also me: let me know what you want to see in part 2 🙂🙂

[steddieas-shegoes]

i'm stayin'

for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt 'who did this to you?' wc: 869 rated: m cw: off-screen violence, mentioned childhood abuse (not in detail) tags: steve harrington has bad parents, established relationship, secret relationship, pre-season 4, hurt/comfort, asthmatic steve because i've made him go through everything else why not this too

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Steve's vision was blurry, his hands shaking as he tried to put his car in park in front of the trailer.

His backpack, no longer full of what he needed for school, sat in the passenger seat, half-zipped and telling the ugly truth of what he wasn't sure he could process right now: his parents had kicked him out with only the possessions he could shove into his bag.

Steve winced as he reached for his inhaler, a last second grab when his dad had decided he'd given him plenty of time to pack only three minutes into his rushed efforts.

He didn't need it at this moment, had managed to calm down on the drive to Eddie's, but knew it was only a matter of time before the anxiety would set in again. Hopefully, he'd have Eddie next to him when it did.

Wayne's truck wasn't in the yard, probably working another night shift. Eddie's new-to-him van was parked crooked by the front porch, like he'd been in a rush to get inside when he got home earlier.

Steve immediately stepped out of his car into mud.

Right. It rained earlier.

No lights were on in the trailer, but Wayne had given him a key only a few weeks before, saying something about how he should always have a place to go if he needed it.

Almost like he had a feeling about what was to come.

Steve opened the door, surprised to find Eddie passed out on the couch, blanket pulled up to his nose and the space heater turned off.

If his eye didn't hurt so bad, he'd roll them both. No matter how many times he told Eddie to just turn it on before he sat down so he would be warm, it didn't seem to sink in.

He turned it on, cursing quietly when it made a loud popping noise.

"Wayne?" Eddie asked, rubbing his eyes and sitting up as he tried to wake up. "Work?"

"Not Wayne, Eds. Go back to sleep." The last thing Steve needed right now was Eddie freaking out about what he was sure was ugly proof of his father taking out his prejudices on him. "I'm gonna be in your room."

"Steve?" He sounded much more awake now, and Steve couldn't resist turning fully to look at him. "Holy shit. Who did this to you?"

Steve grimaced. He knew they couldn't ignore it, he was just hoping to patch himself up a bit before morning when Eddie would start asking questions.

"Um."

And then the damn tears started falling before Steve could give any explanation, and Eddie's arms wrapped around him carefully, like he was terrified to hurt him more. Eddie was always so careful with him, like he knew there were plenty of invisible bruises already.

He cried for so long, his entire body felt numb, and he could vaguely register that he was shivering. Eddie's hands were rubbing his back slowly, comforting him the best he could.

Eventually, Steve's tears stopped, his breathing slowed back to normal, and his chest didn't feel as heavy.

"Is that your inhaler or are you just happy to see me?" Eddie teased gently, leaving room for Steve to ignore him if he wasn't in the mood for jokes.

Steve snorted. "It's my inhaler. But I am happy to see you. Always."

Eddie's lips brushed the top of his head, so faint, Steve almost thought he imagined it.

"You wanna talk about it?" The caution in Eddie's voice was enough for Steve to pull his head away from his shoulder, flinching when he felt the pull of his split lip.

"Not now. Kinda tired." Understatement of the century. Steve felt like he could sleep for hours. "Can I sleep here?"

"Stevie, you can stay as long as you want, you know that."

Steve knew Eddie knew, and Eddie knew Steve wasn't gonna come outright and say it until he'd had time to come down from it all.

"Can we sleep in your bed?" Steve asked, resting his head back on Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie wordlessly led him down the short hallway to his bedroom, helped him get into comfier clothes, and used a washcloth to wipe any of the blood he'd missed at the gas station earlier.

They got in bed, Steve curling against Eddie's side like he'd done so many times before.

This felt different though. This felt like an end of something, a beginning of something else.

*-*-*-*-*-*

When Wayne saw him the next morning, he gave him a sad smile, a hug, and handed him a cup of coffee.

"You stayin'?" he asked, like it was simple.

Like Steve could stay.

"I-"

"I have two rules. One, you go to school. Two, you tell me if you're gonna be out too late, especially on a school night. You follow those, you stay. Sound good?" Wayne raised a brow.

If Steve hadn't spent the last six months at the Munson's trailer more than his own home, maybe he'd be intimidated.

As it stood, all he could do was give a small smile and grab a frozen bag of mixed veggies from the freezer to put on his swollen eye.

"I'm stayin'."

[cuubism]

now, this one got REAL. unfortunately. do you want some angst (+hurt/comfort +fluff)

cw burnout, depression, animal death

--

It started when Jessamy died.

Or.

Well.

Hob is pretty sure it started when Dream was a teenager, if not even earlier. But it comes to a head nearly fifteen years later, when Hob comes home from work and finds Dream sitting on the floor by the couch, Jessamy held in his arms. She is still. And Dream is equally still, equally numb, staring off into space.

Hob knew it was coming someday soon. Dream had had Jessamy since he was twelve, when he’d found her as a kitten by the side of the road and somehow convinced his parents to let him keep her, so she was not a young cat, and while her health had generally been good she’d been increasingly tired and wobbly lately. And cats didn’t live forever.

She looks peaceful, there in Dream’s arms. It isn’t a bad death for a cat, Hob thinks, to curl up in a patch of sunlight on the couch and just not wake up again. Not that that will make Dream feel much better.

Hob sits down beside Dream on the floor. Doesn’t say anything, but lays his hand on Dream’s knee. Dream just keeps staring off into the distance, one hand lightly stroking Jessamy’s fur.

“She didn’t come to greet me,” he says, eventually, when they’ve been sat there for some time. “She always comes to the door.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Hob says.

Dream sits there for a long time, just holding her. Later Hob helps him bury her in the garden, then Dream goes upstairs and buries himself under the blankets in their bed and doesn’t come back out for the rest of the night.

Later Hob will think, that was the first domino to fall. Even later, he will realize it wasn’t the first, but the last.

~

Dream was often seen as stoic. Unemotional. Hob thought so too, when he’d first met him. But he’d quickly come to learn that the real Dream was extremely sensitive and had simply learned to keep all of that inside and present a functional front to the world. And Dream was, indeed, exceedingly functional. Not just functional, Dream was brilliant. He’d graduated top of his college, and he’d gone to Oxford, and then he’d launched a tech company, and even published a novel on the side simply because he enjoyed doing it. When it came to standard metrics of success, Dream was one of the most functional and successful people Hob had ever met.

And Dream was crashing.

~

Hob comes home from work a bit late one day to find Dream slumped on the couch, face pressed into a pillow. The TV is on, but he doesn’t seem to be watching it. There’s a book on the table beside him, but he isn’t reading. He’s just lying there. Listlessly.

“You alright, love?” Hob asks, and Dream just shrugs one shoulder under his blanket.

“I fell asleep on the couch in my office,” he says, “so I came home.”

This immediately rings Hob’s alarm bells because Dream doesn’t do that. He doesn’t come home early from work. He barely takes a lunch break.

“Feeling ill?” Hob asks, perching on the couch beside him.

Dream shrugs again.

“Want some dinner?”

“I suppose.”

He’s barely looked at Hob. He’s not even budged from his sprawl on the couch. But when Hob gets up to get dinner, Dream reaches out, snags a hand in his sleeve, squeezes once and lets go.

Hob leans down to kiss his forehead, and Dream sighs.

Hob brings dinner back to the living room a half hour later, and Dream sits up with him and eats but barely says a word. He listens as Hob talks about his own day but barely contributes beyond brief answers to Hob’s questions.

After dinner he lies down with his head in Hob’s lap and goes quiet again. Hob is starting to get worried, but he gives him the benefit of the doubt. It could just be an off day.

Dream falls asleep in Hob’s lap, and then later gets up and goes to bed at barely 9pm despite how he’s normally a night owl.

“Dream?” Hob says, before Dream retreats to their bedroom. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am just tired,” Dream says.

Then he sleeps for ten hours and wakes barely early enough to get to his office on time. And doesn’t seem particularly concerned about it. Then again, Dream does own the company, and can hardly fire himself for being late. But he’s normally much more particular about it.

Then it’s an off two days. Then it’s an off week. Then it’s an off two weeks.

Hob comes home from work and, instead of finding Dream back on his laptop doing more work, or working on his novel, he’s just lying in bed with the covers over his head. Earbuds in, listening to music or an audiobook. I’m tired, he says when Hob asks. I don’t feel well.

Do you want to work on your novel? Hob asks. Usually cheers you up.

Dream’s novels are an escape from the stresses of his other work. He’d published the first one under a pen name so it would have no connection to his company or anything else about him. He’d been so proud when it hit the bestseller list.

No, Dream says. I don’t care. It’s meaningless.

Worry is starting to sit heavier and heavier in Hob’s chest.

Hob’s known for almost as long as he’s known Dream that Dream struggles with a latent, underlying level of depression, but it’s been well managed thus far and he’d thought Dream had found an equilibrium with it.

Apparently it was a much more fragile equilibrium than he’d realized, because now everything seems to have tipped and flipped over.

At first he thinks Dream isn’t doing anything about it. But then Hob learns that he is, and that almost feels worse, because now Hob doesn’t know where to even start helping him. Dream has already taken medication for years. He’s recently increased his dose and it’s done nothing. He already sees a therapist. He’s started going twice as often as he did before and still nothing seems improved. He hasn’t pulled away from Hob. He still curls up to him in bed at night, and lays on the couch with his head on Hob’s lap while they watch TV. He lets Hob drag him around doing things he thinks might cheer him, like walks in the park, feeding the pigeons, going to the botanical gardens to look at flowers. If Hob cooks something, he’ll eat, but he makes no effort to eat otherwise.

He goes, he does things, but he isn’t there. He’s checked out, distracted, and his smiles are hollow.

Hob watches him pick up books he would normally love, read one page and then put it down again. Watches him abandon the newspaper crossword puzzles he usually likes to do over breakfast after solving only one or two questions. Watches him get dressed in the morning, putting on his usual all-black attire with a mechanical precision that suggests he’s operating on autopilot and not thinking about it at all. He just doesn’t seem to care about any of it, and Dream normally cares so much about everything that it’s really starting to freak Hob out.

Hob asks him if he’s okay and he says he’s just tired. Hob asks him why and he says he doesn’t know. And the worst part is, Hob believes him. He doesn’t think Dream does know what’s wrong. It’s not just grief for Jessamy that’s doing it. Hob thinks it’s more that Jessamy was a tiny piece of a support structure that was far more meager than either of them realized, and now all the rest of the heaviness has come crashing down. That doesn’t mean Dream has the words for what any of that is, though.

Hob worries about him when he’s at work. He worries about him whenever Dream is out of his sight. He thinks about how relentless and intense Dream usually is and contrasts it with his current listlessness and he worries.

He thinks about Dream graduating university with honors while he built a whole fucking company in his dorm room and wrote the first half of a novel on the side, and he worries.

Dream had always made time for Hob then, too. And he always has since. Or maybe being with Hob was the sanctuary he carved out for himself amidst the whirlwind of all that he was.

Now more often than not Dream comes home and immediately collapses on top of Hob on the couch and doesn’t speak a word for a least two hours. Hob is just glad that, whatever’s going on, he at least isn’t fully isolating himself. He’s still coming to Hob for comfort, in whatever way he knows how.

The next time it happens, Hob messages Lucienne, Dream’s COO. In fact he does it from his phone while Dream is lying on top of him, and Dream doesn’t even notice.

Has Dream been alright at work recently? he writes.

Lucienne responds fairly quickly. She’s a bit of a workaholic, just like Dream. I am not sure he would want me sharing all his business without his knowledge.

Hob sighs. He supposes it’s fair that she’s protective of her boss. Lucienne. Come on. Please. I’m worried about him.

He seems tired lately, she writes, at length. And distracted.

Anything in particular going on?

No, if anything, we are in a bit of a slow down at the moment. There is not as much on our plates.

Odd.

Do take care of him, Hob, Lucienne adds.

Always will, Hob says.

He puts his phone aside, and pets Dream’s hair. Dream hums in pleasure, nuzzling into him. “Sweetheart. You want some dinner?”

“If you desire,” Dream says.

Hob’s not convinced he would eat anything at all if Hob didn’t push him.

“Come on, up, we’ll get something to eat,” Hob says, and Dream groans, but lets Hob maneuver him up, and sits placidly in the kitchen with the cup of water Hob pushes into his hands as Hob cooks. He is so placid, lately, in general. Hob is used to Dream being strong-willed and opinionated. It’s upsetting to see him passive.

All he can do for now, though, is take care of Dream as best he can. As he always does.

~

It hits a breaking point when Dream simply doesn’t go into work at all.

Hob is working from home that day, and doesn’t notice at first that eight o’clock has passed and Dream hasn’t left the house. At around nine he goes to make more coffee and realizes, suddenly, that Dream’s shoes are still by the door, his coat still hanging on its hook. So Hob goes to find him.

He finds Dream still lying in bed, not asleep, just sort of staring blankly at the wall, arms wrapped around himself. Hob lays a hand on his shoulder. “Hi, darling. You getting up for work?”

“No,” Dream says, flatly. “I cannot. I don’t want to.”

So Hob calls Lucienne to let her know Dream’s sick and won’t be coming in. He can hear her concern over the phone. Dream almost never calls in sick. If he gets something contagious, he just works from home instead of resting.

Maybe this is part of the problem. Maybe this is all part of the huge, looming cloud of pain that has apparently been covering Dream like a shroud for longer than Hob’s even known him without Hob ever truly seeing it.

When he puts his phone away and comes back Dream is still lying in the same position. Heart in his throat, Hob climbs into bed to sit beside him. “I told Lucienne you’d be out today,” he says gently. Dream turns over to face him, wrapping his arm around Hob’s thigh to pull close. That gives Hob some hope. That Dream still wants to reach out. “She was worried about you.”

Dream looks up at him solemnly. “And you?”

“I’ve been worried about you for a long time, darling. Talk to me.”

“I meant to go in today,” Dream says. “I have things to do. I suppose. But. I realized that I don’t care about any of it. I tried to remind myself how to care about it. But I could not remember. And so there was no point in getting up.”

“Perhaps you’re a bit stressed about it all,” Hob suggests, but Dream shakes his head.

“I do not feel anything about it at all. I think the company could disappear entirely in this moment and I would feel nothing but this... numbness. I ought to care. But I don’t. It’s meaningless.” He presses his forehead into Hob’s thigh. “I think it ought to scare me. But I don’t feel that either. I don’t feel anything.”

Hob breathes out hard. “Okay. Alright.” He pets Dream’s hair as he thinks. He doesn’t feel very equipped to handle this, but Dream’s regular therapy and meds don’t seem to be doing anything so he’s going to have to try. And if Dream’s regular routine isn’t helping then maybe it’s not his usual depression. Then maybe Hob can work out something to begin to help. “Maybe we need to take you on a very, very long holiday. So you can have a rest.”

Dream lets out a choked laugh, though when he speaks there’s no humor in it. “Hob. I think if I stop moving for that long. I will not get up again. So if you wish to have a functional partner, you may want to withdraw that suggestion.”

Hob feels his heart break in two. “What if I want an alive partner?”

“I am not planning to kill myself.”

“Recently it seems you’re well on your way to it, Dream.”

Dream is silent for a long moment, then says, voice cracking, “I am not trying to—”

“I know, I know, honey,” Hob slides down the bed to rest beside him, pulling Dream into his arms. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know any other way to be,” Dream cries, pressing his face into Hob’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, my love.” They have been together since university. He’s seen Dream go through bouts of depression before. But he’s never seen him like this. Fracturing at the seams. It’s frightening. “I love you so much, do you know?”

“I know.” He squeezes Hob close. “I do know.”

“I don’t care how functional you are,” Hob says, making a clear mockery of the word, and Dream laughs weakly. “I do actually like you, you know. You. Not Mr Great Tech Innovator.”

Dream groans. “Please do not call me a ‘tech innovator’ or I may have to actually kill myself out of shame.”

Hob remembers when Forbes had wanted Dream to be in their thirty under thirty issue and Dream had refused because he thought it was ‘stupid and self-aggrandizing’ and because he ‘didn’t put in years of work for the purpose of being on the cover of an insipid magazine.�� Hob loves this stupid idiot so much.

Dream doesn’t do any of it for fame. Hob doesn’t entirely know why he does it. He think maybe pouring all of himself out is the only thing Dream knows.

“When’s the last time you feel you got an actual break?” Hob asks.

Dream thinks about it. “Year 10,” he says at last. “I spent the summer holiday doing nothing but reading. It was blissful.”

“Dream, that was fifteen years ago."

“After that summer I was always working somehow. Doing advanced class prep work. Then university prep.” He gives Hob a sly sidelong glance, and despite the heavy topic, Hob internally cheers to see a bit of his humor come back. “Needless to say, I was not spending my free time partying when I was in school.”

No, Hob knew that about him. Dream is practically incapable of having fun. Even one of his supposedly stress-relieving outlets, writing, he’s managed to turn into a side career as an author. And Hob knows that, unless one is a verifiable genius, one doesn’t earn the perfect marks Dream had all through school without sacrifice. Hob had gotten good marks, too, but Dream had always been a step above.

And he knows Dream’s parents had always demanded utter perfection. Whether they ever rewarded him for any of it, Hob doesn’t know.

“Hey, darling,” he says. “You’re doing a good job.”

Dream whimpers, pushing his face into Hob’s chest.

“You’re doing enough,” Hob continues. “You’re doing so well. I promise. It’s all okay. It’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” Dream says. He clings to Hob, wrapping his arms around him, slipping one leg in between Hob’s thighs. “So much.”

It would be easy to feel insecure around Dream’s level of success, except that Dream’s love for Hob is so obvious. To Hob it is, at least. Dream cares for him so deeply, in his way, and he never acts like he thinks Hob is lesser for not being someone Forbes is pursuing for their lists. If anything, Dream usually discounts his own success, and is, generally speaking, obsessed with Hob and everything Hob does.

This is also a visceral reminder of the costs of this type of success.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he says, rocking Dream in his arms.

“I have been feeling. Somewhat unwell, recently,” Dream admits. “Increasingly so. I suppose I ought to be grateful, in a way, that my mind forced me to shut down before my body did.”

Hob’s not sure he himself feels quite grateful about it, but he is glad Dream at least recognizes the problem.

“We’ve just got to send you to the seaside for your health,” he says.

Dream laughs, genuinely this time. “Truly.”

“Get you a little break. It’ll help, I promise. You’ve just been over-working yourself, hm?”

“I do not think it is my current level of work that is the problem,” Dream says. “I think. I have been running so long. I simply cannot anymore. Effort, itself, is not a problem for a marathon runner. But duration eventually becomes exhausting.”

“I know. It’s okay. Might need a bit longer of a break, is all.”

“I do not know how,” Dream says.

“You let everyone else at work take breaks, don’t you?”

“I used to not,” Dream says. “Not enough of them. Until Lucienne made it quite clear that I was being unfair to them. I was not trying to be. I was simply… used to my own work patterns and did not realize the strain it was putting on them.”

“But you changed it,” Hob says. “You can change it for yourself, too.”

“Perhaps,” Dream says.

“Hire someone who can do some of your tasks and then give yourself a little break. Go somewhere warm and sit on a beach and drink sugary cocktails.”

Dream laughs. “I don’t know if my brain is suited to that.”

“Exactly why you should do it.”

“Will you come with me on this… health retreat by the sea?” Dream asks, some humor back in his voice.

“Course. I’ll take a sabbatical and go with you. But also. Do you think you might want a bit of time to yourself?”

“By myself?” Dream questions. “I do have time to myself. I am already quite solitary.”

“I know. But. Do you think you’d want a bit of extended time to just do what you want to do?” It would hurt, to be away from Dream for an extended period of time. But he wants Dream to have that, that freedom to be completely unburdened, to have no expectations, if it will help him.

“Hmm.” Dream considers. “Perhaps a bit. But I like to be with you.”

“I like to be with you, too, my love. Think about somewhere you’ve always wanted to go. And we’ll go. Or if you just want to rest here, that’s fine, too.”

“You don’t have to do all this,” Dream says quietly.

“I want you to be well,” Hob says. “More than anything, I want you to be well.” He kisses Dream’s forehead. “Besides if you don’t think I’m already imagining us on a beach—”

Dream laughs. “I see.”

“Come now, you want to see me shirtless, don’t you?” Hob teases.

“I see you shirtless every day,” Dream says dryly.

“Don’t you want to get extremely drunk and naked and fool around in a luxury villa?”

“What counts as ‘extremely’ naked?” Dream asks. “Taking off my skin?”

“Dream.”

Dream chuckles. “I do. That sounds enjoyable. I would like to leave my laptop at home and perhaps wander around a seaside village, drinking wine until I have killed all of my brain cells.”

“Now you’re getting into the spirit of it,” Hob says.

“Hob,” Dream says, serious again.

“Yeah?”

“What if I take a break,” Dream asks, quietly, “And then I cannot convince myself to go back?”

There’s true grief in his voice, but still Hob counters, “What if you take a break and you feel better?”

Dream smiles, faintly, Hob feels it against his skin. “Always the more positive attitude.”

“One of us has to.”

“But what if,” Dream continues, “I take a break and I learn that I never wanted to do any of it at all?”

This is a stickier question. “Why would you have done any of it, if you didn’t want to? You must have wanted to on some level.”

“I don’t know,” says Dream. “It is just what I’m used to.”

“Maybe you’ll want to again,” Hob says. “Maybe you won’t. Can’t we take it one day at a time?”

Dream lets out a long, aggrieved breath. “You are so nonchalant.”

“Thought that’s one of the reasons you liked me.”

“It is,” Dream says, sounding incredibly frustrated about it. “Yet I do not understand it in the slightest. You truly just… have faith that everything will work out regardless?”

“I have faith we can figure it out,” Hob says. “And that I’ll always have your back. That you’ll never have to work through it alone.”

“You are a wonderful partner,” Dream says. Then, “I would like to go out tonight.”

“You… would?”

Dream nods. “I would like to remember what it was like when we first met. And I feel sorely lacking in romance and I’m well aware it’s my own doing. I know it may not feel the same right now but I want to... try. And. I miss you. Will you take me out on a date?”

Hob is thrilled by this turn. “Of course I will. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Can you also tell Lucienne I will be out sick this week and then hide my laptop and phone somewhere I will not find them?”

Hob laughs. “Alright, darling. Get some rest for today, hm? We’ll go out for drinks or something later. I have missed you. I’ve missed seeing you cheery.”

“‘Cheery’ may be pushing it,” Dream says, with a small smile. “However. I would like to have sex tonight.”

Hob bursts out laughing, not at the idea, but at the absolutely flat way Dream says it. He really does have a way about him.

“It’s been too long,” Dream whines.

It has been too long. “Oh, don’t think I’m saying no,” Hob says, and slips a hand up under Dream’s shirt to feel up his back. Dream laughs, snuggling closer to him. It’s so good to hear him laugh.

“Anything you want, anything that will make you happy,” he says. “I love you more than anything.”

Dream leans up to kiss him, long and sweet, then collapses atop him again, as he has nearly every day for weeks. Except this time it doesn’t feel quite so defeated. It feels like it could maybe be rest.

[hazymoonlinh]

Open your heart and I shall open mine.

(After all, you’re only human.)

Aventurine

Ah.

You’re tired.

It’s that feeling again.

It’s eating you alive. You feel empty.

The air conditioner is at 16 degrees, you’re wearing nothing but a thin T-shirt and underwear.

You open your heavy eyelashes and blinks.

You haven’t eaten anything today, in fact, you don’t wanna eat anything at all. Your phone is out of battery, yet you don’t wanna charge it.

You inhaled. It’s cold. Very cold indeed. Your fingers and your feet feel numb. They’re blushing red and starting to hurt.

Oh but that’s what you wanted. You love the pain, it keeps your sanity at bay. On someday, you can’t help but feel like trash. It makes you wanna cry but no tears ever came out.

You’re lying on your bed, but nothing was draped over you. You can’t move, feeling like some invisible chains pin you down.

Oh how you hate yourself in this state so much, you can’t do anything at all but gnawing the pain in your heart, let the physical pain reminds you of being alive.

You feel sleepy again, and you close your eyes again.

Aventurine has been worried sick. You haven’t answered his texts or calls for the past for the last few days. Why? You always answer so quickly when he press the sent button yet now it’s like a thousands text and nothing back. It’s like you just disappeared.

And he hates that. What if you got hurt ? What if you need his help ? He called your boss and knows that you haven’t been to work for at least 3 days now. What on Earth have happened to you?

This has never happened before, he miss you, he miss your warmth and he’s scared, scared that he might forgot how you look like or sounds like. It’s driving him crazy.

Aventurine throws the phone to the seat beside him, going on max speed to your house. He’s getting anxious, scratching his head and grunts angrily.

“Dammit…”

He slammed the door open, it’s pitched black inside, the usual homey atmosphere is nowhere to be found. Instead, the thing that responds him is a scary silent void. He rushes to your bedroom, open the door and chills immediately running up his spine.

“What the heck…?”

He saw you on the bed, lying there like you’re sleeping. If it’s not for the freezing temperature, he would sigh in relief knowing that you’re ok. He runs to you and shocked by how pale you are, your fingers nails turned purple and you’re so cold to the touch.

He held his breath, bringing a finger up to check your breathing. After confirmed you are breathing, he let out a sigh.

“Sweetheart, wake up. Please, wake up.”

He’s shaking you gently, then drapes the blanket over you after you open your eyes then swiftly turns off the air conditioner. You thought you’re dreaming until you feel his warm hand cup your cheek.

“Sweetheart…”

He pulls you close to him, arms holding you tightly as if he’s afraid. After feeling like eternity, long enough for you to aware what is going on, he finally whisper.

“Do you know how scared I am ? You’re driving me crazy…. I thought…. I thought something bad happened…”

His voice is shaking, and when you pull out and look at him, tears forming in his eyes, threatening to fall.

He looks like an abandoned puppy.

“You didn’t answer my text, phone calls for days…I missed you…”

You feel bad, but you can’t help yourself, you can’t be positive all the time for someone. You aren’t all mighty and powerful, so you drink and torture yourself.

You hesitated, but bring a finger up and wipe his tears. He close his eyes and leans to your touch even though it’s cold, neither of you muttered a word but it’s strangely comfortable.

How odd, you think. For two broken souls trying to heal each others but none knows what they’re doing. You try to say something, but nothing came out. Now you noticed, you feel thirsty.

As if he sensed that, Aventurine gets off the bed, wiping off his face and said :

“Stay still, I’ll bring you something warm to drink.”

And he’s gone to the kitchen. You look at your fingers, it’s still wet from his tears and your heart clenches, you hate seeing others got affected by your emotions, and you hate seeing him cry.

Oh gosh how much you despise yourself right now. Why do things happened this way ? You just want yourself to suffer alone, not him too…

So worthless… If only…if only…

You feel something touch your forehead. You snapped from your thoughts to find his hand, trying to measure your temperature, his other hand holding a cup of steaming hot tea.

“No high temperature, it appears. Here, drink up.”

He offered you the cup and you hold it with both hands. It has a nice fragrance, sweet, and warm. Then, he sits next to you, head lean onto your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, y/n.” He says.

“Why..?” You speak barely like a whisper.

“For letting you feel like this. I know it’s hard, I’ve been through it, a lot of times actually.”

“Hmm.”

“And thank you for being there for me in those time too, my heart. And now, this is the least I can do for you.”

“You’re bad at comforting people.”

“I know, I think you know that better than anyone.”

“Yes, I do. Kakavasha.”

“…”

“I love you, you know.” He said again.

“Hmm…”

Maybe it was you were too thirsty and the tea taste so good, maybe because his comfort words sounds just enough as you want it to be, or maybe your emotions finally got up to you, tears streaming down your cheeks like waterfall, dampened the blanket, blurred your vision. Your shoulder slumped and your whole body shaking. Everything feels so overwhelming, and you didn’t even noticed he took the cup from your hand and placed it on the side, hugging you close and rubbing your back.

“I’m sorry…I don’t know what to do now…I’m just…too exhausted…”

You clung to him for dear life, and you cry in his chest, crying until there was no more tears to cry, until you fall back asleep because you’re too tired.

Aventurine lie you down to the bed, let you close to him while never letting go of you. He whispered:

“Good night, my love. I’ll be here with you.”

He will listen to you when you wake up and ready. Even if you’re not, he’s willing to wait.

[suuuupernovaaa]

zeyko

zeyko [zɛj.ˈk·o] vtr. heal, fix

Requests from @hyunjinoak: Can I request Neteyam x female reader story, in which the reader got hurt badly during a mission/war and her baby daughter/son keeps crying so bad for her(his) mom?

TW: violence, blood

With all the strength in his body, Neteyam shoves his younger brother to the ground, and raises his fist, intent on bringing it down square on Lo'ak's face. He hopes he will break his nose, or an eye socket, or maybe even his jaw.

Before his fist can crack bone, someone grabs his arm and wrenches him away.

He hears his father's voice. "Hey, whoa," he's saying, loudly trying to calm his son.

"It's his fault! It's his fault she was shot," Neteyam screams. "She went down there to protect him!"

Jake grabs his son's shoulders, spinning him so that they are face to face. He sees the anguish in his son's eyes, but even so, he can't let him hurt his brother.

Neteyam might be angry, but Jake knows he would regret it soon enough, if he hurt Lo'ak.

"Your son needs you now, Neteyam. He's crying for his mother, he doesn't know what happened. You need to go take care of him." He looks over his eldest son's shoulder, to see Lo'ak standing up, looking hurt and defeated. "I'll deal with your brother."

At the thought of his son, Neteyam stands up straighter. Without another word, he charges home.

--

It's the longest night of Neteyam's life. He stands outside of Tsahik's tent, listening to his wife's moans and cries, while holding his discontented infant in his arms.

The baby only wants Y/N. It's as if the little one senses that something is wrong, that his mother is hurt, and nothing he can do will calm the boy down.

Eventually, when things begin to calm down, Kiri emerges. Neteyam is near tears, the baby is screaming, and everyone is tired.

"Is she okay?" Neteyam asks.

Kiri nods. "She is. You go in. Give my nephew to me." She extends her arms and almost instantly, the baby settles in his aunt's embrace. Neteaym frowns, but Kiri shakes her head. "It's because I am calm, and he could feel your worry. Just go."

Confident that his son is safe with Aunt Kiri, he rushes into the tent, eager to finally reunite with his mate.

--

It happened in slow motion. Lo'ak took to the ground, wanting to claim a weapon for himself, and I followed, scared something would happen to him.

The ships were inbound quicker than I'd thought, and no sooner had Jake put out the warning, than the bullet had ripped through my side, tearing a searing hole in my flesh.

"Y/N!" Lo'ak screamed, tossing aside the gun he'd just picked up, and the world faded to black.

I had spent the next 12 hours in and out of consciousness, waking up to unbelievable pain, and then falling back asleep again. It felt like an endless cycle... until it did end.

My eyes open, with much difficulty, and the pain is subsided. It's still there, and it's still the worst pain in my life, but it is no longer a searing, hot open wound. I feel the sting of healing, and the numbness of whatever salve Tsahik and Kiri have come up with to place on the wound.

"Neteyam," I whisper. "Ninan..."

Kiri hovers to my right, and pats my shoulder. "I will bring Neteyam. Hopefully, Ninan is sleeping peacefully."

She exits the tent, and only moments later, Neteyam enters.

The sight of him sends me to tears, and though the sobs hurt my sore body, I cannot stop them. The wound at my side isn't all that hurts - I am covered in bruises and cuts from falling off the ship when I was shot, and I am tired, my throat is dry, and I just want to see my family.

Neteyam drops to his knees by my side, and I see the tears in my eyes reflected in his.

I reach my hand up, cupping his cheek, and he covers his hand with mine, leaning his cheek into my palm.

"I thought you were going to die, Y/N," he says in a low, breathy voice. "I thought you were dead, when I saw you lying there."

Shaking my head, I try to muster a smile. "I would not leave you, or Ninan. You know this."

"I'll kill Lo'ak for risking your life."

"No, Neteyam. Lo'ak isn't to blame. I followed him on my own. He was just... being Lo'ak. He didn't think."

"His carelessness almost got you killed! Almost took Ninan's mother from him."

I wince at the harshness of his tone. "We'll speak of this later. Is Ninan sleeping?"

Neteyam nods. "In Kiri's arms. You should sleep now."

He lays down next to me on his side, pressing his forehead to my temple.

"You will bring me my son at first light," I whisper, but my eyelids are already drooping, and Neteyam is pulling a fur over us. I feel warm, and the pain begins to subside as sleep starts to overtake me. As always, I feel safe with Neteyam close to me; I know with him here, I will heal faster.

In the morning, I will hold my son, and Neteyam will forgive his brother - because that's what family does.

[chaosheadspace]

Hello! I'm sorry you're sick, and I hope you feel better soon! For the kissing meme, I would like to request Dreamling 23, in relief.

Hi, thank you for sending in an ask!

I did a direct continuation of this. Apologies for everyone who was waiting for the follow up, I am still sick and having not a great time. Enjoy!

Hob wakes.

He wakes with a feeling of doom, with a hopelessness he can’t quite place in his disorientation. His eyelids are heavy, his limbs even heavier. His ear hurts. The surface on which he’s lying is very hard. His cheek is sticking to it as he heaves himself up, slowly, carefully, wiping a bit of saliva from the corner of his mouth.

There’s a hand on his shoulder and, yes, a voice. Talking to him.

A bottle of water swims into his field of vision and he clumsily grabs it, drinks.

It comes back to him mid swallow, and he coughs. Dream, hit. Dream, injured. Mangled and bloody and weeping—

Hob takes a deep breath, trying to hold his own tears at bay and, inevitably, fails after not even a minute. He exhales, hard, and drinks the rest of his water, not even bothering to try and wipe at his eyes.

When the bottle is empty he blinks and forces himself to take in the person next to him. It’s a nurse, his hair cropped short, flashy sneakers. Sympathetic smile.

“Hey,” he says. “Better?”

Hob resists the urge to snap at him with some difficulty. Better? Hob doesn’t give a flying fuck how he feels himself. All that matters is Dream, that he is still here. That he doesn’t hurt.

“Is he—” Hob asks instead of ripping the nurse a new one. He needs to know, desperately.

“Your friend?” he asks. “In recovery. Got there like five minutes ago, that’s why I woke you up. Was a tough bit of surgery, I tell you.”

He's alive. Hob takes a deep breath, relief almost making his tired limbs shake. Alive.

“Where?” Hob asks, ignoring the nurse’s chatter, willing his numb legs to function. He needs to see him. Now. Anything else is secondary.

“Whoah, easy. He's still out. Might stay that way. We don't know.”

“You’re new, aren’t you,” Hob says, batting the nurse’s hand away who’s trying to help him get up. “Just— get me to him.” He really doesn't care for smalltalk right now, save for anything that gets him where he needs to be.

Every single inch of distance between him and Dream feels like a chasm, a fissure in the reality of how things need to be, the hands of fate tearing Dream away from him. And all Hob has to try and hold onto him are his painfully human fingers.

Dream looks very small in the chunky hospital bed, young but in a disturbing, sick way, a dried trail of blood still crusting the side of his face. He's pale, hollow, battered, bruised. But he's alive, and Hob is so thankful he feels like fainting.

It has taken him a long time to get used to the inevitable loss of the people closest to him, but he was never prepared for Dream to be one of them.

Hob takes Dream's unresponsive hand into both of his, kisses Dream’s knuckles, his fingers, limp, cold.

He sits at Dream's side, not feeling his own body, waiting, hoping. Still grateful that Dream's alive.

Dream doesn't wake up.

Hob sits there, the sun moving shadows about the room until he is removed by no less than two nurses and someone who he suspects is security staff. They strongly suggest that he go home.

Hob sits down again in the waiting area.

But after a few moments, the very unwelcome base necessities of human existence knock at his consciousness, life and living crashing into him again, however unwilling to experience them Hob is.

He hobbles to the bathroom to relieve himself, and discovers that he is not only very hungry, but smelly and a fair bit dirty, too. Defeated, Hob takes the bus home.

Dinner tastes like cardboard, despite his belly insisting on more. Hob doesn't even know where he got it. Did he cook? Did he get takeout? His mind seems like a blurred photograph to him, highlighting only Dream.

The shower hammers more tiredness into his muscles until Hob almost trips on his way out of the bathroom. He can't possibly sleep, will most likely spend all night worrying, but he lays himself down nonetheless. His chest constricts with another wave of tears but his eyes stay dry, and so he curls into his pillow, waiting for his breath to even.

The next thing he knows is the sun shining in his face, oblivious, traitorous. The restful night feels like a betrayal, and Hob's thoughts immediately try to make it up by kicking his worry into overdrive.

What if Dream had woken up, alone, afraid? Or worse, what if he—

Hob packs two bags, one for Dream—clothes, toothbrush, hairbrush, the whole works—and one for himself; snacks, music, books. Then he takes the bus again.

Dream hasn't woken up.

Hob pulls up a chair and sits down beside him, taking his hand. Then he gets out their current book and starts reading aloud.

Usually, it's the other way around, Dream reading to Hob before bed. Now, Hob continues for him. Hob reads until his voice is hoarse, and then he plays music. He stays until he is politely told to leave again.

This goes on for a week, then two. Dream continues to not wake up, and Hob stubbornly continues to be there, as he was meant to be, as he needs to be.

Most of Dream's bruises fade. He continues to breathe, and Hob hopes. There is only one way this can go, only one way this will end, and it will end with Dream opening his eyes. It has to.

Then, on the morning of the sixteenth day, Hob walks in on Dream sitting upright, held by the propped-up upper half of the bed, drinking a cup of water with shaking hands, assisted by a nurse.

The bag falls from Hob's shoulder onto the floor, and then he is kneeling on Dream's bed, straddling his thighs, accompanied by the surprised shout of the nurse.

There's a wet spot on Hob's jumper, soaking through his undershirt, the paper cup clattering to the floor.

Hob doesn't hear or feel any of it, except for Dream's face between his palms, the long fingers cradling him in turn, stroking weakly through his hair, the raspy whisper of his own name from a throat that hasn't spoken in over two weeks.

“Dream,” Hob sighs, kissing his brow, his nose, his chapped, dry lips. “Darling.”

There are no words in him, too many of his feelings trying to push to the surface at once. Dream's hands have wandered to his wrists, not pulling Hob's hands away but caressing his pulse, and Hob feels hot wetness in the corners of his eyes.

He pulls Dream close carefully, like he was made of paper, an origami creature that would fold and crinkle and tear in his embrace. Dream's chest trembles against his own with shuddering breaths and Hob realises that he's crying, so he holds Dream tighter, murmurs soothing words into his ear.

“It's alright,” he says, “I've missed you. I'm so glad you're still here.”

“I am sorry,” Dream warbles out, clinging to him far stronger than Hob thought someone could be after being unconscious and bedridden for so long, “so sorry.”

“Nothing of that,” Hob shushes him. “You're here. You woke up again. You're the most incredible person I know.”

After a while, Dream speaks again, muffled by Hob's shoulder.

“Hob…”

“Shush,” Hob says. “It's alright.”

“Hob. Legs.” Dream sounds insistent, fond.

Blushing, Hob scrambles to move off of him, flopping down at his side instead. He finds that the nurse has gone, giving them privacy, having left a bottle of water on the bedside table.

“Water?” Dream asks, his voice still more gravelly than usual.

“Of course.”

Hob takes a new paper cup from the stack on the table and helps Dream drink. In a few minutes there will be nurses and doctors again. But now, for a few precious moments, there's only Dream and him, thirst and thankfulness and raw humanity, beating hearts and breathing lungs and life.

On the balcony outside stands Dream's sister, smiling, watching through the window. She will not enter this room today. She had felt the urge to visit these past weeks, to linger. Only when it had faded completely did she come.

Her eyes meet Dream's over Hob's shoulder, and she smiles and nods at him. Then she gives in to the pull she feels from two rooms over, and departs.

Read the other kissy prompts here