#anyways washing my sheets again for the second times this week

[forkpigeon3146]

thought one of my cats was being weird and sniffing everything because of the new kitten we got (even though she's being quarantined in a seperate room)

nope. she found a mouse

and after catching said mouse, put it in my bed, alive.

thank you, so much, miss betty /s

[tadpolesonalgae]

Azriel x borrower!reader: The Secret World of Borrowing - Part 2[*]

A/N: I’m so sorry about how unhinged this is 🫣 also, don’t take this one too seriously

Warnings: size difference, macrophilia, masturbation (mutual?), cum play

Word Count: 4,046

-Part 1-

“Just piss off already.”

“This is my bedroom.”

You scowl up at the male. He’s been antsy all evening and it’s putting you on edge. An orgasm would soothe that particular ache, but he insists on keeping you within his sights at night—whatever that suggests. The thought has passed through a couple of times of simply seeing to your needs and getting it over with. What’s he going to do anyway? Confine you to the jar for longer?

“Well I’d like some privacy tonight,” you snap, folding your arms over your chest, foot tapping impatiently on the glass. Hazel eyes flick to you, easily seeking you out on his bedside table, the faelight long since gone dim, casting his room in dark blues and greys. “Planning on stealing something else?” He asks, edges of his mouth lifting into a taunting smirk. “I think I keep you rather well fed. Don’t you?”

Upper tip twitches to curl back from your teeth, but you clamp down on the urge. Instead raise your hand to inspect your nails, cleaner than they’ve been in weeks thanks to his surprisingly attentive care. “I have other needs beside food and sleep, you know.” Hold out your hand, squinting your eyes—the nail of your fourth finger is slightly longer than the one on your second. At your back, wings twitch with restlessness, almost fully healed now. You’re able to lift and move each one independently again, but it’ll be safer to remain for another few days at least to make sure the muscles are healthy and properly exercised.

He shifts, settling down atop his mattress, front pressing to the sheets while he rests his cheek on a pillow, peering at you intently within the darkness. Nose wrinkles, moving your weight from one foot to the other, done with your examination. “What?” You snap, “my kind desires sexual release just like yours does. Nothing special about it.”

At that he quirks a brow, the smirk again gracing his soft mouth. “Nothing special,” he echoes, a gleam in his eyes. “I would have thought something would happen,” he drawls, “you expect me to believe there’s no eruption of light? No crackle of ancient magic?” He lifts from the pillow, muscles flexing as he leans closer to the jar, peering down at you with playfully narrowed eyes. “No burst of fairy dust?”

You hiss at him, fists flaring with power at your sides, anger bubbling beneath your skin as you seethe. “That’s none of your business, Azriel, and it never will be,” you snap, nails piercing your palms. Eyes pointedly rove over him, all sculpted muscle, smooth and supple. “There’s no point of even entertaining the idea, so put it out of your mind before I knock it out.”

As usual, he doesn’t seem deterred, instead shifting back to his bed, wings shuffling as he rearranges himself. “Not even for my own pleasure?” He asks, smirking in the darkness, knowing just how the comment will squirm beneath your skin. “I find the idea rather interesting. Would it match your size?” Indignant heat washes over you as you shoot him a scathing glare.

“Orgasms are orgasms,” you snap, lip curling at the taunt. “Why would they be any different between our kinds?” He quirks a single brow, the edge of his mouth twitching as he drinks in your tiny reactions, magic flickering at your fists. “There aren’t many of you, are there?” He asks, making you stumble in your indignation. Quick for anger to return full force. “No. There aren’t. No thanks to your ilk,” you spit, eyeing his much larger body. So much power contained within his vessel.

He’s unperturbed by your rage, mouth twitching as he takes in your words. “When was the last time you slept with a male?” He drawls in a tone he’s learned makes you see red. “I’m almost inclined to allow you your pleasure just to relieve myself of your temper.”

Your fist slams into the glass with unyielding fury, fractures spiralling around where you’d hit. Brows raise in surprise, having not anticipated the possibility of your container shattering. “You should watch your damn mouth,” you snarl, hand lighting again, preparing to bring it down on the glass, magic finally able to begin restoring now your wing is on the mend.

Unfortunately for you, shadows have snuck in from above, lightly wrapping around your forearms, keeping you from slamming into the jar—likely to break it.

Azriel sighs, shifting in the bed, turning onto his back, wings pressing into the pillows. The cover was already low on his back, but with the movement it’s been dragged lower, resting on the muscle of his abdomen, highlighting the V of his hips. For a moment you stumble in your attempts, thoughts traitorously skipping to imagining how his warmth would feel. What it would be like to lie atop another living creature with no worry. It might be quite nice.

Distantly, his words float into your head. What could I ever do with you? He’d laughed. Have you run up and down my skin with those tiny, bare feet of yours?

Throat rolls, heat cooling in the pit of your abdomen. This night would be much improved if he simply allowed you time to see to your needs. The bubbling tingle between your thighs is becoming harder to ignore, and you certainly don’t want him getting the wrong idea. The thought of dancing across his skin may be appealing in the moment, but it would be regardless of who. Pleasure doesn’t care who gives, so long as it is received.

Snarl at the shadows as they retreat, releasing you from their tentative hold. Maybe you should forfeit dignity entirely. Sort the problem out yourself. Surely that wouldn’t be so bad. He’s probably seen enough of a female body before to not become flustered or uncomfortable. Worse comes to worse he might shut you in a drawer for the night to spare himself, but at least then you’d have some damned privacy.

“You’re brewing something, aren’t you?” He asks warily, pulling you from indecent thoughts. Eyes narrow on him, arms folding. Lip curls in superficial disgust as you glance at the male. “Either give me privacy, or I take matters into my own hands.” Triumph beginning to ignite in the pit of your belly as you lay out the ultimatum. You are not above stripping off every last scrap of clothing if it’ll get you what you need in that moment.

Besides, as much as you despise to admit it, he’s proven to be a reasonable male, the jar aside. Even then, you can’t entirely fault him for it—you’d do the same if some strange creature appeared in your home seemingly out of nowhere. You have no worry he’ll take advantage of you, and it’s a surprising realisation.

Azriel’s lips quirk on a soft but taunting grin. “What could you possibly achieve with hands as tiny as yours?” He drawls. “I can’t imagine you succeeding in rewarding yourself with anything particularly spectacular.”

Your lip curls, turning away as you peel off your shoes, settling on your knees as you reach for the ties of your bodice. The threads—while thin and dainty to something his size—are thick and slightly stiff, making it difficult for you to slip the knots out. Slowly, you begin working them free, tie by tie until you’ll be able to pull the strings loose at last.

Sheets rustle at your back, and you imagine he’s probably turning his to you by now, giving space now you’ve forced his hand.

Speaking of, you jerk when rough-skinned fingers dip into the large jar, squealing as he picks you up, shoes forgotten at its base. “Azriel!” You scream, wings contracting as you hastily re-tighten the threads. ���Put me down this minute.” Steady yourself as he moves you, pressing against his digits as you’re carried through the air to who knows where.

He lowers you, and you swiftly tumble out of his grasp, rolling onto—

Spine goes rigid as you peer along the powerful expanse of skin, thrumming with life just beneath the surface, rippling with muscle. Fingers deftly tie a bow with the threads at your top, making to get to your feet. He chuckles as your wobbly state, and you quickly lower back to your knees, shifting to face the right direction from how you’d fallen. Beneath you, the muscle of his stomach practically burns into your shins, bare skin against bare skin. You wonder if you’re even large enough for his nerves to register, whether he can also feel the heat of your skin atop his own.

“Either give you some privacy or you’ll do it yourself,” he paraphrases, smirking like the wicked bastard he is. He sweeps his hand out, almost tauntingly gesturing the powerful expanse of muscle that lies just beneath your tiny feet. “Then go ahead.”

Lips part on a sharp exhale, surprise lining your features as well as—and something stirs beneath his skin at the expression—slight bashfulness. Glee sparks in his chest, eager to push you further as he settles deeper into the pillows that he’s arranged to prop him upright. “Look at you,” he coos, with surprising sincerity, “don’t get shy now. Where’d all the bluster go, huh?” He playfully prods at you, careful not to be too rough. He doesn’t want to accidentally injure you.

You practically hiss at him. “You can’t just— Don’t you ever scoop me up like that again, Azriel,” you snap, attempting to get to your feet, but he’s chuckling again, making you regularly loose your footing. “I’m serious,” you snarl, managing to begin making your way across his stomach, muscle soft beneath your hands and feet, muffled by hot skin. “You wouldn’t like it if something handled you around with such entitlement.”

He laughs, and you press flat against him, too worried about toppling over and making a fool of yourself to be embarrassed about clinging to him so tightly. You’ll show him.

“Where on this realm are you going?” He asks, mirth lacing the rich timbre of his voice—which you can now feel reverberating all the way from your toes to your head. Passing through your middle. “Think I’d give you a free show?” You spit out, making it to his chest, walking the line leading between his pectorals. If he’s going to force your hand in return, you’ll simply do it right beneath his nose, where he won’t be able to see. No way in hell you’re spreading your legs so openly on his stomach—you’ll get to his chest, where you’ll be at least a little obscured.

His laugh deepens, and you again lose your footing, pressing flat against him. Shadows wrap around your ankle, and you gasp as he drags you back down the muscled slope you’d so bravely traversed. “That’s exactly what I think,” he rumbles, amusement gleaming in his hazel eyes, as well as something else. Something a little darker. Hungrier.

You swallow.

His brow raises. “Or were you bluffing?”

Traitorous heat buzzes beneath your skin, and you tug your ankle free of his grasp, pushing back up onto your— You don’t want to properly sit on him, what if he can feel your… Settle for an awkward half-sitting, half-kneeling position. “I wasn’t bluffing,” you grit out, sending a sharp glance at his shadows that are lingering, curiously. Lip curls as you snarl at them, but still they watch on, hanging back just out of reach. “But now you expect me to just strip off in front of you?” You snap.

“Feeling a little nervous all of a sudden?” He drawls. “Orgasms are orgasms,” he recites back to you, “nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“You wouldn’t be acting even half as cocky if you were the one being told to strip,” you almost spit, distracting from the task as you try to come to a decision.

His eyes gleam with something sharp and starving, growing darker as his attention pierces into you. “You say that like I have something to be shy about,” he drawls, tone taking on a lazy drag. Lips twist as he smirks faintly.

Your brow narrows, and then you’re turning around, crawling down his stomach, passing onto his abdomen as you near the edge of the duvet. Feel as muscle tenses beneath you as he notices your path. “What are you doing?” He sounds a little restless, lungs taking in more air as he watches you make your way down his skin, following the direction of his hips. Toss him a glance of your own, “I thought you said you have nothing to be shy about,” you taunt, reaching the covers. “Or are you all bark and no bite?”

Undeniable arousal sparks beneath his skin as you move to squirm beneath the duvet. His throat rolls as the heat curls down his spine, wings twitching as you make your way halfway beneath the covers. Teeth push into his lower lip, brow narrowing. His cock is larger than you are—but he can’t deny how arousing it would be to see you realise that. To set you atop it and make you…

Shadows again capture your ankle, tugging you out from the covers which you were struggling to navigate. Triumph lights your skin as a grin stretches your lips, poised to crow at your victory.

But then they’re turning you around, holding you by the waist and thighs as sheets rustle.

“I told you not to,” you snap, anxiously gripping the darkness as he begins to lower you. Stretch your feet out so you can properly balance, but the skin below you is much softer than before. Hotter too, thrumming with— You glance down. Breath catches in your lungs as he sets you on his cock, feet slipping either side, straddling the thick length of him. Tiny palms splay across the sensitive skin, just below his head.

Wild heat flushes your body.

You’d been expecting him to be large just from his size alone, but this? Throat rolls as your fingertip press into his skin, shifting lightly, thighs clamping on him to keep from rolling off.

“Happy now?” He asks cockily, though his voice is deeper than before. Rougher.

Lips part as your eyes lock, taken aback by the blatant hunger now dancing in his hazel gaze. How his shadows are darting closer, as if daring one another to touch you. Tongue pokes out to wet your lips, finding them suddenly dry as arousal ravishes you whole. “You—” you splutter softly, completely thrown off as desire clouds your brain.

He raises a challenging brow. “Yes?”

Mouth snaps shut indignantly. Muttering under your breath a variety of exquisite curse words. “I don’t trust you to keep your hands to yourself, Azriel,” you manage to grit out, hands hesitantly raising to the threads holding your dress up. Keeping you hidden from his hungry gaze.

Hazel eyes darken, arms raising to settle pointedly behind his head, muscles rippling with the movement. “You mean you don’t want me to press you against my cock while you get off?” He muses, sounding huskier. You snarl at him, but you’re secretly relieved. You’ve never slept with a creature with such a vast size difference. Yet you find excitement is thrumming beneath your skin, anticipation gathering between your thighs. “Arrogant male,” you snap, not quite managing to glare as the strings come undone.

With slightly shaky fingers, you pull the ties free, lifting the dress over your head. Hair shifts with the movement, brushing against your cheek as it falls back into place. Revealing you entirely to his starving eyes, licking over your naked form like he wants nothing more than to put you on his stomach and rub one out just to cover you in his cum.

You’re surprised the thought doesn’t disgust you.

“Move when it pleases you,” he drawls, watching you with those piercing eyes of his. Feeling as though he could see you bare long before you peeled away your clothes. You hiss, muttering something under your breath before turning your attention to his cock. Heartbeat spikes, heat seeping into your bones as you firmly settle your hands over him, and ease your hips into motion.

Arousal has long since dampened your underwear and is quickly soaking him, too. You roll gently, slowly settling into your pleasure, gliding back and forth, trying to keep your noise to a minimum. Breathe become heavier, finding your tempo, a slow grind as you find the movements that please you the most. His scent surrounds you, clouding your mind as you give yourself over to the feelings, allowing instinct to guide your swirls. Tongue flicks out to wet your lips, one hand raising to cup your breast, a soft sound spilling as your fingers graze your nipple, back arching as you continue the motions.

Eye fly open as something silky wraps around your middle, causing you to peer down, halting. “Is there a problem?” He drawls, but the strain is evident in his voice no matter how he attempts to disguise it. The shadow tentatively hugs your waist, sliding over your hips as they urge you back into movement. Darkness grazes your front, slipping up over the weight of your breasts, pinching at your nipples. Lips part in a moan, spine arching as you return to using both your hands for leverage, grinding over the thick length of him—precum drizzling from his tip.

“I know you wouldn’t be able to keep from touching me,” you manage, playing along. You sound breathless even to your own ears, pleasure building in the pit of your stomach as the coil tightens. A rough laugh drags from his chest, and something dark and syrupy melts in the pit of your belly, turning hot and liquid as his shadows experiment with your body.

Gasp as they bite into your hips, most likely putting in a bruise.

“If I recall,” he drawls roughly, no longer even attempting to conceal his own desire, “you simply said I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.” Open your eyes wide enough to see that damned smirk on his mouth, dripping with male arrogance. “I believe I’m adhering to that?”

Mouth opens to snap out a response but the shadows are roughly pushing you forward, tipping you over the edge as you tumble down onto his stomach. Arousal spears through your middle, and they’re on you in a second. You’re still facing toward the male, but he’s pushed you onto the muscle of his abdomen, soaking you in the droplets of precum that have beaded there. It takes all your willpower to resist the degradation of licking it off your hands.

The truth is you’re struggling to move with the way his shadows have you pinned, wrapping over your stomach as they shove between your thighs. Gasps are pulled from your mouth as they move over your heat, slipping beneath the band of your underwear, roughly tugging it away in their rush to explore over your cunt.

The sound of your moan has his discipline slipping, hand fisting his cock now there’s no longer any danger of him crushing you in his need for pleasure. Blood boils, watching as you writhe, shadows having their fun with you at last—they’ve been practically begging for another round since you last got the better of them with those magic fists. He can feel their excitement, how they darkly revel in having you beneath them, and pulling such lovely noises from you, too.

Azriel can’t help the low groans that drag from his chest, stroking himself as heat flushes his skin, teeth almost piercing his lip as he imagines the mess he’ll put you through when he cums. The mental image alone is enough to have him slowing his pleasure, anxious to last with you. The Mother knows you’d be relentless in your mocking should he find his release before you. Your ego doesn’t need that particular boost.

Your mouth parts as his shadows at last move higher, skating across your breasts, pinching at your nipples as they play with your clit, rubbing tenderly as they pull those marvellous responses from your arched form. He can tell you’re at the edge, just needing that little push to finally make you topple. Tongue flicks out over his lip as his thumb swipes across the slit in his head, gathering the moisture there before releasing himself in favour of paying you more attention. Your hips are bucking against his shadows, eyes partially closed in bliss, and he gives himself a moment to drink you in. Then he’s dragging his thumb lightly down your body, between your breasts to your stomach, pausing at your abdomen. Lightly rubs over your soft skin that’s now taken on a milky sheen.

A louder moan drips from your mouth as you tip over the edge, his hand returning to his cock, twitching at your cries. How pretty you’ll look, soaked in his release. Another lash of arousal whips down his spine, memorising how you arc as your orgasm hits, taking no prisoners as muscle seizes. It’s enough to have him letting go, spurts of cum shooting from his tip, splashing down onto his stomach, painting you with his release.

Head tips back into the pillows, riding out that last high, skin flushes with pleasure as his hips buck into his hand.

Shadows gather his release, washing it over your body until there’s hardly an inch of you that hasn’t been marked or covered in him. Teeth bite into your lip with surprise at how arousing it is, being submerged like this. Having him mix with the release between your thighs, sitting upright only in favour of gliding across the muscled skin of his stomach, bathed in cum. Easing down from your high.

Azriel’s eyes peek open, immediately finding you, gently rolling your hips over him with your own gaze half-lidded. The sight’s enough to have him considering another round, but you’re small, and certainly tired. Another time. Maybe.

Your own gaze finds his, ire and arousal twining together as you give him a heated look. “I hope you’re planning on finding me some new clothes,” you snap, though you’re too breathless to put much anger into it. “A shower would be nice, too,” you add, “did you think of that before you yielded to your messy fantasies?”

His cock twitches at your description and he has half a mind to put you back atop him, if only to feel how smoothly you glide with the aid of mixed release between your thighs.

Instead he grins, once again lifting you into his palm. This time you don’t squirm and his thoughts are confirmed: you’re definitely tired. His tongue pokes out, carefully licking over the skin of your stomach. Feels as you gasp, wriggling half-heartedly beneath his grip.

“Azriel…” you mumble, flushed with embarrassment. It’s a look he likes seeing on you, he thinks. Almost as much as seeing you bathed in his cum. Lips quirk upward, pupils piercing into you while his thumb wraps across your hips, keeping you from moving too much. “Weren’t you just complaining about being filthy?” He asks, offering a wicked smile. Mouth parts on a quiet exhale, then your eyes are flicking away, thighs opening a little wider in invitation. “Dirty male,” you mutter under your breath, though he can tell it’s a lie.

His tongue drags over your heat, and you tense, thighs weakly squeezing as he licks over you. Tasting himself on your skin. Becoming more aroused with every stroke. “You’re enjoying this more than I am,” you manage to get out, spine arched and legs parted to allow him more access. A low sound rumbles from his chest, almost a strained laugh as his mouth seals over your lower body, the hot, wet muscle making you feel like he’s brought you to paradise.

“Hold still,” he orders softly, wary of how loud he might sound from your proximity.

He refuses to let you up until he’s gotten you to come on his tongue.

Taste your release as it is, with the intrusion of his own.

General taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

Az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde

tswob taglist: @naturakaashi

[ladywaffles]

calloused hands in soft hands + Icemav

thank you for playing! :)

calloused hands in soft hands

“Hey there, sailor, has it been a long tour?”

Six and a half months.

That’s how long it’s been since the President overturned Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

He is finally free to marry his partner, openly and within sight of their family, friends, and former flyboys.

“It’s worth it when the sea brings me back to you, lover,” Maverick replies with a lascivious grin.

Ice rolls his eyes, even as he stands to greet Mav. “I’ve changed my mind—the tides can have you. You’re terrible at this.”

“What, after all this time?” Maverick drops his pack in the foyer and winds his arms around Ice’s waist, sliding one of his hands into Ice’s back pocket. “When I can finally do this in public?”

“You know, you’re still technically not allowed to do that, I’m still a superior officer.”

“Yeah but—”

“Don’t even say it, Mitchell,” he cuts him off. “It’ll be cheesy and bad, and I’ll be looking to trade you in for the newer model by the end of the year if you do.”

“Trade me in?” Maverick asks incredulously. “After I finally got you house trained?”

“Got me house trained?”

“Breakfast for dinner is nice, dear, but it’s the only thing you can be relied upon to not burn when I ask you to cook,” Maverick replies.

“You’re just mad because the laundry always smells nicer when I do it no matter what you try.”

“And who was the one who had to stick his arm up the backside of the dryer because someone nearly set a lint fire?”

“There wouldn’t have been a fire, if you’d cleaned it out the first time like I asked—”

“You know you can go more than a week without washing your bedsheets, it’s not the end of the world—”

“—put a sticky note on the fridge and everything, reminded you before I left for D.C.—”

“—and if we’d switched to the other towels that don’t give off all that fluff, the lint wouldn’t have built up nearly as bad anyway—”

“—I told you, it was one list of things to do, a very simple list of three chores around the house, and you didn’t listen the first time or the second time, so third time’s the charm, right—”

“—and then you kept insisting we use dryer sheets when wool balls work just as well, better even—”

They cut themselves off and smile. Ice sticks out his hand, wiggling his fingers until Maverick takes it.

“So. It’s been a while since I last saw you.”

Maverick laces their fingers together. “Yup.”

“Seven months.”

“Seven months, two weeks, and three days. But who’s counting?”

“Did you see the news?”

“I’ve heard a thing or two.”

Ice squeezes Maverick’s hand. It’s scarred and calloused from all the maintenance he does around the house, on his bikes, and on the Mustang they still haven’t made airworthy again. There’s a bump right where the stick sits between his thumb and his forefinger after hours sitting in the box, first in a Tomcat and then in a Hornet, and soon, maybe, in one of those fifth-gen stealth planes that go five times faster than Ice ever did.

His own scars from his days in the sky have long since been traded in for hardened ridges where his pen rests, reams of forms to fill out and files to read. There’s no flying for admirals, Viper had once warned him. Flying’s like riding a bike, but the memory of it starts to fade from your body faster than it does your mind.

Between the two of them, Maverick is much more the image of a pilot than Ice is, in his tailored suits and stars.

He runs his fingers over the back of Mav’s hand and presses their palms together.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Of what?”

“Now you’re just playing coy.”

“Well, Admiral Kazansky, if you’re asking little old me,” Maverick starts, “I think it’s about damn time.”

Ice grins. “See, I’d thought something of the same myself.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two wedding bands, made of newly minted gold.

“So, what do you think, Mitchell? Wanna get hitched?”

Maverick holds onto Ice’s hand tighter and drags him back towards the front door.

“Where are we going?”

“Where else do you think? We gotta go catch Slider before he gets too far from base and tell him to call up the boys, we’re getting married this weekend!”

send me a type of touch, a number, and a pairing!

[forwhump]

a/n; some belated robin backstory 🥲 for doughnut, who I promised this to months ago & then FORGOT IM SO SORRY IM JUST AN AIRHEAD I WASNT INTENTIONALLY BEING A DOUCHE I LOVE YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING (I remembered out of nowhere within like ten minutes of finding out liam died so that’s why it took even longer)(I loved 1d 💔)(& bleach finally animated my WORST CHARACTER DEATH so I’ve had a really hard week)(if I was still 13 I’d be institutionalized)

word count: 4k (I only feel like I need to add a word count when these are especially long so idk why everything I’ve posted recently has been especially long that’s my bad 😔)

tw/cw: kidnapping, captivity, implied rape/noncon, drug use, misgendering, transphobia, dehumanization, medical torture, lobotomies, mentions of the military, passing threats of violence against pregnant women, implied human experiments

When Robin’s a kid, just a couple weeks after his dad dies, his mom brings home a new baby. A girl.

She’s really little but she shrieks at a pitch so loud and so shrill that sometimes it gives him headaches. Other times, it puts him in such a bad mood he has to rip all the sheets off his bed or all the posters down from his walls. She doesn’t really do anything but scream or sleep and still, his mother dotes on her, treats her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.

Robin doesn’t get it. He doesn’t even really like her. He’d wanted a brother, anyway.

The baby’s first word is mama, which Robin doesn’t think is all that impressive. Her second word, however, is Rob, and he doesn’t know until he gets home from school and she squeals so loudly it makes his ears ring, clapping her little hands together.

“Rob!” She squeals. “Rob!”

“She’s been waiting all day for you,” his mother says with a smile.

He drops his backpack so he can pick her up, and she squeals again as she clings to him. “Rob!”

He doesn’t even try not to cry because he doesn’t realize he’s started crying until his mother wipes away his tears. After, of course, she takes a picture that she later has framed. A picture that he takes down and hides.

When Robin’s old enough, care of the farm falls pretty solely on his shoulders. He’d been expecting it — man of the house, all that. His sister’s very much a girl, all blonde and giggly, pink and frills, and their mother gets her into pageants when she’s still really small and pageantry comes with a pretty intense base level of maintenance. When mom washes her hair, it’s a whole day event. It’s kind of absurd.

When she first starts trying to follow him out onto the farm, he thinks it’s just to bother him. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s chosen to do something for the sake of being annoying. She asks, then she begs, then she just puts on her boots and tries to follow. When he ends up locking her in the basement to keep her inside, she tries tantrums, then she stomps to their mother and pouts.

“Take your sister with you,” she chastises.

Robin groans loudly. “She’s just gonna get in the way!”

She stomps a small foot and cries, “I can help!”

“No, you can’t!” Robin tells her. “You’re just a baby! And you’re scared of the horses!”

“You can’t tell me what I can’t do!” She shrieks. “I can help!”

“You can’t help!”

“Stop screaming,” their mother says, “both of you.”

“I can help, mama,” she whines.

“She’ll break a nail and throw a fit,” Robin groans.

“I don’t care!”

“You’d better care,” Mom says. “Be careful.”

She brightens, immediately done crying. “So I can go?”

“No,” Robin says, and her face falls again.

“I can help,” she whines. “Let me show you!”

“Let her show you,” Mom says.

Robin groans the whole way out. She skips beside him.

He eats his words, in the end. Even if it’s just to prove Robin wrong, she ends up being a big help. Not with the horses, not at all, but with almost everything else.

Turns out it’s because her motives aren’t to prove Robin wrong at all — she just wanted to get out to the cows. As soon as she’s finished, once Robin’s back is turned, he’s saying something like, “I can’t believe you weren’t totally useless,” and he looks back around and she’s gone, out to pasture. He finds her frolicking with the cows, laughing delightedly.

It’s like that for a few months. She follows him out, helps with actual farm work as quickly as she can, then disappears out to pasture to hang out with the cows. For the rest of their lives there together, in their childhood home, their jobs change; she tends to her cows, and Robin does everything else. It isn’t exactly fair, but Robin had grown up fully expecting to have to do all of it himself.

They settle into their routine, and they stick to it for years.

As soon as Robin’s eighteen, he enlists. He doesn’t hesitate. He’d always known he was going to.

His mom knows. She’s proud of him. He doesn’t tell his sister, because she won’t be.

When she finds out, she throws every plate in the house at him. Breaks every one.

The moon hangs low above the farm, casting everything in watery silver light. She sits on the fence in her boots and a pageant dress, this one so white and sparkly it kind of glows in the moonlight and it makes her look, frankly, like a ghost. She’d taken the pins out of her hair and it looks spectral, a cloud around her.

They’ve been passing a series of increasingly potent celebratory joints back and forth — she’d won a world title tonight, something that warranted a series of increasingly potent celebratory joints back and forth — and her ghost is really starting to crack him up.

“You’re being a dick,” she says, but she’s giggling helplessly. “I look so beautiful.”

“I can’t even look at you,” Robin says, and he isn’t lying, turned away as he laughs. “It’s making me mourn.”

She laughs so loudly she almost falls backwards off the fence, and that sets Robin off again.

He leaves next week. Six days exactly, the day after his very last high school exam. He hasn’t told her yet, and he doesn’t want to, especially not now, but he’s running out of time. He can’t leave without saying something, anything, but he’s tempted.

It’s almost like she’s read his mind. “Can I talk to you about something?” She asks carefully, and something in her tone makes Robin’s shoulders tense.

“If you’re pregnant you’re getting thrown down the stairs, girl,” he says. She snorts. “Mom’s gonna be pissed.”

“I’m not pregnant,” she says.

“I’m leaving on Friday,” Robin responds. He doesn’t mean to.

Uncomfortably quick, her face goes blank. “What?”

“Fuck,” Robin says. “I didn’t mean to tell you that.”

“What do you mean, you leave next week?” She asks slowly.

Robin looks away, out at her cows. “I fly out,” he says, “after exams.”

“Fly where?” She asks, now completely flat.

He doesn’t look at her, but he tries to smile. “My first tour.”

She doesn’t say anything for such a long time that he finally turns again, he looks at her.

She swings, and her fist gets him hard between the eyes. She doesn’t say another word to him as she leaves, and she doesn’t say goodbye to him before he goes. After that, he didn’t really expect her to.

War is hell.

Men are monsters.

The first time Robin gets to come home, it’s so good to be home. It’s the most unbelievably light thing he’s ever experienced, like taking his first, clean breath. He almost starts to understand the military appeal; the comedown after is the high.

When he gets home, his sister is trying not to be weird around him but she is, very blatantly. He thinks it’s because of how they left things; he’s wrong.

“Can we talk?” She asks, and there’s something so severe in her face that he thinks she’s probably cutting contact with him. It’s kind of a low blow. It stings.

He sits across from her, anyway. Waits.

For a long time, she doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t lift her head.

“Okay, what’s going on?” He asks finally. “Are you okay?”

She exhales loudly, but her voice is so small he can barely hear her when she says, “yes.”

“Then what’s up?” He probes. “What’s going on? You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“No,” she says into her hands, “I’m not always pregnant,” and takes another deep breath. Robin waits. He gives her the time she needs, watches the way her shoulders move as she takes deep breaths, watches the way her hands tremble, hiding her face. Robin keeps his voice level and his hands steady and he waits, but he’s waiting for the worst. He isn’t sure exactly what he’s expecting, but he’s expecting it to be bad. He isn’t expecting, “I’m trans, Rob.”

She still doesn’t look at him. She still doesn’t lift her head. Robin says, “what?”

“I’m trans,” she tells her hands.

“Trans what?” Robin asks, and she does lift her head, then.

“What?” She says, like she can’t tell if he’s serious. “Gender?”

“What?” Robin repeats.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I’m a boy, Robin.”

“What?” He says, because he still doesn’t get it. Then, “oh.”

“Yeah,” she says, and — well, he says, actually. He says it, and he drops his head again, covering his face with his hands and the sheet of his hair. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“What?” Robin repeats. He’s gotten himself stuck in a weird loop. He’s thinking faster and a lot more than he usually does. “What’s — why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know,” she says. He says. He’ll get better at that. He’s an adaptable guy.

“Gonna have to stop overthinking,” Robin tells him. “Guys don’t do that.”

His back stiffens. He doesn’t lift his head. “What?”

“It’s why we sleep better,” he explains.

Reluctantly, he lifts his head. He’s always had a deceptively sweet face, kind of doe eyed, but when he looks at Robin he looks so scared, genuinely scared, that it kind of hurts Robin’s feelings. “Rob,” he croaks.

“Can’t doubt yourself like that,” Robin tells him, trying to shrug off the tension, and when he still can’t quite meet his eye Robin stretches a foot out across the carpet to kick him in the ankle. “Guys don’t do that.”

He barely looks at him from beneath his eyelashes, but he looks at him, and that’s progress. “This isn’t a joke,” he says.

“I know,” Robin agrees.

“I’m serious,” he says. “I’m seriously coming out to you right now.”

“I know,” Robin agrees again.

She covers her face again, and — he covers his face again, and it isn’t until Robin really looks that he realizes his shoulders are shaking. That he realizes — “do you have a…name? A new one?”

He hesitates for a long time before finally pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. With a sniffle, he says, “Wren, I think.”

“Wren,” Robin considers. He looks across their mother’s favourite gaudy rug at Wren, tries it on for size. “It suits you,” he decides, and Wren chokes out a sound that’s obviously a sob but that he had tried hard enough to hide that Robin lets it go. “All the names in the world, though,” he says. “You still picked a bird.”

He sniffles again. “We still had to match.”

Robin feels that really low in his chest, a lot warmer than he would’ve expected. “I’ve always wanted a brother,” he says.

When he finally comes home for good, none of the colours are as bright as he remembers them being.

Wren had moved out while he’d been away, and the house is a lot bigger than he remembers it being. It’s too quiet. He can hear too much when it’s quiet.

Wren comes to stay for a few nights, to welcome Robin home, and he brings his girlfriend with him, introduces her. Julie. She’d probably be very beautiful if Robin’s type were outrageously scary people.

All tattoos, everywhere, and piercings studded with diamonds that catch the light whenever she moves. Her hair is like ink and all her tattoos are thick, black, and she looks a lot like Wren’s opposite in a way that’s endearing for a long time. He likes Julie in the beginning; she’s cordial to him.

She’s less cordial over time, slowly but surely. Then comes a time she’s rude, that she’ll snatch Wren’s phone out of his hands to tell Robin to get fucked on the other end. Once, Wren shows up in the middle of the night to post his bail and take him home. He spends that night, then the next few on their couch, and Julie doesn’t say a word to him once. Doesn’t even look at him.

It comes to a head at his mom’s house. He’s there because Wren is supposed to be there, but he never even gets to see him; he only sees his bitch girlfriend, sneering down the doorstep at him.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he accuses.

“I don’t,” she says.

“Oh.” He already lnew she didn’t, so he doesn’t know why he’s surprised. That she’s so fuckin’ blunt about it, maybe. “Fuck you, too.”

“You’re a loser,” she tells him, and folds her arms. Robin’s quite a bit bigger than she is, but it doesn’t feel like it then. She’s an imposing little thing. “What’s there to like?”

“Okay,” he says tightly, “you suck, and —“

“You’re a cancer,” she says, “and I want you to leave Wren alone.”

That one hits Robin like a punch in the chest. He almost takes a step back, then pivots, because who the fuck does she think she is? Why should Robin cower? “Fuck you,” he says again. She just raises her eyebrows, smirks, and it’s so smug that it actually makes Robin hot all over. “Fuck you. He’s my brother.”

“Yeah?” She asks, and he doesn’t like her fuckin’ tone. “Because, from where I’m standing, it really seems like that didn’t matter to you all that much until Wren started making a lot of money.”

It makes all the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “You have no idea —“

“Did he tell you we had to move?” She asks.

He’s still fuming and it crackles in his ears. “What?”

“Do you remember his apartment?” Julie says. “How excited he was? How much he loved it? But we had to move,” she tells him, “because we couldn’t keep up with it anymore, because such a substantial chunk of your brother’s income goes to funding his junkie brother’s crack habit.”

He tenses his jaw so tightly his teeth click. “You’re a bitch.”

“I’m not kidding,” she says, “and I’m telling you as gently as I think you deserve. You’re ruining his life. Leave him alone.”

Robin tries.

Really, he tries. He does what’s best for everyone and clears out his mother’s purse before making a home for himself in the gutter. He sleeps in the street and sits in the sun during the day, usually high. High if he can help it, anyway.

He sustains it for as long as it takes Wren to find him. He isn’t quite sure how long that is. He thinks he might have lost a lot of time.

Wren looks different. This Wren still has his Wren’s hair, his Wren’s abnormally large eyes. He’s still a pretty boy, but he’s a pretty boy, right? His jaw is a bit more defined. He’s got more angles, sharper angles, less softness and curve. He wouldn’t look out of place in an eighties hair band. How long has Robin been gone? How long has he been sleeping?

“You look good,” he says.

“You look like shit,” Wren tells him blandly.

“Yeah,” Robin agrees, scratching his neck. He accidentally opens a sore he didn’t know was there and scratches a little harder. “Where’s Julie?”

“Left me,” Wren answers.

“Oh,” Robin says, and stops scratching. “Why?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Why do you think?”

He flinches. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Well, y’know,” he says, scratching his forearm, “there’s other fish in the sea.”

Wren’s face falls. Sighing, he looks away, half hidden by his hair. Robin has half a mind to wonder if that’s why he hasn’t cut it. “I can’t do this shit with you anymore,” he says.

“What shit?” Robin says.

“All of this,” he says, but he turns back to reach out towards Robin and forcefully pry his hands away from the sides of his face. “And stop fuckin’ pickin’ your face.”

Contrarily, Robin’s skin doesn’t stop itching so he doesn’t stop scratching.

Wren doesn’t stop taking care of him, either.

For a while, Robin has a really good thing going, honestly, and there’s something comforting about being at home again with his mom and his brother. He doesn’t notice, for a long time, how much it eats away at Wren, because it eats away at him so slowly. He gets quieter.

Five months after Wren decides he’s done taking care of him — and takes care of him, still — Robin clears all of the big bills out of his wallet before he wanders out onto the farm to grovel and ask to borrow a measly fifty bucks. He never quite makes it that far.

The cows are out, so it isn’t hard to track Wren down, but Robin never quite makes it over to him. He’s sitting in the grass, back against a fence post. Daisy has her head in his lap, and he’s got a hand between her ears, but it’s still. He’s staring off into nothing. It looks like he might be crying.

And that makes Robin so dreadfully uncomfortable he turns right back around and goes inside. Because that’s probably a little bit his fault, right?

He doesn’t leave then, but he notices it more. Wren stares off into space a lot. Cries when he doesn’t think anybody else is around. Never mentions to Robin all the money that vanished from his wallet.

Robin leaves a week later.

It takes Wren three months, this time, to track him down.

Robin’s been sleeping on the floor of an abandoned apartment building, and it’s kind of surreal, waking up to Wren, cross legged on the floor with him. It’s a relief to see him. “Can I b-borrow a c-couple bucks?”

The way Wren looks at him makes him miserable. He tells Wren it’s their mother, it’s the way mom looks at him, and it is, to a degree. His mother still looks at him like she’s proud of him, her son the soldier, her son the patriot, but the way Wren looks at him is worse. Wren’s disappointed in him, and that could almost make him throw up.

He’s trying to get Robin to come home, to get clean, and Robin’s trying to get some money out of him. He’s having a hard time focusing, he’s shivering, but not with cold, with a sort of fever that makes his skin crawl too tightly over his restless bones. When the door explodes open, Robin registers it a second after it’s already happened. The soldiers he doesn’t even see until they’ve already swarmed the room, covered every exit, pulled Robin to his knees by his arms and his hair. They knock his blanket loose, and he shivers until one of them grabs Wren by his braided hair, wrenches his head back, points his gun.

Not everything comes into focus, but it tries. This is really happening and this is really bad.

Their captain is a big guy that looks more like the Hollywood movie version of a soldier than a soldier. He has an arrogance to him that puts Robin on edge, that he’s only ever seen in very dangerous, very powerful men. The way he looks at Wren makes Robin sick.

When he knocks Wren unconscious, it’s with a wet cloth and a gloved hand over his mouth.

Robin begs. He hasn’t been above begging for a long time. The way the captain is looking at Wren — he’s seen what happens to people who get looked at like that.

And this is Robin’s fault.

This is all his fault.

It makes him think of Julie. He can’t remember the last time he saw her, or even the last time he really thought about her, but he thinks of her now. You’re ruining his life, she’d told him once.

She was right.

For a long time, he’d been ruining. Now, it’s in ruins at his feet. And it’s all Robin’s fault.

They try to make him watch, but he struggles and vomits himself into unconsciousness.

They take him to a weird, grey place tens of minutes below ground. They give him weird, grey clothes and they throw him into a weird, grey prison.

Wren isn’t there.

He meets Hal, and he meets June, and he begs them, too. They have to know something, anything. Maybe they heard one of the soldiers say something, even in passing.

They look at him like he’s crazy. They don’t even believe him.

Robin spends his first week in his weird, grey prison completely hysterical. Then a couple of men, dressed almost liked orderlies but masked, all in black, come to haul him away, kicking and screaming. They drag him through this weird, grey hellscape to a surgical room from a nightmare, entirely black. They strap him down to a black surgical table. The surgeons that hover around him wear black masks and caps and gloves.

One of them takes a long, black needle. He holds it up, into Robin’s field of vision, before he turns the point into the inner corner of his eye. “This will probably hurt,” he explains, “but you won’t think to complain.”

“What the fuck?” Robin shouts. He thrashes, but he’s restrained to that table so tightly he can’t turn his face away, not even an inch. “What the fuck! Get the fuck away from me!”

“This will make your development easier,” another says. He speaks with the slow, flat voice of an old movie mad scientist and Robin’s heart physically aches in his chest. Never, not once in his life, has he been so scared it’s made his heart ache. “It’s in your best interest.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” Robin screams.

But he’s still. He tries to thrash, to turn away, and he can’t. He can only watch that needle close in on his eye, and scream as it pierces it.

He screams until he can’t.

[angelthefirst1]

Welp...Bethylers.🐇 ✝️♾️✝️🐇

From what I'm seeing in 104 and the trailer for 105, I would say she's close.

VERY CLOSE!

Could we really get her back on resurrection Sunday? ✝️

It's very possible, and I'm excited because wow, they are laying it on thick.

Still and Alone are on repeat once again, but this time, it's with Rick and Michonne, so it's important. Due to the Sheriff's hat.

The following are from episode 104 and the trailer for 105. To show you just how much Beth is being repeated.

Identical mirror head wounds for Rick and Beth...

Rick and Beth's story is mirrored/flipped, so he gets the head wound on the opposite side, and it's after he leaves the building that collapses with the elevator.

A mystery figure appears in a Coda after Beth gets the head wound it's Morgan.

And a mystery figure appears in the same episode Rick gets a mirror head wound...

Remember Morgan picked up the cross ✝️ and the rabbit foot in the church ✝️ in Coda?

Rabbit 🐇 Easter 🐣 resurrection of Christ.

The cabin with alcohol...🍸

Rick and Michonne will visit a cabin and drink alcohol next week.

Pine vista with the lake...

Green Wood is also mentioned when they go to the lab/gym.

Golf club sheets where a community was living.

While Rick and Michonne find a similar layout in a new building in 105...

The boots (Michonne finds Rick's boots) and the prosthetic hand...

Home sweet home...

Everyone we know "will be" dead - You don't know that.

It's Bullshit...

You don't get to treat me like crap because you're afraid...

I know you look at me and just see another dead girl...You don't know nothing!

Entering the clean house...Roomba

Chandelier trap (note the chandelier above)

Changing clothes...

I'm going to leave a thank you note...

Why did you come after me? What changed your mind?

Say it! Don't Ah-ha...

"Oh" You're the love of my life!

I'm not going to leave you...

The elevator

System failure elevator has 10 minutes left of emergency power.

Elevator has 2 minutes left of emergency power...

10.2 get well soon.

Proof they put Beth on the back seat of the car after Grady and that Beth's return will lead to a cure.

They think she's a hybrid, aka Zombie, but she's associated with fire 🔥 so the flammable liquid is her.

She will return as Christ to bring the last judgment of fire 🔥 and destroy the fake cure of the Mark of the beast and beast kingdom before the Millennial Kingdom begins.

The whole end scene when the building collapses and Rick and Michonne get out in the nick of time is a repeat of the CDC collapse.

The building Rick and Michonne are in has AI and all the modern tech just like Vi at the CDC.

It's about to be destroyed and the group run for the cars. One of which is yellow.

While the high tech building they destroy is connected to the CDC, it's also connected to Grady, so by connection, they were working on a cure at Grady.

At the CDC test, subject 19 (Beth was 19 at Grady) took 2 hours, 1 minute, and 7 seconds till resurrection...

21 days = 7x3 = 3 missing weeks.

Dr Jenner shoots his test subject in the head...

For Beth, it will be reverse shot in head resurrection after 3 weeks.

Instead, it will be Grady that collapses most likely from an earthquake.

When Jesus died, there was a massive earthquake, so...

Anyway Danai says she wrote this episode, i say hogs-wash, she re-wrote this episode!

The elevator timer says Beth is about to Get Well Soon.

[boundinparchment]

Reprieve

In which Dottore helps you deal with the cyclical pain of having a uterus. As gender-neutral as possible but reader has a uterus, so this references to everything that involves. Pure indulgent fluff. I don't know what else to say. On AO3 here.

You rolled over and curled up on your side, sleep ruptured by the dull ache blossoming into searing pain that seemed to radiate through your entire being.  Beneath you, the sheets felt damp.  Not now.  Why now?  

Next to you, the bed was cold.  Dottore had long since gotten up.  He slept so rarely, and although he didn’t necessarily need it, he deserved to rest more.  The last few weeks had been rough in finalizing the Tsaritsa’s most recent plans.

You willed yourself out of bed and into the washroom to clean up.  The tiles were warm beneath your feet and the pain ran down your legs and seemed to sit in your very hip bones, gnawing at you like a rift hound’s claws tearing at a leyline root.  

Every damn month.

After washing up and chucking the wrapper into the garbage, you sank to the floor, doubled over.  Just a few minutes, you reasoned.  At least the floor wasn’t as cold as the land outside, the Palace wrapped in what felt like an eternal blizzard.  

Getting up a second time felt impossible.

Exactly what you didn’t need today.  Your schedule was packed, one diplomatic meeting after another, a day full of smiles and watching your words like a hawk over its prey.  

You weren’t sure how long you laid there, absorbing the radiating heat once you found the best position that took the edge off of the pain.  You knew you didn’t have to endure this.  Your lover had already worked through several viable options for precisely this reason; some permanent, others not.  Some months were better than others, though.  Not all of them were this bad.

“What are you doing down there?”

You didn’t have to pull your head up to know Dottore was standing in the doorway of the washroom, looking down at you.  This scene was nothing new.  The question was redundant, although teasing, and its answer was one you didn’t need to give.

Warm hands helped you up and supported you as you bit back a whine, your legs protesting.

“How long were you laying there?” Dottore asked, breath tickling your forehead.

“Not sure,” you replied.  “Hurts too much.”

“We’ll take care of that.”

“Dottore, I’m fine, I just need some time to—”

He kissed your forehead, silencing you as a hand pressed against your lower abdomen.  For someone with such a cold demeanor, he had the warmest hands.  Your muscles eased ever so slightly and you felt yourself slump a little.

“One of my Segments can take your schedule.  There’s no reason you need to bother yourself with the inane whining of the nobles that can’t solve their own problems.”

You relented, knowing full well that it was easier to just let him help than push back.  You didn’t have the energy, anyway.  He led you back down the hall to bed, pulling the covers back on his side and ushering you back under the protective warmth of the blankets with a kiss before leaving the room.

He returned with a small sampling of your favorite breakfast options before retreating into the other rooms of your shared quarters.  Within a few minutes, you heard the sound of running water and caught the scent of your favorite bath oil, too.  A scent that was no longer in circulation, one he’d developed himself when you lamented you’d been unable to find a suitable replacement some years prior.  

A bath did sound nice, you admitted.  Much nicer than a day full of meetings and grinning through your organs revolting against you.

You finished the small plate of food, savoring the last of the tiny and flaky peach-filled pastry that you still never learned the name of.  You heard the water stop and Dottore’s footsteps, the Harbinger returning again, this time with a vial containing a pearlescent liquid.  It was familiar, a usual anti-inflammatory compound that he kept on hand for these exact occasions, and therefore by now needed no instructions.  Or so you thought.

You held out your hand to take it but Dottore shook his head, his free hand gently holding your chin to keep your head steady.

“It’s not the usual dosage, darling.  A little will go a long way.  Open, please.”

You obeyed, opening your lips as the cold glass met your bottom lip and you felt the cool liquid across your tongue and down your throat.  It tasted sweet, like sunsettia.  Dottore capped the vial and placed it on the bedside table; he’d given you about half, you gathered, based on what was left.

Before you could ask anything further, Dottore pulled the covers back and slipped his arms beneath you, lifting you from the bed with ease.

“I can walk, Dottore.”

He silenced your protests with another kiss to the forehead.  “No one said you couldn’t, darling.”

You found yourself back in the washroom, heated tiles beneath your feet as Dottore lowered you back to the ground.  You spotted fresh clothes, a cup of herbal tea, and your favorite book; a new publication you hadn’t gotten around to reading yet.

“But what about the—” you gestured to the other room, where the sheets were stained, more appropriate for his lab than your bedroom.

“It’s nothing that needs your attention,” Dottore replied.  “For now, relax.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical.  His unmasked face was close to yours, mouth upturned in a playful smile.  Your lips met his once, twice, soft and eager kisses that you hoped conveyed your appreciation for the gesture and care.  His tongue brushed yours, all of once, before the Harbinger pulled away and helped you out of your pajamas.  

Out of habit, you bundled them to hide the blood, as though the man next to you had sensibilities too fragile for such things.  You saw him covered in viscera, elbows deep in a specimen you had no name for, among other things; he was quite literally the last person to be bothered by the presence of blood.

Dottore helped you into the tub, the heat from the water enveloping you.

“Thank you, Zandik,” you murmured.

At the mention of his given name, the one long forgotten, you watched as the tips of his ears turned pink.  

“Take your time.  I’ll come back and check on you in a bit.”

The warm water didn’t rid you of the pain entirely but the edge was already disappearing.  The medication, and maybe a nap together, would do the rest.

[lovebillyhargrove]

Wake me up when July is around

Chapter 18/?

***

Hands down.

Hands fucking down,

Billy Hargrove has never been so horny, in all of the years since puberty hit him. Like a train. It didn't hit him gently. Does it ever though?

Anyways.

On the verge of turning 18, frequent involuntary erections and wet dreams are making a surprise comeback to his everyday life. Like he needs them back, right the fuck now.

It's as if he's a 12-year old again, examining his pimply chin in front of the mirror. Waking up to a shameful wet spot in his underwear after having yet another arousing sex dream.

Billy's already had such dreams about Harrington, it's not like he's gonna

Oh my god!

freak out about the fact itself, but if he thought they happened often, haha. Look at him now, after he actually

physically

touched King Steve's smooth dick.

Billy's right palm remembers the feeling of its silky texture, remembers how the hot cum erupted over the fingers

He can still chase it.

The dreams vary in their depravity. Some are just a faint whisper, a brush of a hand, or of lips. Sometimes they are bolder, Billy's gripping Harrington's cock in his pants, over and over again, making the pretty boy writhe and gasp under his brazen touch. At times Billy gets lucky to watch especially explicit night fantasies, way better than any porn he's ever seen or imagined,

Turning him into a glob of sweet sweet honey, sticky and fuzzy and not wanting to get out of bed in the morning.

Harrington is living rent free in all of these dreams. No-one else. Not even a single gorgeous playboy babe makes a five-second appearance.

Motherfucker.

And alright, while spilling cum on your sheet is not a big deal, trying to hide your erect dick in public? That's a bit tricky.

Cause Billy is not a 12-year old with a small pecker anymore.

And don't even start Hargrove on goddamn basketball practices. It's been absolute torment for the last couple of weeks. Even though accidental - very often intentional - touches, pushes and collisions with Steve provide new food for Billy's horned up imagination, it's embarrassing and plain suspicious how many times he has to leave the gym for a sudden break. The fucking tiny shorts aren't helping him at all. They don't offer much of a disguise, fucking none.

Damn frigging shorts. At least when he's fully dressed, covering up his hard-on is not such a big problem.

One time Billy ended up poking the Hawkins Tigers' ex-captain with his upright cock, right there on the basketball court, in the middle of the game. Harrington didn't say a word, he just fucking looked at Billy funny and licked his lips

Why did he lick 'em

Hargrove had to run off to the locker room, smashing the doors on the way out with such force they almost flew off their hinges

Just like Billy.

He is off.

Other guys must've seen it, the tent in his shorts. Fucking stupid.

So puberty seems to be making a very unnecessary intrusion into his life, and Billy is taken hostage.

It’s as though he’s been slammed by a freight train again, only now he’s not just smeared all over the rails, but is being choo-chooed along, counting every railway tie with his hard insufferable dick

That pops up like a jack-in-the-box, at any time around the clock, and in most unfitting places and situations, whenever and wherever it fucking feels like it.

On Sunday morning Billy's washing the dishes after breakfast, with Susan fussing around in the kitchen, Max still sleepily sipping her cocoa at the table and Neil reading his morning newspaper, and

He is getting a mega-fucking-ass boner, doing goddamn dishes, in this good-morning-respectable-family-paradise, dick pushing into the edge of the sink, straining his sweatpants, it's fucking uncomfortable and awkward, and it's as if his stupid cock is completely out of control. Like it has a life of its own. Or, more like, a part of Billy's brain and his dick have this special connection, which Billy is totally left out of. It only takes a blink of memories from those heated five minutes in the backseat of Steve's car - Harrington's Adam's apple bobbing in front of Billy's eyes under that white-thin, insanely delicate skin and yeah .. it's enough for

Weigh anchor, hoist the sails!

Fuck this shit times a million.

Hargrove almost breaks the plate he's holding, in half.

Good thing, the sink is still full, the dick can calm itself down. Hopefully. Otherwise, Billy wil have to come up with a way to retreat to his room not dangling this thing around in front of everyone.

He'll have to fucking moonwalk backwards. Dear family is gonna be too perplexed to notice the protruding situation in his sweatpants, and it'll lead to the much needed distraction.

That's all it takes these last February days - a fleeting memory, and Hargrove's getting a raging hard-on.

Feels like a curse.

Also, it's not like he's in charge of his thoughts as well. They run free and wild, various images or recollections of smells or sounds - all connected with the preppy sweater-wearing piece of Indiana cowshit - spring to mind, and there goes Billy's tireless dick again. Up and defiant. Hurting but relentless.

No-one can tell it what to do. It does what it wants.

Billy can't fucking function like that !!

Hargrove keeps circling that sponge, and glancing sideways at the phone on the kitchen wall

He could uh .. just

FUCKING CALL HIM

Just like it says in the note.

"Harrington residence."

"Hey, shithead."

"Hargrove ..?"

"No, it's your mom, dumbass."

Harrington will chuckle in the receiver and say, light and breezy

"So .. whatcha doing?"

Thinking of you

"Nothing much."

Oh yeah? .. What exactly are you thinking about?

"My parents aren't home. Wanna drop by? We could .. drink a couple of beers maybe?"

Sounds good

Perfect

"Sure."

No. Billy, NO.

He is not going to call Harrington.

Why not, you might ask? Make it happen already, whatever it is. Steve has slipped his number in his pocket fucking twice.

Nope. He's not gonna call.

Cause it's weak.

And, if you still haven't figured it out, Billy Hargrove is anything

but weak. Secondly, he just doesn't want to give Harrington the satisfaction in this particular case.

Billy recalls the expression on Steve's face while he was coming down from the high of nutting into Hargrove's fist in the beamer.

Steve was royalty, having collected tribute from his liegeman.

Billy's not calling the arrogant prick, period. He's not gonna feed the asshole's pride.

He doesn't want to seem needy for the king's favour.

Because he's not.

And like .. Hargrove doesn't mind making his hands work. He can give himself a quickie in bed, or in the shower, or .. in the fucking locker room, where one day he burst into during another basketball game, hot and angry and achingly hard, his balls about to explode right there on the court, causing his sperm to splatter all over Harrington's pale hairy legs

So fucking annoying

Oh, Billy was furious then.

The helplessness. Like, what ?? What on earth should he do? Go see a doctor? Please help me manage my erections at almost fucking 18 ?? Cut off his stupid dumb penis that keeps embarrassing him?

He had to jack off right there in the empty locker room, it was bordering on impossible to go on with the day otherwise. It only took a couple of minutes, so.

Billy wants to see what's underneath those tight dark green shorts, and not just take a peek, like in the showers, no, he wants to see everything and take his time watching

Take them off, Harrington. Or better yet, let me .. slide them down, show me what you are packing

In broad daylight, he wants to look long and hard, take it all in, the size, the details, the colour .. compare it with the image he has created in his head after all those feverish night dreams

Why? Why is he so fixated on seeing Harrington's dick?

Stop asking stupid questions, alright?

Billy doesn't have answers to any of them. If someone could explain it to him, he'd gladly listen.

Fuck off, just leave him alone.

See, what's even worse, it's not only the physical aspect of feeling like he's in puberty again. Billy starts getting angry and even more aggressive than he usually is. He's always cursing, he's always banging something loud, barking or plain yelling mad at Max for no good reason, and he absolutely needs to find more powerful speakers to put in his car.

There's no adequate outlet for his pent-up frustration. The days when a push and a couple of harsh words seemed sufficient, are over. Shoving Harrington around has stopped providing the relief. It's simply not enough, and only razzes Billy even more.

People in school hallways are steering clear of him, especially after that episode when he violently bulldozed some junior through a wall for bumping into Hargrove on pure accident.

The guy has probably developed a stutter after.

Sometimes Billy turns into a complete nutcase and starts feeling disgustingly emotional, sad or even fucking depressed.

He's never been a ray of sunshine, neither has he ever looked at this world through rose-coloured glasses, this is true, but it's just that everything seems to be hellishly getting out of hand lately.

This feeling is new and unwelcome. The only thing that he always had a grip on in this world - himself - is spinning out of control.

It's revolting.

Billy can't stand hovering over a ridge like that. He needs sustainability, he has always found support in himself - because where else? All these years - since she left him - he's been his own rock. His friends and the ocean were there for him back in San Diego, but here, in this fucking Hawkins he has no one at all, and therefore all this confusingly loud hullabaloo in his head, the mood swings and the constantly erect dick in his pants - all these things can go fuck themselves

Deep in the ass.

!!

Honestly.

Four months till the beginning of July.

Billy turns the water off, wipes the kitchen counter. The cock has cooled itself down a bit, and while he was getting lost in thoughts, the precious family seems to have left the kitchen. Billy doesn't have to moonwalk back to his room hiding his erection.

Well, at least a grain of good news amid the disaster.

***

It's a usual break between periods, and Billy's passing Steve in the hallway.

Heart is springing up to his throat, beating somewhere right in there, not letting him breathe evenly

Look at me, look at me, look at me

Steve doesn't.

Mood swings, yeah? Here you go. Billy's feeling disappointed and .. fucking saddened ?? Because of this crap?

Owie .. he didn't notice me, life's in shambles. Call fucking emergency services, maybe they'll know what to do.

Hargrove wants Harrington to always look at him.

To be fair, the pretty boy is busy having some lovers' quarrel with the red-haired girl, Nicole. She's still unhappy about Valentine's Day, she sure didn't expect to see drunk King Steve shamelessly flirt with other girls. Namely, with that ugly bitch Tammy Thompson, who's always eyeing him in classes and her boobs are always about to fall out of her blouse. Slut.

Steve's trying to laugh it off, Nicole's not laughing.

D-rama !!

"Hi, Billy."

A sweet kiss is planted on the corner of his lips, and Jennifer attaches herself to Hargrove's arm on the way to class. She is still acting like she's his girlfriend.

Why shouldn't she. She doesn't know.

Pecking his brain about useless things. Telling him how some junior hit on her after Billy had ditched the party on Valentine's. Jennifer's even telling him his name - Troy or something, she's trying so hard to make him jealous

Sweetheart. Save the effort. There's like .. nothing stirring inside.

It's lunch break now, and the only thing that's stirring, is Hargrove's dick in his jeans cause Harrington looks so good today. There he is, picking at his food, smiling at Tommy, laid-back. All easy-breezy, the confident fucking arrogant curve of lips. He looks good every day, the dickwad. Almost every day a new outfit, how many fucking sweaters and shirts and dumb polos does he own?

Billy's got a sudden itch to set all of Steve's clothes on fire.

Also, Harrington looked sexy today when he was writing something in the previous class they shared. Staring at the blackboard all pensive and shit. Like he actually understood what the teacher was talking about. Like he was interested. Yeah, right. He got a C- for his last test in Literature. His daddy's definitely gonna pay his way through college, no need to worry that pretty little head about stuff like that.

Billy hates him for looking so attractive. So worry-free. Self-entitled. Like life's at his service, and he's just taking it for what it is - for granted.

So when Jennifer is droning on about some shit Hargrove even remotely pays no attention to,

He's like god I'm so sick and tired of it all, jesus.

Nevertheless, Billy has to keep up lame appearances.

"That him?" He asks the girl who believes they're dating.

She has no idea what's going on inside his brain, who and what he sees when the nights come.

"Yeah, that's him. Oh, Billy, no, what are you ..?"

Hargrove leaves the table he's sitting at, comes up to the dude, pats his shoulder. Leaves his hand there, presses down a bit, leaning on the guy, arm as heavy as an iron beam, weighing a ton

Looming over him like a thundercloud

"Heard you've been hitting on that girl over there?"

The guy is fearfully shaking his head

Dude's a pussy. Should've told Billy

"Yeah if you're not fucking her on valentine's, someone should do you both a favour."

Should've started a scene, a fight.

Instead, he's just sitting there, hunching his shoulders and pulling in his neck like a small defenseless turtle.

Billy sees a teacher, monitoring the lunch hall, looking at them with a question in her eyes.

Alright.

"Keep your hands to yourself, buddy. You know. To avoid uhm .."

Billy makes a little pause for a bigger dramatic effect

".. injuries."

Smiles all friendly. Like he means the dude no harm whatsoever.

The what's-his-name looks relieved he did avoid the promised injuries this time, and

Jennifer is delighted. She is the queen of Hawkins High. She is the reason Billy Hargrove almost started a brawl with another boy right now, in front of every student. Looked so big, so hot, doing it. Vicky can stuff her prom dress down her throat. There she is, totally, devastatingly jealous, ready to burst into tears or throw hands at Jennifer once again. She is still not over Hargrove, but it's Jennifer who will be going to prom with him. She'll be prom Queen, proudly wear the crown, frame the picture and put it on the wall. Probably tell their kids how mommy and daddy danced at prom and looked fantastic doing it.

Oh girls girls girls, why is that you fall so easily for someone who doesn't give a fuck about you. What is your problem. Can't you like the good ones, the ones who are going to stick around. When are you going to understand that ninety-nine per cent of all times that piece of hot badass means inevitable heartbreak?

Billy thinks that he needs to take Jennifer out or something, to maintain the reputation, but

He's so over this shit.

Come March, he'll be breaking up with her.

He's catching that sweet junior Alison's stare and throws her a smile, just in case, for possible future purposes. Jennifer is too busy gloating to notice it.

Billy's not even sure what he's doing anymore. Like, there are chicks, that have stopped attracting him fucking collectively and individually, and there is Harrington, that's been stuck like a bone in Billy's throat since day one, but especially lately.

Billy wasn't planning on touching anyone's dick in fucking Hawkins, Indiana.

Most importantly, Billy still definitely doesn't need any kind of attachment.

Don't forget about that, Hargrove.

Soon it's gonna be the time to call it quits with the Hawkins girls, and with its idiot king. It'll be the time to get out of this swamp.

Only four months left.

You've already made it through six. It's gonna be okay.

Maybe it's more reasonable to leave this place the moment he gets the high school diploma, not wait till July. Billy will be 18 already. He can pack everything in advance, put it in the car, stop by the school to pick up the documents and then just drive west straight from there, not even going back to Cherry Lane.

Aren't you even gonna say goodbye to your father who raised you?

Sure, he wants to work his ass off in June, probably find another part-time job, save up as much as he can, but won't it be more sensible to just get the fuck out of here as soon as possible, nevermind the extra cash?

It's something to consider.

***

Okay, listen up, kids, Hargrove is not in charge of his

A) penis

B) thoughts

C) mood

??

All answers are correct (mind it, the option under D) feelings has been deleted from the original list)

But what irritates Billy most, makes him extra boiling mad is that the moment he gets some sort of a grip on the situation, and he's like alright, just need to fucking take it day by day, screw it all, especially everything that's Harrington-related, and he might still be reeling, but at least he understands what's happening and has it in check

At this very fucking moment Steve resurfaces and reminds Billy about himself, and it pulls the surf board from under his feet. He's back to zero again, having lost control once more

Just wanting to commit a fucking crime. Breaking and entering, burn the rich-ass dude's clothes, key his car, poison his current girlfriend

Hargrove would never key the beamer. He spent too much time making it look perfect.

Like right the fuck now, when Billy's just standing in the parking lot, thighs on his baby's hood, finishing his morning smoke in peace, minding his business, a minute till the first period, and

Bam!

He gets a snowball in the back.

The fuck!??

He turns around - there's just Harrington in the almost empty lot, grinning like a dumbass and a new girl by his side hiding a giggle - Sammy, Tammy ..?

Playing fucking games? What grade are you in? Planting notes, throwing frigging snowballs?

Okay shithead.

Billy looks as if he's not bothered, like he's ignoring the asshole, but his eyes are already looking for patches of snow, still lying around - it's the beginning of spring, February has no choice but to slowly start stepping away, taking all winter paraphernalia with it. He's planning revenge, but unfortunately, upon starting to walk towards the school, slips on the ice and lands on his ass.

Motherfucker!

During all three months of winter Hargrove managed to stay on his feet somehow, but at the fucking end of February he absolutely has to fall down, in front of Harrington, of course.

There's a very distinct Hahaaha that he hears behind his back

You goddamn son of a bitch

Billy quickly jumps to his feet, ducks down, and while Steve's still laughing with the girl, a massive snowball hits the king in the fucking ear. Good shot. He's not looking so playful anymore, he looks really hurt. Hargrove seldom misses, and he strikes hard.

You asked for it, Indiana.

Hargrove flips Steve off for good measure and keeps walking to school, honour defended, dignity restored.

Kinda.

Stop fucking fucking with me.

***

At the beginning of March seniors' yearbook pictures are being taken in Hawkins High. Well, they were already taken in the fall, was it October? .. but some kids were sick or absent, so it's the last call for those who haven't had it done. The yearbook layout is almost ready and in April or May it's supposed to be printed out.

Billy doesn't give a fuck. He skipped the first photo session and

How many dollars should he spend on the stupid book?

He's not getting himself one here, in the lamest school of all. He doesn't know half of these people, and he doesn't really care about anyone in particular, even the basketball team, Hawkins Losers, makes him only want to forget about its existence. Back in San Diego it wouldn't even be a question, but here?

What the fuck for?

Billy still goes to the photo shoot this time though. He wants to skip Spanish, and also

Because Harrington is there too, hanging around the entrance to the school drama hall, that's where it'll be held. King Steve actually had his picture taken the first time, in October, but

Oh, you need to hear this one -

The bitch didn't like it.

So he's actually asking for his photo to be retaken now. Jesus Christ. Since Byers aka Harrington's ex-girlfriend's current boyfriend, is responsible for today's event, the King

slash

Fastidious Queen

Is going to get another chance.

There are some other seniors in the hall as well, no-one's in a hurry, no-one's eager to get back to class early, so they take their time, girls brushing their hair in front of the mirror and applying lipstick, guys just fooling around. King Steve gets an extra couple of shots, just in case, to make him happy. The faces Harrington makes when he's being photographed are to die for, Billy wants to roll on the floor with laughter.

When the period and the photo thing finish, the kids are on their way out of the hall, and it just so happens that Harrington and Hargrove are the last ones to actually walk out of the door. The responsible Byers is in a hurry to take the school photo camera back to the photo lab. Steve's not feeling bad about breaking Jonathan's camera in September, monsters or no monsters, the dude still shouldn't have taken pictures of him and his friends, hiding and watching them from the woods. Steve apologized for saying some nasty stuff about his family in the heat of the fight, but that's as far as the apologies will go. It's a bit weird to have Byers take pictures of him, given their history, if he remembers it right, back in the fall the shoot was done by someone else but, honestly, it feels like so much stuff has happened after that, it's all water under the bridge.

The boys look at each other before leaving the hall, stalling. Steve's lips curl in a mischievous smile and Hargrove's eyes mirror it with the similar naughty twinkle

Steve takes Billy's hand.

And it's like everything around him disappears for a split second.

The warmth of it.

What the fuck, why the fuck

Helplessness.

Billy's blood knows the route, flowing fast.

With some brain cells still functioning. Hargrove peeks out of the hall, everyone is minding their own business, in a hurry to get to the bathroom, to a locker, to the next class. Byers is gone.

Hargrove closes the door. Steve's hasn't let go of his hand

Making the electricity run through his body.

Billy glances down at their hands, then up at Harrington's pretty face again, the dude is devouring him - Hargrove can't be imagining that, it's real - with his big beautiful fucking deer eyes, lips slightly parted

Inviting.

Luring.

They understand each other without a single spoken word

Billy almost knocks Steve down with a kiss, there's so much uncontrollable force

How many times have they kissed already? It feels like it’s so new, like they've never done it before.

Harrington is dragging Billy behind the stage, they climb up the small staircase there

Holding each other.

Billy's hands are clutching onto Steve's clothes, Harrington is gripping the other boy's back of the neck with one hand and tugging his jeans jacket with the other

They are behind the curtain. It smells funny here, of dust and paint, fear of public speaking, forgotten lines and improvisation.

Fear and improvisation - that can actually be applied to what the boys are doing right now.

Harrington's ass ends up being slammed against some kind of a table.

They are kissing, kissing, kissing, fuck, why does Billy want to kiss this idiot so much, he’s ready to suck his lips for a whole hour, play catch with their tongues

Running wild

And touch, touch, touch

Steve's shoulders, his arms, back, chest, belly ..

Everything, everything, all of his lean body, Billy's hands are not big enough

What would it feel like if they were naked now?

Harrington isn't so shy either, he is groping Billy everywhere, his hands go down to his ass, he fucking kneads his ass so much it hurts

Fuck.

Billy is so turned on, he wants to fucking weep because he can't cope

With the heat. With the lust. With the need.

He goes for Steve's fly, pops the button, opens it, his fingers fucking trembling

Like of a junkie.

He can actually .. he's been dying to see Harrington's dick like that, in day light

Oh god god god is it happening

He pulls the pants down together with the underwear, and Steve's cock springs up in all its splendor

Red, swollen, meaty

Big. The head is purplish and shiny, with a little pool of precum in its tip

It feels like a reflex already, Billy's hand moving to grab it.

But before, he slides his palm over the dark pubic hair

It's so coarse. Harrington's got a full fucking bush down there, and Billy wants to find himself lying in bed together with Steve, stroke his groin, teasingly, wrapping rings of wiry hair on his index finger.

Hargrove's hand on the lower belly makes the other boy moan and Billy mutters

"Shut up, Harrington. Or someone will hear us."

Steve looks like he doesn't care, but of course he does. They don't want to get caught. They can't.

Billy runs his fingers up the cock. Steve hisses

Hargrove doesn't want to appear too gentle, that's why he stops with the caressing and takes the dick in his palm, just like he's been dreaming of

Fucking velvet, fucking tender, skin like the softest down

And flesh stiff as a rock.

Billy's gone. He is so completely gone on the sensations.

Why has he never felt like that before? Like a live wire.

For a fraction of a second he considers ditching Steve, leaving him here with his dick out in the open because

Don't do it don't do it don't do it

Is at the back of his mind.

You can't handle this.

Of course he doesn't listen to reason. Not this time. Not when King Steve is whining so sweetly under his touch

"I told you to shut up, or you'll get us in trouble."

Steve's rasping out

"You shut up. Come on, make me cum."

Excuse me?

That rubs Billy the wrong way and he scoffs because

The royal fucking attitude.

He's not gonna put up with it.

"Make me cum too, asshole," - with a mean chuckle.

Harrington is looking at him in disbelief, like how dares he, but Billy is letting go of his erect dick and Steve says quickly

"Okay. Let's make each other cum."

Hargrove's waiting. The king doesn't seem to be catching on.

"Unzip."

There's a flash of something dark in the pretty boy's brown eyes like he isn't used to being told what to do.

"Fuck you."

Yet, he obeys.

Hargrove's dick falls heavily out of the black boxers and

Steve's hesitating. Looking.

Billy can wait again. He's not moving his hand up and down the other boy's cock, he's not gonna do it unless ..

Harrington takes him, cautiously, clumsily.

Tentatively.

Billy's gonna pass out right this second.

Fuck .. fuck, it looks so fucking hot, Steve's fingers wrapped around his dick.

Billy is trying to memorize every little detail of what's going on here, for later.

It drives Billy fucking wild. The sight of them holding each other by the dicks turns him savage

Like he wants to .. he wants to

Eat Harrington alive.

They start jerking each other off, copying each other's pace, gradually falling into the same rhythm, slower strokes becoming faster.

Eyes darting between faces and dicks, searching for some confirmation that what each one is doing here, is good, feels good.

Feels amazing.

Harrington's cock is cut clean and neat

Billy's uncut, and the feeling is so different. Steve doesn't have all the extra skin to be worked with, but Billy does, and

Hargrove doesn't understand why but it makes it even more exciting, the difference.

In all of the commotion Billy's right hand falls from Steve's back on the table and

It's touching an object

Billy absentmindedly pulls it from behind Steve ready to throw it on the floor so it doesn't get in the way

It's a crown. A fucking papier-mache fake crown made for a performance

Billy doesn't toss it on the floor, he's grinning at Harrington instead, trying to put it on his head

"A crown for your majesty."

It's getting knocked out of Hargrove's hand

"Jesus, you are so dumb."

"No, you're fucking dumb."

Both boys are snickering like complete idiots.

They go on pumping their hard cocks.

Harrington's slit is gushing precome.

A couple of times Billy breaks the rhythm and gives attention to the head of Steve's dick, using that slow twisting motion, spreading all the moisture with his thumb

It makes the pretty boy close his eyes and bite his lower lip

"Nuuugh .."

"Shuuuudup."

He looks so fucking hot.

And like .. Billy wants to say something, how much he likes it, how sexy Steve looks, but

They have to keep quiet not to get caught.

It's unlikely someone's gonna come to the hall now, and especially backstage, still, you never know.

Also, Hargrove is not gonna be the talkative bitch who can't contain his excitement

So Billy keeps everything that he wants to say to himself, only occasional gasps and suppressed moans escaping their lips. Something tells him, in other circumstances Harrington would be much much louder.

Billy can hear Harrington's breath hitching and he starts thrusting his hips erratically

He's close.

Billy is close too.

***

When they are finished, there's this moment again, when you're coming down from the high and you still have to look at each other and .. talk?

Like .. it's awkward as balls.

Speaking of. He has seen the imperial scepter, but he hasn't seen the crown jewels. He'd certainly like to take a peek. They might be fun to play with

Fffffuck

He just had an orgasm. Sex thoughts, fucking already ??

They both take their hands off of each other,

Steve's fingers linger on Billy's t-shirt, crumpling it

Wha ..

"The fuck you're doing?"

"Well, I can't wipe it on my sweater. It costs like .. a lot."

Fucking asshole!

"Your t-shirt's easier to wash."

They've got sperm all over their clothes.

What a despicable douche. Billy crowds Harrington against the table again and pointedly slides his hand, covered in cum, over the expensive fabric

"The fuck you did that for?"

"Just wiping off your mess, assface."

That's the pillow talk, that's it, that's how you do it in the town of Hawkins.

The assface in question is pouting

He slightly pushes Hargrove away, zips up and Billy does the same.

"I don't want to get to class."

Yeah, back to reality.

The pictures were taken during Foreign Language - the teachers have been notified, that certain students are going to be absent from class. Hargrove takes Spanish. Harrington takes French. Would be funny to actually see the jerk speak French

Bonjour, crétin

The boys yielding to the urge to touch each other's dicks led to their skipping more than half of History class. There's no point in going there now, so it'll be great if they manage to make it to their cars without running into a teacher.

"Let's try and get out of here."

When they carefully go out of the school hall and start moving towards the exit, already thinking they are in the clear

Too soon.

"Mr. Hargrove! Mr. Harrington! Why aren't you in class?"

Shit.

That's Mrs. Donovan, the vice principal.

"We uh .."

Apparently, cumming so hard has left Billy's brain empty and unable to produce any kind of a viable excuse

Harrington seems to have the same problem because he's coming up with the genius

"I uh .. I had to use the bathroom."

"And Mr. Hargrove was helping you?"

"Uh .. we're actually .. no. We got sidetracked."

What ??

Mrs. Donovan decides not to delve into the idiocy.

"I believe you should be in History right now."

"And we are on our way to class, Mrs. Donovan." Billy pipes up.

The vice principal is watching them walk to the classroom. To the door.

Jesus.

Their History teacher is not happy to see them crash her lesson in the middle of it.

Hagan is looking at them all strange. Damn it. They should probably agree on a sensible lie, not to get him all suspicious and shit.

When the period is finished, Mrs. Jenkins calls the slackers' names and expresses her dissatisfaction with their behaviour

The boys are standing there trying to look remorseful as fuck.

It doesn't help.

Mrs. Jenkins is a tough nut to crack. She's close to a hundred, so biologically immune to Hargrove's charm. And he can't woo her intellectually cause that's not the case right now.

Billy's not even trying anything, he knows it's hopeless. She's also super strange about students skipping her lessons, she takes it like a deep personal offence.

"I will accompany you to your detention, young men. Right now. And I will also be the one monitoring you today. Please. After you."

Detention .. ??

Fuck.

"Mrs. Jenkins, is that really necessary .."

"You do the crime, you do the punishment. Be thankful I am not going to call your parents to let them know about your lack of discipline."

"Can I at least let my .."

"No you cannot, Mr. Hargrove."

Old bitch.

Billy knows, he's not there to pick Max up equals problems with Neil. If only he could warn her to wait for him at school, hang out at her AV club or something.

The witch Jenkins said no, and he's not gonna beg.

***

I did google the percentage of circumcised/uncircumcised males in the states of Indiana and California in the 1970s-1980s. The rate of circumcised males in Indiana was very high, while California was literally at the bottom of the US states list

[belovedspector]

Photographs and Memories

Pairing: Joel Miller x gn!reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Content: Angst with a hopeful ending. Pre-outbreak.

A/N: Based on the song of the same name by Jim Croce. Yes, this is my second time writing a Joel fic based on a Jim Croce song. No, I'm not sorry about it. Enjoy! :)

Immersion Notice: I changed one little lyric to make this more inclusive ("Christmas cards you sent to me" became "Birthday cards you sent to me").

Masterlist

“Photographs and memories, Birthday cards you sent to me. All that I have are these, To remember you.”

“You’re doing it again,” Sarah says flatly from Joel’s bedroom doorway.

“Yeah, you caught me,” Joel acquiesces with a sigh. He sets the shoe box full of photographs that he’d been sifting through aside on the bed.

“You could call, you know. Make things right,” she suggests.

“No, I can’t,” he argues, but there’s no bite to it. He’s too tired for that.

It’s been like this for weeks now—Joel glumly looking back on your relationship, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. He keeps going back to the photos, where the two of you look so damn happy, and the birthday cards, where you’d poured your soul into heartfelt notes meant just for him. Where had he gone wrong? What had changed?

“Yes, you can.” His daughter’s voice brings him back to the present.

“Don’t you have homework to do, or something?” he asks gruffly.

“It’s summer, Dad,” she points out with a roll of her eyes.

“Right,” he mutters. He can’t help but take another glance at the open shoe box. The photo on top shows the two of you at the beach, Joel’s arm around your waist, sunglasses perched on top of your head as you smile brightly at the camera.

“Anyway, I’m going over to Stephanie’s house,” she says. “Please don’t still be sitting here when I get back.”

“Be safe!” he calls out to her as she walks away.

With a sigh, Joel puts the lid back on the shoe box and returns it to its spot on the floor of his closet.

“Memories that come at night, Take me to another time, Back to a happier day, When I called you mine.”

Joel’s lying wide awake in bed. He squints at the alarm clock on his bedside table. 2:51, the display reads.

He can’t stop thinking about you—about your smile, your voice, everything. He remembers the way you danced in the kitchen while cooking dinner, the way you laughed unabashedly loudly at his dumb jokes.

Joel sighs deeply as he looks up at the dark ceiling above him. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine you beside him in bed, sleeping peacefully. It wasn’t that long ago that that was his reality. Now, the other side of the bed is cold. He’s since washed the sheets, and the scent of your sweet perfume is no longer lingering on the pillowcase.

With a groan, he rolls over, pressing his face into his pillow. He needs to get a grip, move on with his life.

But he can’t. He can’t stop thinking about you, no matter what he does.

He sits up in bed, reaches over to turn on the bedside lamp, and grabs the book he’s been reading, resigning himself to yet another restless night.

“But we sure had a good time, When we started way back when. Morning walks and bedroom talks, Oh, how I loved you then.”

Joel’s staring straight ahead at the road as he drives to work, but his mind is elsewhere. He can’t help but think about you, sitting in the passenger’s seat, fiddling with the radio and sticking your hand out the window to feel the breeze between your fingers.

He thinks back to the beginning of your relationship—the “honeymoon phase,” Sarah had called it. That kid is wise beyond her years.

He thinks about the walks you’d take on weekend mornings. He’d hated it, at first, getting up at the crack of dawn when he could be sleeping in a little while longer, but your joy was infectious. You always admired the little things, took time to acknowledge the beauty of the world around you. You’d point out flowers on your walk, get excited anytime you passed a dog.

He thinks about lying on his side in the dark next to you, face mere inches away from yours, as you talked about everything and nothing, how you’d shared your greatest fears and hopes for the future.

He thinks about—

“Joel!” Tommy practically shouts, snapping him back to the present.

“What?” he snaps, irritated at having been interrupted. “You just drove past the site, dumbass,” Tommy says.

“Shit.”

“Summer skies and lullabies, Nights we couldn’t say goodbye. And of all of the things that we knew, Not a dream survived.”

Crickets chirp as Joel sits on his back porch, nursing a beer and looking up at the stars dotting the cloudless sky.

He can’t help but be transported to the night he’d taken you stargazing. He’d driven you out and away from the city and parked in a beautiful, quiet area. The truck bed was filled with pillows and blankets, allowing the two of you to lay side by side and look up at the sky. Joel had spent more time looking at you, though, at the way the starlight reflected in your wonder-filled eyes.

He takes a sip of his beer and remembers how hard it had been to say goodbye that night—or every night, really. He never wanted to leave your side, never wanted the night to end, and you felt the same.

And now, here he sits, all alone.

He thinks about all the plans he’d had for your future together, the future he was so sure about but now doesn’t exist, will never exist.

He thinks about the ring, still tucked safely away in his sock drawer.

“Photographs and memories, All the love you gave to me, Somehow it just can’t be true, It’s all I’ve left of you.”

It’s a rainy Saturday morning, and Joel is finally tackling the mess that is his desk, precariously stacked piles of paper taking over nearly every inch of its surface. As he picks up a random stack of papers, one falls, fluttering gently to the floor. The pale pink paper immediately catches his eye.

It’s the love letter you’d written for him last Valentine’s Day.

You’d been nearly sick with nerves when you’d given it to him, afraid that it was a stupid idea. He had assured you that he loved it with tears in his eyes. In truth, it was the sweetest gesture he had ever received.

He reads it back now, hearing your voice in his head as he reads your confession of love. It’s nothing he hadn’t heard a hundred times before, but, for some reason, seeing it written out made it more special, more real.

He’d give anything to hear you say you love him one more time.

He tucks the letter away in one of the desk’s drawers and gets back to work.

“But we sure had a good time, When we started way back when. Morning walks and bedroom talks, Oh, how I loved you then.”

It’s been months since you broke up. Joel still thinks about you, about what you had together, constantly. Despite Sarah’s attempts to play matchmaker with the new, single neighbor that moves in down the street, despite Tommy’s incessant teasing, Joel can’t move on.

He’s grocery shopping when it happens.

He sees a silhouette that looks suspiciously like yours. Then, the person turns around, and, sure enough, it’s you, looking as breathtaking as ever.

Joel feels like he can’t breathe. He drops the tomato he’d been inspecting as he watches you put a container of strawberries in your shopping basket from over the rows of produce.

It’s then that you look up, and your eyes meet his.

Joel’s heart skips a beat. He feels like a kid seeing their crush in the schoolyard.

You offer him a soft smile, and Joel feels fireworks exploding in his chest. He manages to give you a small wave back, but he’s sure he looks shell-shocked.

You walk down the aisle, and Joel thinks that that’s it. That would be enough, really, just getting to see your face in person after only having seen it in grainy photographs and in his mind’s eye for so long.

But, you surprise him. You turn down his aisle and approach him.

“Hi,” you say shyly, shifting your weight from foot to foot.

Suddenly, Joel’s mouth is very dry. “Hi,” he gets out after a moment.

“Listen, I—” you start.

“I’m sorry,” Joel blurts at the same time.

“I—what?” You look surprised.

“I’m sorry,” Joel repeats. “I’m sorry about how things ended. I want to make it right. Is there any chance that we could grab a coffee sometime?” He sounds desperate to his own ears, but he can’t help it.

You smile, and he can practically feel his broken heart mending itself back together. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Joel doesn’t know what will happen from here, but he’s thrilled at the prospect of creating new memories with you.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think! :)

[icallhimjoey]

SPOILERS AHEAD!

First of all I gotta apologize again for getting these responses in so late these days. My migraine attacks have been increasing in frequency and severity and length the last few weeks and it is really harshing my fanfic buzz and I am not okay about it. But I just want you to know that when I get moments where I can stand to look at a screen for more than a few minutes, I’m reading and writing out my thoughts.

And boy oh boy did I have a lot of thoughts about this one! I found myself practically copy and pasting the majority of the whole part because there was so much in it that stood out to me, so I had to finally start all over again to try to condense so I wasn’t practically just pasting the entire part into an ask 😂

Anyway, let’s do this:

You had noticed his eyes. You’d noticed lots of things about him, but his eyes? There was something about his fucking eyes and he was looking back at you now, his moving between yours, and oh my God, how long were you just going to stare directly into each other’s eyes like this?

It was nearing uncomfortable when suddenly you saw his eyes shoot down, past your lips, down your body, and then back up.

(I’m fucking HYPERVENTILATING right now)

You were undressing in your bathroom and this time Joe was in the room with you instead of just outside, sat on a chair, listening carefully to make sure you didn’t collapse.

(My immediate thought after reading this: “oh my god, if we do get dizzy from the hot water messing with our blood pressure, Joe will be there to steady us!” 😂)

But we need to address the way he was so tender in the shower. How he encouraged us to let go of all the pent up emotions we’ve been holding onto, pushing our hair out of the way, “What’s plaguing you?” and smoothing out our worry lines and caressing our hair away from our forehead, “If you’ve got to cry, you’ve got to cry.” (Are you kidding me?!??!? 🥺), the way he understood and said “We got time.”

He tried not to see. Actively tried his bestest best not to look.

You’d cried over things you didn’t know how to explain and maybe... maybe Joe should’ve left after. Or, at least, maybe Joe shouldn’t have sat down and dragged your feet onto his lap because now, one wrong move and you'd flash your full vagina for the whole room to see.

Joe could already sort of see it now anyway, but he was actively not looking and massaged a foot to keep himself busy.

Don’t look, man.

Stop.

Stop looking.

(this gave me the fucking giggles)

“What are you…?” Joe asked softly, but didn’t finish his question because he knew exactly what you were doing as you inched closer, hands finding his shoulder to hold as your knees dented the mattress either side of him. You lowered yourself onto his lap, your warmth sinking into his, and you grinned. There was plenty of fabric in between the two of you – the sheets, Joe’s towel, your dressing gown – but it was all easily removed, one simple swipe away from connecting skin to skin.

“Hi,” Joe softly whispered as you leant closer, and he seemed unsure on if he should sit up a little or not, his hands unsure of if he should touch you a little or not.

Was sort of endearing.

Man had taken a whole shower with you and now didn't know if it was all right to touch you.

So, you helped. Took hold of his hands and guided them to your waist, more towards your back, and when you leant down enough for Joe to tip his chin up and kiss you, his arms did exactly what you wanted them to do as they tightly wrapped around you.

Yes.

Exactly.

This was exactly right.

You’d cried, you’d slept, you’d gotten your hair washed and you’d gotten your feet rubbed and now, you wanted to kiss the boy.

And kiss the boy you did.

Well. You kissed him for maybe three seconds. After that, the boy was kissing you.

You’d never had sex quite like it. Quite so slow. Quite so loving and so tender, and you know you couldn't stop thinking about his eyes, but maybe Joe had to stop making so much eye-contact if he didn't want you thinking of them all the time, you know?

The way he helped us in so many ways, being so completely understanding and empathetic and patient, the “agonizingly slow sex,” letting us dress him, merging our tables together, keeping us hydrated, carrying us while wading in the water, holding our wrist in the night, admiring us in his jacket, just being so gentle and sweet and calming to our nervous system.

And then how soft he was with that “goodbye” in the taxi, the way he was already watching us when we looked up from our phone at the baggage claim, and how he smiled back at us so bashfully and bit his lip as he looked down at his feet, THE WAY HE CLEARED HIS THROAT AND SHOOK HIS HEAD AT US AND THEN TOOK OUR SUITCASE WITH A SHIT EATING GRIN (I fucking could not handle this, squealed and smiled from ear to ear as I read this)

and then finally…

Just now was the time for Joe to help himself. And so he did. Joe helped himself when he signaled for you to leave your suitcase be. Helped himself when he smirked across the carousel and turned on his heel, your suitcase rolling behind him. Helped himself when he got into a taxi and waited until it got onto the road before he texted,

“Your suitcase”

Referring back to the first words you'd said to him on that weird day at the airport.

You received the message just as you stepped out of the airport yourself and couldn’t help the way you wanted to squeeze Joe’s face in both your hands, really dig your non-existent finger nails into his cheeks because he was being such an idiot. You didn't know if you wanted to scold him or tell him you loved him for the cheesiest fucking thing you'd ever see someone do.

You knew the perfect reply though.

Joe eagerly awaited your message, was hoping he was going to get what he wanted and, yes, fuck fucking yes, his grin stretched from ear to ear when he did.

“Your jacket”

This is truly the best ending I could ever imagine for this story. It is PERFECTION. It’s so cute and clever and cheeky and I fucking LOVE it. The whole story is just so chef’s kiss.

Just bravo 👏👏👏

YOU

thank you :)))

[wonderland-productions-blog]

Knight in Dulled Armor: Ch. 8

Chapter 8: Healing Hands

I once again seal myself in the storage room. The linen basket is overflowing with the many bedspreads I'll need to wash. To my surprise, it compacts easily, and not much force is needed to press everything down. Before heading out I make sure to grab my fabric detergents, tossing a couple small sealed containers in my pocket.

A strange realization hits me that I've never thought about who had been washing my own bedspreads at my estate. It was never anything I'd had to worry about. I'd get out of bed and dressed for my scheduled day of schooling and hobnobbing until I came home to fresh sheets on a made bed.

I brace my arms around the basket. "Hup," I let out, forcing the hefty object up off the ground. I shuffle my way out to the porch, trying my best to hide a slight struggle.

I leave the laundry bin just beside the tavern stairs and head out to grab two of the washtubs leaning up against the bathhouse wall. The laundry loads are prepped by adding soap and running the water over the linen clumps in the tubs that sit next to one another. As the water pours, the cloth sinks and darkens as it is drenched and drowns in the tub. I watch the glittering suds grow voluminous as the water fills and churns.

My time washing the laundry and hanging it out to dry I quickly realize is going to be spent with my mind often drifting off and snapping back to work. "So, Marietta is off the next two days, huh?" I think to myself. I wonder if Kenrik has anyone to fill her place, or if he'd limit our workload another way.

A small part of me was nervous about the idea of meeting new coworkers. I knew Hidorah wasn't the only one in the kitchen most of the time but I'd only caught glimpses now and then of a couple of unfamiliar faces through the serving window. For a moment I wonder if Hidorah knew them well, he seems to be sociable enough to know most around the tavern. My mind reaches for a thought, immediately sending a feeling of unease through my body.

"Do you think Hidorah has gossiped about me?" I ask myself. Tucking away my initial vain response of wondering what people think of me, I consider the deeper, more sinister possibilities.

If Hidorah, or anyone at the tavern for that matter, gets word out about my presence here it could lead to any number of incidents. I'm sure my family has set some kind of reward for my safe return, and I've quickly learned the type that occupies this barren wasteland. It's a miracle Val hadn't been a bounty hunter of some kind, ready to haggle for my life's worth with my parents.

I shake away the thought, looking down after I feel something wet hit my cheek and splatter over the bottom of my apron. I find myself churning the water far too erratically in my anxious state, needing to steady my breath as well. At least I can say I've ensured the clothes were clean the best I could.

My hands waste no time moving on to the next part of laundry, and my mind indulges in the free time in a more lighthearted tone than before. After I'm finished with laundry I assume I'll just be helping Marietta with tables. That shouldn't be too exhausting of a task until I finish work.

While I enjoy the thought of relaxing after work, something tells me this evening won't entail anything as... unexpected as last night with Val having left early this morning. By the time he returns in a week, I doubt he'll remember his proposition. That's considering that he was able to remember the morning after, anyway. I do my best to subdue any arising expectations. After all, I wasn't actually considering going with him, was I?

Ready to wring the laundry, I dump the water from the tub onto the dry, cracked earth. The dark liquid fills the crevices in the compact soil, being drained into and absorbed by the dirt. However, this does nothing to quench the thirst of the desert, as the ground is only wet for mere seconds before gradually evaporating and returning to its normal color.

Making my way from the water pump along the tavern's side to just behind the building I spot the mangle and laundry rack that had yet to be laid out. It was an awkward process, but after tugging on various metal bars and fiddling with a couple of latches, I pry open and set up the drying rack. I try to make quick work of wringing the laundry, but my arm quickly grows fatigued after making it through only a fraction of the laundry. This is ridiculous; I am not built for manual labor. To put my knowledge and skill to a finicky hand crank is practically defamation.

Despite my intense want for either some oil to grease this with or a stronger coworker than someone of Hidorah's frame, I persist and find the crank slowly loosening as I continue. I hang them as I go, finishing half my tub fairly quickly. Before I know it I've filled a notable portion of the rack, ready to move on to my next tub.

I reach for another damp, steely grey sheet, slowly pulling it out from between all the other fabric it desperately tries to cling to. As I pull, a new color slowly emerges from the linen. The russet brown object's shape and texture are obscure as it twists and morphs until fully freed. I finally convince myself to pick it up. It was an oversized, thin leather glove, still stained with what looks to be oil and blood all over. The glove that should barely come past the wearer's wrist comes halfway down my forearm.

"Who's is this?" I catch myself muttering in disbelief.

"Take a guess," a voice startles me, and I immediately turn to find Marietta at the water spout across the building.

"Sorry," she chuckles, "I don't know about you, but I only know one patron that's been here recently that glove could fit."

The answer becomes far too apparent upon hearing her response. This was Val's glove; it must have gotten lost in his sheets when he went to bed one night. Part of me wondered which room I'd cleaned was his, though I wasn't sure what I'd do with such useless information. Nonetheless, I secure it to the drying rack with a clothespin.

Whatever business Marietta had outside she'd wrapped up and left me by myself once more. I continue setting the linen out to dry, with it not taking more than a few minutes now that the crank had been working properly. I wipe the sweat from my brow as I finish working, taking a moment to pause before returning inside.

"What do you want me to work on next, Kenrik?" I ask as the tavern doors squeal open.

"Well, honestly I don't have much else for you today, Elaine," he tells me. "I've got tables covered and someone in the bathhouse cleaning now," Kenrik explains.

I raise my brow, unsure of what to say next. Kenrik puts a hand out, gesturing for my leave with a wave. "You're free to go," he tells me.

I shrug, not wanting to argue with him and certainly not wanting to pack more onto my workload. As I once again seal myself in my room with a click of the door, my mind snaps back to wondering why I hadn't known any other staff. "I suppose I haven't exactly been making a great effort," I shamefully admit. Most nights after work I tend to retire back to my room or stick close to those I know well enough.

"I can't possibly get to know everyone, and my presence here is precarious in itself," I try to reason with myself. But if I wasn't a runaway and had the free choice to get to know whoever I could, would I?

"Who else could I want to know? I can only imagine who I want to know more," I feel my stomach clench upon the last sentiment. Now, it wouldn't be dishonest to say that I enjoy getting to know the friends I've made here; I love spending time and chatting with both Marietta and Hidorah. Although, they aren't who I initially thought of; are they?

Admittedly, my mind had fetched an image of Val in an instant. The picture of his helm sunken so close to my face that I couldn't tell if the baiting detail was exaggerated. I drop onto my bed, far too happy to be able to sink into it early in the day.

I roll my head to the side, allowing my view to morph from the ceiling to the top of my nightstand. My body sunk and nestled its way into the small divot in the bed. A breath escapes me, holding it until my lungs are emptied. I slowly close my eyes, eager to feel true rest for the first time today.

My consciousness returns when I draw in a cold breath. The room was gloomy, and the air cool in the waning night. I was up earlier than usual, for one reason or another. Whether it was my excess rest or my bladder waking me up prematurely, I'm not sure. Luckily my way to the bathroom is more well-lit through the dining hall, with the windows offering a dim, soft natural light. Everything adapts an unnatural yet charming gold hue as the tiniest glint on the horizon brings forth the day.

I notice a feeling of unease from the empty tavern as I return to my room. I try to dismiss it, marking it off as being nervous for my day at work. Still, it persists after I've met my hygiene needs and I'm dressed in my uniform. The feeling is unable to shake, and it slowly morphs into the idea that I'd forgotten something. Pockets are pat down, my hair is preened and my outfit is adjusted to near perfection. Yet still, something is missing.

Missing! Yes, that was it. Marietta won't be working today, I remember now. The feeling dissipates and is blown away with a sigh of relief. At least I've already ensured I have everything I need; I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I draw in a slow breath, releasing only when my lungs can hold no more. My eyes are locked to the window, unable to pull away from the brightening gradient in the horizon.

There was still a small chunk of time until I needed to be out of my room. Strangely, I find myself lying on my back in bed, staring at nothing in particular. I feel my stomach sink, coming to the realization that I'm stalling. Hopefully, I won't be run ragged with the tavern lacking Marietta's help today. With a deep breath, I try to calm my nerves and be ready for the day.

Granted, I expected my day to be more difficult without Marietta's expertise but I didn't think that we were so understaffed that I would need Hidorah's help in the dining hall. While not clumsy or lazy necessarily, Hidorah's skills were still limited to select tasks outside of the kitchen. I did my best not to make it obvious when his help wasn't wanted, but I don't know how many times I can endure his time-consuming mistakes I now need to nanny. So far there'd been attempts to mop as I'm dusting, he used the wrong cleaner on the tables and left messes every step in his path.

I take a sharp breath watching him roll a vacant table's silverware in rags rather than napkins. Not cloth or tissue at that, proving his inability to work under directions even with multiple options. A sigh rolls from my lips, "Hidorah, I can handle this. But you can't use these," I explain as I correct his mistake.

"What am I supposed to do?" Hidorah asks, letting his hands fall to his thighs with a muffled slap.

"There's nothing else to do, and Kenrik doesn't like me just standing around," he gripes.

"You know it would be faster if I focused on cleaning," I chime in, already wiping down tables.

"Come on, don't act like I'm totally incompetent," he scoffs, lingering close behind me as I clean a booth seat.

"I know, you're great with customers," I sigh, doing my best to contain my growing smirk.

"I am so great with customers!" He reiterates, once again reminding me of his strong suits. "And with drinks and orders," Hidorah declares.

"Well, you've managed to not spill a single plate, drink, or gotten an order wrong..." I admit.

"And you said we're splitting tips, right?" I ask. My mind flashes back to the pile of silver pooling in Hidorah's pockets after he'd spent his morning shmoozing with every customer he could.

He nods, tapping one of his pockets on his waist apron. A short burst of jingling and clinks emanate from the pocket.

"You're helping plenty enough, but-" My suggestion to act busy is swept away as a small crowd huddles toward the entrance of the tavern.

"Oh, go take care of those people," I shoo him away to manage guests, focusing on my cleaning duties. A few more patrons are seated, and a few more tables are cleaned. I am just finishing sweeping the dining area when I am stopped in my tracks.

Glass shatters beside my feet and a hiss breaks through the dining hall. I turn to see Hidorah kneeling low with one hand guarding another. White glints speckled across the floor catch my eye, and I quickly recognize a glass had been broken and scattered across the wood plank floor.

Hidorah had barely gotten himself up off the floor by the time I'd made my way to him. I stuff a hand beneath his arm and guide him to the kitchen in his lagging state. Droplets of blood splatter on the floor, trailing behind us as we head into the kitchen.

I wedge myself to the side of the sink, turning on the cold water before Hidorah's shaky grasp secured its place around the spout. Waves of red splash through the basin before swirling down the drain. While most of the blood is washed away, a dark residue splotch remains around the cut down the length of his palm.

I swear the water was set to be cold, and it had been when we'd begun rinsing all the blood. But now it seemed to be warm, getting hotter even; gradually, albeit. Perhaps it had just run out quickly in the desert heat; still an annoyance though. My head felt heavy, and my eyelids began to flutter. I push through my churning stomach, forcing down the sickening nausea the sheer amount of blood had provoked.

Hidorah had clenched his hand in a way that suppressed most of the bleeding, making it much easier to focus. However, my unease isn't lifted altogether. As small golden orbs speckle my vision, I wonder what produces such a thing. "Had this been the tavern lighting? Or perhaps oil beading as it drains down the kitchen sink? Or...is this because I'm feeling faint?" I ask myself, fighting my buckling knees.

He readied a clean cloth from his pocket, attempting to use his free hand to wrap the wound. I take over, holding his hand in his palm and racing to put pressure on the wound. Hidorah's face twists into a grimace for a moment, unable to hide his pain.

Hidorah sucks in a sharp breath, "And I was doing so well," he gives a half-hearted chuckle as the cloth constricts his hand. He tries to steady his ragged, shallow breathing to no avail as I tug it even tighter around his palm. His face scrunches with a wince, and a hiss permeates the air.

I fix one hand beneath his only momentarily before needing the other to steady the shaking. I glance up at Hidorah's face only to find that much of the color has drained from it.

His wide eyes met mine, and I did my best to subdue his panic. "The bleeding is under control, I'm going to get bandages from under the bar," I explain. My attempt to release him is thwarted by Hidorah's cold hand clasped over mine.

"Han-hang on," he breathes. "I- I think Kenrik is getting it," Hidorah tells me. His eyes are still locked with mine, waiting for something I wasn't sure I could provide. "Just stay," Please," he begs, his breath picking up speed as I slip away a step to steady myself.

Kenrik finally arrives, pressing a roll of bandage in my sweaty palm. He squeezes his frail body back through the kitchen entryway, quickly making room for me to work above the sink. My breath squeezes its way from my body in a stressed groan of some sort. Luckily, the cloth isn't difficult to peel away from Hidorah's soaking hand. By what I can only assume to be the will of some deity, his bleeding has completely stopped beneath a thin scab already. Within moments I have his palm bandaged.

Hidorah's spare hand finds his other wrist, pulling it close to his chest with a shaky sigh of relief. "I really thought I might've went there," he lets out a wheezy laugh, his chest heaving with every breath. "With all that blood..." He trails off. Even with his wide grin, his brows were furrowed and his eyes were wide and primal. His eyes are completely dilated, leaving hardly any color behind his dark pupils.

There was an unshakable sense of terror in his stance and expression, I don't know why he felt any sense to hide it. Even now my heart is still pounding, and I find myself craving, needing him to tell me he's alright. With his back to me, he steps behind the bar. I follow close behind with a hand on his shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, settling beside the bar in a corner.

"It still hurts like a-" He winces. "But, I feel better knowing I'm not gonna die," he admits.

My fingers graze the rough texture of the bandage, curling between his thumb and lifting the back of his hand. I once again check for blood, finding no leaks or stains. We eventually settle at the empty bar, most likely vacant from the commotion. Kenrik serves Hidorah a quick meal he'd thrown together, sliding it across the countertop as well as a drink.

"You better take a break and rest," he tells him. Hidorah grips his fork in a shaking hand, pushing out an extraordinary effort to gather a bite. After some struggle, he slowly guides it to his lips. For a moment, I consider asking if he wants assistance, though I know Hidorah would decline. Luckily, his nerves soon steady and he's able to eat with little interruption.

Finishing work without anyone's help isn't as daunting as it seems when I finally get to lock my door behind me. Hidorah had been able to head home early, which was fair given the circumstances. With any luck bandages and disinfectants should be enough and he'll be able to come in tomorrow. My work uniform is off in record time and I'm changed into clothes for the evening.

With a flick of my wrist, a ribbon is closed in my palm and my hair falls to my shoulders. I run my fingers through the dense, dark locks to find that a few knots have appeared throughout the day. After a minute or so of struggling, the knots are brushed out as quickly as they'd been discovered.

Glancing around, I decide to tend to my room's needs. A swift sweeping and dusting spiffen up my living space in no time at all. My bed is still made from this morning, making my routine one task shorter. My lungs fill and slowly release a breath as I place myself on the bed.

I can practically feel my bones settling into their usual groves in my bed I'd made in my time here. This sunken pit is the most comfortable place in the world right now, just as it was at home in my own bed. It's nice to know at least something follows me wherever I go.

With a creak, the end table drawer is pulled open, and I spot the textbook tucked in the far corner. Flicking through the edges of the pages, I retrace what I'd read and catch up to where I've left off. While not an introduction to Elven history as a whole, the text offered archives of Braiewood's history. Still, plenty of significance lies in this book. Until sunset, I traverse the text, chronologically coordinated for my reading pleasure.

The tavern was strangely quiet this morning, with few people in the dining hall and neither of my usual coworkers to chat with. This at least meant work was slow, which I don't mind. I've been tending to the two patrons at their tables while Kenrik manned the bar. Though, earlier the tavern was empty for so long that I'd kept up with housekeeping in a few available rooms. With some light cleaning in the tavern between serving orders, nothing has been nearly as strenuous as the day prior.

With just the bar occupied yet again and the dining hall clean, Kenrik slides me the only remaining room key. At this rate, once I finish this I'll just be standing by in my room in case any patrons arrive. A series of small clicks follow me down the hall with every step, stopping abruptly as I reach the door. The key slides in with ease, and I unlock it on the first try; a rarity despite having more than enough experience in such a simple task.

A soft sensation grazes my fingertips before curling around the wooden handle of my feather duster. I draw it from my apron pocket and begin trailing along the shelves and corners. The bedding is replaced and the floor swept, and before long the room is ready to be occupied once more.

Only two steps into the dining hall and an occupied booth catches my eye. I fetch my notepad from another pocket and make haste. As I grow closer something feels familiar. The patron facing me is a lovely young lady, with hair as buoyant as her personality. Now nearby, I recognize her.

"Arani!" I gleam. She snaps her attention to me, giving me a smile after a brief look of shock.

"Elaine! Good afternoon," she greets me.

I put myself between her and the other patron at the head of the booth. As soon as I am between the two the other patron's neck cranes to me. I glance over to find that she'd been sitting with Hidorah, who had been absent from work until now. A look of mutual understanding forms on each of our faces.

"Good to see that you're alive, Hidorah," I chuckle.

"More than alive, I'd say," he alludes.

"But not enough to come into work?" I ask. Crossing my arms and wedging the pad of paper in my elbow.

"W-well, you see," He stammers. "We'll get our lunch orders put in and you can catch up when you get back," he shrugs.

By the time I return doing exactly that it seems Hidorah hasn't found a good reason for his absense at work. Instead, he offers me a seat beside him. As he pats the booth seat, I glance around at the otherwise empty tavern. There is no reason I can't join them, I'll just take my lunch break now anyway. I take a seat beside Hidorah and across Arani in the booth.

"So how do you two know one another?" I finally ask. I shoot a glance at both of them before fixing my gaze on Arani once more. They both speak at once, with all of their words becoming a garbled mess in each of my ears.

"We were friends in school," Hidorah quickly recounts.

Arani rolls her eyes, and smirks. She lets out a chuckle before speaking, "Hidorah and I were romantic partners at our academy,"

"That can't be true! I'm absolutely shocked," I gasp, giving her a small giggle.

"I know, he doesn't seem like my type!" She teases, giving Hidorah's shoulder a pat across the table.

"I mean about Hidorah going to school!" I burst into laughter, with Arani quickly joining in.

"Aren't you guys just the cutest pals," Hidorah swoons, "Would you knock it off! You guys are just jealous I'm magic!" his attitude shifts.

"Okay, okay. Yes, we should hear you out. Tell us more," My voice drops and steadies as I shift focus.

"Alright, finally," Hidorah scoffs. He juts his hand over the table, palm up. I watch strip after strip of his bandages peel away until his pale palm is exposed. Across his hand was a tapered scar. I take his hand, pulling it closer to get a better look. I subdue my initial flinch backward as I feel how much colder his hands are than mine. The scar is pale and a bit puffy, raised just above the surrounding skin. It seems as if it had skipped scabbing over entirely, strangely enough.

My expression must've been intriguing since Arani goes for a look after I pull away. "And... This happened yesterday?" Arani asks to clarify. Hidorah and I both assure her it was yesterday and a deep cut at that.

It doesn't take much to convince her. Hidorah's hand is abandoned by both of us and sits in the center of the table. Arani braces a hand on her bag's strap before pulling it off her shoulder on the booth seat with a quiet thud. She pulls something from it, with the bag's fabric slowly collapsing on itself as she draws it further out. A book's thick spine weighs heavy in her hand and tips her palm as it is set on the tabletop.

Beside Hidorah's upturned palm was a weathered wine-red cover, gilded with slim spirals and curls around the book's border. Arani cracks open the cover to the first yellowed page, where it revealed itself to be a book on healing magic. She scrolls through a few scarcely inked pages before reaching a table of contents. She traces her fingers down and hovers over two notable sections; "Process" and "Properties".

While she flicks through the book finding what she needs, I check on our food. Sure enough, everything is ready. The plates set onto the table with a small clink and I catch Arani still searching through the book.

"Healing is a basic restoration spell that can save your life in a dire situation, especially when..." Arani whispers before falling to a hush, still trailing her finger beneath every sentence in the thick paragraph.

"Spontaneous or unintended healing magic occurs mostly as the body's natural self-preservation, and often from a variety of emotional triggers,"

"The process of non-individual healing magic involves a transfer of energy from one life form to another," Even with my view of the book tilted, I manage to read this as Arani skims through paragraphs of content.

"Tsk, no," she mutters, continuing to flick through the pages. Only a small chunk of pages further in, we reach the "Properties" section. She is silent for a moment as her eyes glance over the page. I pick at my food, as do the others while she reads.

"Hidorah, tell me if any of this sounds familiar," she says, finally looking up from the book to Him. They each give a nod before Arani continues.

"This one might be obvious, but how were your energy levels after this happened?"

"I was definitely fatigued, ready to rest for sure," he says.

"I figured, and that's mainly for cases where the healer is not the target for the restoration spell. I just thought I would ask," she shrugs.

"What about your temperature?" She asks.

"Hot flashes, sometimes I'd feel unreasonably hot. Maybe even feverish," Hidorah claims.

"Here's a strange one, though I'm not exactly sure how to ask," Arani glances up from the page to him.

"Can you tell me anything about the room's lighting when it happened?" she pries.

My attention is pulled from the book to Hidorah's response. We make eye contact, and my eyes widen ever so slightly. My mind is drawn back to the small golden orbs I saw that I had dismissed prior.

"That is strange..." Hidorah draws a breath in, "But now that you mention it, I did see lots of golden light in the kitchen as I washed the blood from my hand,"

"I thought it was just me; that maybe I was on the verge of fainting," I explain.

"Healing magic is typically displayed as gold and orange hues," Arani explains. "With exemptions from concealing magic or abnormalities in the caster of course," she adds on.

"So... Is it normal for Hidorah to discover magic so late in development?" I ask, "Forgive me, I'm not sure at what age elves generally discover their magical capabilities,"

"Oh! Well, magic can sprout at any point in life, but its power level is scaled to the user's age and experience," she tells me.

"You make it seem as if it's more of a skill than a gift," I say.

"Because it is; one's magic potential is hardly influenced by their genetics after being determined to have the capability," she states.

My brows raise, and my perception of magic users shifts.

"I take it they don't teach that in Asteria?" She gleans.

I shake my head.

"So... What's next?" Hidorah asks.

"How do I hone this magic, or even tap into it, or..." Hidorah rambles.

"Well right now you're weak, and you should rest at least a couple of days before we try anything else. Contact me then," She explains.

Arani has finished her food, and so have I. I take our plates, and by the time I return to our table, she is gone. Hidorah pokes at his food with his fork crooked and loose in his bandaged hand. "Mmm," he groans, before deciding to scrap the bandage entirely.

"You're leaving in a few hours, right?" Hidorah asks.

"Not leaving but done with work yes," I tell him. Only a few hours. I already felt so exhausted. Bouts of dizziness and headaches have peppered my past few days. The desert heat, or an illness coming on, perhaps.

"You know what I mean."

"Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering if you've got any plans out and about," Hidorah shrugs.

"I might stay in and read a bit, but I'm not heading into town," I shake my head.

"Boring," he yawns.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't leave often, Marietta practically had to drag you to Mercester,"

"I just went to Braiewood! I don't need anything, why must I leave again?"

"There's lots of entertainment; traveling shows, bands, merchants, we could even head to another tavern!" Hidorah proposes.

"It just seems so risky with my status," I tell him.

"Marietta and I travel all the time, and she had just as much influence in Aramoor as you do in Asteria. Don't worry so much,"

"Well I'm sorry I'm not Marietta," I laugh. "She gets back tomorrow, so at least you won't be waiting long until you have some companionship,"

Hidorah scoffs. "That's true, she's much more fun than you anyway,"

"Maybe not tonight, Hidorah. Another time," I leave it at that, taking his now empty plate.

Marietta's return is sooner than expected as I hear her voice in the dining hall just as I wake. I let out a yawn, peeking through my curtains only to find the sun had not yet risen. I take a few wobbly steps out of my room. My hair is still a tangled mess and my nightgown twisted and wrinkled all across my body. I pull away a lock matted to my cheek with drool, now knowing the extra sleep was not worth it. My bare feet smack against the wooden floor with every heavy step.

Marietta has taken a seat at the bar with Hidorah, her posture far more slouched than what was typical of her. As I walk behind them neither of them pays me any mind with each of them focused on something in front of them. Just for a moment, I catch Marietta with a pencil in her hand and a book flat on the table. I wasn't aware Marietta kept a journal, but it seems fitting for her.

The early air was cold against my skin, only making me that much more eager to get to the bathhouse. A hot bath both clears my mind and cleans my body. With my towel as secure as it can be around my chest, I make my way back into the empty tavern. Despite the steps from the entrance to my room being less than what I could count on my fingers, I can't get back fast enough.

By the time my hair is dry and my outfit is ready the sun is peeking just over the horizon. I step into the dining hall, now with a couple of early patrons already seated. Marietta and Hidorah haven't budged from where they sat prior.

"Still nothing?" Marietta asks.

"No, not that I've been testing much aside from a couple of old scrapes and bruises," Hidorah says.

"Welcome back!" I finally formally greet her. "How was your trip?"

"Oh, wonderful!" she gushes, recounting her time there. She mentions beautiful scenery, filled with unique agriculture and terrain. She mentions the use of glass, crystal, and polished stone in their architecture, and the luxury of the city itself.

She sifts through a new cross-body bag, pulling out a small mesh pouch.

"I brought you back a gift!" she exclaims, passing over the bag. In my palm it became clear it contains two flower petals. Various small splotches of light and dark green over a white edge.

"They were developed to aid stamina. I noticed you've been feeling drained more than usual and I figure this could help in case you've got an illness coming on," She says. She outstretches her arms, and I don't hesitate to hug her.

"That's so thoughtful, thank you, Marietta!" I tell her.

"Drop them in a hot bath to release their medicinal properties,"

I nod, tucking them in my apron pocket.

"Hidorah, I picked you up some healing herbs, but hopefully you won't need them anymore," she says, gesturing to his hand.

Beyond this, our day at work is like any other. We adjust back to our usual schedule, happy to have my workload lighter than what it's been. None of us have a day off for the next week, and for that long nothing in our routine changes. Another week in the tavern, a few familiar faces and plenty of new ones. 

[thisisalltherewillbe]

I painted her

I'll start with a one-second glimpse into the sex: My right hand gripping her right hip on the heel grazing the top of her ass while my fingers gain leverage on the smooth skin over her hip bones. I'm currently driving my dick into her, from tip to taint. We both know the fit is extraordinary. It almost feels tacky to mention it. Something about being 6 inches taller, 60 pounds heavier, sixteen years older makes it even more perfect. It's legal. She wants it. I want it. She moans, just like she has every time, as I fill her from the inside out, I press my hips into hers, her hips into the pillow, the pillow into the mattress, and, I assume, through the crust, mantel, and core of the earth, and back out the other side, alerting seismographs in the Indian Ocean, sending automated tsunami warning messages to coastal towns in South Africa and Western Australia. Donate to the Koalas here. She throws her head back onto my neck, her hair drapes my shoulder, grazing my ear. I squeeze her left tit, and wrap my right hand around her throat, as we finish the forward thrust together. We inhale and pull our waists back in synchrony, my dick gliding slowly out. Our open mouths connect in some strange mashup of a kiss, a lick, a shared breath, and a tiny hiding spot, away from the world, and in a moment without want. The skin over my pelvis and abs brushing the small of her back from the tailbone up. My inside of my right thigh squeezes her slender leg, realigning our frames. Yes, that was one second of our sex. I wish I had the time to write more, but honestly, it went on and on. And on. And again.

And we didn't just fuck.

We became friends. Seriously.

We went on some dates. (A couple great ones, actually.)

I tried to cook her homemade pasta. It came out soggy and sad.

We took a lot of pictures. And videos. One video I edited to be black and white, which made it more erotic and less "porny I think." The best clip, in my opinion, is one in a bedroom hallway, adjacent to a full-length mirror on the door. I'm standing behind her, sliding my dick over her wet labia. She arches her back and bends her knees to set it in exactly the right place. [Out of frame, and lost to history save for this document and my memory, her toes curl and she lifts her back with the bottom of her foot.] Later, I threw her on the bed, kissed her body, and fucked in every position I could think of while remaining face-to-face. Don't get me wrong, the sex was out of this world, but the sweet spot, we both came to know, is when I hit it from behind. We got to eventually: I held her across the body in a spooning position, fucking her while she giggled, moaned, gasped, and buried her head in the pillowcase. I pulled out when Houston counted down from ten and shot the first rope past her ear and onto the floor. The rest landed between her shoulder blades, puddling in the channel of her spine.

I painted her. Well, I painted a portrait from a picture of her toned, smooth, naked body lying on my sheets. I'd post a photo, but I think it's wiser I don't give you any revealing information about this person. I'll tell you she's in her early twenties. She's petite with light hair, a fit body, a cute face, and a small but round ass. God, I want to include so many other great details (coughfrecklescough), but let's try to keep it anonymous. Anyway, I'm proud of that painting.

Can I describe her? How about a list of words? Cute, funny, intelligent, sweet, goofy, beautiful, sexy, awkward, charming, loving, curious, and sensitive. She has great taste, excellent style, and apt I could write a story on each of those points, but we're here to talk about sex.

She was wild. The times we had together were wild.

We fucked outside on a June night in perfect weather as fireflies started to light the back yard. Her handprint remained on the porch's glass until I washed it the next week.

There's more to the story, but that's what seems right for Tumblr.

This is just my way of [not] saying hello.

And [obviously] goodbye.

God it was hot, @livvinitt.

[jessielefey]

if i'm gonna die / i wish that i would just die

I have a goose egg on my temple, from when I blacked out and collapsed on the way to the bathroom last night. The second time I collapsed.

(((I don't even really know what I hit, but I remember hitting it.)))

The first time, I borked up my knee.

((My shoulder's bruised too, but I don't remember how that happened at all. Maybe when botked my knee?)))

I mostly made it before I made a mess to anything (but me obvs) but now my squat is unstable and that's like the second most important posture in my life, so that's probably gonna cascade fail later.

In case anyone was wondering how I'm doing which is both "bad" and "nothing I can take to the doctor". You'd think "blacking out twice on the way to the bathroom" would be an actionable symptom but it's not, I've tried.

I'm getting worse and I don't know *why* or from what or what to do but just... keep waiting until I get better like I always do or finally get to die, and I'm so. I'm so tired of this. I'm not even suicidal anymore I just want it to be over because haunting my own life like a ghost is just objectively hurting everyone.

(((I missed L's birthday. I wasn't even surprised. She probably wasn't either.)))

I am so bored of having nothing to talk about that's not bitching, but saying nothing leaves everyone with no context and it just looks like I'm ignoring you/them.

I'm not. I just literally don't even have words half the time, even if I wanted to speak which I don't.

(((I just want it to be over, either way, I give up, I don't care anymore.)))

Hope or optimism has never felt so much like a psychotic delusion designed to keep me placid; I remember last week feeling really content that I could do the things I needed done. I just had a good feeling.

None of them were. Just enough to not get in trouble when the landlords came in *again*. Can't trust my good feelings, only the premonitions of doom but without the power to do anything about it.

(((Just lie down and go back to sleep. Put on another video. Read a fic if your eyes can focus. Stare at the wall if they can't.)))

I feel like I'm being tortured, except that would at least have some meaning, but I'm broke from it anyway. Tag this shit #mind break

(((Just washed the sheets and they're already filthy again.)))

And the doctors would tell me there's nothing wrong. There's nothing wrong, there's nothing wrong, I'm just dying like a gothic horror female protagonist. Dying of wasting, dying of a frail constitution, dying of hysteria maybe. (At least consumption would be Something Real.)

Just let me finish one thing. Just one. Any one. I'm so close. I've been working so hard with the negative spoons I have, and more things fall apart, but I'm still so close. Just one, *please*.

(((It was such a waste to save me, should've let me die when I was still a person.)))

[daisynik7]

DARLING WIFE!!!!!!!!!<3 HI HOW ARE YOU, i’m doing good just woke up from a toasty slumber in your pretty brain, that roomba is working overtime (yes, that was deliberate. no, i can’t stop thinking about him (O_o) anyways HI SWEET ANGEL I MISSED YOU again 🫶🏼

been busy cleaning house and doing laundry to welcome New Year’s, relishing in freshly washed sheets, + loungewear, and being freshly showered i need an trophy for not immediately falling asleep the second my skin touched the warm blankets 🫠 

christmas was well too! nothing to extravagant (i’m still over the t-day turkey lmao) just been cooking korean dishes and banchan (side dishes) with the family to clean out the fridge, and because i can’t live without rice 🥲 how about you? any special dishes or sweets you’re willing to share? 

your lovely words through the internet mean more to me than you may realize and i wholeheartedly appreciate the time you’ve taken out to check in on me, i’m drowning in that warm fuzzy feeling and it appears you’re the source, whatever have i done to find such a sweetheart like you🥹 

you’ve done incredible in 2023, and i’m so excited to see what you do in 2024 and honoured to have you backing me!!! as always, continue to treat yourself with kindness and patience, acknowledge the things in your life that is diverting attention from your health and well-being, and remove it or postpone progress until you’re able. 🫶🏼

and i 100% agree with the resolutions thing! the world doesn’t stop, but we can and of course, that isn’t a negative thing. even for a moment to stop and admire our success on all scales, it’s so necessary and i’m glad that is something you’re starting to do for yourself, that is something i should be allowing myself:) a very cozy, snuggly, and healthy brain you have 😌

this is a little shorter than i’m wanting, i’m worried my tears are going to short-circuit my keyboard, YOU’RE TOO CUTE STOP IT 😭😭😭 no don’t. you’re a source of safety and comfort, an absolute angel and i’m so happy to be here with you to lean on, cheer each other on, and supply a little extra support when the other needs<3 

end the last day of the year with a bang even if it’s something simple and intimate, it all counts! i’m just as blessed to have met you, it’s not something i think about often but i guess i really am favoured for this to happen 🥹 

i love you so so dearly my pretty daisy, thank you for being you i hope today is a good day for you! 🤍 Happy New Year's Eve!

SNOOKUMS! 😭 I'm doing fine, I'm so happy to hear from you and I'm glad you were able to take such a peaceful slumber in my brain! I miss you too, sweetie pie but I hope you're taking all the rest you need to start 2024 right!

you've been so busy! so proud of you for being productive even at the end of 2023. I turned my brain off about two weeks ago LOL. I am handing you the biggest, shiniest trophy (hand-crafted) because you are a STAR. ✨

never mentioning that bird again, don't worry. ;) and all of that sounds delicious (especially with rice)! sounds like you're well stocked for the start of the year! wish you could send some my way, but I will eat it with you in spirit hehe. we had the standard assortment of both filipino dishes (courtesy of my auntie), and americanized dishes (I made spinach did lol) and it was all very tasty!

thank you again for your wisdom, the most important reminder you give me is to be kind to myself, because I don't do that nearly enough as I should. All of us need to be kinder to ourselves!

did you do anything special to ring in the new year? I didn't do anything myself (stayed in, which is what I prefer), but we watched a local countdown on the tv.

ahhhh you are way too sweet to me, thank you as always for your heartfelt messages, love, and support. I never take your kindness for granted and appreciate you more than I can express in words. I hope you have a prosperous and peaceful 2024. I love you thea! ♥️

[icanonlybe-human]

Today had wins and losses.

I was more productive than usual which is something I’ve been struggling with at work. I clarified with a girl at work who I know has mental health issues that if it seemed like I was angry at her I wasn’t. I’m angry with the fact that even though all levels of bosses that are above me agree that I need help this week, I know I’m not going to get it. Bel only helps on Fridays at the last possible second. Except everything I need help with is due tomorrow and Wednesday. And I’m annoyed that no-one has noticed that I’m not getting help when I ask for it.

I had to take my spare diazepam at work because I was spiralling and my brain was convinced that all the girls in the office are conspiring against me. So yay for diazepam, but I also thought that my brain was going away from the paranoid stage. Apparently not.

I didn’t say much at lunch, but at least the rest of the girls actually sat with me and my work friend today. Sometimes it feels like they go out of their way to not sit with us. Or maybe that’s the paranoia. Probably the paranoia… right?

I laughed a couple of times, in the office and at Ju’s place, which is good. The only problem is that I can’t tell the difference between my real laugh and my mask laugh anymore. Maybe because it’s so rare for my real laugh to actually come out.

I ignored my brain and actually contributed to the meeting we had today, which felt good. But we also had to leave 50 minutes late which wasn’t great. And I think the paranoia was setting in then too because I could’ve sworn people were deliberately ignoring me.

I washed my sheets and changed my bed. And I’m really proud of myself for doing that, even if it took 2 days to do, because the sheets haven’t been changed since before December. Like I said, hygiene that other people can’t see isn’t kept up as well as it should be when you’re in a manic depressive phase.

But the biggest downside is that I’ve relapsed into the self harm through picking again. There are certain areas where I hate there being hair. I saw a lump that looked like an ingrown hair and just… dug. I got the hair out but kept going anyway. I don’t even know why. So now there is a full-on hole in my skin from me using tweezers. I know it’s not good for me, I know I need to stop. But I can’t.

My current control level, is me holding onto a steering wheel that is no longer connected to anything and the car is speeding down a hill with no breaks towards a cliff.

Sorry if this post is a bit everywhere, I guess it’s an accurate representation of my mind right now.

[gaypornvideoswebsite]

three poems actually

Bigfoots, Lochness Monsters, and Frames of Love

Someone showed me a picture of “bigfoot” or “sasquatch” and I said, oh hey, I know him that’s Jerry. And they said what are you talking about, and I said that’s Jerry we had sex in those woods. That’s just Jerry, just like how I remember him, loved in brief constant motion.

And they’ll say how could that be, why would a beast like this be in the woods like that, they do not live there, they do not belong! And cryptozoologists will ponder on beings out of place and show me image after image of our silhouettes in the only places where gay sex was possible, our heads above placid lakes, rooftops covering industrial graveyards, corners darkened just for us.

I don’t know if Jerry is still alive but from time to time I still see footprints that don’t belong to predator or prey, but instead to two bodies held so that tight four feet became one. Flattened mud rememberances where our sides met the earth become terrors in folklore, of something they were already afraid of.

Notes from a sober tryst

It happened again, too-warm bed two-warm-bodies. I peel myself away. I have to pee. I have to drink water.

The closet door is ajar just so, I noticed it earlier.

Thank goodness, he leaves tomorrow, it makes it much easier for when I push the door open the rest of the way and I see myself, rows and rows of me,

dresser drawers full of my skin.

Thank goodness, it was too much anyway, the feeling of being held like rope along a mountain side. I could be the cliff and I crumble.

You asked me where the river comes from and where it ends? Which direction does it flow? I tell you about the unmoving bodies they find on the bed every year instead.

a quick worry or meditation

You wash your bedsheets once a week. Pulling them erotic from the tight corners of your mattress is a second undressing. Throw a pod in, feel bad about it. You’ll get laundry sheets next time.

You stretch in the morning sun because you feel obligated. It does feel good, but you wonder if it’s picturesque. If this moment was captured on film would it serve cunt? You don’t own a tripod out of self-preservation, but more often than not you’re outside yourself anyway.

You do a sun salutation in a non-racist way.

When pride month started people were on edge. Finality was palpable, being jaded was a balm. You’re scared too, but you’re not surprised. In Toronto you felt it too, that first feeling of crossing into Church and Wellesley now sun-faded. The leather boy advertising outside of Sailor hit on you and made you give him your number. Eating a vegan burger in an Amsterdam window-patio, you were your very own pride commercial. Make sure the sidewalk sees your good side.

You pass by the fetish gear store because they carry sexy Trudeau merch. Gear refuses to flatter the contours of your body anyway, a damning judgment of not enough self-flagellation or betterment. Luckily, you exist just outside the YMCA low-income support program range, a cosmic something or other. Cruising isn’t your speed anymore anyway.

You expect more out of people who’ve experienced ego death. You pick at your cuticles. Thank god you still bleed.

i have not been writing much lately but as pride month wraps and the banks can hate us again i can share an old poem i wrote about gay sex

[red-dead-scribbles-ff]

Downtime and a Bath

A/N: Here we go again. Get ready for some awkward flirting, fluff, a lil humor. Oh- and Arthur getting a well-deserved head massage because he needs it. Partially proofread because well- I'm pretty stupid... and blind.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Warnings: Partial Nudity

Summary: You take a part time job at a hotel near camp, hoping to find some leads on potential jobs for the Gang. Being called away from your normal duties to give a gentleman a Deluxe bath, the last person you expect to find in the tub is the Gang's enforcer, Arthur Morgan.

“Mabel? Mabel!”

The sound of the name bounces off the walls of the hallway in the Millis Hotel, and your actions come to a stop as you place a small stack of folded sheets onto the bed of one of the rooms.

You hear the clicks of a pair of shoes coming closer before a woman appears in the doorway looking rather strained.

“Ethel?” You speak up in question as the woman came to a stop next to the bed.

“Can… Well, can I ask you a favor?” She fiddled with the small pendant on her necklace as she spoke. She sounded nervous, it was a bit off-putting. 

“I suppose,” You respond calmly, continuing to place the new linens onto the mattress.

“My boy’s come down sick, and, well… I need to make a trip to the Doctor’s to get him medicine before it closes for the evenin. There’s just one more gentleman who ordered a Deluxe- is there anyway you could- take him, for me, so I can make the trip?”

You watched her for a moment, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth quietly.

“I wouldn’t be askin unless I was desperate, Mabel.” 

You had been working under the alias, Mabel, since you’d taken the job. It was something you knew the boys did when they went fishing in town. You figured it might come in handy for you just as well.

The Gang had arrived maybe three weeks ago, camping a few miles out from town. On Dutch’s orders, he wanted everyone to be on their best behavior while he and Hosea scoped out some leads. 

It took a lot of convincing, but you’d managed to convince them into allowing you the opportunity to start scouting for leads on your own for the first time. Taking a part-time position at the Hotel, you had plenty of opportunities to snoop. 

“How did he seem?” You ask hesitantly.

You hadn’t given a guest a Deluxe bath since an incident that happened around a week ago. 

You were an employee of the Hotel, not a workin girl. This individual didn’t seem to get the message and was handsy the entire time. You’d slapped him across the face the second his hand squeezed your backside while you were washing his opposite arm and well… The guest ultimately didn’t have to pay for his deluxe bath after you walked out. 

You’d gotten the manager to give you some time off from giving the Deluxe baths for a little while. But just as so, he was quite angry, and as a result, didn’t want you giving the baths to begin with. You filled the baths and prepped them, but aside from that, you managed the hotel and took care of the cleanliness of the establishment as well as tended to all the rooms.

“I only popped in for a second but he seemed nice.” She gave you a small shrug, seemingly still on her toes in wait for your answer. “I’ll reimburse you for it, of course!” She was quick to add, making you feel the least bit sympathetic.

She was a single mom with a young boy. She had told you she’d been a working girl over at the Saloon for a couple years before falling pregnant with her son. She’d left the Saloon for a job at the Hotel where she was less likely to have to deal with johns so often.

“Don’t worry about the money, Ethel.” You sigh, glancing towards the door. “Yer boy needs it. Just- if you could help me with the upstairs linens tomorrow, I’d really appreciate it.” You explain quietly as you place the last few pairs onto the bed.

You meet her eyes, seeing a warmth blossom in her expression as she sighs in relief.

“Thank you, Mabel.” She grasps your hands tightly in hers before making a hasty exit. Not a moment later she pops back in. “I already told him one of us would be back soon so just head in, he’s waiting.”

You smile and nod in response before she finally leaves.

You take in a deep breath as you eye the doorway before removing your coat, placing it on the basket on the bed. It would all be waiting there for you afterwards.

You adjust your dress, positioning the layers of fabric accordingly before buttoning some of the fasteners of your collar. You just hoped this one wasn’t handsy.

You walk out of the room and head down the hall towards the end where the bath room was.

Not giving much thought to wait a moment after knocking, you open the door and walk in before quickly turning to close it.

“Apologies, Mister. Hope you don’t mind if I take over things for ya?”

“Y/N?”

Your name leaves the stranger’s lips; your actual name, not your alias. You stand up straight before turning around quickly at the recognition of the rough voice.

“Mr. Morgan?!” You blurt out as you meet a pair of wide eyes belonging to none other than Dutch’s right hand man and enforcer - Arthur Morgan - in the bathtub. 

He looked just as surprised as you and seemed completely frozen.

You turned away quickly, averting your eyes as you held up a hand to prevent your wandering eyes from tempting another look at the man.

“I-I’m so sorry Mister-”

“What're you doing here?” He speaks up, preventing your stuttering from drawing on any longer.

“I- I work here, Arthur.” You attempt to swallow the lump in your throat as you look at the wallpaper for several long seconds, your hand now lowered as you collect your composure. “Dutch’n Hosea let me.”

It got quiet and you bit down on your inner cheek as you prayed for him to break the ice.

“I uh,” He trails off. 

“The girl you was gonna see had to leave early.” You explain further. “M’sorry, Arthur. I understand if you’d wanna be reimbursed, I’ll cover the charge.” You chance meeting his eyes for a brief time, seeing his brow knit together. 

He gave a small nervous chuckle before looking away for a moment, arms crossed awkwardly across his bare chest. “Don’t worry bout the money, y/n. I- um…” He cleared his throat, eyes tracing the rim of the tub before they graced the perimeter of the room and then finally returned to you.

“You already paid her, though.” You argue gently.

Part of you felt terrible. Here was a man you knew worked himself to the point of exhaustion. And you up and interrupted probably his first taste of relaxation in- who knows how long.

“S’fine.” He cleared his throat again, looking around the tub’s rim before meeting your eyes once more.

Gnawing lightly on the corner of your mouth you glance to the side before attempting to clear your own throat.

“I um… I mean I can do the- I’ll give you- I mean if you’re okay with it, I’ll…” You could feel the heat rising into your cheeks and onto your neck and chest even, as you pictured it. 

The job was not glamorous; having to soap up your hands and rub a bunch of dirty men all over until they were clean- after a while, it wasn’t all too bad. They were strangers after all. The standard wasn’t incredibly high, and you didn’t have to lay eyes on most of them ever again.

But this was- different to say the least. You knew Arthur. Fairly well. You had for a few years now. You weren’t exactly close, but you confided in each other on the rare occasion when a bad day arose. 

You couldn’t think of a situation more uncomfortable in your anticipation of his response.

“Oh, um,” A look of surprise on his face followed your proposal. “Well,” He seems to contemplate your offer for a few seconds. “I-I don’t wanna impose,” He swallowed before shaking his head, brow gently knit together. His own cheeks were red from what you assumed was the heat of the bath water, but maybe it was embarrassment. “I appreciate the offer, darlin. But trust me when I say you’ll regret offerin’ washing this,” He laughs awkwardly as he shrugs his shoulders and looks down at himself for a time. “I smell pretty bad right now.”

The statement didn’t surprise you. If anything, you didn’t expect Arthur to take up your offer to begin with. But you still felt like there was more to say regardless.

“Well,” You thought the situation over quietly before meeting his eyes to see he still had his arms crossed. His shoulders look a bit tense still, but not as bad as when you first walked in.

You were thankful for the amount of soap that had been added to the bath water. It was cloudy enough to completely obscure him below the waterline. 

“Would you be against it if I washed your hair?” You gesture to him lightly before subconsciously mirroring his crossed arms with your own. “You can tend to everything else. At least you’ll get some of your money’s worth.”

Despite him always having been kind to you, you still didn’t like the idea of cheating him out of money on account of this.

He breathes out silently and seems to look you over quietly before pushing his eyes up to meet yours. 

Small changes in his expression made it hard for you to look away as you watched quietly. He seemed to be battling himself on his answer. Part of you could see that clearly. 

Eventually his expression relaxed and he seemed to settle, somewhat, on an answer.

“I do appreciate it, I do.” He gave you a small smile. “But I don’t wanna impose, miss. It’s fine, really.”

You found it difficult to admit to yourself that his answer disappointed you a bit. Why, you weren’t sure. It’s not like you fawn over the man, but he was one of the sweetest out of most of the men in camp. He didn’t look at you like a notch to put on his belt like some of them did.

But… Maybe there was a reason he didn’t look at you like that. You wouldn’t consider yourself self loathing or critical of your appearance, but you didn’t believe yourself to be too much to look at. Ethel was pretty; not that Arthur could’ve known what the bath girl would look like, but you didn’t blame him for turning you down. 

You also knew about his previous love, Mary. She was mentioned on occasion, but whenever it was brought up, Arthur always denied any current relationship - always said it was a long time ago… You weren’t sure what that meant. It didn’t take a genius to figure out just how hard Arthur had fallen for her. 

Everything aside… Part of you didn’t blame him for turning you down. 

“I understand.” The response left your lips as you grasped at the fabric of your dress at your sides, giving him a small smile. “My apologies for disturbing you, Mr. Morgan.” You took hold of the door knob as you stepped backwards. “Job requires I stay close til you're done, so… I’ll be just outside the door if you need anything. Give a holler.”

You did your best to meet his eyes with an expression that painted a picture of easygoingness and understanding.

He gave you a small, lopsided smile, eyes slightly crinkled as he gave a small nod.

Stepping out of the room, you closed the door quietly before letting your forehead bump against it with a sigh. 

You felt disheveled in your own skin somehow as you turned to rest your back against the wall next to the door. 

Rocking back and forth on your heels, your eyes follow the artistic curves of the patterned wallpaper that lined the hallway wall across from you.

Part of you was surprised that Arthur didn’t know why you were here. Granted, you’d discussed it in private with both Dutch and Hosea. It took a couple of conversations to get them to give you the okay to go ahead with your idea. 

As far as you knew, none of the other girls had tried making money or getting information this way. Convincing Susan to let you try this method was the hardest part. Trying to convince her that you could bring in more money like this was… difficult to day the least. 

Given that you could have made the likes of fifteen dollars a day if you spent all your time trying to catch men in town - this brought money in on the long term as opposed to the short term.

That work was exhausting. You hated it. While you wouldn’t say you were bullied into it, there was some pressure from Susan, given the other girls participated regularly in bringing money in that way when not doing chores around camp. 

After having a close call with a man who was less than gentle, you’d cooked up the idea for this job. You seemed to have a knack for run-ins with less then kind men. You knew it was part of why Susan let you try this.

As the minutes passed, you continued to likely rock on your heels as you waited. Your hands fiddle with the fabric of your apron that was over your dress. 

“Hey uh… y/n?” The call of your name from behind the door caught you off guard as you quickly looked to the entrance next to you and hesitantly pushed off the wall. 

Your fingers rubbed against the palm of your hand as you paused at grasping the knob before breathing out quietly as you turned it and let the door swing open a crack.

“Yes?” You didn’t lean in too far, only enough to better hear him.

“I um…” You couldn’t see his face from your gaze on the door as you waited patiently, brow knit in uncertainty. “Do you- erm… Do you mind-”

His words were broken and muddled by how he muttered them under his breath and you finally decided to lean a bit further around the door frame to see him staring at the water with a firmly knit brow.

His eyes were quick to meet yours and he cursed quietly under his breath before glancing to the side for a time. 

His expression was strained, something that upset you. He was supposed to be relaxing. It seemed either your presence or the situation wasn’t helping the matter. Not waiting too much longer, you decide to try and help things along.

“I’ve had a few returning customers compliment my head massages,” You try to state the fact casually, catching his attention as he met your eyes. “But if you’d rather skip that I can just- give you a quick hair wash.” You offer.

He seemed to contemplate your words quietly before his expression relaxed and he gave a small smile and the tiniest shrug.

“Sure.” You’d always loved the long draw he put on the word, and the response took away your ability to hide your smile as you stepped into the room and closed the door behind you.

“To be fair,” You walked over to where there was a small stool near the fireplace, pulling it up behind the tub where Arthur was. “You’re paying me, and the money is going back to the Gang regardless,” You’d just take it out of your cut. The Gang needed it more. “So its a lil less awkward if you think about it.”

He laughed gently as he sat up, a small squeak emitting from the tub as he did so.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

You dip a hand into the water briefly, rubbing your hands together to wet them before grabbing the bar of soap; you lather it up in your hands for a few seconds.

“Okay,” You hum quietly before using one hand to grasp lightly at the hair on the back of Arthur’s head, gently ushering him to tilt his head down a tad.

“Just until I get your hair soaped up, then you can sit up.” You reassure him.

“Whatever y’need me to do, just say the word.” He chuckled, the smile just visible out of the corner of your eye as you were positioned just so behind and adjacent to him. 

You take the bar of soap to his hair for only a brief time, rubbing it along some of the longer hair at the back of his head between your hands before setting the bar of soap aside. 

After ushering his head back up, you begin to lightly rake your hands through his hair and along his scalp, scratching gently to get up any dirt and grim.

It was quiet for a couple minutes as you did so; you occasionally caught Arthur tracing the sides of the tub with his hands as he seemed to try and occupy himself.

“What do men usually- talk about while here? When they’re getting bathed?” Arthur suddenly asked, his voice leaking with amusement as he tried to seemingly break the ice.

You slowed your actions for a brief moment as you thought over the question.

“Well- the talkers usually ask if I’m spoken for.” You start.

Arthur chuckles before nodding his head.

“I don’t doubt that.”

“But some just… Like to rant.” You shrug, using both hands to usher Arthur to turn his head away from you briefly. 

You run your hands forward along the sides of his head, scratching lightly along his scalp up to his temples before running your hands over the hair, pulling most of the bubbles and foam back away from his face. 

“Talk about their jobs, money, their wives… While I’ve had my share of bad apples, most men just… Need someone to listen.” You shrug gently, ushering his head to face forward again as you continue.

“Yeah?” The response was quiet, almost seemingly distracted, but you paid it little mind.

“Mm,” You hum quietly in response before getting a bit more soap on your hands, taking a small glance at Arthur’s face, seeing him looking down- or were his eyes closed? You weren’t sure, but now was the time to sneak in the other half of your job- which was getting the customer to relax. Something you knew Arthur desperately needed.

Quietly getting to your feet so you had better leverage, you ran your soaped up hands through his hair again, and up over the top of his head before you began to apply pressure with your thumbs to his hairline, rubbing in circular motions.

You didn’t get too much of a reaction at first as you continued, eventually getting Arthur to lean back enough that his head touched the back rim of the tub, and you had the perfect position to continue.

You could clearly see his eyes closed now, and you smiled victoriously to yourself as you continued your hands down to massage the hairline along the temple areas. 

“Mm…’thought you said just a hair wash,” He mumbled quietly.

You slowed your actions, waiting to see if he’d look at you. When he didn’t, you paused your hands’ actions, flickers of nervousness starting to take their hold.

“Would you like me to stop?”

“Hell no,” He laughed before he quickly stopped and swallowed. His blue eyes opened to look up at you from where you stood behind the tub. “I-I mean… No. Um, please keep going.”

The change of tone made you smile as you slowly reestablished your pace. His eyes close again in a matter of seconds as you continue; your fingers run down to the base of his scalp before circling down around the back of his hair. 

You used your nails to lightly rake their way along his scalp at the nape of his neck earning a small grunt that was bordering enough on a moan that it made you let out an audible chuckle.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for enjoying yourself, Mister Morgan.” You chuckle once more at this response as you shake your head.

He was a funny man. You all didn’t talk all too much, but you knew enough about him that you were comfortable in his presence. He was much more reserved then the other members of the Gang.

“D’you prefer ‘Mister Morgan’ or ‘Arthur’?” You ask quietly after a moment of thinking over your previous statement. Your actions pause as you lean to the side.

“Erm… The last one.” He mumbles, seemingly choosing not to open his eyes.

“Okay,” You know your smile is detectable in your voice as you continue.

Your eyes trace along his hairline before lowering to his face as you watch him quietly with innocent curiosity and appreciation.

The sight of someone you were so used to seeing on edge, alert, and hypervigilant at times, was so foreign to you. Seeing the absence of tightness in his brow, his now relaxed and unclenched jaw, and audible, even, breathing almost seemed rewarding; something few people ever witness from ‘Dutch Van Der Linde’s ruthless enforcer’- as you’d heard him called by so many.

Just gaining his permission to be around him when he was in a considerably vulnerable state felt like some kind of accomplishment. It flattered you that he reconsidered your offer and now seemed to be enjoying himself.

Sliding your hands through his hair, you gently rake your fingers along his scalp and behind his ears, before going further down the back of his head to the nape of his neck. 

You’d managed to get a bigger reaction in that region.

You mirror your actions on both hands, using your nails to carve paths through his hair before flattening the pads of your fingers out to massage the area.

Arthur breathes out deeply through his nose, urging you to focus on the area for a minute following the reaction.

“How long you been doin’ this?” His voice was lower in pitch, hinting at his relaxed state.

“Couple weeks now.” You respond, removing one hand from his head to go for the pitcher sitting on the floor next to the tub. “As of recent, I’ve been tending to the room maintenance, but I’ve been doing Deluxes as well.”

“Any leads?” He opened his eyes, looking up to meet yours. 

You pause for a moment, bringing the empty pitcher to your lap before looking down at the object for a brief time.

“I’m not sure. Maybe. Got a couple of men staying here that’ve been talking about something that may be of interest. But until I know for sure I’m keeping the details private.”

“Well if you think you’ve got something lemme know.” He responds, pushing himself to sit up a hair before his eyes meet the pitcher. “Need me to lean back?”

“If you don’t mind,” You chuckle before coming to your feet. Dipping the jug into a pale of water sitting off to the side of the fireplace, you bring the full pitcher back to the tub and hold it in one hand before touching your other hand to Arthur’s head.

“I don’t wanna get soap in your eyes so, keep ‘em closed and lean back for me.” You chuckle, seeing he’d already gotten most of the way ready for you.

Gently bracing your hand along his forehead to block the water from his face, you pour some of the room temperature water over his hair to rid it of the soap. 

“Thanks, for this.” He spoke up. “M’feeling pretty foolish for turning you down at first.”

“S’okay.” You chuckle quietly before setting the pitcher down, running your hands back over his hair to rid it of any excess water. “S’good for you to get some downtime.

“It was your idea,” Arthur breathes out before laughing quietly to himself.

You slow your actions as you process his words, you brow knitting gently.

“It was?” 

“Yeah, you mentioned it not too long ago,” He turned to look up at you as you slowly proceeded to run your hands back through his hair, squeezing the excess water out from the ends now and again.

You met his eyes with your confused ones before racking your brain for what he was talking about. I took almost a minute before your thoughts finally rested on a particular night where the two of you had talked about sleeplessness. Arthur had been out scouting for a new location with Bill for almost a week, and when he got back, he mentioned that despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t sleep.

You’d told him to try getting a bath in town and renting a bed for the night before they moved camp.

“Arthur- that was almost a month ago,” You feel your own concern leak through in your voice.

“I know,” He sighed quietly before looking away briefly. “Was just… too busy I guess.”

“You should take better care of yourself,” You mumble gently as you continue to run your hands through his hair, more so for the hell of it then anything else. The washing part was done. “You’re no good to the Gang if you pass out from exhaustion.”

He chuckled deep in his chest before giving a small nod. “Point taken.”

You snatch a small towel from the nearby table and start to squeeze what water you could from the ends of his hair at the back of his head some more. His eyes traced back and forth from one corner of the room to another before he cleared his throat.

“How uh… How long does your shift last?” The question seemed to hang in his mouth as he slowly vocalized it, and you lowered the now damp towel onto your apron.

“Well, usually I leave around 4.”

“In the morning?” Arthur turned to face you a bit more, causing the water to slosh gently.

“Mm hm,” You nod as you begin to fiddle with the towel before quickly folding it in your lap. “I usually wait ‘til its light before heading back to camp.”

“You ain’t walkin are you?” He sat up a little bit, and you looked up to see his brow knitting together as he eyed you.

“W- I’m,” You pause, although you aren’t too sure as to why as the seconds tick by. You do walk most of the time. You didn’t want to leave a horse hitched at the hotel all day. And you couldn’t afford to pay for a stable space either. “M- Most of the time, yes.” 

You try to shrug it off before going to towel off Arthur’s hair some more, seeing his expression unchanging as you obscured half of his face in the towel, using your fingers to tussle his hair about under the fabric. 

Finally removing the towel, you meet the same expression. One that was of clear concern.

“I’m fine, Arthur.” You can’t help but laugh at his unchanged expression. “Really, I am.” You smile as you get to your feet, walking across the room to hang the towel up to dry before grabbing a couple of medium sized ones for Arthur. “It’s always nice out in the mornings, and this area ain’t so bad.”

Cradling the towels against you, you came to a stop next to the tub, meeting Arthur’s troubled gaze as he looked up at you. A smile escaped you by way of his obvious worry.

“I appreciate the concern, though.” You lean over, pressing a small kiss to his forehead. “Truly.” The act was followed almost instantly by a softening of Arthur’s expression as he looked down with a small smile before meeting your eyes again with the littlest of nods. 

“Alright, well,” He watched as you set the towels down on the stool you’d previously sat in. “If you insist.” He nodded before meeting your eyes again.

You grasp at the edges of your dress momentarily before giving him a small smile, glancing about the room.

“Anything else I can get you, Arthur?”

You watched him quietly as he processed your question. His expression began to relax and he looked down to the water before meeting your eyes again with a small shake of his head.

“No, Miss, I think I’m good.” He gave you a small smile. 

“Alright, well, you take your time gettin out. I have to go wash some linens, so I guess I’ll see you at camp tomorrow.” You gesture to the door as you take a few steps towards it. “Hope you’ll be leavin feeling a little better.”

“More than,” He breathes before gesturing to you with a hand. “Thank you,” He gave a small dip of his head. “Really.”

You can’t help the smile that washes over your face as you nod. “Anytime,” You chuckle before grasping at the knob to pull the door open. “Night Arthur.”

“Night,” You meet his smile through the doorway once more before closing it.

“Need anything else, Mr. Millis?” You call as you round the corner in your normal attire. Your posture was enough to clue in how tired you where, and while a part of you wanted to hide it, you were too tired to care at that point whether or not your employer noticed.

“No… No thank you, Mabel.” James Millis, the owner and manager of the Hotel was partially preoccupied with the bookings as you walked up to the desk. “You’re free to go, I’ll see you this evening.”

“Alright, good day.” You give him a small nod before turning to head for the door.

“Oh uh- Miss, I noticed a fella waiting out there.”

“Pardon?” You turn to look at your boss.

“Looked like one of the fellas from last night. Just come back in if you need any assistance.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Millis.” Despite the fact that this job was just a means to get information for the Gang, you appreciated the kindness your boss had shown you. He wasn’t too bad. 

Exiting the Hotel, you looked up and down the deck before your eyes landed on a man sitting on a bench against the building on your left hand side.

His hat was pushed down over his face, and you could hear subtle snoring from the individual. 

Stepping outside, you gathered your coat together, tucking it in with one hand before taking a few steps closer to the familiar sight.

“Um, Arthur-” You tap him lightly on the arm. 

His snore cuts off and one foot swings out forward as he jumps where he sat.

“Wha- Erm, uh” He grumbled as he sat up and quickly pushed his hat back up as he turned to meet your eyes. “Oh hey, I uh-”

“What're you doing here?” You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you as you look around. The town was barely awake yet. The sun wasn’t up, and the sky only dimly lit the main road.

“I was-” He looked around briefly before looking up towards you once more. “Getting a bite to eat.”

You nod slowly before glancing down the street towards the Saloon, which was at the other end.

“You’re a little ways away from a bite to eat.” You note casually, seeing color start to rise in his cheeks before he cleared his throat and got to his feet.

“Well, I was um,” He removed his hat and quickly ran his hand back over his head. “I was wondering if you’d wanna get uh- bite… To eat…. With me.” 

You watched as he finished putting his sentence together and felt your own face begin to heat up at his offer as your jaw slackened.

“Thought maybe we could- also discuss any leads you might have going,” He adds, gesturing to the side with his hat. “If you’d like to.”

You were at a loss for words, but the look on his face alone was enough to send a burst of energy through your body and made you feel like a blushing teenager as it became evident he was waiting for an answer.

“O-Ok,” You tried to hide the surprise you were still feeling, but it was quickly replaced with a warmth that flooded your chest when his expression brightened. 

“Yeah?” He looked hopeful, and it made you smile even bigger.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” You laugh gently as he puts his hat back on his head.

He quickly looked down at his boots before meeting your eyes with a smile that made his eyes crinkle in what you could only describe as adorable when he held out a bent arm to you.

“Arthur,” You pause briefly before taking his arm with a chuckle as you both begin walking down the stairs. “If you ever need a head massage again, you don’t need to bribe me y’know,” You mumble quietly.

“This ain’t a bribe,” He argues back, the playfulness to his tone more than evident as you grin.

“You sure?”

“Mm hm.” He nods as you both continue to walk down the side of the road, out of the way of the few wagons that were out. 

“Okaaay.” You trail off, giving him a look that caught his attention rather quickly.

“It ain’t a bribe!” He laughs. 

“The timing is pretty suspicious.”

“If you’d allow me, I’d- also like to pick you up in the mornings after yer shifts end.”

You look up to him, the playful expression on your face falls after a moment and a genuine smile takes its place.

“It’d- well… I’d feel better knowing where y’were.” 

You smile and shake your head, looking forward down the road as you both walk at an even pace.

“Such a gentleman.”

“I uh,” He laughs under his breath before giving a shake of his own head. “I talked to Dutch… Hosea too. They thought it’d be good for you to have someone, y’know… escort you during the darker hours.”

“You all don’t think I can handle myself?” You look at him, voice bordering on confusion when he turns to you rather quickly.

“No it isn’t that, just- Y’know… I’d like-” He sighed before glancing down at you, seeing the biggest grin on your face, causing his expression to fall before he looked away.

“You ain’t making this easy, darlin.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Your voice falls flat as you try to hide your smile in the face of his amused expression when he raises an eyebrow. “For what its worth, I’d… I’d like the company,” You feel the words shake a bit as you admit the statement, and chance a look towards Arthur.

His expression softens and a smile pulls at one side of his mouth. You had probably seen more emotional expression in the man in the last twenty-four hours than you had in the last several years of knowing him.

Crossing the street, Arthur lets your arm slide away from his as he pushes one of the Saloon doors open.

“After you,” He says with a gesture through the doorway.

You’d lost count of the number of times you’d smiled now, but you feel the corners of your mouth pulling and your cheeks noticeably ache with your display of contentment before you walk in with Arthur close behind you.

“All this from a little downtime and a bath, huh?” You give him a playful look over your shoulder and raise an eyebrow.

“Well, I guess you could say I’m starting to rethink my priorities a little bit.” He laughs. “I needed that, and you were right. I… Should probably take care of myself a little more.”

“Probably?” You turn as you come up to the bar and lean your back against it. 

He puts his hands up in surrender, a grin just barely obscured from under his hat before he met your eyes.

The both of you take a spot at the bar and look at the sparse menu.

“Ugh, I’m starvin,” You sigh as you quickly note the only food item was oatmeal. Even that sounded good right about now.

“When’d you eat last?” Arthur gestures towards the bartender with a hand.

“Stew yesterday afternoon before I left camp,” You shrug, watching the man behind the counter.

“Yesterday?” Arthur laughed. “You should take better care of yourself, y’know.”

You can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips as you try to glare at him, coming face to face with the boyish grin on his face. “Don’t you even start, Arthur.”

Feedback is appreciated 💗 I’d love some constructive criticism if there are aspects of writing a reader that I can improve upon.