#canker man

[neontokyoo]

Can I just say that the scariest thing about a scary movie is people screaming.

Had a mini movie party and we were watching Before I Wake, and it was just me my husband and 6 friends. And it really wasn’t that scary. But every time something freaky happened they were all screaming and one specific friend was literally bouncing off my walls. She never sat down, she was always either pacing around or she was sitting like a frog so she could start running when something creepy happened. Girl ran into a door at one point, and then another time she literally bellyflopped onto the floor, and then there was quite a while before another “scary” scene, and she literally jumped so high and flopped onto me, my husband, and her fiancé and started screaming.

I was doing fine like it wasn’t that bad at all but when she was running around being a little monster because she doesn’t do very well with creepy movies, she makes everyone else freak out, and then I feel stupid for laughing at them because I’m supposed to be screaming and crying too because it’s a sad and creepy movie, but I’m not because I think it’s hilarious when they’re all screaming because of the one friend who can’t hold still.

I have to throw scary movie parties more often because I haven’t been this entertained in a long time 🤣

[catboydan]

my former band director was like heyyy so this community band near u needs more clarinets >.> and i was like <.< hmmmm. perhaps it is time to un-retire the babby clarinet

[sillyandquiteawkward]

i need bandaids for the inside of my mouth. i am sick of feeling my teeth on my lips. i can only put so much numbing cream comfortably in my mouth

[depressedzelda]

starting to think maybe its not normal or going to work itsekf out when ny jaw has been non stop aching and killing and making swallowing painful for more than a month however i have been minirly scared of acquiring TMJ for the last mm 7 years and so it feels a little On the Nose

[reyturnofbensolo]

🤣

[mikelogan]

mike flanagan's before i wake scared the shit out of me, but not for the reasons you'd think. it's because i'm terrified of butterflies

[wetslug]

>got my first tongue cancer specimen yesterday from a guy in his 20s >9cm wide??? literally the length of the tongue >look at patient consult bc was wondering how this came about...apparently patient thought "it was a canker sore" so didn't do anything about it

[orcelito]

ykno as weird as it is to just have plastic sitting in my mouth, it is genuinely helping a Lot. might have to use this tactic for future canker sores, should they arise

[noyzinerd]

Derek teaching unknown werewolf societal/cultural facts to Stiles is cute, and I love that for them, truly, but I want to see the reverse.

We're always hearing about when someone (usually Stiles) asks a naive question about werewolves and Derek going "No, you idiot! It doesn't work like that!" As if it's common knowledge that everyone should know, when in reality there's no possible way Stiles (or any average person, for that matter) could know that.

And I'm sure in Derek's world, stuff like silver not actually being effective against werewolves is a no-brainer or spotting a Kitsune is laughably easy, but not to the common bystander.

So, instead, I'd love to see the random, human customs and social norms Stiles would find himself needing to explain to Derek when they start living together. Stuff that the human family members of his pack never displayed because they had been raised surrounded by werewolves their entire lives.

From all the small things like how, when you get a canker sore or lose a filling, you always gotta stick your tongue in it. ("No, we don't want to do it. It hurts like hell, actually. It's just something we do. Don't ask me why. I honestly couldn't tell you. It's the same with picking scabs or pressing down on bruises.")

Or like how you're not supposed to eat the weird, little black nub at the bottom of the banana. ("I don't care if it's composed of the exact same stuff as the rest of the banana, that's so fucking gross 🤢")

Or like how you have to walk around ladders instead of under them ("Because otherwise you'll get bad luck, Derek!")

Or how, for a short time in history, a man wearing a singular earring on his left ear meant that he was gay for some reason. Or was it the right ear? ("Hey, listen, man, I didn't make these dumb rules!")

Or how you can't pick up a penny off the ground unless the face side is heads up ("Yes, it's another 'good luck, bad luck' thing. We actually have a lot of those, now that I think about it.")

Or how if someone far away sees you coming and holds the door open for you, you very specifically have to do a customary tiny wave or acknowledging nod before doing a small little half trot-half jog that isn't too slow or too fast all the way to the door. ("Because you don't want to take up their time, but also you don't want them to think they've inconvenienced you. Yeah, no, I get that they already have, but you don't want THEM to know that.")

All the way up to things like the weird history of Coke Zero, even though Diet Coke is essentially the same thing. ("Oh, now see, that's actually pretty interesting. And by interesting, I mean dumb and terrible. See, in the 80's, Coke only ever marketed Diet Coke as a 'woman's drink', so when they finally decided to expand their demographic, they had to spend millions of dollars to undo their own conditioning because their women's only Diet Coke campaign had been so successful, it took decades for men to stop associating drinking diet soda with being gay or effeminate.")

Just so Derek can finally know what it feels like to be on the other end of "common sense."

[dross-the-fish]

"So, you're Doctor Henry Jekyll, are you?" John Watson gritted his teeth and did his level best to stay calm despite the very sight of the other man's face inspiring within him a deep seated loathing the likes of which he'd never experienced in his life. No criminal he and Holmes has put away had ever incensed him like the wretched canker of a man staring up at him now with mocking, avaricious, green eyes. "Was Henry Jekyll. Don't ever call me by that name," came the testy reply between long drags of a cigar. Something in the way the man was puffing and tapping his foot and fairly bouncing in place made Watson want to kill him on the spot. Ignorant or indifferent to Watson's discomfort the man continued."You know my secret but don't forget I know yours too. I've seen what that boy turns into once the sun goes down and if you want me to cook up a serum that will keep him human you'll be a little more accommodating," the odious little Scotsman blew a puff of rank smoke into Watson's face with a grin that made the old doctor want to knock his crooked teeth to the floor. He was an absurd creature, barely taller than five feet, in an audacious, oversized fox fur coat and a suit that seemed far too fine and expensive for a man of such rough and vile countenance. Despite this Watson felt as if the room around them had grown smaller; cramped and stifling under the weight of of the fiend's presence. Watson exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off a growing headache. "What do you want, Mr Hyde?" "Room and board, my own quarters in this fine manor. Nice ones, the best you have with a modern bathroom adjoining and an adjacent space for my lab. A gentleman oughtn't live like a rat in a wee little hole. I'll also expect payment for my services. I've a lifestyle to keep up," Edward barked in his thick brogue. Before Watson could answer Lawrence Talbot, who had been deathly quiet in his chair with his head in his hands spoke up, "Done! Whatever you want! Just please, help me." "There's a sensible lad," Edward crowed with a harsh, grating laugh, "Chin up then, Doctor, we're colleagues now. Looks like I'm joining your little crew after all." As the man left to take his pick of the unused bedrooms Watson sank down into a chair near Larry's, feeling sick to his stomach as the smell of smoke lingered long after Edward had gone. "Heaven help us all..."

[kingoftheclaudes]

Welcome to the King of the Claudes Tournament!

A silly little place with polls about our favorite silly little actor, Claude Rains!

Prior to the creation of this blog, we were shocked (shocked!) to find that across the Tumblrverse, time and time again, Claude Rains would be beaten by fearsome opponents in the race for the crown of various hottest/scrungliest/what-have-you titles. So, we've decided to take matters into our own hands to give some well-deserved love to this beloved character actor through various polls!

The King of the Claudes Tournament has begun! Polls will be posted once daily at 7PM EST!

We're going to be matching up all (and we mean all!) the roles Claude has played over his decades of acting to decide which one of them will be The King of Claudes! All characters(we're talking the famed Captain Louis Renault, the mad scientist Jack Griffin, as well as other lesser-known portrayals like the kindly Mr. Jordan and the cankerous Professor Benson) will be submitted by default and it's up to the voters to send in their favorite propaganda(pictures, GIFs, stories, video clips)!

Our list of active polls can be found HERE or through our #round one tag!

As of this time, we're only going to be looking at Mr. Rains' film career, so no TV, stage, or radio portrayals will be in the running this time around. This goes for propaganda, too, so please don't send in entire radio broadcasts as propaganda(we know they're great, you don't have to tell us!).

FAQs

Who's Claude Rains? Great question! William Claude Rains was a British screen/stage/radio actor who was primarily known for his character acting and there was never a role he couldn't seem to play (When asked about his versatility as an actor, he replied that he "can play the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker"). He was a frequent collaborator with stars such as Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, and Cary Grant, among others and worked with directors such as Michael Curtiz and Alfred Hitchcock. He was nominated for four Academy Awards for Best Supporting Actor and won a Tony Award for his role in Darkness at Noon. Oftentimes, people know him as "that guy" when talking about his roles in iconic films (such as Casablanca, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, The Invisible Man, and Lawrence of Arabia). He also served in WW1 (even fighting alongside individuals such as Basil Rathbone and Sir Cedric Hardwicke) and called himself a "gentleman farmer", often returning back home to tend to his farm in between shooting for films. Also, if you search up the term character actor, you see a lovely still of him in Sons of Liberty!

Why is this blog a thing? Because it has been a deeply saddening affair to watch Claude Rains get stricken down during various polls (and we mean every. single. one. [although, we had a grand Round One victory over on @vintagetvstars!]) and we feel he deserves to win something! Also, this blog hopes to bring more recognition to his great work! We'd also like to thank @hotvintagepoll for directly inspiring us to create this blog and if you haven't already, please go check them out!

Who should I vote for? We are judging the portrayal of the character here, not the characters themselves. Claude played a lot of baddies (some worse than others) but we are not judging how good or bad a character is morally, only on the portrayal. Who will be the winner? That's up to you! Which of these Claudes deserves to be crowned the King of them all? What makes them the King in your eyes?

How can I submit propaganda? Before the tournament starts, we will be accepting propaganda through a Google Form and we will be accepting written and visual propaganda(pictures, GIFs, and video clips) to go along with each character. We're also only looking for propaganda from the particular film a character is in, but we're open to headshots/professional stills from the time it was filmed! Please only submit propaganda for one character at a time and don't hesitate to send in multiple submissions! We'd like for each character to have propaganda, so go nuts in your submissions! Tell us why you think your Claude should be crowned King of the Claudes! Again, we are not looking for character submissions, only propaganda for that character! Don't fret, every Claude from a film will be submitted! Here is a list of all the possible characters to send propaganda in for!

Additional Propaganda? We encourage additional propaganda through our ask system or by tagging us @kingoftheclaudes. As previously stated, we will only be accepting/boosting propaganda from Mr. Rains' film career, so no GIFs from his various Alfred Hitchcock Presents or radio snippets from his various Lux Radio Theatre broadcasts. We also tag each film and each Claude in an effort to make things easier when searching through the taglist.

These polls are mean to be short 'n sweet (much like Mr. Rains!) and not meant to be taken seriously! We just want to have a good time enjoying the many works of Claude Rains and all views expressed in propaganda and tags are not our own!

The tournament is scheduled to kick off on Sunday, November 10th (coincidentally[or perhaps, not] Claude Rains' birthday!) and will compile of 28 matchups of 56 characters (since the character of Adam Lemp appears in three movies [Four Daughters, Four Wives, and Four Mothers], we are combining all his appearances into one and, contrary to Wikipedia's listing, Mr. Rains did not provide the voice of Jacob Marley in Scrooge. We are also opting to omit the character of Clarkis from Build Thy House, since there is limited knowledge on the film available, as well as omitting the character of The Mayor from The Pied Piper of Hamelin, since despite it later being released in theatres, it debuted as a TV special). We're tentatively planning on scheduling 5 polls a week to make this tournament last longer and each poll will run for one week!

What happens after the polls end and the crown is handed off? We may be open to doing a series of mini-polls, such as 'Best Father', 'Best Villain', 'The Battle for Science', 'King of TV Land' and 'Historical King of the Claudes' among some others. If you have some more ideas, let us know!

My question isn't answered! Feel free to send in an ask but always check the FAQ before, since your question may have already been answered!

We hope you enjoy our fun little polls and wish all the Claudes the best of luck!

(sneaky @tournament-announcer tag and a bonus Claude as a thanks for reading this far! :))

[apoemaday]

A Brave and Startling Truth

by Maya Angelou

We, this people, on a small and lonely planet Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns To a destination where all signs tell us It is possible and imperative that we learn A brave and startling truth And when we come to it To the day of peacemaking When we release our fingers From fists of hostility And allow the pure air to cool our palms When we come to it When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean When battlefields and coliseum No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters Up with the bruised and bloody grass To lie in identical plots in foreign soil When the rapacious storming of the churches The screaming racket in the temples have ceased When the pennants are waving gaily When the banners of the world tremble Stoutly in the good, clean breeze When we come to it When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders And children dress their dolls in flags of truce When land mines of death have been removed And the aged can walk into evenings of peace When religious ritual is not perfumed By the incense of burning flesh And childhood dreams are not kicked awake By nightmares of abuse When we come to it Then we will confess that not the Pyramids With their stones set in mysterious perfection Nor the Gardens of Babylon Hanging as eternal beauty In our collective memory Not the Grand Canyon Kindled into delicious color By Western sunsets Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji Stretching to the Rising Sun Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor, Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores These are not the only wonders of the world When we come to it We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace We, this people on this mote of matter In whose mouths abide cankerous words Which challenge our very existence Yet out of those same mouths Come songs of such exquisite sweetness That the heart falters in its labor And the body is quieted into awe We, this people, on this small and drifting planet Whose hands can strike with such abandon That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness That the haughty neck is happy to bow And the proud back is glad to bend Out of such chaos, of such contradiction We learn that we are neither devils nor divines When we come to it We, this people, on this wayward, floating body Created on this earth, of this earth Have the power to fashion for this earth A climate where every man and every woman Can live freely without sanctimonious piety Without crippling fear When we come to it We must confess that we are the possible We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world That is when, and only when We come to it.

[lionofchaeronea]

Something for today's much-discussed eclipse. Enjoy.

Text: THE DRAGON AND THE SUN

Man in his foolishness thought he had outwitted the dragon. He had spiced the Sun with all the most dreadful condiments: lust, venality, pride and despair, shaken generously in black heaps past Mercury and Venus. He had looked with satisfaction as that star, cankered with sin, threw glowing tendrils in protest at this gross indignity.

Yet the dragon when she came ate all the faster and greedier. To wailing, perishing man she announced: I am so old that Death is a swaddled infant in my eyes. Did you not know? The evil you think so great turns on my tongue to rich cardamom and cinnamon. I swallow it and shudder with delight.

[fangirleaconmigo]

Hello dear! i asked this once but it was as a chat response so asking here just in case it got lost, no hurries! Bookverse! Dandi and geralt, Geralt gets turned away at the brothel (again) and Dandi decides if no one is gonna treat his witcher like he deserves, he'll have to.

(plz ignore if this is not relevant to your interests!)

Pan, my dear. I know you sent this almost a year and a half ago. I ADORE getting prompts, but inspiration strikes when it strikes, the fickle ho.

Geralt x Dandelion. Rated Explicit. Bottom!Geralt (first time bottoming).

Geralt is turned away from a brothel, and Dandelion takes care of him. This is porn with feelings. Love and smut ahoy. 7k words(ish)

-----

The woman at the door whispered something in Dandelion’s ear. 

In other circumstances, Geralt might have heard what she said. He was standing only a few feet behind the poet, and his witcher hearing was certainly capable of it. But he didn’t hear, because he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. His mind was occupied. 

He and Dandelion had been drinking in a nearby tavern. When Dandelion suggested a brothel to relax him, Geralt happily trailed after him like a trusting pup. On the way, the witcher let his mind wander in and out of a series of increasingly vivid, sexually charged visions. He was already aroused and bristling with excess energy when they arrived at the door. 

Dandelion tilted his head towards the girl. “Milady,” he responded, “why are you telling me this? Are you proud or something? Are you also proud when you get a canker on your ass? It’s a personal situation if you ask me.” He glanced back at Geralt for support, laughing haughtily. “It is lucky that my erection is more insistent than my convictions, and that I have already promised my friend an unforgettable night in your establishment which I am loathe to renege upon.”

Geralt was at a loss, trying to put together what was happening with context clues. He didn’t need to wait long. The woman looked desperately at Geralt and leaned closer towards the poet. “I said. Humans only.”

Geralt heard it that time. His stomach sank. He felt a familiar mix of humiliation and anger, which he promptly suffocated until he felt nothing. He tugged on Dandelion’s sleeve. “Come on, Dandelion.”

Dandelion ignored him. He threw his arms out. “And? We are men,” he said to the girl. He looked around melodramatically and declared a bit too loud, “I didn’t bring my horse to partake!”

The girl at the door nervously avoided Geralt’s gaze. “Master Dandelion,” she whispered strenuously, “the witcher cannot come in.”

Sometimes the ‘humans only’ rule applied to Geralt. Sometimes it didn’t. Clearly, at this place, it did. He tugged again on his friend’s sleeve, to no avail. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

To his frustration, Dandelion ignored him yet again. The poet drew himself up to full height and stuck his nose in the air. “I pity your lack of education, dear girl, but witchers are human beings. That is just a fact. But luckily for you, I am feeling generous. If you let us in right now, I will not alert your madam to this offensive gaffe.” 

“Shut. Up. Dandelion,” gritted out Geralt. This time he grabbed the poet’s arm. 

Dandelion yanked his arm free. He briefly glanced at Geralt. “Let me handle it. I understand these types.”

Geralt groaned and looked around desperately. A few men were wandering up the footpath towards them, customers, no doubt, who would be witnesses to the whole ordeal. 

The madam appeared next to the girl at the door. She was an older woman in a lovely burgundy gown. Dandelion brightened and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Oh, I am so happy to see you, my dear lady. I hope you can clear up this misunderstanding. My friend is 100% human, I assure you,” he glanced back at Geralt. “He was born to a woman, magic though she was, and a man. Well,” he corrected himself, “we don’t rightly know who his father is.”

Geralt cringed.

“But,” the poet lifted a finger, “if you required confirmed paternity for everyone in this establishment your building would be empty as a pair of testicles after they’ve had a run at the place. You’d be in the poor house by Thursday.” The poet was picking up steam. “Half the nobility in this town claim to be descendents of great emperors, but they were secretly sired by a particular beefy blacksmith who lives two doors down, or a certain wiry goatherd who is quite randy, and one count I know of personally,” he leaned in even closer, “was sired by an actual goat, I can tell you that story…”

“Master Dandelion,” the madam hissed through her teeth, “I would if I could, but it’s a party for the warden and half the security forces will be in tonight. I’ll be shut down! You can see he’s…different!” 

“What?” yelped Dandelion. Turning and looking at Geralt, pretending to be gobsmacked, then returning to the madam. “Because of his mutations? Why, that’s sheer ignorance.  Mutations are endemic to life itself. We’ve all got them!” He batted his unusually blue eyes. “Some find mine quite charming.”

The madam was not nervous like the door girl. She looked straight at Geralt, though she had the goodness to be apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

Geralt dragged Dandelion away successfully this time, but the troubadour did not go quietly. One of the men coming down the path caught his attention. “Duke Heyward has a third nipple!” He shouted over his shoulder. “That’s a mutation! Can’t have that! Better turn him away! Errant nipples might ruin the mood!”

The man steadfastly ignored him and bowed to the madam. He was granted entrance, nipples and all.

“They’re all such tiresome, small minded, unimpressive donkeys,” Dandelion seethed as they walked back to the tavern. “Count Vamonet can’t tell a sonnet from a scrotum. Prince Galino farts when he comes, and he has to pay the girls extra for it. And the Algloval family are a bunch of inbred--”

Geralt’s attention turned inward as Dandelion ranted about the wretched local nobility and their many failings. The witcher returned to his thoughts as they made their way through the streets. 

These kinds of rants usually made him feel better, and it did, somewhat. But there was still that tension, that pent up frustration. He was still rock hard in his trousers.

“Pathetic, the lot of them. Pox on them all,” finished Dandelion, waving at dismissively at the air. He stole a look at Geralt. “You’re awfully quiet. You haven’t told me to shut up yet. Do you feel quite alright?”

Geralt sighed. “Fine. It’s fine.”

“Well, your face still looks sour.” Dandelion brightened. “Do you want me to see if Helen is interested? I can make myself scarce.”

That was the second time that night that he’d offered the same. “No!” Geralt almost shouted it. Dandelion stopped in the street. Geralt took a few steps before he realized it and he turned to face his friend.

Helen was the server girl at the tavern, who had set the night in motion. Dandelion first performed a set, then sat down, damp curls stuck to his forehead, open tunic flaunting the dusting of blonde hair on his chest. Helen, who he’d been winking at during his performance (along with every other person in the audience), informed him that she was off work, and plopped right down his lap. The poet happily spread his thighs to give her a better seat, and wrapped his arm around her waist. 

Geralt had been enjoying the evening, but at the sight of the two of them together, was seized by a growing frustration. Helen’s breasts spilled nearly out of her top and hovered near Dandelion’s face. His friend leered at them, lips so close to their gentle swell. She ever so delicately opened her legs under the table. 

She wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt, and Geralt watched Dandelion’s hand creep up her thigh. Her cunt was probably hot and wet, just waiting for him to--

“Geralt?” Dandelion had abruptly asked, stopping what he was doing. “What is the matter?”

Helen looked up. When she saw Geralt’s expression, she visibly shrunk away.

“Oh pet,” Dandelion protested, turning his attention back to her, “he isn’t angry, please, that’s just his face. He’s a big pussy cat, really.”

Geralt, realizing he was scaring her, forced a smile. It only made matters worse. She scurried away.

Dandelion seemed to be conveniently forgetting that fact at this very moment. They faced one another on the dark street. 

Helen is terrified of me, Geralt thought of saying. That was what Geralt meant to say. But something else came out of his mouth. “I don’t want you to make yourself scarce. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

Dandelion looked surprised, and then intensely interested. He shoved his hands on his hips and looked down at where Geralt’s trousers strained to contain his cock. His tongue darted out and wet his lips before making eye contact with some effort. “Well. What do you want, Geralt?” He asked it casually, lightly. “There are other girls that don’t work in brothels. The night is young, yet. Tell me. What were you imagining for tonight? Talk to me.”

What were you imagining?

Geralt tried to remember the thoughts that excited him on the way to the brothel. Why had he been so very distracted that he’d missed the door girl’s whisper? 

They were visions of pretty girls servicing Dandelion, right? Perhaps those visions should have been of the girls servicing him. But...Geralt stood, taking a moment to recall his fantasies. Well, pox on it. Fuck. The girls weren’t even in them. 

It was all Dandelion sprawled out in bliss, with his trousers shoved down to his ankles. It was Dandelion with his head lolling back, eyes half lidded, lips open. It was Dandelion thrusting languid and whining up into welcoming lips.

Surely, he, Geralt of Rivia, didn’t want his friend that way. He didn’t think he was that kind of man. True, there had been youthful experimentation at Kaer Morhen, but it was all boys there, what else were they going to do? When he’d fallen for Yen, he thought....well he thought that was that. But now. Fuck. He was beginning to doubt.

Geralt looked into the quizzical eyes of his dearest friend. Then he turned on his heel and fled. He could hear Dandelion chuckling and calling out to him. “Geralt, come back! Blast it!”

But the witcher made a beeline to their shared room at the tavern. He was dressed for bed and under the covers with the candles out by the time Dandelion returned. Dandelion came in humming, carrying a lantern, and two glasses of wine.

“Good evening, Geralt.” Dandelion said loudly, shutting their door with a graceful tap of his heel. “I see you are already in bed for the evening.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. “Helen wouldn’t have you?” He muttered bitterly. “She looked so eager.” But he dragged himself up to lean against the headboard. The covers fell around his waist, so he grabbed them and clutched them to his chest.

Dandelion set the lantern and glasses on the side table, and shrugged off his coat. He was still humming to himself. His lightness of spirit was slightly insulting, when Geralt was so obviously set on brooding.

The poet came to sit on the edge of the bed. Geralt’s heart raced as the mattress dipped and the warmth of Dandelion’s body filled his space.

It all felt different now, the shared room, the shared bed. All of it. The air crackled. The witcher was terrified. That was why his pulse was racing, right?

His friend sat in uncharacteristic silence for a few moments, contemplating the bedspread and then Geralt. After a moment, he spoke softly. “Geralt, those idiots were pricks to you tonight.”

His compassion caused a warmth to blossom in Geralt’s chest, but that was the kind of thing that makes a man lose control. So he shoved it down and avoided his friend’s eyes. “It’s fine.” “No, it’s not,” said Dandelion. “But well,” he smiled, still looking softer than usual, “you’ve always got me, and about a thousand other friends, to whom you are as ordinary and human as a person can be. Boring even. And the whores at that place are rubbish anyway.”

Geralt half smiled despite himself and looked up. “You said their advanced techniques would change my life.”

“I lied to make you feel better.”

Geralt gasped in sarcastic shock.

“You know,” said Dandelion. Now he was the one looking down. “I haven’t told you this yet Geralt. But I was once a harlot myself.” 

Dandelion raised his eyes and for a brief moment, they looked into one another, trying to read what the other was feeling. The air between them was fragile, as though a wrong word could shatter whatever was changing between them.

Geralt wanted to be sensitive, but he was overcome with images of Dandelion naked and in compromising situations. It was the same images that had plagued him earlier in the day. “Did you... like it?”

It was the right thing to say, at least for now, because Dandelion relaxed. “I did.” He shrugged. “Most of the time anyway. Like any other job in that regard. I don’t want to brag,” he said, in his characteristic way that indicated he very much did want to brag, “but I was too popular. I got too successful. And I preferred to be famous for my music. So gradually, I-” he picked at the bedspread, “-stopped.”

“Too successful,” Geralt asked, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice. “Were there enough women to keep you busy?” he asked. “Seems like they wouldn’t have to pay for services.”

“You’d be surprised,” the poet answered. “They don’t pay you to fuck, Geralt. They pay you to leave without a fuss.”

Geralt nodded. He supposed that made sense. 

Dandelion picked up his wine glass from the side table. He took a sip and swallowed primly with pursed lips. Geralt watched his throat bob with fascination. He realized that he was staring, so he picked up his glass to give himself something to do other than gape.  

“But truth be told,” Dandelion’s voice lingered on the words casually, “my specialty was other men.”

Geralt should not have picked up his glass. It was a mistake. He was taking a sip the moment Dandelion said ‘men.' He coughed, and pounded his chest.

Dandelion chuckled richly. “Are you alright?”

His friend was laughing at him. Geralt was a mess of righteous indignation, hope, and desperate desire.

“‘M Fine,” he said, putting down the glass. He wanted to avoid his friend’s gaze, but that would be admitting defeat. He met Dandelion’s mirthful, predatory eyes. He immediately lost composure.

He was looking at the poet’s lips. His collarbone. The way his shirt was slightly transparent, and how every time the poet took a deep breath, his chest rose and Geralt could see his nipples. 

“You’re blushing.”

“No, I am not,” mumbled Geralt defensively. “Witchers can’t blush.”

“Sure, my darling, if that is the story you prefer.”

It was the first time Dandelion had ever called him darling. He called him my dear all the time. Geralt loved it every time, but darling was just a little more...romantic.

Geralt had no idea what to do with his face, his hands, or his rebellious cock, which was every bit as hard as before.

“What are you thinking about Geralt?”

Why did Dandelion sound so blasted smug? The prick. Geralt’s fingers trembled, his pulse raced. He decided to just let his body speak for him, without thought. “If I came to your brothel. In those days.” He tried not to stammer, but he sounded halting. He decided to just push the words out. “Would you have serviced me? A mutant.” 

He was staring at his own hands now. He almost jumped when Dandelion’s hand covered his own, warm and tender. 

Geralt looked up, relaxing into the touch.

Dandelion looked amused, but fond. “That depends.”

He was toying with him, the fucking bastard.

“On what,” Geralt asked flatly.

“I’d ask to take a look at your cock.” His eyes sparkled. “To see if it is mutated of course.” He moved his hand to the side of the sheet and pinched, as if ready to pull it aside.

Geralt tried not to smile. A smile would be an admission that the charms of his friend had vanquished him yet again. 

“Well, go on,” teased Dandelion. “Answer me. Will you let me inspect your prick to see if it is too mutated to fit in my mouth?”

“You’ve seen my cock,” Geralt grumbled, wriggling, trying to hide how the aforementioned anatomy twitched at the forthright, confident manner of his friend. 

“Yes, but I don’t remember what it looked like,” said Dandelion with faux innocence that did not suit him. “I’ve only seen flashes. In and out of baths, that kind of thing. And of course, I have always been too gentlemanly to sneak a peek.”

“Liar.” Geralt bit his cheeks. He nodded at where Dandelion’s hand held the corner of the blanket. “Well, go ahead.”

Dandelion’s face broke into a shit eating grin. He took the edge of the sheets and pulled them aside. Geralt inhaled fast and held his breath. He had on a flimsy undergarment with an opening at the front. His excitement was extremely apparent.

Geralt wriggled a little again, repositioning himself. He felt utterly exposed. Why was it making him more aroused than he had ever remembered being in his life? 

It was Dandelion’s reaction to his body. Geralt could smell lust, and the wave of it that came off his friend was so powerful, the witcher was instantly intoxicated by it. Furthermore, the poet was looking at him with such a ravenous expression that Geralt blinked. It called to mind a wolf staring at a cut of raw meat.

Geralt was used to being the hunter. He had never been the prey. A thrill ran through him the likes of which he had never experienced.

“Geralt.” The poet was suddenly earnest, tight, and controlled. The switch made Geralt dizzy. His friend pulled his hands back, and squeezed his own thighs. 

“Yes?” Geralt rasped.

“I cannot restrain myself any longer.” His voice trembled. “If you want me to stop now, you’re going to have to throw me out on my neck”

Geralt tried to respond, but only an airy squeak of nothing came from his mouth. He tried again. “Good. Don’t. Don’t restrain yourself that is.”

“Fucking hell. Sweet Melitele’s milky tits.” 

Dandelion scrambled to straddle Geralt’s lap. Eyes shining, he cradled the witcher’s face in his hands. Geralt’s arms, of their own accord, wrapped around the poet.

Dandelion kissed him with such ferocious tenderness, Geralt felt his eyes prickle. That ferocity...Dandelion had wanted to do this for a very long time. Maybe years. And the tenderness. Dandelion kissed him like he was the most fragile, precious creature in all of creation. 

The thought that Dandelion might have been harboring a hidden love for him was a shocking revelation. But Geralt could not fully grasp it. Not when his body’s reaction to Dandelion’s tongue and his weight on Geralt’s lap was leading him to yet another shocking revelation.

“Dandelion,” he cleared his throat and tilted back just enough to leave a sliver of space between their lips as they panted.

“Yes, Geralt.” 

“Am I...this kind of man?”

Dandelion threw his head back and laughed. It was a bit rude actually. He ground his hips ever so slightly on Geralt’s hard cock. Geralt made an aborted noise of pleasure.

“Oh, I quite think you are darling,” Dandelion said smugly. “Wait. Does that vex you?”

Once again, Geralt didn’t want to think. He just wanted to respond. “I don’t think so,” he said. Then he realized the truth. “No. Not a bit.”

“Ah, well then. Shall I proceed?”

“Please do.”

Dandelion slipped off of his lap. Geralt found it difficult to abide the loss of his body. “Wait.”

Dandelion’s response was muffled by his shirt slipping from his head. “Apologies, my dear, but I must make haste, in case you change your mind.” 

His dearest friend was pulling off his clothing at a blinding rate, vibrating with an air of disbelief and excitement. 

“I won’t change my mind.” After it came from Geralt’s mouth, he realized that it was true.

Dandelion flashed him another smile. “Still. I won’t take any chances.” 

Dandelion was quickly naked and scrambled back onto the bed without much grace. “Hips up.” 

Geralt lifted his hips. Dandelion stripped away Geralt’s underclothes. Then, they were naked together. 

What shocked Geralt the most was that it felt like the most natural thing in the world. He felt nothing but pleasure at the sight of Dandelion’s full erection, nestled in a puff of blonde curls. He felt nothing but excitement when the poet straddled him yet again, his solid but soft torso in Geralt’s grasp. The witcher groaned at an embarrassing volume when Dandelion wrapped his nimble fingers around his cock.

“May I, love?” Dandelion licked his lips.

Geralt’s heart almost stopped. “Say that again,” he whispered.

“May I....love?”

“Please. Yes. Anything.”

Dandelion scooted back and dragged his warm tongue up the entire length of Geralt’s erection, lingering on the tip, kissing it messily. 

Geralt writhed. “Please.”

“Please, what?” Dandelion batted his lashes then sucked Geralt’s entire cock into his mouth. Geralt almost shouted, but managed to clap a hand over his mouth and turn it into another moan.

He wanted a release. He wanted to explode.

His mind may not have realized his feelings for his friend, but his body was certainly aware that this was something he’d been holding in for a very long time.

But Geralt didn’t just want to cum. He wanted to do it on his friend, in his friend, it didn’t matter how.

“Let me. I wanna.” He gasped. “Fuck.”

Dandelion looked at him with soft but hungry eyes as he bobbed on his cock. At the sight of the poet’s expression, the way he looked stuffed with Geralt’s cock, the witcher thought he would lose it. But his friend expertly stopped just before Geralt’s peak. 

He toyed with the witcher like that for some time, bringing him to peak, then pulling away. As he did, he ran his hands all over Geralt’s body. He murmured sweet nothings to him.

“You’re so gorgeous like this love. Look at you. Oh, fuck you’re stunning. I can’t believe I get to look at you like this.”

Geralt melted. He melted into his mouth, he melted against the bed. He became a blubbering, begging mess of a man. 

“Please, oh, please. Just let me. Just. Oh, fuck.”

Just when he thought he had reached the height of pleasure, Dandelion began to use his fingers. 

“Spread your thighs, darling.”

Geralt thought to protest. He felt self conscious. But he had said that Dandelion could do anything, and he’d meant it. Allowing himself to act without overthinking it had gotten him here, so the strategy was clearly working.

He spread his legs obediently.

Geralt fell apart when Dandelion cupped him, caressed him, and massaged him firmly in places he’d never even seen. 

Vaguely, he thought that the room next to them could probably hear him whining. If he were allowing himself to think about it, he might have been embarrassed. But he wasn’t.

When Dandelion returned his lips to his cock, he also grasped his shaft, moving both his hands and his mouth expertly, Geralt came. His body locked up and his moans were silent and airy. He covered Dandelion’s head with his hands and thrust into the eager lips of his dearest friend. He shoved and shoved until he released in a haze of animalistic desire.

Then he fell back, slackened and panting. 

Dandelion kissed his softening cock. He licked up all of Geralt’s spend and made a show of swallowing it for him.

Geralt stroked Dandelion’s damp locks lazily. “Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed.” 

Dandelion crawled into his arms, placing a sweaty kiss on Geralt’s temple. They were both damp, from sweat and tears. Geralt squeezed him tight, waiting for the thudding of his heart to subside.

“Fuck.”

When Dandelion’s erection brushed his thigh, Geralt wanted to kick himself. He had been so wrapped up in his own pleasure, he’d been selfish. He needed to make sure Dandelion got satisfaction as well.

“What can I--” the witcher stopped, realizing he had little idea what the fuck he was doing. What could he even offer? Back in Kaer Morhen in his teen years, there had mostly been furtive yanking and sucking in closets and dark dormitories. And here he was with a proper expert, a former professional. What skills did he really have? How did you fuck a man without hurting him? Shit, he couldn’t fuck anyone right now anyway. He leaned forward and kissed Dandelion. “What do you want, poet?” He figured that was a better question, instead of promising something he couldn’t deliver, at least not in a competent way. 

Dandelion had a half smile, like he was up to something. “Well, since my wildest dreams are coming true today, I’m just going to ask for it.”

Geralt barked a laugh, and felt slightly, deliciously self conscious. “Alright. Spit it out.”

Dandelion leaned closer, kissed Geralt’s cheek, and whispered provocatively in his ear. As he did, he traced languid circles on Geralt’s chest and stomach. This, Geralt thought, was what made Dandelion so popular. That and the expert cock sucking.

“Witcher mine, I have been following behind you for years,” he murmured sensually. “And do you know what has always confounded me?”

“What?”

“Having to stare at your round, juicy looking, perfect peach and never being invited to fuck it.”

Well. Geralt hadn’t expected that. He’d never really thought of himself that way. As an object of such fervent desire. 

“My. Ass?”

“Oh yes, love. You’d better believe it.” Dandelion’s eyes fluttered closed and he hummed in bliss, like one did after taking a big bite of a pastry fresh out of the oven. “The shapeliest ladies have nothing on your delicious plump looking posterior. Has no one told you?”

Dandelion had called him love again. Geralt was beginning to understand that every time Dandelion called him love, the witcher felt willing and able to scoop out his own organs and gift them to the poet if he so desired them.

"No."

“That is a tragic story indeed.” Dandelion ground his rock hard cock into Geralt’s thigh. “How someone with such a perfect ass has never been told about its charms.”

Geralt allowed himself a slightly smug smile and he squeezed Dandelion tighter. He kissed the side of the poet’s head and hummed into his hair. “Really? That good, huh?”

The poet growled and rolled his hips again. “Please, Geralt. Don’t make me beg.”

Well. Shit. Geralt’s heart beat faster. “I want to, but. I don’t. I’ve never.” Then he just blurted it out. “Does it hurt?”

Dandelion stopped what he was doing and rolled over, propping himself on arm. He looked absolutely gleeful. “You mean I would be the first? Me?”

Geralt looked away and flushed a bit. He hummed his assent.

Dandelion practically whooped. “I will be taking Geralt of Rivia’s virgin ass? Have I died? Is this heaven?” The poet caught himself. “I mean, of course, only if you want to.” He tried to sound sexy and soft again, but his leering smile looked ridiculous.

It was a pathetic effort, but it still pleased Geralt for some reason. He was doomed, wasn’t he?

“I’m not a virgin. Obviously.”

“Still. May I?” 

“Just. Be careful. You will, right?”

Dandelion took one of Geralt's hands and nuzzled it. Managing to find gentle sincerity within himself, he said, “Of course I will, love. I will be gentle. I will be tender. I will make it so very lovely for you.”

Geralt nodded. “Alright. What do I do?” He felt a bit moronic asking, but he would feel worse if he did something wrong.

“Well, I was rewarded by the sight of your handsome face in ecstasy. Now, since for all I know, this could be my only chance, I would be honored to enjoy the sight of your perfect, round ass jiggling as I fuck it.” 

Geralt swallowed. “So, I turn over?”

“If you please.” Dandelion scooted back on the bed, kneeling, watching rapturously as Geralt agreeably turned over. The witcher was rewarded with a low whistle. “Oh, yes. Sweet mother of mine, what a specimen of a posterior.” Geralt could feel Dandelion’s soft, strong hands gliding over his body and squeezing his ass. The effect, along with Dandelion’s evident enthusiasm made him prickle with pleasure.

“Shut up.”

“I will not. I am already writing the ballad as we speak.”

There was no use telling him to shut up again. Geralt closed his eyes and reveled in the sensation of being caressed. His scars were particularly sensitive, and Dandelion was sliding his hands over every last bit of him.

“Hands and knees, my dear witcher.”

Geralt obediently rose onto hands and knees. Dandelion moaned, gravelly and wanton. Geralt could hear him stroking his own cock as he squeezed one cheek then the other. Experimentally, Geralt arch his back, and enjoyed the strangled groan-laugh behind him.

If he had felt exposed before, that was nothing compared to what he felt now. Now he felt completely, utterly vulnerable. And yet? His body buzzed with pleasure low in his abdomen. 

Geralt could hear Dandelion shift. Then he felt a kiss, followed by a playful nibble the back of his thighs. Dandelion leaned away to reach for something.

“Relax, love.”

Geralt heard Dandelion remove his rings, and then he heard a tin of something open and close. Then Dandelion’s fingers were at his entrance, slippery and wet. Geralt shivered. He flinched.

“Shhhhh,” Dandelion quieted him and patted his haunch as though he were a skittish mare. Geralt relaxed. 

“It’s alright,” cooed Dandelion. “The famous poet Dandelion will be your first. Think of the stories you will be able to tell your grandchildren.”

“You’re an idiot.” Geralt chuckled but his laugh turned into a drawn out ‘oooo’ as Dandelion entered him with a finger. “See, that’s nice isn’t it, Geralt?”

It took Geralt a moment to answer. It was a new feeling.

“Y-y-yes?” he said. 

“Is that a question or an answer, my witcher?” Dandelion asked playfully. He slid further and Geralt released a sigh. His body wanted to scoot away, and shove backwards at the same time. But Geralt decided not to do either. He just held still and allowed himself to feel.

“Yes.” He answered breathily, but with more confidence that time. 

Dandelion scooted closer. Geralt could feel the warmth and the softness of the hair on the poet’s legs as they pressed against his. How his friend managed to slip in a second finger at the angle, Geralt wasn’t sure. But the tightness, the fullness, made him whimper. 

“Oh, that sound,” growled Dandelion. “I cannot wait another second, Geralt, my dear, I am going to fuck the sense out of you.”

He could hear slippery noises as Dandelion quickly slicked his own cock. The poet grasped him with one hand. Geralt stole a glance back and saw his friend’s ravenous, predatory face. He saw the blonde poet grasping the base of his cock, lining himself up. The tip of his tongue was stuck out, and he was lost completely in the moment.

Dandelion felt Geralt’s attention and he looked up. They locked eyes right as Dandelion pushed. Geralt whimpered and his body jerked, but Dandelion held his hips stock-still with surprisingly strong hands as he pressed inside with an excruciatingly slow gentleness. “Here you go, love. You can take this, can’t you?” he purred.

Geralt sensed that taunting Dandelion right now might yield some interesting results. “I won’t break. Fuck me already.”

Dandelion’s eyes ignited and he squeezed Geralt so hard, he knew he would be bruised. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes. Fucking do it already.”

It was daring talk for an amateur, Geralt knew. But he had stopped thinking. He was just spouting off now.

Dandelion bent over him and wrapped his arm around his hips like a vise and thrust. Geralt could tell his friend was still holding back, but the motion made him feel such shocking fullness, that it chased all rational thought away, emptying his mind.

Dandelion pulled back then. Right when Geralt thought he would slip away, Dandelion thrust again. Geralt marveled at how tight he could feel, the sounds the poet could punch from his throat. The sounds were cut off every time Dandelion’s hips made impact, but grew louder and more frantic with every stroke.

Dandelion’s hair brushed his back. He could feel his friend’s lips by his ear. “You love it, don’t you. Your ass is the perfect vessel for my cock, isn't it?” he whispered, his necklaces slightly grazing Geralt’s shoulder blades. The poet was beginning to sweat and his chest dragged down Geralt’s back.

Geralt nodded. It was difficult to manage while bouncing on another man’s cock.

“Say it,” Dandelion challenged him.

“Yes. I’m yours.”

Dandelion tenderly brushed Geralt’s hair away from his neck, and kissed the back of his neck as he fucked into him.

As the witcher’s body became more lax and able to accept the intrusion, Dandelion thrust with more power. Geralt had to brace himself against the wall to keep from slapping into it.

Dandelion was no longer treating him with kid gloves. Geralt had no idea that his body would allow anything inside that deep. He bounced and shook and cried out. He felt like some kind of rag doll.

“Dandelion,” he whispered into the dark. 

“Say that again,” came the response from behind him.

“Dandelion.”

Dandelion’s pace grew more furious and punishing. Geralt was shocked by what his body could take. Dandelion began to sound like him, grunting, and moaning.

But right when he thought Dandelion would peak, he stopped and pulled out.

“Don’t stop,” Geralt begged. He writhed and reached back, grasping to pull his lover back.

“Be still,” Dandelion chided.

Geralt obeyed. He quieted himself and became still, waiting on hands and knees. His thighs trembled. His hair stuck to his sweaty, sticky body.

Just when he was ready to ask Dandelion what the fuck he was doing, he felt the poet grasp both sides of his ass and part him. The cool air caressed Geralt on his sensitive skin and he shivered.

Dandelion swore a filthy oath in several different languages, only some of which Geralt understood. 

“I’m going to watch myself cum in you, witcher.”

Dandelion leaned forward and pushed down on Geralt’s back. The witcher wasn’t sure what the poet wanted, until his elbows buckled and his face was smashed against the pillow.

Dandelion hummed, ever so pleased with himself. He whistled. “That’s better. What a view.” He grasped the witcher, trapping his hips.

Geralt closed his eyes, determined to feel everything, to remember everything. The fat head of his dearest friend’s cock nudged him. By now, Geralt was fucked, slick, and ready.

Now it was the poet’s turn to whine like an animal when he slid inside Geralt. 

“Look at you, swallowing my cock. You were made for me to fuck.”

The pillow under Geralt’s face grew damp, and he groaned into it as Dandelion took his pleasure.

The poet shoved as deeply as he could when he came, and the sound he made was cathartic. He held Geralt still, draped over his back, as he rode out his pulsing orgasm.

“Oh, Geralt. My darling.” He whispered it so quietly into Geralt’s back, that if Geralt were not a witcher, he might not have heard it.

Dandelion collapsed next to Geralt and pulled him close. They held each other in the dark, by the flickering lamp. They lay intertwined, clinging to each other, allowing the enormity of what they had done to settle over them. 

What if everything changed.

What if nothing changed?

“Geralt?” Dandelion’s voice was surprising small. “Kiss me?”

Geralt ran his fingers through Dandelion’s hair. And he kissed him.

They would start there.

[sixhours]

happy birthday, baby girl - birth day

Ellie has never had a birthday. Joel can fix that.

Series masterlist | Read on AO3 | In progress

Rating: Teen Chapter tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel and Ellie, Ellie Williams, Joel Miller, birthdays, swearing, canon-compliant, angst, mentions of childbirth and babies Words: 5.4k

Notes: A bunch of birthday one-shots loosely based on this headcanon. This might be a five-times/one-time fic in disguise, it hasn't decided yet.

Ellie comes out of sleep to the sounds of a house waking up.

Knocking. The crackle of oil in a skillet. A door opening, footsteps downstairs. Murmurs, low voices, Joel’s and…someone else.

She squints at the clock on her nightstand; 6:35 . Her alarm hasn’t even gone off yet. Grumbling, she pulls the blanket back over her head to try to shut out the noise and almost manages it…but then she hears the telltale tread of boots on the stairs and a light knock before her bedroom door creaks open.

“Mornin’, kiddo.”

She turns over and glares at Joel, haloed by the hallway light. He hesitates at the threshold; he always does. This room has a history for them, ugly pink stripes and all. Sometimes Ellie likes that it still makes him uncomfortable after all these weeks in Jackson, worries at it like a canker sore with her tongue.

“C’mon, man. It’s too early.”

“I know. But that was Tommy downstairs–looks like Maria’s havin’ the baby.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, that’s ‘bout what he said,” he mutters.

“So like…right now?” she asks, sitting up and pulling the comforter to her chin.

“Not quite. She’s in labor.”

“How does that…work?”

He blinks and gapes, that same stunned look she saw in the rearview mirror when she asked about Bill’s dirty magazines. “How…uh, they didn’t, uh, cover that in–”

“Gross, dude. No, I mean how does that work here ? Is Maria at the clinic, or…?”

“Oh, right,” he breathes, shoulders sagging. “No, she’s at home, there’s a, uh, midwife, I think. Won’t bring the doctor in unless things go bad.”

There’s a sinking, twisting feeling in her stomach at that. She’d known Maria was pregnant, of course, and she knew how babies were born. FEDRA school was shit, but every kid with a uterus started hormone shots when they hit puberty, and they made them watch that one awful childbirth video every year as an extra deterrent. Until now, with Joel standing in the door and talking about things going bad, she hadn’t connected the dots.

“But…things look good, right?”

“Oh, it’s…yeah, kiddo, everything’s gonna be fine,” Joel says, his voice registering a bit too high to be believable. “Tommy said everything’s fine, Maria’s good, baby’s fine…nothin’ to worry about. It’s…gonna be…everything’s gonna be…fine.”

That’s way too many “fines” for things to actually be fine. He follows this abysmal performance with a smile that’s so thin it’s practically transparent. Maybe she’s imagining it, but she thinks she can see his eye twitch. Sometimes she wonders if he knows he’s a bad liar or if he’s really fucking clueless.

“Look, I know I said we’d go camping tomorrow, but I gotta change plans,” he continues. “Tommy needs someone to cover his patrol shifts, ‘least for this week.”

“Oh,” her face falls before she can rearrange her expression into something neutral. “Alright.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo, I just…he needs us right now.”

“I get it,” she shrugs.

“Promise I’ll make it up to ya once they have his rotations covered, alright?”

She shrugs again, swallows hard. This is so much to process and she’s just barely woken up.

“I gotta go, gotta get the horses ready,” he says. “I’ll leave breakfast. You good to get yourself to school?”

“You mean like I do every day?”

“Right,” he nods. “Okay. Should be home for dinner–”

“Whatever,” she says flatly.

“I–”

“Dude, I’m fine,” she groans, throwing herself back into the bed and yanking the covers over her head. “Go.”

He lingers for a moment, then sighs. “Have a good day, kiddo.”

“Bye.”

She waits until she hears the screen door slam and Joel's boots on the porch steps before tossing off the blanket in a huff. There’s no way she’s getting back to sleep now. Stupid Joel and this stupid family and their stupid baby–

No, no, she takes that back, bile rising hot and thick in the back of her throat. No, the baby needs to be okay, Maria needs to be okay, they’ve lost too much already. Her disappointment over the camping trip wilts and withers in the face of a worst-case scenario. All she can hear are Joel’s paper-thin assurances– fine, fine, fine .

She lingers in bed long after her alarm has gone off, throwing on her jeans and a shirt in a rush. Downstairs, she pointedly ignores the plate of scrambled eggs and toast and sliced apples Joel left on the stove, suppressing a gag at the smell of fresh coffee in the air. Her appetite is fickle at the best of times and this is definitely not the best of times. She shoves her feet into her shoes without bothering to tie the laces and grabs her backpack from the hook by the door.

The other Miller house is surprisingly calm as she steps onto the porch. She half expected to hear Maria’s cries of pain echoing across the street, but the place is quiet, nothing to suggest this is anything but an ordinary day.

She drags her feet all the way to school, earning a look from Mrs. Abraham when she creeps into class just after the first bell, and the next two hours pass in an agonizing crawl. Every time she looks at the clock at the front of the classroom, the minute hand seems to taunt her, barely moving at all. Twice she puts her head down on her desk just to feel the press of the cool wood against her forehead, twice she gets a light poke on the shoulder and a frown from the teacher in warning. While Mrs. Abraham drones on about quadratic equations, all she can think about is Joel’s pathetic attempt to reassure her this morning– everything’s gonna work out fine , yeah, right.

Dina makes it worse by cornering her in the hall between second and third period.

“I heard someone’s gonna have a new cousin soon.”

A cousin.

Ellie doesn’t respond, pretending to look for something at the back of her locker. Dina isn’t so bad…usually. She’s one of the few who’s made an effort despite Ellie’s clear attempts to blow her off. But right now, the last thing she needs is her chirpy, Polly Positive bullshit.

“So d’you think she’ll have the baby today, or–”

“How the hell should I know?” Ellie snaps, slamming her locker door. “I’m stuck here, same as you.”

“Jeez, what’s your problem?”

Ellie doesn’t answer, just brushes past her and makes for the bathroom as the third period bell rings. Fuck it, she’ll skip. Mr. Henderson manages to make science boring as shit, anyway.

Once the halls have cleared out, she sneaks out the back of the school and escapes into the yard, trekking past the school garden and the little kids’ playground toward the greenhouses. The raspberry bushes are thick this time of year, mostly picked over, but they make a good place to hide. She crawls between the rows and plants herself toward the back, out of sight of the gardeners working in the greenhouses and the fields on the other side. Her stomach growls and she plucks a few of the forgotten, overripe berries from the lowest branches, letting them burst with tart sweetness on her tongue. The juice stains her fingers a bloody red, dampening her appetite as quickly as it came.

She pulls out one of her comics and tries to read, but the story is too familiar to hold her attention. While Dr. Daniela Star is preparing to take on the threat posed by a strange alien lifeform, her mind keeps drifting back to Maria, to hormone shots, then to Dina’s words.

A new baby cousin.

“Cousin” implies Tommy is her uncle and Maria is her aunt, which means Joel is her…well, what the fuck does Dina know, anyway?

She shoves her comic back into her bag and flops onto her back in the dirt, wincing at the brightness of the summer sky. Her shoulders are sticky with sweat and she scratches at her scar over her sleeve. She wonders what Joel is doing. He only started patrol shifts a couple weeks ago, but every time he leaves, a hollow knot of worry takes up residence behind her breastbone.

She wishes desperately for her old Walkman, that she could put on some headphones and crank up the volume to drown out her thoughts. Instead, she watches a bumblebee dip and buzz among the raspberry branches, finally alighting on a leaf. She digs her fingers into the soil to feel the cool earth and takes a deep breath the way Joel showed her–in for four, hold for four, out for four. The knot loosens a tiny fraction.

When she can't listen to her mind run in circles any longer, she heads to the cafeteria for lunch, blending in with the line of kids coming from school. It’s her favorite today, grilled cheese and tomato soup and carrot sticks, but one bite of the sandwich sends her stupid stomach roiling. She chokes it down with a glass of water and a spoonful of soup, but spends the rest of her lunch break picking her food into tiny pieces that she can’t eat. She pockets the carrots for Shimmer and leaves before anyone notices.

She fully intends to skip the rest of the school day and hide in the hayloft or the greenhouse until her shift at the stables, but no such luck. She’s passing the school when she hears a familiar voice call her name.

“Ellie Williams.”

Mrs. Abraham is standing at the edge of the schoolyard, beckoning her over with one crooked finger.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Ellie groans, but she turns around and trudges back.

“A little bird told me you weren’t here for third period. You were missed.”

Ellie scowls. “Was it Dina?”

“Actually, it was Mr. Henderson,” she says, cocking an eyebrow and biting back a smirk. “He said there was, and I quote, ‘a distinct lack of foul language’ during the lecture on climate systems. Like I said, you were missed.”

Ellie bites her lip, thinking fast. “Joel said he needed me for something after lunch.”

“Your dad is on patrol today,” she says wryly. “I know this because so is my wife. No one has radioed.”

Fucking fuck.

“Yeah, but he told Tommy and–“

“And I know your uncle and aunt are otherwise occupied,” she continues. “I heard all about it from Dr. Tsu at lunch. Very exciting, you’re going to have a new family member soon.”

“I guess,” Ellie mutters.

“Tell you what,” she says. “I won’t tell your dad that you skipped class if you go straight to Mr. Henderson and pick up your make-up work after school–”

“Fine.”

“ And you have to promise not to skip the rest of the day. Deal?”

The question in her tone is meant to make it seem like a choice, but Ellie knows better. If she tries to cut class again, Joel will hear about it. He probably wouldn’t even care that much, but he’d be annoyed at having to deal with her teachers. The last time she got in trouble, he’d pulled the, “I’m not mad, I just know you’re smarter than that,” card and that had felt worse than any punishment.

Ellie stares at the ground and gives Mrs. Abraham a tight nod, digging her nails into her palms.

“Good. Now, let’s get you back where you’re meant to be.”

Ellie rolls her eyes and stomps into school, back to her next class. Dina gives her a what the hell look when she takes her seat in a huff, but at least she keeps her big mouth shut.

The rest of the day drags on in a monotonous slog. Her knee won’t stop bouncing, eraser end of the pencil tapping frantically on her notebook until stupid Michael Sumner at the next desk glares at her. She flips him the bird with one nail-bitten finger.

She watches the classroom door, hoping for Joel’s broad, flannel-clad frame to appear and dismiss her early. Then she decides that would probably mean bad news, so she switches to willing him not to appear. But what if she’s wishing for him not to show up and something bad happens? She was kind of a shit to him this morning, even though it’s not his fault he had to cancel their camping trip. Sure, he said patrols were usually uneventful and “downright borin’ on the best days,” but with her luck, today will be the not-boring kind.

Fuck. What if the last thing she ever said to him is “bye”?

By the time the last bell rings, she’s ready to crawl out of her skin. She throws herself down the hall, doesn’t bother to pick up her science homework. She slams through the double doors and outside into the warm sun, desperate to get away.

At least she has stable duty to look forward to. As soon as she enters the barn, the familiar scents of fresh hay and leather polish calm her a little. She slings her backpack down in the corner and goes straight to Shimmer’s stall.

“Hey, girl,” she whispers. “You all alone today?”

“She’s been waitin’ for ya.”

Bryce, the stable manager, speaks up from his desk in the little office. He’s a wiry old man with white hair and kind eyes who likes to joke that he’s sharper than the average breadstick, which makes no fucking sense, but Ellie gets the impression it’s not supposed to.

She smiles a little and strokes Shimmer’s velvety soft nose. “She’s getting so big.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t get too comfy in there, young miss. Need ya to muck out number three ‘fore the patrols get back.”

Ellie does, shoveling out the stall and laying fresh shavings down, cleaning and filling the water and feed troughs. When that’s done, she takes her break and spends more time with Shimmer, brushing her down and sneaking her the carrots from her pocket when Bryce isn’t looking.

Her shift is supposed to end at four, but she lingers to finish mucking out one more stall and clean the spare tack. Joel promised to meet her after, but that was before he went out on patrol. His group isn’t back yet, anyway. When the work is no longer enough to keep her worries at bay, she approaches Bryce in the office.

“Hey…any word from the group that went out this morning?”

“Nothin’ on the radio, young miss. Should be back soon, though. No news is good news.”

That’s a fucking lie, she thinks dully, going back to spread fresh shavings in the last stall. No news could mean Joel is lying dead in a ditch somewhere. No news could mean Tommy is a widower or a childless father or both. No news is bullshit.

Finally, she can’t come up with any more excuses to hang around and Bryce shoos her away, tells her to go home and wash up and get dinner. “Too damn skinny to be working so hard,” he says, and she bites her tongue on a few choice “cuss words”, as Joel calls them, because she likes the stables and she likes the horses and she even likes Bryce when he’s not being a dick.

She walks slowly down Rancher Street, dreading the unknown expanse of time until Joel gets home. It’s still daylight, but their house looms like a dark, empty shadow.

Just then, Tommy steps onto the porch at the house across the street. He’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a plain white t-shirt, his normally shiny curls flat and mussed, feet bare. Ellie stops short, barely recognizing the man without his denim and cowboy boots.

He doesn’t notice her at first, just kind of stares off into space, and her stomach clenches. Her feet begin moving toward him without her permission, and Tommy finally comes to when he sees her at the curb.

“Hey, Ellie girl.”

She opens her mouth, meaning to greet him, but what comes out is a rush of questions.

“Where’s Maria? Is the baby here? Is it–”

He holds up a hand, eyes tired but calm. “Baby’s not here yet, but everythin’s fine,” he says evenly.

“Oh. Shouldn’t you be, like, up there?”

He sighs and takes a seat on the top step, tips his head to the spot next to him. Tommy is familiar now, even safe, but she still sits a couple steps down, keeping some space between them.

“Just takin’ a breather,” he sighs. “Maria’s orders. Says things are probably gettin’ real interestin’ soon and I need a clear head.”

Ellie glances up at the house. “Is Maria okay? Is it…bad?”

“Oh, a little labor pain ain’t nothin’ for that woman. Don’t gotta worry about her, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “This is the easy part, everythin’ that comes after…that’s where the real fun is.”

Somehow his reassurances land right where she needs them, some of the day’s fear untwining itself from her ribs. She takes a deep breath, that hollowed-out spot soothed a little by the fresh air and the company.

“No Joel yet, huh?” he asks as if reading her mind.

She shakes her head.

He nods thoughtfully. “S’just a normal run. No news is–“

“Ugh, don’t say it,” she groans. “I know, I get it, he’s fine.”

“Okay, then,” he sighs, looking out over their street, content to sit quietly.

But her worry grows in the silence, so soon she peers up at him. “Were you there when Sarah was born?”

“Oh…yeah, yeah, I was. In the waitin’ room ‘til all hours. She kept us waitin’ awhile. Always did things on her own time like that, right from the get-go,” he smiles.

He gets the same soft look in his eyes that Joel does when he talks about Sarah, the look that makes her heart clench. She wonders if there was anyone in the waiting room for her, if there was even a waiting room at all. Probably not, on both counts.

“I was the first one to hold her…after her mama and daddy, of course. Weren’t much older than you are now,” he says, still smiling, though there’s a slight tremble in his chin now. “Felt pretty special, though. She was so small. Joel was hoverin’ over my shoulder the whole time, all puffed up like a damn peacock.”

She tries to picture Joel with a baby and can’t do it. She’s seen his hands broken and scarred and bloody, can’t imagine them holding something so fragile, so pristine. He’s gentle with her, of course, but she’s the furthest thing from pure.

“That girl had us both wrapped around her little finger from day one,” Tommy murmurs, then nudges her shoulder with his knee. “Not unlike another kid I know.”

She stares at her hands, all ragged cuticles and chewed fingernails. Then footsteps at the door, the midwife’s voice calling from inside. “Tommy? She’s asking for you.”

“You alright on your own?” he frowns, visibly torn. “Your old man should be back any minute–”

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, wiping her palms on her jeans and standing up. “Good luck, I guess.”

He gives her a tired wink. “Here goes nothin’.”

She makes her way down the little walk, resigned to returning to the empty house across the street, when she sees a familiar figure turn the corner at the end of the cul-de-sac. Relief spurs her forward until she’s practically running at him, colliding with Joel in the middle of the road.

“Whoa…easy, kid.”

She buries her face in his chest, traitorous eyes welling with tears. She presses into him harder, wraps her arms around his waist and melts even more when she feels one big, rough paw come up to cradle the back of her head.

“Everythin’ alright?” he asks carefully.

“S’fine,” she mutters, still clinging to him like a barnacle. “Baby’s not here yet.”

“Ah. Well, takes time, I guess.”

She sniffs. “Tommy said things’re good, though.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says, murmuring low into her hair. “Sure you’re okay, kiddo?”

“Uh-huh,” she mumbles, throat tight. If she tries to say more she’ll start bawling, so she holds on tight and waits for her heart to settle. When she finally pulls back, he’s watching her with concern, but he doesn’t ask questions and he doesn’t mention the tears now drying on the front of his shirt, thank fuck.

“How was patrol?” 

“Nothin’ special. That Jesse kid got his horse caught up on an old perimeter fence, took a while to get ‘im loose. How was school?”

She shrugs, wipes at her eyes. “Stupid. As usual.”

That earns her a smirk.

“Why don’t we go back to the house and get cleaned up ‘fore dinner?” he wrinkles his nose. “You smell like a horse.”

“You smell like an asshole,” she fires back, but her smile betrays her. That hollow under her breastbone is full. The scary things always feel lighter when she’s with him.

“Takes one to know one, you little punk,” he mutters, giving her ponytail a gentle tug as they walk back to their house.

After showers, they head to the caf to get dinner. It’s busy tonight, the dining hall aromatic with the smells of garlic and fresh-baked bread and thrumming with friendly chatter. Ellie’s stomach gives a loud growl as they wait in the serving line, and she eats her fill of vegetable soup and goes back for more, dipping her buttered oat bread in her bowl so it soaks up the last of the broth.

“Slow down,” Joel chides as she’s slurping up her second bowl of soup.

“But m’starving,” she mutters, mouth full of bread.

“If y’ate your damn breakfast–”

She blinks up at him, shoving another giant hunk of bread in her mouth.

“Yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice,” he sighs.

“Wasn’t hungry then,” she counters. “M’hungry now.”

Several people approach them while they’re eating to ask about the new baby, to ask how Maria and Tommy are faring, and to send their well-wishes. More than once, Ellie has to stop shoveling bread and soup into her mouth to tell them what she knows.

There’s custard for dessert with fresh whipped cream, and when she finally puts down her spoon, her jeans feel snug and she thinks she could fall asleep right here in the middle of the caf, with Joel at her side and a full stomach and the buzz of conversation around them. She leans into him and lets her eyes close, comforted by the familiar softness of his t-shirt against her cheek. She must have drifted off, because soon Joel is nudging her awake.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Time to go home.”

Home.

Joel grabs extra food from the kitchen before they leave, a jar of vegetable soup and packets of baked chicken and warm crusty bread for Tommy and Maria. They walk back to Rancher Street with the food in a tote, prepared to leave it on the porch, but Tommy sees them coming and meets them outside, a little breathless.

“Y’all wanna come meet the new kid in town?”

She feels Joel tense at her side and the day’s nerves resettle like a heavy stone alongside the food in her stomach.

“You have a niece, big brother,” he says, clapping Joel on the back and pulling him into a fierce hug. Ellie has to look away because the mushy stuff makes the sinking feeling worse. Then Joel’s hand is on her shoulder, squeezing like he needs something to hold onto.

“C’mon.”

They’re ushered upstairs and into the bedroom, lit by the glow of a single lamp. Maria is sitting up in bed holding the new baby, tired but smiling.

“It’s a girl?” Ellie asks, unable to stop herself from leaning over the bed to peer at the swaddled bundle. 

“A girl,” Maria confirms, carefully angling the baby so Ellie can see her face, all scrunched up, poking out from the soft yellow blanket. “She’s had a hard day, but she’s eight pounds of pure spitfire.”

“Just like her mama,” Tommy preens. “You wanna hold her?”

It takes a moment for Ellie to realize he’s talking to her.

She hesitates until Joel gently nudges her forward. “Go ahead, kiddo.”

She’d held babies at the orphanage, but never one so new. She’s nervous as Tommy places the baby in her arms.

“Hold her head, just like that; neck’s a li’l floppy.”

She does, cradling her with one hand on her bottom and the other supporting her neck. The solid weight and warmth of her against her chest is soothing. The baby seems to melt into her, settling with a stretch and a sigh under Ellie’s chin.

“What’s her name?” she whispers, absently stroking the back of her head the way Joel sometimes does with her.

“Isabel,” Maria says. “Isabel Sofia.”

“Hi, Isabel,” she whispers against the girl’s curly brown head. “I’m Ellie.”

“S’your cousin, baby girl,” Tommy says, touching Isabel’s back, and the word falls around Ellie’s shoulders like a shirt that doesn’t quite fit. The baby gives a tiny, sleepy grunt, and a new feeling swells and burns bright as a comet in Ellie’s chest.

Joel leans in the door frame, arms folded, expression unreadable in the low light. He hasn’t said much, just a few murmured words to Maria asking how she’s feeling, offering to help while she’s recovering. All the while he’s watching Ellie and the baby with wan hesitation. She looks over at him, grinning.

“She’s all wrinkly…just like Uncle Joel.”

Tommy doesn’t even try to suppress a snort of laughter. Even Maria is hiding a smile behind her hand.

“Yeah, laugh it up,” Joel grumbles. “You see how you look when that one’s fifteen an’ turnin’ your hair gray with her sass.”

“Dude, you were old waaaay before you met me. Like a fuckin’ dinosaur.”

“At least half these grays have your name on ‘em, kid.”

“Bullshit,” she says easily, but she’s already lost interest, too busy examining the little hand that has escaped the swaddling blanket. “Whoa. She’s so tiny. Joel, come see!”

“I saw, kiddo. She’s, uh…she’s real pretty.”

“Gets that from her mama too,” Tommy says, and Maria rolls her eyes.

“Thomas Miller, save your flattery for when I’m not wearing a goddamn diaper.”

“Never looked more beautiful, baby.”

“Your parents are gross,” Ellie whispers to Isabel; the baby sleeps on, unconcerned.

When the conversation wanes, she looks up to find Joel still eyeing them. 

“You gonna hold her or what?” she asks.

He winces, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to say no. Then he ducks his head in a nod.

“Alright. Give her here.”

He scoops up the baby with practiced ease and tucks her against his chest. There’s no awkward fumbling, none of his former hesitance. He sways on his feet, looking down at the little girl, whispering something Ellie can’t make out. He smiles then, a sad but inescapable thing, and she feels that stone in her stomach grow and grow, all their earlier light-hearted teasing forgotten.

She watches his hands, big enough to span the baby’s back, rubbing in slow circles, and she realizes she was wrong. Those hands had been broken and bloodied for her, they’d killed for her, but they were made for this.

When the grown-ups start talking about Maria’s maternity plans and patrol schedules and how the council will get by for a few weeks without her, she slips out of the room and goes downstairs.

She wants to run. She wants to curl up on the couch and sleep. She wants Joel to hold her like he did earlier, palm to the back of her head so she can hide from the world.

It’s too much; the phantom weight of the baby on her chest and the comet within, your cousin , the smile on Joel’s face even as he looked like he wanted to cry. Isabel was barely two hours old and she’d already embedded herself in their family, slotted into place like a missing puzzle piece. It’s not jealousy–it’s not–but the thought of Joel’s hands on the little girl’s back fills her with a yearning she doesn’t have words for.

She finds herself standing at the mantle.

Sarah, 7/20/89 - 9/27/03

Kevin, 4/3/00 - 9/29/03

Without thinking, Ellie grabs a match from the box on the hearth and lights it, touching the head to Sarah’s candle, then to Kevin’s before blowing it out and tossing the blackened remnant in the fireplace. She watches the twin flames flicker and burn like the candle on her birthday cake. It is a birthday, after all. They should be part of it, too.

Then, a shining reflection out of the corner of her eye. She turns toward it, watches as the polished glass of the picture frame reflects the dancing fire.

She’s been over every inch of this room; every weekly family dinner with the Millers ends with Maria and Tommy on the couch and Joel in the chair and Ellie browsing the bookshelves while they talk. She’s cataloged every memento and salvaged family photo because there are so few.

But she’s never seen this one before. She definitely would have remembered it.

It’s Joel–a young Joel, no gray in his hair, fewer wrinkles around his eyes, god she almost doesn’t recognize him he’s so fucking light . His hip is cocked, a grin so bright it’s blinding, one arm slung around a young girl’s shoulders. She’s making a goofy face, throwing a peace sign, braces flashing in the sun, soccer ball at her feet.

There’s no doubt who she’s looking at. The love in Joel’s expression gives it away.

Sarah.

She gets it now; the pain on his face, the hesitation. Sarah would have looked a lot like the little girl upstairs.

Joel’s familiar steps on the stairs, the warmth of him at her back.

“Oh.” It’s less a word and more a sharp, punched-out breath.

She hunches a little, looking up at him over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I just…it was right there, I didn’t–“

“S’alright,” he murmurs, resting a hand on the nape of her neck in reassurance. “I just…wasn’t expectin’ it is all. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“That’s her, isn’t it?” she whispers.

He takes the photo from her hands, examining it. “Yeah. That’s…that’s Sarah. Soccer tournament in ‘02, think it was.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Tommy went back to Austin a couple years ago, I guess. Found it at the old house. Said there wasn’t much left, but this one was in a drawer or somethin’. Showed it to me when we got here, but I told him…told him to keep it. Couldn’t…didn’t think I could, uh…have her around,” he whispers thickly, brow furrowed.

A sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth as he hands the picture back. “S’a good one, though. We can put it up at the house if you want. Think I’d…think I could be alright with that…now.”

He notices the candles on the mantle then. “You, uh…you light these?”

“Seemed like the thing to do.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “It’s…that’s good.”

She shrugs, staring at the photo again, studying it like an archaeologist looking for meaning in the rubble.

“I’d never seen her before,” she says carefully, chewing at her lower lip. “She doesn’t look like you.”

“Yeah…got that a lot,” he chuckles. “Got her mama’s looks and my attitude. An’ let me tell you, arguin’ with a miniature version of yourself all day ain’t as fun as it sounds.”

She pictures a pocket-sized Joel with a chipmunk voice yelling up at her and almost cracks a smile.

“Was a lot like you that way,” he continues. “Too smart for her own damn good and no filter on that mouth.”

He nudges her, quietly letting her know he’s teasing.

“She was all mine, though,” he murmurs. “Through an’ through.”

Mine .

The word sends another pang of longing through her, so strong she shudders. He must pick up on it, because he squeezes her shoulder gently, shaking it a little.

“Hey. That goes for you, too.”

She doesn’t have a response for that. She’s been reduced to the weight of the frame in her hand, the lump in her throat, the comet in her chest, the stone in her stomach.

She goes easily when he puts an arm around her and pulls her into his side, warm and safe and slotted into place like a missing puzzle piece, a mirror image of the photo she holds in her hand.

[mikelogan]

BEFORE I WAKE (2016) dir. Mike Flanagan

The Canker Man is the embodiment of all of Cody Morgan's fears, insecurities, and trauma. It stalks and kills relentlessly, as Cody imagines it to be a remorseless and evil entity that kills mothers and children and warps their bodies into nightmarish monsters.

@lgbtqcreators creator challenge - anger