#drain box installers

[landscapecompany]

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[semi-sketchy]

hey so I think I found the cause of my health problems for the last decade

[ap-emergency-services-24h]

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[reasonsforhope]

Legit though, we should start turning ecosystem restoration and work to make our world more tolerant to the effects of climate change into annual holidays and festivals

Like how just about every culture used to have festivals to celebrate the beginning of the harvest or its end, or the beginning of planting, or how whole communities used to host barn raisings and quilting bees - everyone coming together at once to turn the work of months or years into the work of a few days

Humble suggestions for festival types:

Goat festival

Besides controlled burns (which you can't do if there's too much dead brush), the fastest, most effective, and most cost-efficient way to clear brush before fire season - esp really heavy dead brush - is to just. Put a bunch of goats on your land for a few days!

Remember that Shark Tank competitor who wanted to start a goat rental company, and everyone was like wtf? There was even a whole John Oliver bit making fun of the idea? Well THAT JUST PROVES THEY'RE FROM NICE WET PLACES, because goat rental companies are totally a thing, and they're great.

So like. Why don't we have a weekend where everyone with goats just takes those goats to the nearest land that needs a ton of clearing? Public officials could put up maps of where on public lands grazing is needed, and where it definitely shouldn't happen. Farmers and people/groups with a lot of acres that need clearing can post Goat Requests.

Little kids can make goat-themed crafts and give the goats lots of pets or treats at the end of the day for doing such a good job. Volunteers can help wrangle things so goats don't get where they're not supposed to (and everyone fences off land nowadays anyway, mostly). And the goats, of course, would be in fucking banquet paradise.

Planting Festival and Harvest Festival

Why mess with success??? Bring these back where they've disappeared!!! Time to swarm the community gardens and help everyone near you with a farm make sure that all of their seeds are sown and none of the food goes to waste in the fields, decaying and unpicked.

And then set up distribution parts of the festival so all the extra food gets where it needs to be! Boxes of free lemons in front of your house because you have 80 goddamned lemons are great, but you know what else would be great? An organized effort to take that shit to food pantries (which SUPER rarely get fresh produce, because they can't hold anything perishable for long at all) and community/farmer's markets

Rain Capture Festival

The "water year" - how we track annual rainfall and precipitation - is offset from the regular calendar year because, like, that's just when water cycles through the ecosystems (e.g. meltwater). At least in the US, the water year is October 1st through September 30th of the next year, because October 1st is around when all the snowmelt from last year is gone, and a new cycle is starting as rain begins to fall again in earnest.

So why don't we all have a big barn raising equivalent every September to build rain capture infrastructure?

Team up with some neighbors to turn one of those little grass strips on the sidewalk into a rain-garden with fall-planting plants. Go down to your local church and help them install some gutters and rain barrels. Help deculvert rivers so they run through the dirt again, and make sure all the storm drains in your neighborhood are nice and clear.

Even better, all of this - ESPECIALLY the rain gardens - will also help a ton with flood control!

I'm so serious about how cool this could be, yall.

And people who can't or don't want to do physical stuff for any of these festivals could volunteer to watch children or cook food for the festival or whatever else might need to be done!

Parties afterward to celebrate all the good work done! Community building and direct local improvements to help protect ourselves from climate change!

The possibilities are literally endless, so not to sound like an influencer or some shit, but please DO comment or reply or put it in the notes if you have thoughts, esp on other things we could hold festivals like this for.

Canning festivals. "Dig your elderly neighbors out of the snow" festivals. Endangered species nesting count festival. Plant fruit trees on public land and parks festival. All of the things that I don't know anywhere near enough to think of. Especially in more niche or extreme ecosystems, there are so many possibilities that could do a lot of good

[textmel8r]

[ DRABBLE + SMAU ] 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ! ( seventh installment ) in which you find toji fushiguro’s number off a sugar baby site .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; toji fushiguro

୨୧˚ cw; sugar mommy! reader , sugar baby! toji , masturbation , angst , profanity , descriptions of violence , toji being a pathetic little sicko :D

୨୧˚ an; sorry this part is on the shorter side😅😅 it’s more of a filler chapter but i still like it!

It’s well past midnight when Toji slips his way back into his motel room. It’s dingy and drab, the once-white walls twinged a sickly yellowish tint from chain smoking guests. Ugly bedspread details different flowers that Toji couldn’t name, the same aged pattern clinging to the drapes that were pulled shut over the front window, never to be opened. It smells of heady sweat and open wounds, though maybe that’s just him. No, it definitely is him. He’s hyper aware of the grimy layer of filth that acts as a second layer of skin. It’s gritty and uncomfortable.

The bathroom cubicle is claustrophobic; if Toji were to stand in the center of the room, he could easily touch all four walls that boxed him in. He sits on the closed toilet seat lid, staring at his hands. They’re huge, intimidating. Trembling, spattered in blood that’s long since crusted into a dark concretion, cracking at the hinges of his fingers. His hands that took the lives of two innocent men just hours prior. Toji didn’t want to kill them, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Oh, how they shrieked and hollered for their lives as he dragged them into that alley. They just kept fucking screaming. 

“Fuck…” The man sighs grimly, letting his head dip forward to rest in the cups of his filthy palms. His bangs feel matted and crunchy with remnants of sweat. Disgusting self-pity blooms at the base of his hollow chest, and suddenly Toji has the urge to ram his skull into the drywall. Or dislocate his finger. Or do anything to punish himself for that feeling of defeatism. The nerve to possess such a shameful victim mentality, as if he deserved sympathy. He’s a killer; the best he deserves is a fucking electric chair.

Toji showers. A long, scalding shower that singes him to the bone. Water stained red cascades down the rippling wall of muscles that was his body and swirls down the rusty drain. These post-slaughter showers used to be blank canvases of his life. Ones where Toji’s brain would shut off and try to forget the atrocities committed by his hand. He would scrub his flesh raw, scrub scrub scrub mindlessly until he ached all over. But now, he only thinks of one thing.

You.

Maybe it’s some sick coping mechanism, turning to thoughts of you in times like these. In a pathetic form of self comfort, he reminisces. Your hands holding his face, your know-it-all smile, your way with words. God, your fucking way with words. 

“My sweet boy,” Toji whispers under his breath, touching himself. As if he could replicate the delicate way in which you spoke to him. His eyes shut, desperately clinging onto the mental image of you beneath him in his bed. Your arms outstretched, reaching for him like you want him. Like you love him. “My sweet…” Toji tries to fade into the warmth of the spray, imagining it to be your body heat encapsulating him instead. But the water is far too hot, it hurts; you wouldn’t hurt him like this. He tries so damn hard to disassociate into the pleasure, as if his hand would magically dissolve into yours. Yeah, right. His hand is too big to ever compete with yours. Too fucking rough and gritty and mean.

The flat of his palm finds the greasy tiles of the shower wall. Toji fucks himself with all the roughness he deserves, lower lip staked between two rows of teeth to cease its quivering. He’s going to cum. Your face appears in his psyche once more, but this time, it’s from the first time you visited him in the hospital all those months ago. He can see the picture so vividly, it scares him: you seated at his bedside, poking and prodding over his obliques, muttering a stream of concerned questions. But you were never upset or angry. No, despite the worries, you were still smiling. At him. 

Fuck, he’s really going to cum.

Toji grits his teeth, climaxing with a harsh shudder and a broken gasp of your name on his lips. Small jolts force him into a twitchy state, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against the tiles beside his hand. Semen paints the wall below, too far to the left for the shower spray to rinse it off. He doesn’t bother to clean it off. He’s too repulsed by himself to do much of anything. 

The plasticky sheets stick to his skin. Sleeping in just a pair of boxers was probably a stupid idea, bed mites were a real cause for concern, or so Shiu had told him. But it’s hot. He’s hot. And restless. And uncomfortable. He always had trouble falling asleep in foreign beds. Lidded eyes peek over to the alarm clock perched on the side table, its cherry digits splaying 2:47am. You were asleep. 

He reaches for his phone anyway, wracked with guilt all the while. The tension in his thighs still persisted, still succumbed to the aftershocks of his orgasm he fucked himself to with your face in his mind. He’s fucking gross. This is gross.

She’s sleeping, jackass. Don’t wake her up because you’re lonely.

Be a fucking man and lick your own wounds. That’s what his father would say.

He texts you anyway.

He presses the call button. It only gets through half a ring before the line cuts on and he hears a groggy “hey” filter through the receiver. How long has it been since he’s heard your voice? Not that long, only three days and yet it feels like it's been three lifetimes. And that’s truly the moment when Toji knows you’ve fucked him for life, because when did he start thinking such sappy shit like that?

“Hi,” he answers, melting back into the stiff mattress. His gaze wanders along the waterlogged ceiling, tracing the abstract damp stains that have settled in its popcorn surface. He thinks offhandedly that one of them vaguely resembles a rabbit. “Sorry for waking you.”

“You already apologized, silly. I told you it’s okay.” There’s a pause. “It’s nice to hear your voice.”

It’s nice to hear yours, too. “Go to sleep.” 

“Yeah, okay.” The sound of sheets stirring crackles, Toji assumes you’re tossing in bed. “You’re sleeping now, too, right?”

He paws at his stomach, the pads of his rough fingertips tracing the gutters of his abdominal plates before he sinks his blunt nails into his own flesh. “In a bit.”

“Soon. It’s late, Toji.” You order him to bed like a mother would her child.

He nods as if you could see the gesture. “Soon, then.”

You bid him a good night, turning once more into bed before settling back into the depths of the slumber Toji had interrupted. He clasps his cell between his ear and shoulder, basking in your gentle breaths. It’s the same sounds you made the night you fucked him. He slept upon your chest, head over your heart, listening to its beats. You drooled on his pillow, he gave a quiet scoff at the memory. Are you drooling now?

Toji never sleeps.

likes and reblogs are appreciated !

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[dragonnarrative-writes]

@charliemwrites infected me with Charmed!Slasher!Ghost. The dialogue is directly from part 4 of their series.

No content warnings for this installment. Please let me know if you need me to add or tag any.

Slasher Handler Masterlist

Not everyone appreciates optimism. Seeing the best in people, you’ve been told on multiple occasions, is naive at best and dangerous at worst. Someone could take advantage of you. People have taken advantage of you. You’re going to get yourself hurt!

The thing is, you’re not naive. You’re old enough to have experienced the casual cruelty of the world. But being cruel yourself doesn’t help anything. Kindness costs very little, and you’re happy to pay a little toward your karma every day. And when people think you’re an easy, bubbly target, they tend to let their guard down.

No one expects you to be observant.

Your new neighbor doesn’t expect you to be observant.

When you almost run into him the day he moves in, it doesn't take long for you to recognize him as the guy who brought you home from the bar. For one, he’s huge and doesn’t bother to hide it. Secondly, his eyes are this flat, empty, piercing blue until you apologize. And then he smiles, and and his eyes go from lifeless tundra to sort-of-welcomingly-frigid, and you know, you know, that this guy is dangerous.

And then he informs you that he’s moving just next door. You probe a bit, and he tells you he’s not worried about your noise, even as he asks about neighbors. You give him a little vulnerability, see how still he goes when you mention that you’re a bit introverted.

“Anyway!” You chirp, slipping back into the bubbly persona before the last test. “Do you need any help moving things in?”

And your new neighbor’s pupils dilate, ever so slightly, even as all the life in them drains away.

“Thank you, luv," he says in that deep voice, "but I’m almost finished. I wouldn’t want to hold you up.”

You feel your whole body flush as your nervous system screams predator-danger-RUN. You look down and away, try not to fidget.

“Well, lemme know if you need anything! I always forget something important when I move,” you say, and hope he doesn’t take your nervousness as an invitation to attack. “I’m the one on the left.”

He says “call me Riley,” so you do. Don’t bother to give him a fake name back, because if he wants to, he can look at the packages on your doormat and get your full name anyway.

You spend the rest of the afternoon chewing on your bottom lip, thinking. People at the grocery store probably think you’re daydreaming, or really worried about getting the right box mix for dessert. A kindly older woman picks out her favorite brownie mix and tells you its her husband’s favorite, just add a few caramel candies. You thank her, genuinely, and add the box to your basket.

Back at home, waiting for the brownies to finish baking, you let the anxiety simmer. Riley is a predator, yes, and you’re potential prey. But he already lives next door. And the neighbor before him was also dangerous, the way all men are dangerous. Admittedly, that feels like comparing a goldfish to a volcano, but it’s true. So you’ll bring him a welcome-to-the-building gift and endear yourself to him.

Being kind doesn’t cost anything. And if he likes you, he probably won’t kill you.

[thornsnvultures]

laundry day

eddie munson x plus size!fem!reader

summary: eddie catches you reading something saucy at the laundromat while you wait for your load to finish.

cw: smut (18+, no minors), mutual pining, nipple play, fingering, lil bit of edging, teasing/cocky!eddie (in like a playful way, he's not mean)

a/n: thanks to @ozarkthedog for being super encouraging as always ❤

Just imagining running into Eddie at the laundromat. It's hot outside, a muggy 80 degrees, and he's in cut off jeans that he chopped himself and an Iron Maiden tee. There's industrial size fans blasting from the corners of the room, hanging from the ceiling. They feel like they're blowing hot air around the room more than anything.

When you walk in with your basket he's already there, playing with the claw machine they inexplicably installed at the beginning of summer. Like they didn't have enough machines here already that ate up all your quarters. His head turns briefly when you walk in and you awkwardly wave and say hi out of courtesy. Of course you almost drop your laundry bag but Eddie's surprisingly quick, catching it before it slips out of your hands.

"Careful there." His boyish grin is surprisingly disarming. You find yourself staring at his dimples for a moment too long.

"Right, sorry," you force out a laugh and try not to cringe. Eddie's a bit weird but hot in a way that makes you act a little stupid.

You pick a machine far away from the one that's already running, presumably his, so you don't have to sort out your under-things with him right next to you.

"C'mon, c'mon...Dammit!"

Looking up from your pile of clothes you see Eddie squat in front of the claw machine to put more coins in, the black bandana hanging from his pocket drags on the floor. You can't help but to watch, it's kind of entertaining. His tongue is poked out in concentration, his ringed fingers tapping the stick ever so slightly to nudge the crane into the perfect position. Eddie looks around the sides of the glass box to make sure he's lined up just right and smacks the button to make the grabber drop. He curses when it snags the plushie's arm but doesn't pull it free.

It's been a full minute and a half and you've been standing there holding the same pair of panties, watching him and not sorting a damn thing. You don't have anything else to do today but you can't stand there and ogle either. So you shake your head and get back to it, finally tossing in a load as he loses for the third time since you got here.

You sit down and crack open the book you brought. It looks like he's out of quarters now. You feel kinda bad, he seemed pretty excited about whatever's in there.

He's pacing around the room now, sitting still and waiting for something doesn't seem like a skill he has, and singing to himself. You never thought of Eddie Munson as a singer but you can hear him enough over the machines and he sounds...good.

It's impossible to read with him pacing the room looking like that. With his short sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, showing off all his tattoos. And the one on his thigh that you didn't see when you walked in, that one had to be new. You were starting to zone out, thinking about Eddie and his tattoos and your long, long week of working doubles. It was hard saving up enough to get out of this town but you were determined to do it. Even if it left you drained at the end of every week.

A loud bang in front of you had you nearly jumping out of your skin.

"Whatcha reading?"

Eddie smiled at you from atop the washing machine he was now sitting on. You looked down at the cover that he could clearly see, the racy cover showing a fair maiden being ravished by a swoon-worthy, shirtless pirate. With a gasp you closed the book and put it face down in your lap.

"Nothing. It's- I'm not even reading it really, just skimming."

"Looking for all the steamy bits, huh?"

Eddie's shit eating grin made your face feel hot and you sputtered, trying to think of anything that wouldn't make you seem like a weirdo basically reading porn in public.

"Is it any good?"

"What?"

"The book. Is it any good?"

"I, uh...it's okay," you mumbled, messing with the hem of your shorts instead of looking at him. You couldn't. Not with that blinding smile, those dimples and pretty brown eyes making your stomach flip more than any of the bodice-ripping going on between the pages in your lap.

"Just okay? What would make it better?"

Oh god, why is he doing this. You wish he had won the toy from the machine so he could play with that instead of you right now.

When you don't answer Eddie jumps down off the machine and grabs the book from your lap. He ignores your protests as he leafs through the pages.

"You're mine now," the Captain growls at my ear. "Not a prim, proper lady of society. Not aboard my ship."

Eddie's voice changes to that of a grissled pirate as he reads. It's shocking, at first the horror that he's actually reading your book out loud, then how you respond. Your thighs tighten and you swallow, your mouth suddenly gone dry. Eddie's whole posture changes. He stands taller, more confident, like he truly is a grim, dominating pirate who kidnapped Lord Quimbly's only daughter.

Captain Blackburn roughly pushed up my skirts, bending me over his massive oak desk. I'd never felt more exposed and completely at someone else's mercy. Before I knew it, his manhood was pressing into me there, breaking me, ruining me for all others.

"Okay, wait, hold on," Eddie's teasing grin and dramatic tone vanished by the end of the passage. His brows furrowed as his finger traced the page and he read it again to himself. "That's it? He's just whipping it out and going to town? Breaking and ruining her? Fuckin' hell. I see what you mean." Eddie shook his head, flipping through more of the book.

"I mean, it's not great. But aren't most dudes like that anyway?" You laugh but it's true, the dudes you've been with in the past haven't cared much for seeing to your needs. Eddie, however, looks personally offended.

"They shouldn't be."

Eddie handed you back your book, not that you wanted to go back to reading it now anyway.

"Are you like that?"

The question slipped out before you could stop it. And you felt like you already knew the answer.

"Am I like what?"

"Other guys."

Eddie's playful smirk was back. Maybe you did want to be a toy for him to play with after all.

"Want me to show you? Hmm?" Eddie reaches out with one ringed finger and tips your chin up to look at him. "Want me to take care of you like those other guys couldn't?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." Your eyes search his, for what you don't know. For him to tell you what you want so you don't have to admit to yourself you want him to rail you at the laundromat while no one's around? Maybe.

"Tell me. Tell me you want me to make you come."

"Yes. Please."

Your desperate little plea is all he needs to hear apparently because in the next second he's pulling you up on your feet and kissing you. Eddie's mouth is hungry on yours, devouring yours. Turning in his arms, you jump up on to the washing machine and pull him closer. The metal is a welcome cold against your sweat slick thighs and Eddie's even more welcome between them. You scoot to the edge of the machine to grind against the bulge pushing against his zipper.

"Please, Eddie." You don't mean to sound so whiny, but you want him to keep his promise. You want him to make you feel good, to make you come.

"Shh, I'm here. There's no one else. I've got you," his words whispered in between kisses along your neck makes your spine tingle. He's got that same air of dominance as when he was reading your book and it's got you soaking through your cotton shorts.

Eddie's hands massage your breast, tugging at your nipple until your writhing against him. The ridge of his denim covered cock provides just enough friction for you to come from just this. His lips leaving love bites where anyone can see, his fingers pulling and squeezing to the point of pain, a pain that shoots straight to your clit. Just one more second and he'd have you screaming, but all at once he pulls away.

"Eddie," you sob, "don't stop, please."

"I've barely touched you and you're almost in tears," his mocking tone would piss you off if his touch wasn't so gentle. Holding your face so delicately, pressing soft kisses to your jaw like he didn't just bring you to the edge only to pull you away.

"Please, Eddie."

"Love the way you beg for me. So pretty when you beg."

Eddie's nose rubs against your jaw, nuzzling against you like a cat. You wouldn't be surprised if he started purring.

He nudges your thighs open a little wider, squeezing them and groaning at the way his fingers dig into your flesh.

"Next time you're gonna let me get my face between these thighs, princess. It's already killing me not to sink my teeth into 'em."

"Next time?"

Eddie looks you dead in the eyes, watches them roll back, and cups your pussy over your shorts.

"Next time. Because this is mine now."

You kiss him again then because, fuck, no one's every looked at you like that. Like you were worth keeping, like you were worth a next time. No one's fucked you in an empty laundromat either, but it looked like Eddie was full of surprises.

"It's yours," you press your forehead to his, trying to stop your head from spinning. "Make me come."

Eddie slips his hand into your shorts and curses.

"No panties? You've been sitting here this whole time with no panties on?"

"Stop saying panties. And yes, it's laundry day," you shrug like it's no big deal, which it isn't, but Eddie looks like he's about to pop five different blood vessels.

"You're in so much trouble," he groans as his fingers slip down to your soaked cunt. Your hole clenches around his finger tip like it's begging for him to push it in and he listens. Eddie fills you up with one, then two of his thick fingers. Teasing, spreading, stretching you open until you're writhing again. Your hips twist in time with his palm rubbing against your clit and it's heaven. He feels so fucking good and you tell him over and over until you're not sure you're saying words anymore.

Anyone could walk in and see the two of you at any time and it only makes you squeeze tighter around his fingers. Getting caught like this, spread open for Eddie like a whore while he bullies your cunt with his fat fingers. You're ruined for anyone else. Not like your book, with its heroine terrified of ruination, of being seen as dirty or less than. No you're ruined for ever being treated as less than, for accepting that no man will take the time to make you feel as amazing as you feel right now.

"Eddie, I'm gonna- oh god."

Your legs shake, you're right there. Eddie pulls his soaking wet fingers from inside you and you want to fucking scream, but he taps your clit and starts rubbing furious circles over the oversensitive nub.

"Come for me, show me."

His deep voice in your ear and the relentless pressure on your clit have you flying off the edge. Your body tensing, folding in on itself, all the air rushing out of your lungs as you implode from your release.

And Eddie holds you and kisses you and wipes his fingers on his shirt which should be gross but you don't care. It's laundry day, anyway.

"I meant it. You're mine. Not letting you tiptoe around me anymore."

"I don't tiptoe," you mumble into his neck. Your legs wrap around his waist as he settles between your thighs again. He's still painfully hard but it seems like he's fine with you clinging to him like a koala for now.

The washer buzzes under you, making you jump. Eddie doesn't want to let you go at first, but you give him an ultimatum that kicks his butt into gear.

"Help me finish my laundry and I'll blow you in your van." You look up at him through your lashes and laugh when he scrambles to pull you off the machine.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #9: Matters of the Heart

Prompt: lend an ear || Master Post || On AO3

---

A soft knock on the door jolted Dulia-Chai back into full awareness and she jerked her head up, decades of practice and composure the only thing that kept her from knocking her ink bottle over.

“Dulia-Chai? Do you have a moment?”

The door to her office was open, and she could see a familiar head of soft red hair just over the accounting books stacked in haphazard piles all over her desk. Dulia-Chai beamed. “Of course, Ryne! Come in, come in, have a seat on the settee.”

The door opened wider so Ryne could slip inside fully, and while she did so, Dulia-Chai quickly checked over her current work. Eulmore’s finances had, well, gone to utter shite long before Vauthry’s rule, or even that of his father, and she and the other municipal accountants were having a devil of a time straightening out the records. She had reached a good stopping point, however, and she had been at this for most of the morning already. Ryne had chosen an excellent time to visit.

Dulia-Chai made sure the blue ink of her own notations was dry, closed the book, and pushed away from her desk to stand. She took a moment to stretch out her poor back before she bustled towards the settee.

Ryne was fretting with her hair ribbon, head ducked low, and Dulia-Chai eyed her thoughtfully.

Tea, she decided. They definitely needed tea.

Her Nuzz had installed a small stove for her here in her office, to make it easier to brew tea or even coffee on the days when the finances proved most troublesome. It took only a moment to fill the kettle from the water pitcher one of the pages always made certain was refreshed throughout the day, set it on the stove to heat, and began laying out a tea tray from the cupboard and cold box. Bowl of sugar, small jug of cream, two cups, and of course: a tin of coffee biscuits.

Once the kettle was off the stove and the leaves steeping, Dulia-Chai brought the tray over to the settee, placing it on the low table, and perched on the settee next to Ryne. She poured a cup, added two sugar cubes and a dash of cream, and passed the cup to Ryne, who took it automatically and raised the cup from the saucer to gently blow at the hot liquid before sipping carefully. Dulia-Chai made her own cup—no sugar, healthy glug of cream—and wedged a biscuit onto the saucer before finally settling back.

The drank and nibbled in mostly comfortable silence for a few minutes. While Ryne’s nerves had calmed, she still seemed disinclined to proffer what had brought her here today. Well, then!

“How may I help you today, Ryne?” Dulia-Chai said gently.

Ryne sighed quietly, stuffed the remaining half of her own coffee biscuit into her mouth to keep from answering for a few more moments as she set down her teacup. She chewed, swallowed, and finally said, shy as a lamb: “Were you ever scared your relationship with Chai-Nuzz wouldn’t work out?”

Ahhhh, there it was. Dulia-Chai finished draining her own tea as she best thought how to answer, before deciding the most straightforward way was best, as always. “Certainly!” she said. “We were both young, and the young aren’t always so wise, and it’s common for people of all ages to realize they aren’t a good fit for one another. But here’s the thing: relationships take work.”

Ryne finally looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time today, puzzlement clear on her features.

Dulia-Chai nodded. “It’s something that gets left out of the romances, something even we adults often forget to pass along, because it isn’t glamorous. I adored my Nuzz from the first, but adoration does not make for stability. Of course, I had to convince Chai-Nuzz of my adoration first…”

She took a moment to grumble as Ryne giggled. Stubborn, ridiculous man and his low self-esteem! Even today it was still a struggle.

“How do you do it? Making it work?” Ryne said.

“Talking,” Dulia-Chai said with a firm nod. “If you’re upset, say so, and why. If you don’t know why, say that, too! Sometimes we just feel poorly for no good reason, and it’s important to communicate that so that no one feels as if they’ve done something wrong. If you’d like to do something together, ask. It sounds very simple, but often people expect their loved ones to just know, and that is neither fair to yourself or to them! Though, it’s not impossible to become well attuned to your loved one after long years together; my Nuzz always knows when I need a biscuit or when I need to take a walk if I’m grumpy, but he didn’t know that when we first courted.”

Ryne nodded slowly, nibbling at her lower lip as she absorbed Dulia-Chai’s words. “And…what about just wanting to be alone for a bit?”

“Oh, my dear Ryne, that is perfectly normal, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” Dulia-Chai said. “You are your own person, as Gaia is her own person, as I’m my own, as Chai-Nuzz is his. We all have different needs and desires; sometimes that means we want to spend our time with our beloveds, sometimes with friends, sometimes by ourselves.”

Ryne seemed to sag with relief, the tension that had been thrumming through her finally released. “Oh, thank you, Dulia-Chai,” she said. “Some days it doesn’t feel any different with Gaia than before we began dating, and I’ve also been having this awful itch to just…go camping in Lakeland for a sennight like in the old days with Thancred, and Gaia hates that sort of camping.”

Dulia-Chai reached out and gently patted Ryne’s knee. “You and Gaia have a strong foundation, being friends first,” she said, “and that’s good. One’s beloved should also be one’s friend, and some days you will feel that friendship more strongly than your romantic feelings. And your friend knows the two of you don’t need to be bound at the hip at all times! I have no doubt Gaia will understand, and she can enjoy some time to herself and her own hobbies, and then once you’re back, you’ll both be mentally recharged and feeling better. But you have to talk to one another, hm?”

“Yes, Dulia-Chai, I will,” Ryne said, smiling at last. “Thank you again.”

“You are always welcome, my dear. Now…” She held out her arms and winked. “Big squeeze or little squeeze?”

“Big, please!”

As Dulia-Chai gave Ryne a bone-crushing hug that had the girl squeaking in delight, she wondered if a certain black-haired young lady would be visiting her before Ryne had the chance to talk with her.

[loslentesdepedrito]

I'm Your Wife- Chapter Seven

Javi gif by: @skyshipper Jack gif by: @javier-pena My Masterlist

Pairing: Jack Daniels ‘Agent Whiskey’x Spanish-speaking f!reader and Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Previous Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Six

Word count: 9.2k+

Chapter summary: It's time for Ángel's surgery and the transplant preparation. Following the procedure, Jack visits his son, providing some closure regarding your marriage.

A/N: This chapter concludes the final installment of the series and stands as my penultimate post on this blog. Next week, hopefully, I'll be sharing one more post—a Din piece—officially wrapping up this blog. I intend to maintain my writing for another two weeks before ultimately closing my account. Thank you to everyone who has supported me!

Rating: 18+ No explicit content, but this is an 18+ page. Warning contains spoilers, but please read if you'd like!!! They are below the cut, but if you don't want to read them, the story starts after the Whiskey bottles. Also, Jack's texts are in bold.

CW: angst is back again, but a happy ending is guaranteed, some science, mentions of surgery, chemotherapy, and stem cell transplant, Jack cannot use an iPhone, Javi and Jack tension, jealousy, pregnancy, divorce, and childhood disease.

Your conversation with Jack three hours ago left you drained and exhausted, and now you're perched on the chair in the corner of your son's hospital room. You're engrossed in watching Ángel and Javi talk about an upcoming soccer game and the probability of their favorite team winning the match when your phone vibrates underneath your thigh. With a subtle shift, you reach for it and once it’s in your hand, you flip it over. Your phone is illuminated with a family picture of you with your husband and son in the background and there’s a message on your Notification Center. 

Jack Daniels: HI. TEXTING YOU FROM MY NEW PHONE.

Another vibration follows, prompting a second message.

Jack Daniels: WHY DID THE TEXT SEND IN UPPERCASE?

The sequence of messages from Jack continues, each notification accompanied by a vibration.

Jack Daniels: HOW DO I TURN THIS OFF?

Jack Daniels: HELP me. Wait, I figured it out. Sorry.

You haven’t clicked on the messages to take you to the chat. Instead, you hold and press, sending him a brief response:

Hi, Jack.

He doesn’t send anything back, and you turn off your phone. As soon as the screen is black, it lights up again.

Jack Daniels: I went to the store and picked up a new phone.

A second later, an image comes through.

You hover over the message once more, and it’s a front selfie Jack took. Well, it’s not quite a full-face selfie. It only captures just beneath his eyes, and his eyes and face are not looking directly at the camera, so you guess he was looking down trying to take a picture of something else.

You’re proven correct when a second picture comes through. This time it’s a box of an iPhone.

There’s a bubble on your text chain, and this time you fully click, opening the message thread with Jack.

Sorry, I don’t know how this phone works. I just didn’t want my phone to fail, and you didn’t have a way to contact me, so I got a new one. Did I miss anything?

You reply back with:

Ángel is already ready to go, we’re just waiting for a room to open up in the OR. Could take hours, though.

How did he take the news?

Very well, actually. Saying he’s excited to go home is an understatement. He sensed that we were worried about his surgery and he kind of gave us a lecture on how important it is to listen to doctors and gave us a small list of the benefits of chemo ports. When we asked him how he knew about the port, he said, and I quote, "some light reading."

Jack doesn’t take long to reply:

Smart boy. He definitely got that from you.

A smile graces your lips at his message, but you decide to shift the conversation:

We never talked about it, but do you want us to tell Ángel that you’re his donor?

Your nerves are on edge, and waiting for Jack’s response heightens your anxiety. Glancing up from your phone, you see Ángel still in deep conversation with Javi. Your phone vibrates again, and you look down at Jack’s response:

No. I don’t want him to want a relationship with me because of the donation. If he wants a relationship with me, I want it to be because he truly wants it, not because he feels any obligation.

You exhale, relieved, and reply:

Okay, we won’t tell him.

Thank you.

A text bubble appears:

How do I send the accent on his name?

Suppressing a laugh, your fingers glide over the keyboard:

Press the letter A for a good two seconds, and a whole lot of options should appear. Click on the third one.

It doesn’t take Jack very long to send a single:

Á

He follows with:

Be honest, does it sound a bit funny when I pronounce his name?

You weigh your options, lie or be honest. You decide to go with the latter:

A little bit.

I remember when you used to make fun of my accent…

Liar. I didn’t make fun of you.

I miss that...

Oh, God, not again.

You’re about to reprimand him when, by some divine intervention, a fist knocks on the door, followed by a man in a polo and khakis. Quickly, you turn your phone off, redirecting your full attention to the man.

You’re about to reprimand him when, by some divine intervention, a fist knocks on the door, followed by a man in a polo and khakis. Quickly, you turn your phone off, redirecting your full attention to the man.

“Hi, I’m Will. I’m with patient transport services, and I’m here to take Ángel down to the OR,” he says.

“Come in,” you invite.

Javi stands up and retrieves your thick to-go bag from underneath the sofa. It's filled with water bottles, a variety of snacks, sweaters, sweatpants, and a few changes of clothes—because, as Javi says, uno nunca sabe (one never knows).

Will walks over to Ángel and looks at his hospital bracelet. He takes out a phone with a bulky blue case and scans the ID barcode. Will asks to no one in particular, “Can you please confirm his full name and date of birth.”

Javi does that for you.

Will nods and types something onto the phone. After a moment, he looks at Ángel, “Hey, little man, how are you doing?”

Ángel smiles, “I’m good, sir. I'm just waiting to get my chemo port. After that, I can get chemo and then a transplant so I can go home.”

Will chuckles, “That's a great plan, buddy. We’ll get you down to the OR, and they’ll take good care of you so you can go home soon. Ready to go to the sixth floor?”

Ángel nods enthusiastically, his eyes filled with trust.

“Great,” Will says, glancing at you and Javi. “If you guys are ready, we can head downstairs.”

Javi, lifting the heavy bag over his shoulder, nods in agreement. He glances at Ángel, a mix of tenderness and concern in his eyes, and then turns to Will.

“He’ll be under anesthesia, right?” Javi asks, his voice a bit gruffer than usual.

Will offers a reassuring smile, “Yes, sir. That's what his chart says.”

Javi nods, visibly swallowing some of his worry. “Okay, let’s get him down there.” He moves to help his son get up from the bed. Will positions the wheelchair closer to Ángel's bed, and together, they carefully lower Ángel onto the wheelchair. You reach for one of the blankets—a gift from your father-in-law—and drape it over Ángel. Will takes the IV wire and secures it on the designated hook at the back of the wheelchair.

"Are we all set?" Will asks.

"Yes," you affirm, and then Will wheels Ángel toward the door. Javi, anticipating the need, beats them to the exit, opens the door, and holds it wide open to let them pass. Stepping into the corridor, Javi instinctively reaches for your hands, intertwining fingers not just for your comfort but for his own solace as well. Together, you trail behind your son as Will expertly steers Ángel's wheelchair through the hallway. 

Descending from the tenth floor via the patient elevators, you and Javi follow Will, who scans his badge to usher you through the double doors into the pre-op room. 

Guiding Ángel to the left side of the room, Will selects a quiet corner and draws back a side of the arctic blue diamond-print curtains, revealing an unoccupied bed. Positioning the wheelchair beside the bed, he assists Ángel in transitioning onto the soft mattress.

"Alright, good luck, buddy. You'll do great in there," Will encourages, raising a fist. Ángel meets it with his own, and as their fists connect, they both playfully mimic the sound of an explosion.

"Thanks, sir," Ángel replies, his voice carrying gratitude. Then, in a quiet and unsure tone, he adds, "I'll see you after?"

Will's smile is reassuring. "Absolutely. I'll be the one taking you back up."

With that, Will takes a step back, giving Ángel some space. He turns to you and your husband, saying, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Peña, Mrs. Peña. Someone should be with you shortly."

"Thanks for everything, Will," you say, watching as Will, with a warm smile, exits and closes the curtain, providing you with some privacy with your son.

With only one chair in the room, Javi insists you take a seat, not wanting you on your feet.

"¿Y tú? (what about you?)" you ask, concern etched in your voice and face. Maybe it's because you went so long without a partner prioritizing you, or because in the time your son has been in the hospital, Javier has really taken care of almost everything. Sometimes you can't help but feel guilty that he always puts your comfort above his own.

"Me paro (I’ll stand)," Javi shrugs his shoulders as if it's the most obvious choice in the world.

"Papi, you can sit here," Ángel offers, patting the mattress.

"Está bien (it's okay), mijo, I can stand for a while," he smiles, loving that his son is always considerate.

"Baja ese bolso (put down that bag), at least," you plead with him.

"I'm good, someone should be here soon," Javi reassures.

"Pero, Javi- (but, Javi-)" You're interrupted when you hear a woman asking if she can come in.

He smirks and whispers, "Ves (see)." Dropping his cocky look, Javi opens the curtain to let the woman in.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Gaddi. I'll be Angel's anesthesiologist. Can I please get a full name and a birthday?"

Your son happily responds to the doctor's requests while she verifies the information on the computer.

"Great, thank you, sweetheart. Mom or Dad, I'll need your signature on the consent forms. If one of you will please follow me," she says.

"I'll go," Javi says, and to your relief, he finally drops the bag from his shoulder.

"It's just straight this way," the anesthesiologist says, motioning past the curtain where the nurse station is in the middle of the big room.

Javier nods and follows the doctor. "Ya vengo mis amores (I’ll be back my loves)," he says with a big smile before closing the curtain.

Once on the other side of the curtain, where you and his son can't see him, he exhales a shaky breath. The fear is there, gnawing at him, although he doesn't want to show it. He wishes he could share it with you, as he normally would, but you're pregnant. The stress is already too much, and he doesn't want it to affect the baby. That thought terrifies him, and he can't risk it. Through the course of your marriage, he's come to understand that sometimes, marriage isn't a perfect fifty-fifty. There are moments when one partner has to carry more, and right now, he knows it's one of those moments. He must bear the fear and shoulder some of yours. While he wants to share these worries with you, a deep-seated commitment to putting family first holds him back. His protective nature takes precedence, always prioritizing his family.

Javier raises his head back up and quickly turns around to follow the doctor, who is waiting for him.

Once he catches up to her, she tells him the forms are for consent of treatment. The doctor reads the online document, informing Javi about the procedure, the benefits, and the risks it entails.

Dr. Gaddi must have seen the look on Javier's face after she listed the risks and the way he nearly crumbled when she said "or death" because she stopped and turned to him.

"But... everything will be okay, right? He’s in good hands?” Javi asks, his voice cracking as if he's on the verge of tears; even speaking those words makes his throat ache, causing a noticeable strain in his voice.

"Sir, I can't make any promises. Every surgery does come with risks, but my team and I have successfully done this procedure multiple times.” 

Javi tries his best to remind himself that everyone in the OR is experienced and has done this procedure before.

"Where do I sign?" he manages to ask, his voice slowly regaining its composure.

While Javi is with Ángel's anesthesiologist, a nurse, and another doctor come in to check on Ángel. He had only managed a short nap, so now, as he rests, you take out your phone and send a text to Jack. 

Hey. We're in the Pre-op area. There's a room in the OR now, and I've met his doctors. As soon as the anesthesiologist comes back, they'll take him.

Jack replies instantly as if he's been sitting by, waiting for his phone to ring:

Thank you for letting me know.

He sends a follow-up: 

His surgery is only supposed to take an hour, right?

That's what the doctors said. I'm sure he won't be in there for too long.

As Javi, Dr. Gaddi, and a nurse approach, you text Jack:

The anesthesiologist will be here soon. I'll send you any updates I get, and I'm going to send you Javi's contact info just in case.

After adding Javi's phone number and hitting send, your husband and the surgical team arrive.

Dr. Gaddi approaches, “Hi, Mom, everything is ready on our end to take the patient to the OR."

“Okay,” you say, rising to your feet. The staff gathers around the bed and begins to move it. Ángel stirs at the movement, calling for you and Javi before opening his eyes.

Javi quickly rushes to your side, closer to your son, and reassures him, "It's okay."

"Oh, am I going to surgery?" Ángel asks.

"Yes, you are, Angel," the nurse responds as he releases the brakes on the left side.

"Oh, okay, yay," Ángel smiles.

The nurse chuckles at his excitement, "You know, not many kids are excited for surgery."

"I'm excited because chemo ports look more comfortable than the IV. It gets in my way when I do, like, anything," Ángel explains with a huff.

"Well, I've heard from other patients that they prefer the port, so hopefully you will too," says Dr. Gaddi as she stands to the side, waiting to wheel Ángel out of the room.

She turns to you and your husband, saying, "You guys can follow us until that red line, and then you'll be taken to the waiting room."

You start feeling more anxious, and Javier senses it. He begins to rub your lower back, his warm hand moving up and down, offering comfort.

"Okay, ready," says the nurse.

With the curtain open, they go through first, and you and Javi are right next to your son’s bed.

You're so hyper-focused on your son that you don't realize you've made it right before the line that you can't cross.

"Love you, Mommy, love you, Daddy," Ángel says, reaching out for your hand.

You take his little hand in yours, and Javi covers both of your hands with his.

"Te amamos más, mi niño (we love you more)," Javi tells him in a soft voice. Everyone can hear the love pouring out of his words.

Ángel knows this and doesn't try to contradict his dad because he knows it would be in vain. Instead, he simply says, "Nos vemos en un ratito (We’ll see each other in a little bit)."

"Okay, mijo," you say, fighting back tears.

The doors open, and Ángel is wheeled in. You think the tears are coming, but when you hear the light sound of your son's laughter, you're able to compose yourself.

"Would you like to be taken to the waiting room now?" a non-surgical nurse asks.

Thirty minutes pass, and you and Javier are seated in the waiting room, the only occupants at the moment. Purple chairs surround you, and you're on a blue seat cushion against the wall, your attention fixed on the TV opposite. It's a modest 35-inch screen designed to keep you informed about the ongoing surgery. Your son's name is displayed in green, and the message changes from ‘Surgery in progress: Incision and Pocket Creation’ to ‘Surgery in progress: Port Implantation.’

"They're placing the port-disk-chamber thingy inside the incision they made on his chest," Javi says matter-of-factly, pointing at the text.

You turn your head toward him, an amused smile playing on your lips. "'Port-disk-chamber thingy'—is that what the doctor said, Jav?"

He bursts out laughing, placing his right hand over his chest, realizing he was mimicking the tone doctors use when imparting information: authoritative. "Casi me cago del miedo (I almost shitted myself from fear) when the doctor told me step by step what they would do, so I don't remember exactly what he said," he chuckles.

Javier's laugh is contagious, and you can't help but laugh too. Your laughter fuels his, and vice versa. The only thing that interrupts your laughter is when you feel the baby kick.

"Ay, me pateó (oh, he kicked me)," you exclaim happily.

Javi instantly stops laughing too and shifts his hand to rest on your bump. As soon as you feel the weight of his hand on your stomach, your son responds with another kick, right where Javi's palm is placed.

A boyish look crosses your husband's face. He always loves feeling the baby kick, reminiscent of the first time he felt his first son kick.

"¿Hola, mijo, ya te despertaste? (Hi, my boy, have you woken up yet?)" he hums softly.

In response, the baby kicks again.

"He loves your voice so much. I swear he only kicks so you could talk to him. A mi no me quiere, nomas le gusta que le cantes y le leas (He doesn’t love me, he just likes it when you sing and read to him),” you huff out in fake annoyance.

"That's not true. The second-born is always the momma's boy. So the baby loves you the most," Javi says.

"And the youngest loves daddy the most, so no," you refute.

"He won't be the youngest for long," he grins suggestively.

You gasp, “ya me embarazaste, sinverguenza! (You already impregnated me!)"

"But if it was scientifically possible..."

"Shut up," you playfully scold him.

With Javi's hand still over your stomach, your son kicks again, this time much lighter.

"He's upset you told me to shut up," his gaze shifts from looking at you to your stomach as if he could see the baby, and he lowers his voice, “¿verdad, mijo? Dile a tu mami que no sea mala conmigo (right, mijo? Tell your mom to stop being mean to me).”

He looks back up at you, "te acuerdas cuando Ángel hizo eso por primera vez? (Do you remember when Ángel did that for the first time?).”

“Jesus Christ, he scared me, and he made you cry,” you laugh, a smile on your face remembering.

"Oh shit! I forgot to update Jack," you realize and scramble to get your phone. As you start typing to let him know what's going on in the OR, you tell Javi, "By the way, I gave him your phone number."

Javier lets out an unenthusiastic and dry, "Yay."

“Mira (look),” he says while you’re still typing. You look up to where Javi is pointing, and the TV changes to Surgery in progress: Catheter Insertion.

You wince, "They're in his vein now."

"The catheter is the tube that delivers the medicine to his body, right?"

"Yeah," you mumble, typing the next update to Jack.

Javi reaches for one of your hands and rubs soothing circles, “Deja de pensar en eso. Él está bien con ellos (stop thinking about it. He’s safe with them).”

He removes his hand and turns his body to the to-go bag. Javi reaches for the zipper and undoes it. He digs in the back, and you see him pull something out. "Do you need a blanket?" he asks, with a large fuzzy blue blanket in his hand and his soft brown eyes looking at you tenderly. Before you can reply, he places it in your lap and goes back to the bag. Javi fights a little and finally tugs a pillow out of the bag, "a pillow?" he asks with the same puppy eyes.

“I- thank you," you accept both items. You put the pillow behind you so you won't rest your back against the hard and cold wall. You take the blue blanket from your lap and extend it to drape it over the both of you.

"¿Tienes hambre? (are you hungry?)" Javi asks adjusting the blanket.

"Sí" 

He goes back to the bag and pulls out some snacks: Goldfish, Chips Ahoy, granola bars, fruit snacks, dry plantain chips, and a pack of assorted nuts.

"Sorry, I don't have any actual food," he looks at what he's offered you and feels guilty at the limited options. Javi gets up quickly, "I can go get you real food. Are you craving anything?"

"Hey," you wrap your fingers around his wrist and grip somewhat tightly. You look up at him and push him to sit back down. "No. I don't want you to leave."

"Okay. I'll stay," he says softly, kissing where your hair and forehead meet.

A knock reverberates in the room, and a nurse comes in. "Hi," she says, closing the door to come closer to you. "Everything went well. There were no complications. They're ready to transfer Ángel to the Post-op room if you guys would like to follow me."

Both of you look relieved at the news, and you feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

"Thank you," you tell her, and Javi can't get any words out. His eyes are watering, and he tries his best to not let them fall.

He starts hurriedly putting away the snacks, just keeping the bag of nuts, while you fold the blanket back up into the neat roll Javi had it in. After the snacks, blanket, and pillow are in the bag again, Javi helps you get up. You send Jack a quick text informing him that everything went well, and you're on your way to see Ángel. Javi puts the bag over his shoulder, and you both follow the nurse to go see your son.

Next morning - Day 1 of Chemo:

Hey, Jack. Ángel is awake and doing well. He asked about having visitors and hoped you would come see him. We explained that it's not possible right now. He understood but wanted to call. Would you like to FaceTime?

That's great. What’s FaceTime?

It's a video call.

Yes. How do I do that?

Instead of texting him back, you initiate a FaceTime call and hand the phone off to Ángel when it starts to ring.

As soon as Jack accepts the call and his face takes over your screen, Ángel's little face lights up. "Mr. Jack!"

Jack's face mirrors Ángel's: a smile so wide, eyes so soft looking at his son.

"I just started chemotherapy," Ángel blurts out just before Jack greets him.

Jack's heart glows watching his son's face. "How are ya feeling?"

"Mmm... I feel okay. Oh! I got the surgery last night, and look at my chemo port." Your son takes one hand off your phone and pulls his hospital gown just enough to show Jack his port. "Look! You can see the bump of the port under my skin. Eww, it looks gross. It's so cool."

Jack laughs, and that makes Ángel move the phone back to his face.

"Does it hurt?" Jack asks.

"Nope. It was a little bit like... sore when I woke up, but it doesn’t hurt now. I had chemo in the morning, and it pinched for a second, but it's wayyy better than the IV."

"It's not a pain to use the restroom, huh?"

"It's easier and faster to go now," his brows pinch in the middle, "I almost peed myself once 'cus I had to wait for the wires to detangle from the bed." Ángel trails off, tilts his head to the side, and squints. "What do you have behind you? Is that a needle?"

Jack turns his head behind to see what his son saw. He had picked up the prescription he needed to be Ángel's donor from the pharmacy the previous night. Jack opened the box out of curiosity and took out a needle to look at, but then he got caught up texting you in the morning and forgot to put the small vial and needle back in the pharmacy bag.

"Umm... yeah?" Jack says uncertainly, not knowing how to explain it to his son. He doesn't want him to know that he's his donor, at least not yet. "That is some medicine I have to take in two days," Jack says, trying to keep it vague.

When the words come out of Jack's mouth, Ángel's eyes show pure concern, "Oh, are you sick?"

"No, buddy," Jack blurts out immediately, "I'm not sick. I'm just takin' them for... to... Just takin' them to stay healthy. They're like vitamins."

"Maybe I should take some so I could be healthy. What's the name of the medicine?"

Jack's heart drops at his son's words. His mind starts spinning, but he takes a deep breath. He'll be healthy soon, he tries to remind himself. "You can't take this one, buddy. It's for adults."

"Oh," he sounds disappointed, but his voice goes back to normal, "Well, that's okay. I can't take vitamins on chemo either way. I think. Vitamins can affect chemo because of cancer cells, but I don't have any so I don't know. I can ask later. How are the horses?"

Donation Day - Day 7 of Chemo:

Jack sat comfortably in a green chair, his right hand extended over a pillow, squeezing a small blue ball as his blood cycled through the machine. Two hours had passed since he settled into the chair. He arrived at the hospital early in the morning with the last dose of his five-day filgrastim prescription, and for the first time, someone other than him administered the injection. Throughout the morning, he had been texting you, checking in on his son, and, though he wouldn't admit it, checking in on you.  Of course, he cared about his son and wanted to know every detail of what he was going through, but this had been the only line of communication he had with you for years, and he wanted to take advantage of the opportunity while you were willing to entertain his conversations. From you, he learned that Ángel's last day of chemo had gone smoothly.

Jack's head spun when he heard a knock against the door. His heart thumped wildly in his chest at the thought of seeing you. When the door opened, a wave of disappointment washed over him. It wasn't you who set foot in the room; it was fucking Javier.

Jack instantly tenses and clears his throat as Javier walks over to him.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Javi crosses his hands over his thick biceps, "How's the donation coming along?"

"It's goin' well. They think in 30 minutes we'll have enough for Ángel," Jack fills Javi in.

"H-how are umm... how are you feeling?" Javi gets the words out, although with much effort. He sounds physically pained asking a simple question to Jack.

"You sound very concerned for my well-being," Jack quips sarcastically.

Not really, Javi wants to say. Instead, he tells Jack, "I’m trying really hard to not hate you.”

It doesn't faze Jack one bit. "Same."

"So just don't do anything to piss me off. More like don't do anything else to piss me off even more," Javi lowers his voice more, "She's my wife; she tells me things. Don't you ever dare call her ‘baby’ again. You're lucky she's not that uncomfortable with ‘sugar’, but if she ever shows one ounce of discomfort, you will stop."

"She never minded all those names before," Jack challenges, glaring at Javi."

Javi smirks, wearing a shit-eating grin as he nonchalantly shrugs. "Yeah, she never did lots of things before me."

Jack is furious. All he sees is red, and just as he begins to rise from his chair to get up, the nurse walks in.

"Oh! A visitor," she exclaims.

"Hello," Javi greets the redheaded nurse in blue scrubs with ducks all over them.

Seeing the nurse enter, Jack comes to his senses and sits back down. Subconsciously, he squeezes the ball so tight in his hands that his knuckles turn white.

"Mr. Daniels, are you okay?" the nurse questions with concern. All she sees is her patient gripping the ball so tightly that his nails are about to rupture through the material. She moves to him and checks his arm to see if there are any signs the needle is causing pain.

Jack's glare tears from Javi and shifts to the nurse. "I'm okay, thank you for checkin’ in on me," he tells her and moves his hand to signal for the nurse to release his arm. "Nothin’ hurts," he smiles up at her.

The nurse understands and checks the progress of the donation. While looking at the machine, she decides to make small talk with her patient and his visitor. "Are you Mr. Daniels' brother?" She turns to ask Javi innocently.

"No," Jack's words drip with disgust.

Javi smiles at how fast Jack denies the nurse's initial thought and says "Not related," under his breath, mumbling, "Thank God."

The nurse doesn't seem to pick up on their animosity and comments, "You two look alike, what a coincidence. Best friends then?"

"No, nothing like that. My wife and I know him, and he's giving our son a gift," Javi says 'our' while looking at Jack.

Suddenly, Ángel crosses their minds, and they both feel some shame for their earlier behavior. They know they can't go on still hating each other because it'll eventually turn into a fight. They just don't know how to set aside their differences.

"I'll call the doctor to get her thoughts, but it looks like we have what we need for the donation," the nurse says, taking note of the blood volume. "In a few hours, one lucky little boy will receive the cells, and he’ll be one step closer to being healthy."

After Jack was hooked up to the machine for two and a half hours, the staff deemed the collection enough and sent the blood bag to the lab to confirm that Jack’s procedure had collected enough stem cells. Four hours later, it was confirmed that there were the desired amount of stem cells, and the team took the cells to Ángel’s room. Due to your son being immunocompromised, he isn't allowed to have visitors other than legal guardians. So, you and Javi update Jack on the transplant.

Day 11 post-transplant:

Remember how I told you he started grafting on the tenth day?

Yes! How his body was accepting the stem cells, and the cells were growing and making new cells.

Mhm. Well, if everything keeps going at the speed it’s been going, Ángel gets to go home in four days!!

Oh, wow! It’s just day 11 after the transplant, and the doctors estimated it wouldn't happen until closer to day 25! Can I go see him then? I know I was cleared to go five days ago, but because I wasn’t feeling well, I didn’t go. My fever’s still here, but I’ll continue to monitor myself.

Sure! You need to be cleared of a fever for 24 hours and have absolutely NO symptoms.

You have my word, sugar.

Day 14 post-transplant:

You're packing all of Ángel's belongings to take home. It's been 14 days since your son's transplant, and he's cleared to go home. You don't know who's happier— you, your husband, or your son. But that doesn't really matter; all that matters is that your family is together. Just as you're collecting your son's toys and getting them ready to shove into the white personal belongings bag, someone knocks on the door. Javi stops placing Ángel's books into a box and hurriedly opens the door. He was expecting the doctor to come in with discharge papers, but it was Jack waiting on the other side.

"Oh, right, you said you'd stop by," Javi remembered.

When you saw Jack standing there not quite stepping inside the room with a red gift bag, you gasped. "Sorry, we forgot you were going to stop by." You turned your neck and saw Ángel reading the book Jack had gifted him, One Hundred Fun Facts About Horses.

"Come in," you usher Jack in. "Mijo," you call, and Ángel looks up from the book he's got his nose buried in.

"Mr. Jack!" Ángel's face lights up like a Christmas tree. He pats a spot in his bed as he tells Jack to sit down next to him. "I want to show you something," Ángel puts the book aside and lowers his shirt to show Jack that the port is gone. "They took my port out!"

Jack almost reaches out and touches his son's scar but settles for examining it with his eyes. "Are you sore?"

"Not really. I'm just excited to go to my house. Did my mom tell you I'm leaving the hospital today?"

"Yeah," Jack chuckles, "she mentioned it. And here I brought you this," he lifts the gift bag onto the bed.

Ángel tears it open and begins to pull the items out. The first gift he reaches is a book, Her Right Foot. "Oh, my God!"

You see the title and direct your question to Jack, "He's wanted that book for a while, how did you know?"

"Really?" Jack's smiling ear to ear. "I just went to the bookstore and thought he'd like that one." His heart feels like it could rip right through his chest because he feels like he knows his son. Jack had browsed many children's books and read the synopsis of every last book. The one he had purchased was the one he felt his son would love, the book his son is currently holding, and Jack was right.

The little boy takes out the next item, which is a box. "A Lego set!" Ángel flips the black box to the front, and he sees that this particular set is one of horses. The horse in the center looked similar to Andor, one of Jack's horses his son loved the most. "Is this an Andalusian?" Ángel looks to Jack, his eyes sparkling."

Jack nods his head, "It is, buddy. It's like a mini Andor."

Ángel seems pleased with Jack's answer and moves on to the last gift. It was another box, but this one was a shoebox. The little boy lifted the top off, and he was met with boots—dark brown leather boots with beautiful and intricate stitching all throughout.

“Is that a longhorn?” Ángel points at the center of the boots. He doesn’t wait for an answer before speaking again, “My grandpa has longhorns on his ranch. Do you have them on your ranch, Mr. Daniels?”

"I don’t have any longhorns, but umm... I have the same boots," Jack looks down at the floor like he’s suddenly interested in the simple pattern of the hospital floor. He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected, but when his son's sweet voice reached his ears, Jack looked up.

"You do?" Ángel was beaming, a smile brighter than the sun. He leaps to move sideways so his legs would hang from the bed. He took his left boot and put it on his baby blue non-slip sock-clothed feet and did the same for the right boot. When both boots are on, he pinches the tip to feel where his toes are. Ángel drops to the floor and begins to walk, showing all three of you his new footwear. 

"How did you get his shoe size?" You're amazed at how they seem to fit perfectly.

"I asked him," Jack nods his head towards your husband, who is smiling broadly, showing his perfect teeth. Javi squats down to Ángel's level and presses his fingers on his son's boot toe box to feel if they're pinching Ángel's feet. "Perfect fit," Javi smiles up at his son, dimple on display, still on the floor.

Once Javi's hands are removed from Ángel's boots, he runs to Jack, "Thank you so much, Mr. Jack," he says, jumping up and down. Ángel runs back to Javi, who is now standing up straight, "¡Papi, quiero una foto! (Daddy, I want a picture!)" Javi complies and takes out his phone from his back pocket.

You turn to Jack, and your voice falls to a whisper, "We're hosting a dinner in a few nights to celebrate Ángel coming home, and we'd love it if you'd join us."

Jack's head reels at the prospect of seeing you and Ángel in a few days, but beneath that excitement, there is fear, "Is your family going to be there?" he asks.

"Yes, and Javi's too."

"It's your family I'm worried about," he confesses, looking into your eyes.

You take in the way his face pales slightly, his eyes widen, and his eyebrows shoot near his hairline. "No. You're more than worried; you look genuinely scared, but you'll be fine."

"'Course I'll be there, Sugar," he says, looking at his son laughing while Javi takes his pictures. If Ángel was a happy and giddy boy before the transplant, Jack now sees how his innocence is amplified now that he's healthy, and Jack can't wait to see more of his son's childhood joy outside the hospital.

"Hey, can I talk with you alone before you leave?" Jack asks you, hoping you'll agree.

"Um, yeah, we can go outside," you agree, noting his urgent tone.

"Javi, Ángel, I'll be back soon. I'm just going to walk Jack out," you say, moving to the door with Jack on your heels.

"Okay, we'll keep packing, amor," Javi tells you, brushing his hand with yours. You lean into your husband for a while until Ángel and Jack say their goodbyes, promising they'll see each other at the dinner.

You and Jack exit the room, and you take him to a little corner further down the hall.

"What did you want to discuss?" you ask resting your back on the wall with brown and cream diamond wallpaper.

Jack's nervous to tell you what he wants: a father-and-son relationship with Ángel. You two never went into detail on how you would tell Ángel the truth about Jack and he's terrified of asking you for something this big so soon after a big weight of stress has been lifted off you. 

"Jack?" 

"Sorry," he clears his throat, "I wanted to talk to you about telling Ángel that I'm his dad- biological."

"Oh," you sound surprised. "Yeah. We didn't really discuss that, did we? I haven't thought about it in so long, I'm sorry. Maybe we can get some pointers from Ángels counselor?" You suggest. "Javi and I thought about making an appointment with a child therapist because of this entire hospital stay. We were hoping to get your opinion on that actually."

It's Jack's turn to be surprised. "I think that's wonderful, Sugar. Thank you for including me in the decision." 

"Of course. I think it would be great if we could get the counselor's opinion on how to best handle the situation. And we too can figure out how this new dynamic would work. For example, medical decisions moving forward. We'll tell Ángel about you and I have no doubt he'll want to have the relationship you want to have with him. We can talk more about the appointment in a few days. We haven't set an exact date for the dinner but it will probably be this upcoming Sunday." 

"I'll clear out my entire schedule," Jack says sincerely 

"We'll have food for you that won't send you into a choking fit," you tease. 

Jack covers his eyes with his hands, "God, 'M so sorry." 

You laugh at his embarrassment, "No, it's okay. I understand the food we serve can take some getting used to."  You continue to tell him about the plans for the dinner that is slowly turning into a party and he just stares at you while you keep talking he gets lost in the moment. He thinks about your laugh and the consideration you still have for him and suddenly Jack blurts out, “I love you."

The smile you had vanishes.

“Jack,” you warn dangerously. “We were doing so good, Jack.” You don't want to—can't see him now, so you close your eyes. The words only needed to be said once for them to threaten tears to spill. "How dare you say those words to me now?” You hiss, your tone now angry but more than anything, filled with frustration and pain. You thought you could handle seeing him, so you open your eyes. "What do you expect me to do with that? I won’t leave Javi if that’s what you’re hoping for.

"S-" Jack opens his mouth, but you cut him off immediately. "No, Jack, let me speak."

"Once, those three words would have made me the happiest person in the world, but now? They’re only causing pain,” you pause, exhaling a shaky breath. “You humiliated me, Jack. Time and time again. Even if I didn’t have Javi, I wouldn’t go back to you.” You sound defeated, your voice carrying the pain of past wounds, and it crushes you to keep thinking about the past.

“I did love you, through everything,” Jack whispers, his eyes searching yours. They are watery and dazed.

“I think…” you run your tongue over your lips and then purse them, “I think you loved me in your own way. But that’s not how I wanted to be loved. During our engagement, and more so during our marriage, I never really felt loved by you. Can you blame me for that if I can count with my fingers the amount of 'I love yous' you gave me?” Your words are like shards of glass, cutting through the air with the sharpness of your pain.

“When you did show me your love, I was so happy, Jack. So happy that I thought, hoped, you would give me more love, so I stayed with you. I longed for the morning you woke up and things would be different, better. Because that’s exactly what happened. You woke up after the night of our engagement, and you were a completely different person, and I couldn't comprehend what I did wrong. I was willing to stay with you forever for the odd chance one day you would feel for me how I felt for you.”

“And I stayed because I always hoped you would go back to your old self. Sometimes there were indications that you were going to become the old Jack. Well, I don’t know if I fooled myself, but sometimes I thought you were happy. Like right before I told you I was pregnant, you had this smile on your face….” Your voice trembles with the weight of those memories.

“Other times I genuinely thought you hated me, and then I thought that’s not possible. ‘Why would he ask me to marry him if he couldn’t stand me?’” 

“Did you always think that?” He sounds sad, a quiet plea for understanding. But your heart, scarred by the past, struggles to find solace in his remorseful gaze.

“Yeah. When… when we were together, it was rare you would look at me in my face. The majority of times you had me face down. How do you think that made me feel? You made me feel used and disposable.” 

“I wanted to be loved by you," you continue, your tone a mix of vulnerability and strength, "and you always made me feel like I was the other woman. Then I decided I should stop trying and let you go.” 

“What changed?” Jack's question hangs in the air. Everything you’ve revealed up to this point has felt like glass shards embedded in his heart. He knows you still have a lot left to say, and it will continue to hurt him, but he owes it to you to hear everything you went through.

“I was at a park one day after you didn’t come home," you recall, emotion tinging your words. "I came across this older man, and he showed me pictures of his family. When he talked about his wife…” you pause, emotion catching up with you. “It was beautiful. And I realized that would never be you. You wouldn’t talk about me that way. Since that day, I took off my rose-colored lenses and thought everything through."

"I thought about your behavior but also about mine. I hated who I was because it sounds ridiculous, but I was jealous of someone who wasn't here anymore. And I swear I never wanted to replace her or erase her from your life, I just wanted you to love me too. I loved you so much; I would've settled for half the love you had for Allison, but you couldn't even give me that. I never told you you couldn't love or mourn Allison. She was your wife, I get that... but I was your wife too, and knowing you would never love me like you did her was slowly killing me.” 

"I thought about one night, which I don't know if you remember," you confess, the vulnerability in your voice palpable. "But one night on her birthday, you got extremely drunk, and you kept slurring your words. I couldn't understand half of what you were saying, but I heard loud and clear when you yelled at me that you didn’t choose to stop loving her; you were forced to. And you said that you would’ve never looked at me otherwise. That you wish she came back and I disappeared… That we s- switched places,” you confess, exposing the scars engraved into your heart, and the pain of that night that is still etched in your memory—a wound that refused to fully heal. You were surprised that you weren't sobbing, because the night he told you those words, you felt your world had ended.

Jack was appalled, his face reflecting the shock and guilt that surged through him as he listened to your words. The heaviness of the past, the pain inflicted, all rushed back to him as a floodgate of memories suddenly opened, each carrying the weight of its own hurt.

"I always felt I was the third person in our marriage. You made me feel things I hated, and maybe even worse, I became someone I didn't recognize. After that day in the park, I was going to ask you for a divorce because I didn't want to be the person you settled for… then I found out I was pregnant. I wanted to give us one last try, and well, you remember what happened after I told you the news,” you say, the bitterness of the past lingering in your words.

"You kept hurting me, and you're smart, Jack. Did you not think I would leave you?" 

Jack exhales, the reminder of his own mistakes heavy on him. "I think I couldn’t let ya go, so a part of me hoped you would leave me if I treated you horribly. Every day I fought with myself to treat you like you deserve, but I wasn’t strong enough to open up to you."

The silence lingers, and Jack takes the opportunity to share a piece of his truth. "The night after I proposed, I had a dream about Allison. She told me I was replacing her, and I dunno, instead of working out through my issues, I took it out on ya.”

“Over a dream? You... you let our relationship go to waste because of a dream,” you say, a mix of disbelief and frustration in your voice. You want to be angry at him because such a trivial thing ruined the chance of happiness, but then you put yourself in his shoes. "Oh, Jack," you add, this time with a tone of understanding and sadness. 

“Have you been to therapy?” you ask him, your tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Yeah…” Jack admits with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

“Can I be honest?” you tilt your head, your fingers playing with the collar of your shirt.

He nods.

“I don’t think it helped.”

Jack smiles, a sheepish expression on his face, “If we’re being honest, I went in for two sessions and never saw my shrink again.”

“Well, your therapist probably knew what they were doing,” you playfully scold, but then your voice softens, "Please see a therapist so Ángel can get to know the best version of you. When I knew that Jack, he was amazing, and that's the man I want my son to know."

A sad smile greets Jack's face, "Yes, Sugar."

There's another thing you've always been curious to know but never had the stomach to ask, and this seems to be your window. "Can I ask, did you, um, did you ever sleep with someone else while we were married?"

"God no," the words tumble out of his mouth.

"Well, that's something, I guess," you say, a sense of relief evident in your voice.

"I'm really sorry about everything, sweetheart. I can't believe I ever hurt you. I just miss you so much. I’ve never regretted anything in my life as much as I do not telling you I loved you when we had a chance," Jack confesses, the weight of regret heavy in his words.

"It’s okay, Jack. I’m not your wife anymore, but we had some good times. Sometimes love doesn’t work out how we thought,” you tell Jack, your gaze turning when you hear footsteps that are familiar to you. 

And Jack would forever kick himself for driving you away and not accepting your love. The only piece of solace is that Ángel will have a happy and full life, and you finally got the love you deserved and dreamed of.

Javi starts calling your name, and you answer him so he can walk over to where you are. Once Javi comes into view, he tells you that Ángel’s been discharged and that they're ready to go home.

Jack looks at you once more, his gaze lingering, as if trying to capture every detail to hold onto. He sees the love in your eyes for your husband, a love he once had the chance to cherish but let slip away. It hurts, but at the mention of his son, it gives him the slightest glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he has learned from his mistakes, and he'll find a way to be a part of your lives, even if it's not in the way he once dreamed. The love of his life and his son are happy and healthy, and that will have to be enough for him.

"Bye, Jack. I'll let you know what time we're having the dinner," you say, while Javi wraps his arms around you—a protective gesture that Jack once held the privilege of doing, but did so sparingly.

"Take care," Javi tells Jack over his shoulder, his voice firm but not unkind. He then leads you to Ángel's room, leaving Jack standing alone in the corridor, grappling with the ache of what could have been.

You both start heading down the hallway, and Javi pauses halfway. His eyes search yours, concern written all over his features. 

"Are you okay?"

"I am now," you lean into him and smile. "Jack and I were talking about when we were married," you begin, and Javi tenses involuntarily.

"Hey, no, you don’t have anything to worry about," you reassure him, cupping his face with both of your hands. "Our talk was more about what went wrong, and the bottom line was that I‘m okay with the fact that he wasn’t the one for me."

Javi takes a deep breath, visibly trying to control the surge of emotions within him. "It’s just- me cae mal ese - (I don’t like that-)” You can't help but chuckle lightly at your husband's choice of words.

"As stupid as it sounds, I wanted to make it work when we were married. I saw it in his eyes, I felt it in his words and actions; he didn’t love me, and I couldn’t stay in a marriage like that. I wanted a life with him... It didn't work out, and it's okay. Everything I dreamed of having, I found it with you. I'm the happiest I've ever been at your side. You’re the love of my life and I love being your wife, don't ever doubt that, okay?" Since the beginning of your relationship, you always repeated your love to Javier, not because he was insecure, but because you knew how it felt to be second place, second best, a consolation prize, and you never wanted Javier to think that you settled for him after Jack.

"Say it again," Javi requests, a genuine smile softening his features as he looks down at you.

"What?" 

“That you’re my wife," Jack wants you to repeat the words that make his heart flutter.

“I’m your wife," you say.

Javi, still reveling in the warmth of the words, spins his finger in a playful circle, silently requesting you to say the words again.

“I’m your wife," you repeat, the pride evident in your tone. You take Javi's hand and begin walking to your son’s room.

"Again," Javi insists, stopping you in your tracks.

“I’m your wife.” 

“Otra vez," he requests, this time in Spanish.

You comply, “Soy tu esposa," you tell him and drag him further down the hall to your son's room.

When Javi playfully asks you to say it once more, this time it's you who stops. “Por dios, Javi, ¿en cuántos lenguajes quieres que te lo diga? (My God, Javi, how many languages do you want me to say it in?)” you feign annoyance.

He shrugs, answering with a mischievous grin, “En todos (in all of them).”

Amused, you grab him by the collar of his blue button-down shirt and bring him to a level where you can whisper into his ear, “Ay, Jav, apenas y hablas español (Oh, Jav, you barely speak Spanish).” You kiss his cheek and pull back, leaving him slightly offended but oddly proud. He had hoped for a different outcome when he saw you pull him down; the glint in your eyes made him believe you were going to kiss him on the lips. But, to his dismay, you chose to tease him instead.

"Take it back!" he demands as you stand right outside the door.

“Si lo dices en español (if you say it in Spanish),” you tease with a grin. Javier contemplates for a moment, and in the brief silence, Ángel's laughter and Dr. Navarro's voice echo from inside the room.

"Please?" Javi implores, wanting to savor one more of those heart-skipping phrases before joining his son. Unable to resist his pleading eyes any longer and mindful of the precious moments with Ángel, you relent.

“I’m your wife.”

END

Extended Note: The end! Thank you, everyone, for your kindness throughout the series. I truly appreciate every interaction 🥹.

As for my departure, I'm unsure whether I should deactivate my account or just private my writing. There's one post I received only positive comments on, especially from people with SPD who found it relatable. Apparently, there's a shortage of such stories, so I'm conflicted. Hopefully, I'll have a definitive decision next week.

I'm planning to post the Din story next Thursday; it's just one part, a sex pollen with Virgin!Din, titled 'Paleta.' I'm a fan of El Alfa, and I recently discovered that a song in his new album was sampled from the one I used for the Din story. It got me thinking about what I had written, and I wanted to share it with y’all before I bow out.

Thank you for reading 🫶🏽!

Taglist: @kchavez666 @ttupelohoneyy @mishasminion360 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @stileslvr @pedrostories

[forlovewithyou]

crossover！

BLoSC x TFA

“Something’s not right with bumblebee.”

“Wellwell, it looks like we have new friends I guess I should thank you for finding me more delicious energy, my little helper.”

New trouble:

About energy vampires

Ps.

About one of the capabilities of Nos-4A2——

Mind Control: By biting a robot or a machine (or using energy on machines or robots he has already bitten) NOS-4-A2 can simultaneously drain it and hack into its systems, installing a mind control program that enables him to command it in any way he pleases.（from BLoSC wiki)

Thanks for the question box!

Also, I’m a little excited about crossovers lately, so maybe I’ll continue drawing them!😋

[headingalaxys-spicy]

Yo! Gotta say it dude

I love your writing, headcanons n AUs, trust me whenever I got the chance to catch a look on this phone screen I hop on tumblr and read smth from u fr, thank u for saving me and lot of ppl who follow ur acc from boredom and other things.

Buuuuut I also got a little request here, ofc if u don't mind,

So I'm sorta obsessed with 2p'hetalia , especially with 2p Russia(and ig that's obvious lol), can ya write some more about Viktor braginsky(2p russia), like literally anything you want.. I just wanna read anything about that man 😩🤌🏼 - ash the salad🥗💜

Again thank you <3

Honestly, I love having my ask box open. The majority of y’all are giving me the will to live sometimes. I hope this does not disappoint. Enjoy! :) 

2p Russia during Spooky Season Headcannons

He’s likely written down plot 5,769 to torment and kill 2p America in one of the many journals he keeps. [Al pranked Viktor again by egging his house, teepeeing it, and also having a well-covered pitfall that Viktor fell into and broke his arm] 

“I’ve had enough of this bullshit. Stupid American has to pay piper.” 

Viktor either likes to serve his Karma cold like the ice tundra he was born into, or he’ll make a Rube Goldberg-like machine that seems to have an anti-climactic end, only to have it be devastating. The delayed devastation will be something that fucks all up Al so much to where he will have to reincarnate his entire body, not to mention the fucking recovery time will be a month or so. [For perspective, it takes at least 24 hours-78 hours (usually) for any nation to recover if they’ve been fatally injured]

Night owl. Viktor enjoys the solace of the night. This works for him since being around too many people or just people, in general, annoys and drains him. Since it’s Fall, sunlight is far more scarce. Viktor will also enjoy strolls through the forest under the guidance of the moonlight if, for whatever reason, he’s unable to sleep or concentrate on any task he needs to complete or a hobby of his. 

Viktor loves going to movie theatres when they’re mostly empty. He goes to see the yearly installment of whatever popular horror movie is out. On occasion, he will be impressed by a breakout masterpiece or some film director's magnum opus, which will make him want to rewatch a movie. [By rewatch, I mean it’s background noise for him while he knits, does chores, or cooks.] 

Viktor knows of the best-hidden libraries and bookshops and the best Halloween displays for the top books of the season. He likes to pick his top 5 and read through them to see which ones are the best and rank them in his journals. 

The dude can carve some intricate pumpkins. I’m talking about hyperrealistic-looking monsters from Russian folklore. Viktor even carves other things such as ghoulish faces, eyes, and ghosts [that somehow he made to look translucent with just a candle and his X-ACTO knife.] These will be the main decorations that adorn his house.  

Some of his other favorite decorations are spiders and their webs. 

He will always dress as the Grim Reaper because he has bright scarlet eyes, a menacing demeanor, and a terrifying aura. Plus, with the hood obscuring half of his face…. Yeah, his citizens know full well he’s not to be fucked with. [unless you really just give no fucks and don’t have a vested interest in having a quality of life or…being alive] 

In the bar Viktor frequents, the owner had cut a deal with him: Be here in Sept & Oct dressed as the Grim Reaper and let people trouble him for a picture, and he gets paid in any Vodka he can drink for the night, his own special place in the bar that won’t be crowded by people, and fifty Rubes per hour. To Viktor, it's not a bad deal. The owner even had a scythe commissioned to be made with Sterling Silver to make sure he could look as accurate as the Grim Reaper as possible. 

On the actual day of Halloween in the morning [3:33 am], he’ll throw a dart at the map of his nation and where it lands will be where he seeks out a mystic babushka to get his fortune read.

[watasemasaru]

so the problem with my air conditioner and why it has kept fucking up has been multiple things. the unit isn't bad, it's actually a pretty good unit. it's just the ass sucks that installed the shit around it did it wrong. it kept getting clogged because the drainline was not installed properly, like at all. needs to be at an angle so it can drain, it was pretty much a pvc pipe rollercoaster. wrong kind of capping on the unit in the house. all of that has been fixed and paid for, but it was still kicking on and off when it shouldn't and the leaking into the closet it's in still persists because, the coil needs to be chemically cleaned, there's just so much gunk caked in around it can't do its job properly.

the cost is $500 and i currently have $250 saved. for over the weekend my guy set up a temporary fix until i can come up with the rest, but it needs to be done as soon as possible next week.

i know we're all hard up, but any kind of help to get to the $500 I need is deeply appreciated, reblogs, anything. i'm sorry that i have to keep coming back to beg every few weeks because it's always something but i'm hoping this will be the last thing i have to deal with this ac for the summer. if shit goes wrong with it in the winter i can always just freeze my ass off. i would gladly freeze my ass off. but the heat is both a trigger and a physical hindrance to me and i can't trek south georgia heat with just a box fan.

again thank you for any help and/or boosts 🩷

500/500 - goal met and locking reblogs. thank you immensely for everyone's help 🙏🏻

paypal | cashapp | venmo

[tawneybel]

Request: “It's finally our turn to be asked "Truth or Dare". And Calux possesses one of the boys and dare us to him him have his way with us?” 

Imagine it’s finally your turn to pick truth or dare from a possessed Lucas.

“Truth or dare?” asked the demon wearing Lucas’s face. 

“Dare,” you replied, without hesitation.

______ has no idea what’s in store for her.

Despite his host’s inclination towards Markie and Olivia, they weren’t really Calux’s type. They were both nubile, yes. Just outshone by the latecomer. The new player in this round of Truth or Dare and their silly love lives. Too bad Lucas hadn’t met you first. Then he wouldn’t have had to deal with an unfaithful lover and his inability to leave her, or the lover’s best friend who covered up the infidelities. 

It was easy to overwrite the boy’s attraction, though. Humans were so sensitive. So easy to stimulate. Of course, Calux knew he was being hypocritical. He’d immediately wanted to lay you. What he wouldn’t give to be corporeal! Still, possession was a boon. 

“Let me have my way with you.” 

If he’d been an incubus, he would have already crept into your bedchamber and taken you dozens of times. In one night, till the break of dawn. Draining your vitality, keeping you bedridden and too weak to even consider tightening your walls, bracing against his cock. Maybe he’d be diphallic, if he was of the incubi ilk. One member sapping your lifeforce, the other replenishing it. Calux knew of such devils. 

But being able to overshadow someone, that brought him almost as much pleasure as he knew he would have desecrating you. Invading some unenlightened mortal’s mind and body, forcing them to do everything. Admit vicious truths. Perform obscene acts. Commit horrific sins. Particularly in public. Suppressing his hosts’ desires and installing his own. Pure ecstasy. There were certain rules Calux had to follow on this plane. Coming up with loopholes was great amusement. And forcing mortals to play truth or dare was the most fun he’d had in centuries. Seeping further into Lucas’s mind, Calux began to list other party games to pervert. 

Premarital was the norm in 201x, so he wasn’t too surprised when you unzipped your purse, dug around for a moment, then pulled out a box of condoms. Already opened. With you, Calux was only interested in physical penetration, not spiritual. Maybe later he’d make you admit how many guys you’d had and how you’d had them. At the rate players were losing, it’d just be ______ soon. Unless you four lured in some fresh victims. 

It’d be fun to see you get prodded by and impaled on strangers’ cocks, tongues, and fingers. Through the penetrators’ own eyes. 

Olivia’s right, you thought with a mental grimace, it does look like a messed up filter.  

“It” being Markie’s boyfriend’s face. 

If someone could capture a pic of this temporary disfigurement, anyone they’d show it to would probably scoff. Say it’s too silly to be scary. Maybe at a glance, you thought. Seeing a person’s face stretch to accommodate the diabolism masked behind it was brain searing. The painfully wide smile and shiny, buggy eyes. 

Well, Calux’s bulging eyes were distracting from Lucas’s bulging groin. The demon figured he could transmute the phallus ad hoc. For the moment, his vessel’s member would do.

Besides, he reverbated in Lucas’s skull, I’m not sure my hard-on could keep that sheath intact. 

You placed a hand on said boner. Lack of enthusiasm didn’t seem to bother him. Lucas or Calux. It pulsed even though your palm was almost hovering. If a player didn’t finish a dare, she died. If you didn’t help him finish, you were probably going to be violated. Well, more so than if you submitted to Calux’s advances. 

Your infernal partner set “his” hand over yours, molding your grip. Puppeteering Lucas to buck into your fist. To tenderly moan your name, even though you knew glassy eyes were drinking in your submission. You eyed Lucas’s abdomen. Yours would be slapping against it soon.  

[oonajaeadira]

For the made up fic title game:

"My Heart That Once Was Beating"

Oh my fkn gods, Rachel, where did you get this title? It's gorgeous? Is it a song? Did you make it up? Please don't leave it here in an ask--you need to use it.

If I didn't already have titles for the Light and Shadow installments of my Max P pieces, this one might be his. But as a stand-alone:

It would be told from Max's POV, about how pathetic he found the humans in his new department and how much fun he was going to have with them. There is a woman in sales--you--who is extra pathetic, a dreamer, a nerd, a writer of fanfiction, with photos all over her cubicle of some sci-fi or fantasy shit.

But she is smart. And one day he finds a box on his desk. He can tell it's from her--he can smell her on it. There's a note on it that says "I figured you might want something other than donuts"--she also brought in donuts that day for the rest of the staff. The box contains a small animal of some sort, something living he can drain. A delicacy.

You know.

You know and you're being kind about it.

This goes on for a while, maybe he gets petulant about you actually figuring him out and he fks with you or tries to break your kindness somehow. But the more he does so, and the more you shake it off, the worse he feels.

So he's just gonna eat you. Or turn you. He doesn't care, he's just got to get you to stop being you.

And when he corners you in the supplies cabinet and you can see what's about to happen, you lean into it. You say "please."

He's mad. WTF is wrong with you? Why aren't you cowering?

You have trauma. You use fantasy to escape something in your life you wish you had more control over--maybe an abusive partner, maybe terrible family, certainly you feel trapped in your job--and that made you pick up on the signs of him being a vampire, made you willing to believe. And being a vampire would be so....freeing....

And he can't do it.

But he can kiss you. He can throw money at the problem and take you on nice dates and shower you with gifts.

He can give you a nice life and show you what being a vampire really entails, and if you really want that--and you're a very good girl--he may be willing to help you do it the right way....

.

send me a title

[it-was-funeral-grey]

Rainy day procedure (Al Haitham x F!Reader)

Prequel Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Extra 1 Part 5 Masterlist

Summary: The Grand Bazaar receives an unexpected visitor on a rainy night.

Warnings: explanation about periods including parts of the female anatomy, period shaming, misogyny, mentions of sanitary pads and tampons, female anatomy, rain, mentions of pooling rainwater,

Word count: <2.4k words

Inspired by:-

Author's note: yea, i've seen a lot of people being ashamed of their periods. and a lot of men who make fun of people on their periods, saying mean stuff. I hope i write it in a way that's ok and easy to understand i hope it isn't too ooc too

if i wrote anything regarding this wrongly do tell me!

Please give criticism! Also, if i missed any warnings, do tell me so i can add them!

The Grand Bazaar has a big problem when it rains.

For some context, the Grand Bazaar is underground. To enter, you go through one of the three tunnels, which begin above ground along Treasures street.

So, unfortunately, when it rains, these tunnels end up as a drain, leading rainwater to pool in the Grand Bazaar. To make things worse, the Grand Bazaar isn't an open-air area. This makes the place unbearably humid when rainwater pools.

Alas, today is one of these days. Outside, the rain pours. And once again, the tunnels serve as the city's drain. The wooden doors at the end of the tunnel are powerless to stop the flowing rainwater, leading to a stream of it once again spilling all over the floors of the Grand Bazaar.

People of the Grand Bazaar have been petitioning for years for the Akademiya to solve this problem but to no avail. The best the Akademiya did was install a small step at the entrance of the tunnels, which was wholly useless. At best, it only served to trip unsuspecting guests on their way in.

It wasn't a secret. The Akademiya hated the Grand Bazaar and what it represented. They thought the arts were a useless endeavour- a distraction from the pursuit of knowledge. So, they tried everything to get rid of them. Banning public performances, threatening to shut down the theatre, you name it, they've tried it.

But things have changed now. Ever since Nilou's performance at the Akademiya plaza and the whole scandal at the Akademiya, the attitude towards them has improved. Restrictions on the arts have been lifted, and old laws regarding performances have been abolished. Things are really looking up for artists and the Grand Bazaar.

"Maybe it's time we tried asking the Akademiya again," groaned Afshin as he carried his wares away from the door and the incoming rainwater. Afshin's stall, regrettably, is right next to one of the entrances of the Grand Bazaar. "A simple gutter. That is all we want."

Nilou can only sigh at his statement. Mr Afshin isn't wrong, but asking the Akademiya for help is scary. They have been eerily quiet about matters regarding the arts as of late- not imposing rules and restrictions, but not expressing their support either.

"We shouldn't!" retorts Jut. "Let's not bring any attention to ourselves. It's already a blessing that they've gotten off our backs."

"But that's precisely why we should be asking! We should strike while the iron is hot! Who knows when they will decide to impose all those rules again?"

"But what if they decide to do so after we ask? What if they think we're a thorn in their side by asking again?" Jut argues as the two make their way to the stage with large boxes in hand.

The stage is the only place safe from rainwater on days like this. Everywhere else, rainwater will pool, destroying produce and wares. In the past, the moment it rained, losses were inevitable, as merchants could not move their wares away fast enough. But ever since Nilou received her Hydro vision, this didn't become such a big deal anymore. She'll hold back the water until everyone finishes loading their wares onto the stage before letting to water flow naturally into the bazaar. Then when the rain stops, she'll guide all the water into a nearby river. This is the usual procedure for rainy days.

After the last merchant loads their ware onto the stage, Nilou relaxes her hands, letting the water burst through the flimsy wooden doors. Muddy water fills the bazaar, and Nilou sighs again. Clean-up is going to be painful, especially since the rain is much heavier than usual today.

Everyone working in the Grand Bazaar congregates on stage, using the high ground to escape the flooded floor. Nothing unusual from rainy day procedure. Everyone will sit around the stage, complaining about closing their shops early, chatting, or eating snacks. Or, more commonly now, debating whether to ask the Akademiya for help again.

It's just another rainy day. And rainy day procedure was carried out. No one is expecting anything. There's nothing to expect. No customers, no deliveries, no audiences.

That was until a splashing sound was heard from off the stage, followed by a string of curses.

"Hey! What are you doing? It's flooded down there!" Afshin suddenly exclaims. In an instant, everyone's head perked up, turning towards him.

Worried that someone was stuck in the water (although it's barely knee-deep), Nilou immediately puts down her slice of Tachin, bolting to the edge of the stage. Looking in Mr Afshin's direction, she sees-

"Mr Al Haitham?" to say Nilou is shocked is an understatement. Gently parting the water so that he has a clear path to the stage, she continues. "What are you doing here?"

Al Haitham hurries over to the stage, muttering a quick thanks under his breath. By now, everybody on stage has gathered around, watching the unexpected visitor walk up the slope.

"It seems that I've come at an inconvenient time," Al Haitham states, glancing down at his dirty boots in discomfort before looking around. "And it seems that all shops are closed for the day."

"You're drenched! Quick, someone get him a towel!" Someone calls out.

"No need," Al Haitham shoots back. "I'll be heading off now."

And then he turns and begins walking off the stage, leaving everyone stunned.

He's just gonna leave like that?

"Wait!" Nilou finally calls out. He stops in his tracks and looks back at the dancer. "Is there something you need?"

"Well, if all the shops are closed-"

"Now, hold on a second!" Now Jut speaks up. "All our stuff is here! We can still sell you things!"

Some merchants murmur in agreement as they stand up and walk over to their wares.

"You've already walked through muddy water," Afshin says as he pulls out his items from a box. "Whatever it is you're finding must have been important."

Al Haitham looks away for a moment before turning back to the stage. Walking towards the preparing merchants, he glances at their wares.

"I just need clothes-"

Immediately, the merchants begin showing him what they have. Perhaps because of the lack of customers today, everyone seems more enthusiastic than usual.

"I'll sell this to you for a thousand- no, eight hundred Mora!"

"Don't listen to him! I'll give you this and that for eight hundred Mora!"

"I don't need-"

"You said you wanted a shirt, right?"

"Not in that size, smaller-"

"Five hundred Mora for you, sir!"

"Now, hold on-"

Al Haitham is surrounded by hopeful merchants pushing items into his hands, yelling prices into his ear. It's clearly an uncomfortable position to be in. Nilou decides to step in when she sees Jut drop a bottle of spice all over Al Haitham.

"Let's not overwhelm him, everyone!" Nilou declares. "Let's all calm down, ok?"

Right away, the merchants sheepishly back away from the man, who is now holding back a sneeze. Gathering Hydro, Nilou sends a bubble of water towards the spice-covered man, who eagerly uses it to wash off the spice.

"As I was saying," Al Haitham sighs, washing off the spice on his arms over the edge of the stage. "I only need clothes. Sleepwear, preferably. And toiletries. Not textiles, not toys," He turns to glare at Jut. "And most definitely not spices."

With that, some merchants go quiet and head back to their crates. Others stand in a neat row, offering items to the stern man one at a time.

"You mentioned you needed sleepwear? I have some here," the first merchant offers. "Two thousand Mora a set."

"That's fine," Al Haitham looks over the clothes. "Do you have it in a smaller size?"

"No, sir," the merchant replies. "Unfortunately, this is my last set."

"I'll take it."

Slowly, Al Haitham goes down the line, buying items. Sleepwear, snacks, room slippers, and then finally, toiletries.

"I'll also need sanitary pads or tampons as well."

"Eh?!" the last merchant exclaims. "Why would you need- I-"

"…Do you have it or not?"

"I do! It's just that- does your wife have no shame, sir? Making you buy her personal items?" the male merchant begins his rant.

"…Excuse me?"

"No need to explain, sir! I totally understand! My daughter does the same," the merchant continues, unaware of the glares everyone is currently shooting at him. "She complains that she's in pain or that she can't stand up for too long. But we all know it's just an excuse to skip out on work. Women, right? Such dramatic creatures."

The whole stage is silent, save for the sound of water flowing through the doors.

Now, Al Haitham isn't one to argue with others over a difference in opinion. It takes up too much time and energy. But this? He isn't going to let this slide.

"Wow, sir," Al Haitham begins, controlling his tone. But the sarcasm still slips through. "You clearly respect women."

"Well, I do have a wife and daughter! And I was supposed to study in Amurta-"

"Yet you still don't bother to learn how their bodies work," Al Haitham edges closer to the man. "Or perhaps you refuse to. Truly a disgrace to the nation of wisdom. And to all men."

"Why you-"

"Now, since clearly, no one has been able to stand your presence long enough to educate you, I will," Al Haitham is seething now. "You will hold all questions if any, until I'm done."

"Wha-"

"Periods are a natural, biological process that those born with a uterus undergo every month," Al Haitham begins, ignoring the merchant's sound of protest. "During this time, the uterine lining sheds and is passed out through the vagina."

The merchant's face goes completely red.

"Now, why are you so embarrassed?" Al Haitham asks with poorly concealed fury. "Those are just body parts. That also happens to be possessed by your supposedly beloved daughter and wife, no?"

The merchant does not respond. All around, other merchants and theatre workers murmur amongst themselves.

"Now, during one's period, it is not uncommon for muscle cramps to occur around the abdomen, back, and tighs," Al Haitham continues. "Other common occurrences are diarrhoea, mood swings, and fatigue, amongst many other things."

"But of course, it is different for anyone who goes through it. I've never experienced it, so I don't claim to understand how it feels- unlike some people," Al Haitham shoots him a death glare. "Neither do I claim that those who experience periods are faking discomfort because I believe in science and care about the wellbeing of the people around me. Unlike some people."

Al Haitham takes another step towards the merchant, nearly backing him up against the wall of the stage.

"Now, Mr Almost-Amurta, surely you trust science as well?" Al Haitham whispers. "Surely, you care about the women in your family?"

The merchant doesn't answer. He looks down at his feet, perhaps hoping that a hole will swallow him up and save him from the fuming man before him.

"I asked you a question."

"Yes! Yes, I do!"

"Then why," Al Haitham presses on. "Did you say such horrible and untrue things about them? Surely, you must know what they go through. Why the misogyny?"

"I'm not-"

"So shaming them about their period symptoms, which is something out of their control, and assuming that they use it as an excuse is not misogyny," Al Haitham rolls his eyes. "What else have you considered 'not misogyny' in your eyes?"

The man opens his mouth before closing it again. He's clearly at a loss for words.

"I suggest you grow up," Al Haitham tosses a bag of Mora at him before snatching his bag of items out of his hand. "And perhaps learn to listen to the struggles of those around you. Especially those you claim you care about. You don't need to be able to solve their problems. Just don't add to them."

With that, Al Haitham gathers his items, trying to fit everything in one bag.

"If you have any questions, I suggest you ask the women around you. Perhaps learn to listen to them. Archon knows you need to."

And off he went, walking off the stage with an astonished Nilou rushing behind him.

"Ah! Mr Al Haitham! Wait!"

"Yes?" 

Al Haitham has a foot in the water before Nilou helps him clear a path.

"Ah, thank you."

"Mr Al Haitham, just now...with Mr Zar," Nilou doesn't really know what to say. "Um..."

"So his name is Zar." Al Haitham prompts her to walk with him. "Has he given you all trouble before?"

"Well, no," Nilou stutters out. "We never knew he was like that. He's usually so kind, I..."

"Well, now you know. I'll leave the rest up to you all then," Al Haitham replies. Looking at the water around them, he continues. "Does flooding like this happen often?"

"Only when it rains. Usually, it isn't this bad."

"The heavy rain?"

"Yeah. It's usually ankle-deep at worse. Today is bad."

"I see."

They reach the wooden doors, and Al Haitham reaches out to open them. The rotting wood doesn't escape his sight.

"I'll be fine from here."

"Ah, the rain is still so heavy. I can walk you to your destination!"

"No need," Al Haitham states. "You should head back to the rest. And your Tachin."

"Ah, so you saw that."

"Your concern for others is touching," Al Haitham replies, taking a step up the slope. "I'll take my leave."

"Watch your step! It's slippery!"

"I will."

"Bye!"

Nilou watches the man leave the tunnel before turning back and making her way back to the stage. Preparing herself for the awkward atmosphere that she'll be facing in the next couple of seconds, a question suddenly pops into her mind.

Huh, she wonders, as she hears shouts of disapproval from the stage, I wonder who he's buying all those stuff for?

Oh, she'll find out soon enough. 

She, alongside many others, will have front-row seats to this new romance play that is currently showing. It'll be nothing like the usual romance plays Zubayr Theather shows on Tuesdays.

Prepare yourselves. The prologue is over.

Act I is about to begin.

Join the Taglist!

[we-were-so-beautiful]

4. shower

wow look it's another chapter!!! like... not that long after the last one, even! honestly I had the first 3 sections of this basically entirely written not long after finishing the last one, but eventually I decided I should probably do literally anything else for a while (hyperfocus is a real dick lol), and so I'm just now getting back to it. I thought this was gonna be on the shorter side, but it's about the same as the last one, around 1.3k! there's a pretty important reveal in this one...

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioning, infected wounds, (severe) illness. As always, please let me know if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter three]

Vanessa’s never been particularly sensitive to scents—it’s a saving grace, in a mind where too much light or sound or texture can make her feel like she’s dying. But by the time the guy lying shaking on the seats behind her practically falls out of the taxi in front of her stoop, even she’s having a hard time with the smell coming off of him. Given how the driver peels away with all his windows down the second she pulls the last scrap of soiled newspaper from his backseat, it probably isn’t just her.

She turns back to the guy, for the first time finally alone with him. She’s too short to be used to talking down to people, but he’s hunched himself into that weird curled-up position again, so when she speaks it's aimed vaguely toward the top of his head. “Okay. First things first, we’re getting your ass in the shower,” she tells him. “And then we can deal with the effects of my questionable life decisions.” She pauses for a moment, considers. “Well. This one, anyway.”

There’s no way she’s getting him in through the front like this. Too many stairs, and too much dirt. The garden door will have to cut it. She motions for him to follow her down the alley, and he unfurls himself just enough to shuffle after her.

As soon as the shadows close in around them, she looks back over her shoulder. When she’s satisfied that no one can see them, she unclasps the collar from around his neck and tosses it, leash and all, into the garbage.

—

Vanessa can’t say she’s ever been grateful for the fact that her parents are insane enough to have a swimming pool in the basement of their New York fucking brownstone. Quite frankly, she still isn’t; they got the fucker installed when she was a kid and she screamed for so many days they finally packed her off to a hotel with her nanny of the week just to shut her up. Which they probably should have done in the first place, given that she was nine and there was a jackhammer in her fucking basement.

What she is grateful for now, though, is that the part of this floor that isn’t taken up by the pool—or the hot tub, or the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub—is a shower stall the size of her literal bedroom. Complete with benches, and removable showerheads, and, she’s hoping, everything else she could possibly need right now.

“In here,” she motions, and he drags himself onto the tiles. “I’d offer you the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub, but you’ve barely been able to keep your head up all day and the last thing I need is to fucking drown a guy in my basement. Also no offense but you’re literally so dirty right now I’d have to drain the fucker the second you got in. After this you can have a bath whenever you want, if you’re into that sorta thing, but for right now you’re getting a damn rinse.”

—

Once he’s more or less situated on the built-in shower bench, propped up in the corner in hopes it’ll keep him from falling ass over, Vanessa gets to work, still fully clothed down to her chucks on the marble tile. She unhooks a showerhead and aims it at the drain while it warms up. “Is this okay?” she asks, pointing it at his feet, and he flinches sluggishly but doesn’t respond either way.

“I don’t know what that means, guy.” She tests the water again with her hand. “It can’t be that bad, can it?” she muses out loud. “It’s the same temperature I’d use for me, and fuck knows I’m… y’know, picky. So if you want it different you gotta tell me, okay.”

He doesn’t tell her shit. But he doesn’t flinch too much harder when she moves the stream of water up toward his knees, either, and she figures that’s the best she’s gonna get.

She leans over him and focuses the showerhead on his hair. It’s matted stiff as tree bark, the water barely able to permeate through the layers of filth. “Shit, I dunno man, your hair’s got so much crap in it. Not to mention it wouldn’t surprise me if that shelter gave you goddamn lice.” She shudders. “Might be better off just cutting it short.”

There’s a noise she barely registers as a gasp before his ice-pale eyes fly open and he clutches her arm, quicker than she’s seen him move by fucking light years. She jerks automatically out of his grip, dropping the showerhead in her alarm, but he fixes her with a lidless, panicky stare and the eye contact is so startling she’s frozen to the spot. “Please…” he wheezes, “don’t.”

“You fuckin’ what, dude?”

“Don’t… cut… my hair.”

She blinks, astonished. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all fucking day, isn’t it?” He doesn’t offer another. “Christ. Typical fuckin’ me not to notice.” She huffs quietly. “Well shit, dude, I guess if you give enough of a fuck to speak up about it it can stay. But so help me if I find a single fucking nit in there.”

He whimpers quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, but he doesn’t say another word.

—

Vanessa gingerly retrieves the showerhead from where it’s spattering up at the ceiling, along with an oversized lace bath pouf and a mostly-full bottle of body wash she’s pretty sure is fucking designer. If you could see me now, Mom, she thinks, squirting the gel at his left shoulder, the one closest to her. You… well, you probably still wouldn’t give a shit. 

She touches the pouf to his sullied skin as gently as she can, and she knows she’s not well-coordinated at the best of times but she really doesn’t feel like she deserves the choked-off sound he makes or the way he shrinks away from her when she makes contact. “Oh cmon, guy, look I know but you gotta let me get this shit off you, there’s no way it’s not fucking your shit up worse than it already is,” she cajoles, and whatever she’s said it makes something in his posture go slack and he rolls back toward her, opening himself to her touch. “Thanks, uh, I think,” she hedges, and begins to lather him up with slow, concentrative strokes. She flicks the shower back on, sluicing suds and dirt from his skin in equal measure.

"Ohhh, fucking yiiiiikes," Vanessa says softly.

With the first layer of filth washed away, Vanessa can see the far grimmer reality that’s been hidden underneath. Rows of jagged, infected gashes streak their way across his shoulder to his chest. The skin around them burns an angry red, the wounds themselves all but smothered in sickly whitish-yellow. What narrow swathes of skin remain intact are mottled purple, and now that she’s touching him, she can tell he’s just… way too much hotter than any person should ever be.

She lowers the temperature of the water and keeps washing him, afraid to look but needing to see. Each stroke only reveals more of the same. His chest and left shoulder seem to have gotten most of the worst of it, but there are stripes across his arm, his back, his stomach, deep gouges in his legs. She hasn’t tried to touch his face yet, but now that she knows what to look for she thinks she can even see a scratch or several across his cheek, trailing up into his hairline. Jesus fuck.

It all makes a sinister sort of sense now, she thinks: the shallow breathing, the shivers, the near-total lack of response. And here she thought he just had regular rescuee trauma.

“Fuck,” she breathes out quietly, as the realization creeps over her like ice.

There’s something really, really wrong with this guy.

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