#garbage with gait

[lupine-phoenix]

Come one, come all to my ao3 blog!

Quick rules: Keep it PG-13 at a maximum and be polite! No question is a bad one if you're genuinely curious.

You'll see the following fandoms (usually) on my ao3:

Downton Abbey

Star Trek (TOS, TNG, VOY, DS9, ENT, SNW)

MCU

[gaitwae]

did. Did I ever tell you guys about the time I said M*cbeth during a performance backstage and then not even an hour later our set broke. In half. With over half the cast on it.

girl I would kill myself if I did that lol

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

A hand grips your shoulder. "We'll take care of them. Keep low and find a place for all of you to hide. Do not come out until we say."

His words blur together, but you manage to act accordingly, ignoring the pit in your stomach when he disappears around the truck. The concrete is covered in glass and rusted debris, so you keep low without letting your knees touch the ground and motion for the others to follow.

The closest place is an old café, the door closed with chains but the glass window shattered enough for you to crawl through. You pull the knife from your ankle as you move everyone behind the cash register, gripping the handle tight once you lean your back against it. The café is quiet. Still. No one else is here. You steady your breath. Staring at you are the double doors to the kitchen in the back, a thick waft of mold radiating, and behind you are tipped-over chairs and tables.

The noise outside has drifted. When you take a quick peek, you don't see anyone near the truck anymore. It is as if the three of them have followed whoever was shooting.

"Twix, I—"

You look back. Blue is holding her hand out, a shard of glass thrust in her palm.

Blood oozes.

You have no supplies on you, but you carefully pinch the glass between your thumb and forefinger. She bites her lip as it wriggles free, releasing another gush of blood. As if on cue, the kitchen doors burst open with ear-splintering screeches, and three Greys surge toward you.

Blue's bloodied hand reaches for her ankle knife as one tackles you, grinding your spine into the counter's edge. Two gunshots ring out over the snarling in your face. You thrust your arm against its throat, keeping the chomping jaws at bay, and with your other hand, stab the knife into its skull three times, until it whines like a dying animal.

When you shove the corpse to the tile floor, you see the two others on the ground. Blue is pulling her knife from one skull, and Ari has a gun in his hand.

"I only have one more bullet," he pants, double-checking the barrel.

"Someone could've heard the gunshots," Nereida whispers frantically.

"Then we find somewhere else to hide. Come on." Your eyes land on a graffitied door on the side wall. It leads into an alleyway that smells putrid. You motion for Ari to give you the gun as you lead the way, sandwiched between brick walls. You can still hear rounds firing from the street. They stutter in sync with your heartbeat.

You shove a rusted crate that blocks the path. You catch sight of movement, and something scurries between your boots. Blue squeaks and grips Ari's arm, your hand tightening on the gun—but it's only a raccoon.

"There."

You spot a sizable dumpster around the corner, where the narrow alley widens enough for cars to pass behind the buildings. Nereida helps you shove off the debris on top and heave open the lid. A thick waft of rot rises, along with a buzz of fruit flies. The dumpster is half-filled with blackened garbage and charred bones, but no Greys. You don't have time to find another spot as two male voices echo from down the alley.

"I heard it over here!"

"Let's check, come on."

Shit.

You lace your fingers for Blue to step on them. "Quick, get in."

Once the kids are inside, Nereida grabs the edge and hoists herself up. You glance back, stomach coiling as two shadows approach the corner. Quickly, you close the lid after her, scatter the debris back on top, and scurry behind a nearby crate, palm sweaty around the gun.

A fevered study of the shadows reveals two healthy, fit men. One bullet. Something in the second one's gait seems slightly off. You make a split-second decision, peek over the crate, and aim for the first man's chest, doubting your ability to land a headshot.

He falls dead with a thud and then you are launching blindly at the second man with your knife, but you fail to pierce flesh when a strong grip snatches your wrist. The man's rifle skids across the ground and your back is slammed against the wall, your skull colliding with the brick hard enough to make stars dance across your vision. A muscled forearm presses into your neck, effectively cutting off your air.

"Fucking bitch."

Even through the blood rushing between your ears, the growl in your face is—familiar.

You blink up at a man swallowed by a massive burn scar.

The tip of his nose is gone, with eyelashes and scalp burnt away, revealing poorly healed ripples of flesh.

One eyelid fails to open properly, the skin too scarred.

The recognition unfurls your eyes.

He presses harder. "I know you, don't I?" Anger cuts through his gaze. "Ah. That's right—a thief and a killer. You're full of surprises, sweetheart." The curl on his burnt lips makes you flinch, but there is nowhere to go. "I guess you found new friends."

"I guess—I guess you did... too..." Short gasps leave your mouth.

"Shut up," he growls. "I don't want to hear a word from a stuck-up bitch like you who thinks her tits and her cunt are worth more than my goddam face." He is yelling now, spit flying in your eyes. "Don't you dare look away from it! What, not proud of your handiwork?" He breathes hard and looks you over with a snigger. "Finding you is just my luck. I was going to go easy the first time, but now I think I'll kill you then enjoy you. How's that sound? Your corpse being passed around? Hope your cunt is as good when you're dead—"

White-hot anger ripples through your veins and you snarl before hurling a wad of saliva in his face, using the brief distraction to drive your knee into his groin. He staggers back enough for you to escape his hold and push away from the wall.

Gulps of air feel painful down your throat. You back away, readjusting the hold on your knife while he rubs his eyes furiously. 

"You're sick," you growl, voice hoarse and low. 

"And you're not, princess?"

"I'm not a goddamn rapist."

"You ruined my fucking face," he retorts, stalking you down the alley. At least you are drawing him away from their hiding place—you make an unnoticed glance at the dumpster to ensure no one else has approached, relieved to see the lid unmoved. When your eyes flick back to him, a sick curl twitches on his lips. "You're not innocent here. You're damned like everyone else. That ride of yours now has a shot tire, and that boat—" he chuckles, "—what? Thought you were gonna get out of this hell? We made sure to put a hole in that, too."

His words sink in. 

For a moment, horror grips you.

But you channel it through your veins as something useful—rage—and launch at him without abandon. He anticipates an attempt to stab his side again, so he blocks there, but instead, you reach for his marred face and claw the unhealed wounds, reopening them. He howls like an animal, stumbling back and cradling his cheek as blood seeps between his fingers. 

"I'm going to kill you, bitch—"

He blindly reaches for the rifle on the ground but you are quick to kick it away. You jump on him, this time bringing him to the concrete, which scrapes against your exposed skin as you wrestle to come out on top. But he is stronger. Heavier. For the second time you become pinned, he tries to dig his hands into your throat. The lack of oxygen threatens to turn the world black, but you slap a hand back on his face and rip off his scarred eyelid before it can.

He roars.

You spit in his face.

Your knife—you lost it in the midst.

As blood pours from his eye, you outstretch an arm and feel for the handle.

The leather is in your palm.

You stab his side.

You shove at his shoulder to get him off.

Then you pin him down, and plunge the knife over and over into every piece of him you find. Neck, chest, cheek, shoulder.

Again and again.

A slashed jugular. Ripped arteries.

Your vision is consumed by blood. You let yourself drown in it. Hot, thick—

Arms grab you by the waist and lift you into the air.

You attempt to wriggle free and dig your knife in them, but the person is quick to disarm you.

"Twix." 

A skull face stares down at you. Your bloodied fingers wrap around Ghost's shirt as you pant heavily. It's him. He's here. 

"Where are they?" he shouts over the ringing in your ears.

He sets you down, gripping your shoulders to steady you. It takes a moment to gather your senses, to comprehend his words. Your hands, shirt, and face are drenched in blood. Your head throbs with weight. Slowly, the world snaps back into focus. You glance around, spotting Kyle and Price standing behind him.

"There," you finally breathe out. "The dumpster. They're...they're in there. Safe. They're safe."

His eyes flick over the length of you, perhaps to ensure all of the blood is not yours, before the three of them thrash off the debris and lift the lid to the dumpster around the corner. They help out Nereida, Ari, and Blue. 

"Ghost." You try to swallow, but the pain hums with each attempt. His eyes snap to yours just as he checks over Blue. "He... They've shot a tire."

"I know. I've got a spare."

"The kayak, too. How are we—"

"We figure that out later. We need to leave." Price slings the rifle over his shoulder and grabs his wife by the arm. "Those fucks are going to be drawn straight to us now."

Blood. Right. 

You push through the ache in your head and run after them back to the truck. The absence of gunfire signifies everyone else has been taken care of, but just as predicted, a chorus of moans begins to filter through the buildings. From windows, underneath cars, and benches—Greys begin to crawl out. The faster ones are quickly shot by either Kyle's handgun or Ghost's rifle. Price helps everyone into the car and slams the door shut as Ghost and Kyle continue firing.

"Wipe yourself, quick. And change inside." Price throws a rag at you. Your backpack.

You get into the passenger seat, wiping your face and hair with a splash of water from Blue's canteen, then toss the stained rag out onto the street.

You don't care if anyone can see as you slip off your shirt, throwing it out the window, and slipping on a clean one.

Outside, Price and Kyle shoot away any Greys that approach as you suspect Ghost is changing the blown out tire, because you can't see him even in the side mirror. 

Within ten minutes, he flings open the door and takes seat behind the wheel. This time Price and Kyle hop in the truck bed with their guns as Ghost starts the ignition with a loud rumble, veering sharply back onto the road. 

Time has been stolen. It is high afternoon, the sky a clear blue even though the streets you leave behind in Halstead are tainted red.

Now the map is in your hands, but Ghost seems to know the way from here.

"How long can the spare go for?"

"Long enough." His words are clipped. "But the kayak we need to figure out."

"It can't be fixed, can it?"

His silence is your response.

Your mind races.

Minutes blur. Behind you, Nereida quietly helps wrap Blue's hand.

Colchester whirls by without obstructions, but you keep looking out the window and squinting, paranoid. You make it to the coast within an hour. The buildings turn into colorful, seafaring cottages and the streets turn to uneven cobblestone. Seashell chimes dance in store fronts that are plastered with old signs reading KEEP OUT IF INFECTED. Ghost makes a sharp right down a narrow street and parks the truck in front of a lone, blue cottage that seems remote enough to be safe. Even if the kayak was fine, you'd have to stop for the night in order to get out on the water at the start of morning.

A flock of oystercatchers scatters as the truck doors slam open and close. The air, thick with salt and spume, is cooler here, the breeze tugging at your tangled hair, where bits of dried blood still clings. The view of the sandy shore and rocky pier would be beautiful, if your mind weren't elsewhere, if the day hadn't been marked by panic.

Ghost circles around to look at the kayak. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," Price mutters.

He helps him pull it out. 

Blue and Ari sit on the steps to of the cottage's porch and listen in silence. 

Nereida watches from beside you, tucking a sweater on against the chill.

Ghost flips the kayak, revealing a bullet hole that goes through one end and out the other. Anger radiates from his tense shoulders. "Christ."

"We can't patch it like we did the raft, can we?" Kyle asks, bending on his knees to look at the damage.

Price raps his knuckles against the hollow sides. "No, it's hard plastic. It would need welding to fix holes like that."

The understanding lingers in the air as you cross arms over your chest. "I'll stay behind, then," you speak up. Nails cutting your palms. You're damned like everyone else. Nereida looks at you with wide eyes, touching your arm. "If we can't fix it, then all we have is the raft and it only fits six. You guys take it in the morning and I will stay behind here—"

"No one is staying behind," Ghost grits fiercely. He gestures at the truck bed. "It doesn't even matter if we got rid of a person. The supplies have to fit, too. Even if we make it across, we're dead without the ammo and food."

Price trails his thumb over the hole in the plastic. "Two would have to stay behind in order for us to fit all the supplies." Your breath hitches as you watch him calmly stand up. "Or... two would have to swim."

"Swim?" you repeat. "You can't just swim it. I mean—it's open water."

"Nothing we haven't swam in before." Kyle leans against the side of the truck, crossing his arms. "But it's further across than the strait. Jesus, what is it? A 40, 50 kilometer swim?"

"Then we take turns," Price says. "Two of us at a time."

"I can take a turn," Nereida offers. "I used to swim in college. I mean, it can't be so bad if we go in intervals, and hold onto the raft."

You breathe deep, looking at the water that crashes upon the shore in the distance and then at Ghost, who is already staring at you. "I can take a turn, too."

"The three of us will start it off. If we need you two to cover, then you'll be ready to go. The kids stay in the raft."

You swallow. "It's not just about getting tired, we need plenty of water to drink. You can still get quickly dehydrated, and the temperature of the water—I mean, hypothermia can set in fast even it is warm."

"We load up on clean water tonight and have blankets and towels ready to go," Kyle says.

You glance back at Ghost. The rise and fall of his chest turns more steady as he nods his head in resignation.

"That's our only choice, then."

The evening is thick with silence.

No one has the energy for conversation, only exchanging brief requests or simple instructions. Starting a fire is risky even here, but you need clean water. A freshwater creek lies a few kilometers back, so Price and Ghost take the truck while the rest of you work on inflating the raft for tomorrow. Whatever happened between you and Kyle goes unspoken, both of you focused on the task at hand, taking turns pumping and checking the seams for anymore holes. When the two return, you help boil the water over a small wood-burning stove in the cottage, praying the smoke rising from the chimney isn’t too noticeable in the growing breeze as the sun sets.

The cottage is mostly bare, with only a dining table, a knocked-over chair, and a stripped bed frame in one of the rooms. The bathroom is quaint, its sea star wallpaper faded, and a warped mirror hangs above the sink. You stare at your reflection while the others lay out sleeping bags on the dusty floor, turning in early to conserve energy for the new plan to cross the channel. Ghost has taken first watch, sitting out on the porch with a rifle.

You listen to their soft murmurs outside the bathroom door as you work on getting out the rest of the blood in your hair. There is a red mark on your throat that is sore to the touch, and the back of your head still feels like someone has taken a hammer to it. Your eyes seem darker than the last time you saw them. You take another rag, wet it, and wipe it all over your skin. Then, you pad back out where the last lamp has been turned off and only moonlight through the boarded windows is left.

You slip into the empty sleeping bag next to Blue and stare at the ceiling. It is impossible to sleep—to even close your eyes for longer than a few seconds. Your heart refuses to even its pace, furiously pumping blood through your veins.

After an hour of lying still, the itch becomes intolerable. You slip silently from the sleeping bag, grab your backpack, and creep to the back door by the kitchen. It opens to a patch of overgrown grass. The cold air raises gooseflesh on your arms, but after emptying your bag, saving only the clothes, and tying it up on a branch, your blood runs hotter. Teeth gritted, you pound your fists into the makeshift punching bag, breathing hard through your nose to keep the noise to a minimum. 

You hit it until your lungs burn cold, and take a pause only to grab the backpack, close your eyes, and lean your forehead against it while breathing deeply. 

"I would say you can't sleep because you're excited for a swim tomorrow, but I know better."

His voice is just behind you, a rough murmur over the distant lapping sea.

You don't turn around. "I'm thrilled for it, actually."

A pause. Then, "Quite heroic of you. Offering to stay behind."

"I wasn't trying to be a hero. It just made the most sense."

You let out one last huff and then settle back into your stance, reopening your eyes to take another swing, but a hand on your wrist wretches you away. You glare up at him as he holds both of your closed fists, peering down at the raw, reddened knuckles.

You’re ready to argue—to tell him to leave you alone and let you hurt your own hands if you want to—but instead, he surprises you by letting go and stepping back. He chucks off his jacket and tosses it to the ground, unrivaled strength evident in the width of his bare, inked biceps. His feet widen, and his fists rise, silently beckoning you.

It’s been over a week since your last sparring session, but as soon as your fists are raised, the familiar rhythm takes over. He doesn’t hold back—not here, not ever. You abandon strategy, driven by the primal satisfaction of ramming your knuckles into his ribs. The adrenaline surge becomes the perfect distraction, each punch feeding your hunger for more. Your breath quickens, harsh and ragged, as you throw punch after punch. Most of your hits are deflected with effortless grace. He mirrors your every step, matching your intensity with his own.

He sweeps his leg out, sending you to your hands and knees. A growl escapes your lips as you spring back up.

He circles you like a vulture.

"I saw his face."

Cold sweat trickles down your bruised neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It was burned. Well, what was left of it. You fucked him up more than necessary." He lowers his fists, eyes locking onto yours with an intense scrutiny. Your nostrils flare as you aim a swipe at his jaw, but he catches your forearm, yanking you close until your chest is pressed against his. With a firm grip on your chin, he tilts your face upward, forcing your narrowed gaze to meet his."You can't hide, Twix. Not from me."

"He was the one who almost raped me, is that what you want to hear?" You dig your free hand into his chest. "And I killed him."

The shade of his irises darkens. "You did what you had to do—what I knew you could do when I left you. You protected yourself and the others."

"I enjoyed it. I wanted to kill him, and I have never wanted that before." You swallow through your sore throat and feel a subtle tremor up your spine as the fresh images brandish your mind. "I wanted to feel his blood on my hands, and if you hadn't stopped me, I would've kept going."

"He deserved it ten times over. I would've done the same."

"And what do I deserve?"

His voice is harsh. "You deserve to cross the channel tomorrow, and keep going. It was life or death. He got death, and you got life."

"And how much longer do I get it? Until the next time people start attacking us? The next horde of Greys? Even if we make it there alive, it will never be a normal life. I can never be a normal person again. Never. I feel like...like there is something broken and rotten inside of me, a-and maybe it was always there, like you said. But only now can I truly feel it."

By the last word, your voice has quieted to a harsh whisper. You avoid the stare bearing down at you by turning your chin. You failed to realize how close your faces have become. Your gaze drifts to the arm still holding you, prominent veins trailing beneath the inked skin, and you swear you can see a pulse in them as fast as your own. Heated breaths pass between your bodies in silence before you look back up at him.

"You murdered someone, didn't you?" you breathe out. "Before shit happened. Outside of the military. Actual murder."

His jaw ticks. "Yes. I did."

The blunt admission doesn't surprise you, nor does it frighten you.

He lowers his face a bit, enough for his exhalation to leave gooseflesh across your cheeks. "Ask me if I enjoyed it. Go on."

"Did you?"

"Very much so."

You swallow hard. "I guess you haven't been normal for a long time."

"No. I guess not," he murmurs.

The air feels thick between you. He studies you intently, fingers uncomfortably tight around your wrist, when the tip of his masked nose nudges tentatively—experimentally—against yours. Your breath hitches at the top of your throat. Your fingers absentmindedly slip under the hem of his mask on their own accord, peeling it up his neck to reveal a stubbled, scarred chin and full, pink mouth.

He doesn't move to stop you.  

You study the sight before you—one you didn't see so close up even when he broke his nose.

Then—the last thin thread of sanity within you snaps. With a surge of abandon, you firmly close your lips over his.

Heat instantly spreads through your mouth, through your limbs, and down to your socked toes. It is enough to flood you with the raw need to taste more of it. Your hands lower to twist tightly in the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer, and for a moment, those warm lips move slowly against yours. Then, he firmly presses on your shoulder and breaks away with a thin thread of saliva joining your mouths.

"Ghost." You pant raggedly, eyes darting across his face. Humiliation is ready to sink in at his rejection, but he growls under his breath and kisses you again—harder this time, drawing you in with a hand to your jaw.

It quickly turns into a clumsy, greedy mess of clanking teeth. One of your hands curls around the short hair at the nape of his neck. It is difficult to comprehend that it is his tongue, hot and demanding at the seam of your mouth, pushing in once you part it open. It is his hand moving from your jaw to your hair, fisting it to the point of pain, while his other grips your hip and backs you into the tree.

Your spine presses roughly against the bark. The heat and solidity of his chest against your breasts makes your mind go numb. You can't think about anything, not the day behind you or the one ahead, only feel. Blood courses through your veins with the same heat as when you fight him, but instead of growling in anger, you release a throaty sound of desperation, moving your hands to the backs of his shoulders and digging your nails into the flexed muscle. It encourages him to grind his hips against yours with a low groan, striking an unfamiliar wave of warmth between your legs.

You try to recreate the satisfying friction, greedily bucking into him, but it's difficult with the standing position. The mess of emotions inside you is impossible to sift through, but one certainty stands out: you need more of this, whatever it is.

You attempt to lift your legs and lock your ankles around him, biting his lip as a demand for him to help you, but his hand suddenly releases its hold on your hip and he rips away from your mouth, breathing hard through his bitten lips.

"That's enough," he says roughly, stepping away.

What?

It doesn't feel like even close to enough.

Before you can reach for him, he gives you his back and leaves you there, trying to regain your breath. 

[yeyinde]

piggybacking off of @ceilidho 's dog soap idea with something awful lmao

You first notice it when you catch him staring at you from the crack of your bedroom door.

He's sitting in the dimly lit hallway, only half of his face peering into the sliver of space between the white wood of the door and the frame. Just—

Watching.

In the bluegreen glow of the flickering screen (Robert Stack paces down a blue hallway, bathed in that hazy, neon glow of early 80s television), he looks more like a lurking shadow than an animal. Eyes dark, and glinting in the soft light like the surface of a placid lake. You think of the dangers lurking beneath the murk when his muzzle dips, the slow refocus of an apex predator acclimating to a sudden change by its prey. The motion almost entire too human, and—

Not.

Not at all. It rides a razor's edge between anthropomorphism and the uncanny valley; the middle a strange, unfathomable realm of eerie discomfort. Something is wrong. The notion prickles against the nape of your neck. Crawls slowly down your back, the spindled gait of a languid spider tickling your skin as it walks over your flesh.

Something is wrong with your dog.

He was fine ten minutes ago. Had his dinner. Went for his walk. You were lazing on the bed flipping through the channels when his ears perked up, head pointed toward the back door.

You didn't think much about it. He had to go. Maybe he heard a rodent rummaging in your garbage. You slipped out of bed, his soft, fuzzy body sliding against your calves as you walked him to the patio, pulling it open and letting him out. He seemed to hesitate at the threshold, though. And while it didn't stand out to you then, it does now. He froze, ears pinning back, flat to his skull, as his fur lifted. Raising high in the air. A whine slipping out—

There was a rustle in the bush. A low noise. A growl. It was probably just the other dog sniffing along the fence, you thought. Your neighbours husky. He placed one paw on the deck, and then turned to you, eyes wet and glossy in the flushed porch light, and—

(and he looked so scared.)

Your breath hitches. Heart twisting in your chest. He's still staring at you from the hall. Unblinking. Expression wild. Wide. Pinning you with his stare. But he's panting. Chest expanding as it heaves through it's snout in quick, shallow breaths. Maybe the other dog scared it. Maybe the husky bit it's paw through the fence. You should check on it—

Him.

Check on him.

He went outside after a moment. Tail flattened between his legs. Drawn toward something you couldn't see, couldn't hear. And you turned around with a smile, waving him off as you walked back to bed. And now—

It's—his—lip curls.

He's never so much as bitten you much less—snarled. The suddenness of it paralyses you. Roots you to bed. Useless and unable to do anything as your dog, your baby boy, lifts his muzzle up with a growl, long, sharp canines dripping red—

"Baby?"

It's a warble when it slips out. Shaky. Scared. The sound of voice makes the dog drop his jowls, cherryred tongue lulling out. Pink, foamy drool spilling to the ground as he pants. His teeth look sharper than they did before. You brush them every night before bed, cooing at him as you scrub his canines clean. Singing some off-key song about dogs and their pretty teeth. He watches you with nothing short of adoration etched into his big, brown eyes. Wide and so trusting, so loving—

It's a harsh juxtaposition to how he looks at you now. Hungrily. Like a starving lion looming over a tired, sickly gazelle. Tongue out, jaws dripping with saliva. Your heart lurches.

"Baby?" You call again and he huffs. The rough noise filling the room, echoing through the hall. Deeper, somehow, than the snarl on his lips. The halfbitten growl booming in his heaving chest. You curl your legs inward under the covers, drawing them tight to your chest as he blinks, slow. Languid. As his lips split wider, wider, and for a moment, you almost trick yourself into seeing a maniacal grin pushing at the corners. Frenzied and full of teeth.

But the lake ripples, and the thought is tucked away. Hidden under a blanket of numbness that spreads, mushrooming over your thoughts. Cobwebbing over the unease that saturates your mind; tiny fangs of a spider piercing through, liquifying them.

He keeps his eyes pinned on you, mouth open wide with his tongue out the side of jaw, and slowly raises himself off of the floor. It's something you've seen him do hundreds of times. Agile flicks. A big stretch. A yawn. A shake.

You wait for it. And wait. Wait—

Something cools on your cheek. Wet, sticky. You don't have to reach up to know that it's tears. They roll down in an endless stream, cold against your frozen face. Unable to move as your mind bends, and bends, but refuses to break. To snap. Shatter. To admit that what you're seeing is real.

That he doesn't shake. He doesn't yawn. He jerks. He twists. Unfamiliar, you think. Like he isn't used to moving with a body this shape. Distorted. Wrong. It snaps. It twitches. He hunches over with his spine bowed and his head slung between his thick front legs, low to the ground but his eyes—

His eyes are on you.

Pinning you down. Glowing in the artificial blue light.

You can't watch him move. Try to walk. It'll skewer through the molasses you let trickle over your fear, curdling in your belly like sour milk. You drag your gaze away from his jerking gait instead, staring, unseeingly, at the television as he limbers onto the bed.

You can smell something on him when he moves close. Rot, you think. Ozone. Pine. Dead leaves. The wet, mossy bark of a fallen tree. Blood. Bad meat.

He looms over you. Snout inches from your cheekbone. The puff of his ragged breath glues uncomfortably to the sticky tears on your face. The air that rattles in and out of his lungs is uneven. Choppy. Inhale too deep. Exhale too shallow. It morphs into snarling rataplan. In-in, out. Inout. In, ininin, out.

Your eyes burn. If your heart beats any harder, any faster, you think you might go into shock. Cardiac arrest. Killed by—

Fear.

That there's blood on his muzzle. You smell it when he leans in close, snout pressing cold and slimy against your cheek.

You're not sure why you do it. Muscle memory, maybe. But your hand lifts. Falls to his head. Nails scratching through matted, oily fur.

He's still staring at you. Whale-eyed. Something inside you whispers not to look. That if you turn your head, all the things hidden under the silk web will bubble to the surface. Things like—

He's big. Too big. Your growing boy.

He smells. He reeks. Got into the garbage again.

He's acting strange. Wrong. He's just scared.

He's going to eat you alive. You love him.

This thing isn't your dog—

He swings his head toward you suddenly, maw open wide, peeling back from those sharp, stained teeth; tongue lulling out—oh god, oh god—and he licks your cheek.

Panic bubbles out of your throat in the shape of a laugh. A giggle. You're going crazy, you think. Hysterical. But you let him lick your face, swiping his too hot tongue over the tears on your cheek. Your nose. Licking into the corners of your eyes. Over your forehead, chin. Jaw.

Its only when his muzzle slides up to your lips do you flinch back. Pull away. "No. N—no. Bad bad. Go—go to sleep, baby."

He huffs, and you stare—resolute, empty—at the blankets when he drops his head down, licking slowly at your rabbiting pulse. Teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck. Nibbling, pinching with his sharp incisors. The gossamer falls. The sheet is pulled back.

The thing stares at you with a hideous, devastating want on its borrowed face. Primordial. Archiac. It's hunger. It's greed. Its a lamb in the lion's den. And you—

You pull the sheet back up. Slowly slide back to the pillows below. Eyes fixed on the ceiling as he looms over you. Your baby boy. There's a huff. A quiet exhale through its nose, and then you feel it move. Twisting. Turning. Curling up against your side, body supine and made of strong, hard muscle. The rough scrape of its fur feels like a beard. Coarse. Wry. Spread out and matted down against its canine body. Burning like a furnace. Reeking of brimstone.

As he settles in his spot, resting his heavy head on your belly (possessively—owner, pet; the lines blur as he flicks his gaze toward you, watchful now and still as heavy, dizzyingly intense as before), you lay awake staring at the ceiling. It'll pass in the morning, you think. He must have eaten something bad. Got into the garbage again. You'll take him to the vet, maybe.

(leave him there—)

He's fine. He's just a little sick, is all. Agitated. It's going to storm tonight. He can feel it in the air. In his joints. Everything will be fine—

Outside, something yowls. The patio door rattles.

Scratch, scratch, scratch—

He huffs, lifting his head with a small snarl pulling on his waxy muzzle. Eyes narrowing into slits. Glaring into the hallway. To the patio.

"Easy, baby," you quaver, and curl your hands into his damp fur. "It's just the wind. It's just the wind—"

Another huff. It sounds rougher this time. Deeper. Masculine. Human.

When he settles back against you, you feel bare skin sliding along your thigh, and realise that the nightmare has just begun.

"Baby? Could get used tae tha'. Are ye gonnae ca' me a good boy too?"

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

part two to this little thing 'cause i saw these tags on the last part from @stevesjester and actually kicked my feet and giggled about it

After Pretty Boy kissed him, Eddie walked back to the staff break room in a daze.

His slow lumbering gait still managed to scare some folks, though, so that’s a plus.

He opens the door, slowly turns to close it softly, and leans back against it once it is.

“Eddie? You okay?” Comes a voice he’d know anywhere. “Wait, that is you, right? You’re supposed to be Piggy Man tonight?”

Eddie pulls the rubber mask off, making his stomach flip thinking about the last time it was pulled up. You know, ‘cause he’s a sap.

Chrissy takes in his shocked, sweaty face, “Oh my god, you okay? What happened?”

He looks up at his roommate (best friend, sister) in her bloody cheerleader costume, an ironic holdout from their time in high school, and breathes a laugh, “I fell in love.”

“OMG OMG tell me everything right now!!” Chrissy bounces over to him excitedly and pulls him down to the bench of their one (1) break table, a sagging plastic picnic table.

He looks up at her bright happy face and barks out a half hysterical laugh, “I can’t believe you’re this excited about me potentially falling in love with someone I’m literally being paid to scare.”

“Oooh, so they were a runner??”

“Yeah, literally in this case.”

“Start talking, Munson, or I’m going to throw all your guitar picks down the garbage disposal.”

“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ.. Okay, so I did my usual creepy husky voice at him, called him all the usual things,”

“Let me guess, you started with ‘pretty boy’?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause he’s pretty. Duh. Damn was he pretty…”

“Uh huh. And you fell in love with him ‘cause he was pretty?”

“No, no of course not, listen to this:” Eddie sits up straighter in preparation for the story. “I had him backed into a corner, right? The fake gate over in section 2B,”

“Ah yes, of course.”

“Yeah! And when I lunged at him, he caught my arm, and spun me around.”

“Shut. Up.”

“No, never. SO he’s got me backed against the fence, and he–I swear to fucking Jesus H. Christ–lifts my mask up and kisses me.”

Chrissy starts to squeal incoherently. “Eeeeee!!! Shutupshutupshutup!! Holy shit there’s no way this happened!!”

“Look, 100% serious right now; he kissed me stupid, and spun around and booked it again.”

“Pretty Boy distracted you with a kiss to escape!?! I cannot believe this, c’mon..” Crissy grabs ahold of his arm again and pulls him out of the breakroom with her insane unchecked leftover cheer squad strength.

“Whoa, what? Where’re we going?? He’s probably gone by now! I was standing over in 2B like an idiot for a while after he left!!”

“Not that, we gotta go see Argyle.”

“Argyle why—ohhh shit. Oh my god, you think they caught it on camera?” Eddie’s actively following her now.

The two burst into the warehouses’ security office, where they’re met with the backs of two ‘zombie’ guards (and the leftover smell of weed).

“Argyle, Jonathan, you need to look at something for us,”

“Is it the footage of Eddie’s makeout sesh in 2B? ‘Cause we’re waaayy ahead of you pompom.”

“Ah!! Holy shit he was telling the truth?!” Chrissy bodies between the two, sending Argyle rolling away on his chair, and Jonathan staggering back a step.

“Dude, that’s so cool of your boyfriend to come to the haunt, keepin’ us in business.” Argyle directs at Eddie, though still spinning slowly in his chair.

“He’s not my–you thought he was my boyfriend?”

“Yeah man, why else would you look at him like that.” Jonathan points down at the screen. 

Chrissy re-winds it again and Eddie watches himself charge forward at Pretty Boy (damn, he’s still pretty though this grainy footage too, how the fuck is that possible??), get spun and–oh shit, they’re right.

“Oh Jesus Christ.” he hangs his head into his hands, falling down into Jonathan’s previously abandoned chair.

“Sooo…he’s not your boyfriend..?”

Chrissy re-winds the footage again. Squeals happily.

“Nope. Just met him tonight.”

“Wow dude, that’s like, love at first sight if I ever saw it.”

She re-winds it again, squeals.

“Yeah I know, it’s embarrassing as shit, alright?” Eddie’s still talking into his palms.

Chrissy snorts at that, “Not for you! Well..kinda..but him too, did you not see that pause?”

“...What pause?”

His question goes unanswered as Jon and Argyle move back in over Chrissy’s shoulders and after a few seconds both “Ohh…” in sync.

“The fuck’re you talking about?”

“Look,” She re-winds the tape once again and points, “Watch after he lifts your mask.”

So he does, and..okay, there was a pause.

“...So?”

“He totally fell in love with you at the same time you did him. Fell with him. With each other?”

“You both fell in love at the same time.” Chrissy says what Jonathan was trying to. “We have GOT to find this guy somehow.”

Chrissy records the footage on the screen with her phone, intending to post it online to find the guy, but Argyle’s positive he’s gonna show back up tonight.

“Give him a chance, pompom, he’s totally in love too, remember?”

“Fine, but if he doesn’t come back today, I’m posting this. Maybe it’ll get us some more business too.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Eddie asks, already knowing the answer.

“No.” Yep, there it is.

So, he rolls his eyes, puts his mask back on, and finishes out the night like everything is normal and he didn’t just fall head over fuckin’ heels for a random (hot) stranger earlier.

He’s done for the night before Chrissy since she’s got a lot of that fake blood to try and wash off, so he grabs up his stuff and heads out the front, intending to wave bye to Gareth at the front counter before braving the frigid late fall wind to warm up his car (and move it closer to the entrance so Chrissy doesn't have to walk in the cold). 

“See ya Ed,” Gareth calls, and he waves over his shoulder at him as he passes, his attention pulled to a blonde with a choppy bob looking in through the glass of the door, partially silhouetted by the bright ass headlights of a shiny Tesla parked behind her.

He can see the shadow of someone in the driver seat too, as he gets closer and opens the door for her, their face only partially lit up through the tinted glass by the glow of a phone screen.

She starts rambling off immediately after the door is open. “Oh my god, I thought we were too late and you were closed and I completely didn’t even realize I’d left something here when we were here earlier an–”

“Nope, no worries, ma’am, just go talk to Gareth at the front counter and he can tell you if someone turned in…whatever it is you left here.”

She says her thanks and scoots past him, and he spins quickly towards the side lot where his old Neon is parked.

He glances back when he hears the bell chime over the door, a bit delayed (probably the wind holding it open), and sees that the Tesla’s stopped beaming their headlights into the front door, that’s nice of them.

He unlocks his car and gets in, turning the engine over and cranking the heat as high as it’ll go. Once the engine stops it’s signature ‘I’m cold as fuck rn, don’t even try to move me’ rattle, he drives to the front door to wait for Chrissy, pulling in next to the burgundy Tesla.

He scrolls down TikTok for a couple minutes before a banner pops up on his screen

Chris C.: oh my holy fucking shit eddie, get your ass back inside!

Panicking, he races back in through the door, not even bothering to shut off his engine (or close his car door for that matter), thinking shiny Telsa duo is like, robbing the place or something, but as soon as he gets back in, he’s stopped dead in his tracks.

His heart’s still beating a mile a minute, but now with nerves.

Because standing infront of the counter are Chrissy (who’s actually vibrating with excitement), choppy blonde, and…

Oh fuck.

No way.

“H–hi, hi. I’m Steve, you’re Eddie right?”

He can’t help the grin that splits across his face. “Hey, pretty boy.”

thanks to @henderdads for rightfully pointing out that modern day rich boy steve would probably have a tesla <3

tagging everyone i saw in the tags of the last post that seemed interested in more/wanted to see the aftermath lmao: @bangarangdarling, @tartarusknight, @kas-eddie-munson, @wormdebut (AMAZING url btw), @vecnuthy, @perseus-notjackson, @homosexual-having-tea, @matchingbatbites, @scarcrossdlvrs, @anzelsilver, @auroraplume, @kkpwnall, @wildwildsoul, @bennys-burgers, @steveharringtonssluttywaist

[sardonicdoll]

able-bodied artists (or artists who don't have the relevant disabilities even if they are physically disabled in some way) really need to start checking themselves because i have seen more than enough ableist garbage on my TL recently. i don't get any traction on twitter though so i'm posting this here instead.

1. i'm not giving my thoughts on "AI art" because i do not have the patience and energy but bringing up physically disabled artists with limb differences, motor impairments, etc. (the ones that able-bodied people put on a pedestal because inspiration porn, anyway) as a gotcha is just as bad as the "AI art" bros you're arguing with who aren't disabled themselves (or disabled in these ways) but also tokenize these forms of disability. we're not ammunition in online discourse, i bet 10-1 that you people never uplift and empower and give a platform to disabled artists w/ limb differences/motor impairments/etc. in your online art spaces otherwise, and any logic that amounts to "this disabled person can do [x] so you're just not trying hard enough/what's your excuse?" is always always ALWAYS ableist no matter how you try to spin it, sorry.

if you don't have these conditions and consider yourself an ally to us then you do not have any business speaking with any kind of authority in conversations involving limb differences, motor impairments, etc. and art-making, or bringing artists with these conditions up when people are talking art-making and accessibility. full-stop. speaking from experience, being an artist with coordination and motor skill impairments when i'm surrounded by artists who aren't hindered by those things (even if physically disabled) really takes a mental toll on you and being all "oh this guy learned to draw with his teeth, so" does not help that whatsoever.

2. speaking as a horror artist/author - critically examine what you consider monstrous or horrific and the overlap between that and visible physical disability. not only have i had the above nonsense shoved in my face but then semi-popular art account posted a few photos (from online assumedly) that they called "monster eyes" when one of those images was leukocoria and another looked something like tonic pupil and/or coloboma (the pupil looked atypically large and out of place.) structrual eye conditions that cause visible differences aren't "monstrous." one of the images had crystals growing out of the eye, which, yeah! do more with that. but consider that images of "freaky" eyes you find on the internet are in fact eye conditions that real people have and what you're doing is associating how their bodies look with "monstrosity."

people have talked about this quite a bit with limb differences, bodily proportions, gait differences, motor impairments, etc. but i've never seen it talked about nearly as much with eye conditions. stop associating aspects of visible bodily differences with horror and monstrosity. even if it's unintentional that's purely due to your ignorance of the wealth of conditions that cause disability. exploration of disability and bodily difference within the context of horror and monstrosity can and honestly should be explored but that should be left to to those of us who actually understand what that is like rather than those who only have an outside perspective.

generally i'm very tired of able-bodied artists and then any physically disabled ones who lack respect for those of different experience to their situation.

[saywhatjessie]

And The Microphone Smells Like A Beer

Written for the @housemdanniversary exchange! 2.7k [Ao3] Gift for @island-ofthelost. Enjoy!

Wilson heard House’s lopsided gait approaching his office and immediately picked up a random file. He didn’t look up when the door flew open, the sound of House’s steps pausing in the doorway.

“What’s this?”

“Hmm?” Wilson said, looking up even though he knew what House would be holding. He looked at the box, anyway. It was wrapped in newspaper. A Lady Gaga article was facing up. “A present,” he answered, pretending to turn his attention back to the file.

“Presents are wrapped in shiny paper,” House said. “This is garbage.”

“I’m recycling,” he said. “You can open it before deciding it’s garbage.”

“You just told me you were recycling.”

“The paper, not the present,” Wilson rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to open it.”

House scoffed, tossing the box carelessly on Wilson’s desk. He collapsed with a grunt in the opposite chair. “You don’t want me to open it?” 

Wilson shrugged, moving his eyes back over the file he was holding like he wasn’t at all interested in this conversation. “Makes no difference to me.”

“Oh no, of course not,” House said, hooking one leg on the corner of the desk and using his hands to pull his bad leg over it. “You just got me a present and wrapped it all up because you don’t care if I open it.”

Wilson put down the file, playing up his exasperation as he looked at House. “I saw it. I thought you could use it. The wrapping, I admit, was an indulgence.” He waved vaguely at the wrapped box as if he could wipe away the transgression. “But, honestly, throw it out if you want, it doesn’t matter.”

House made a disbelieving noise before snatching the box back off of Wilson’t desk and tearing at the paper. Wilson very carefully hid his smile.

House managed to get the device out of the box without identifying it, holding it up to his face in complete confusion. 

“Is this some kind of kinky metal bit gag?”

Wilson huffed a laugh. “Do you see any kind of tightening mechanism? Shitty ineffective gag.”

House hummed, putting it over his head. Once the bar rested in front of his mouth, he figured it out.

“Oh,” he groaned, whipping it back off. “A harmonica harness?”

Wilson grinned. “So I guess it is kind of a gag, in a way.”

House scoffed, holding up the harness with disgust. “This is the dorkiest thing you could have possibly given me.”

“It’s useful,” Wilson insisted. “I’ve seen you play and you always have to take one hand off the piano to play the harmonica. Don’t you want to keep your treble hand in play?”

“‘Georgie On My Mind’ doesn’t need treble during the harmonica portion.”

“But what if I wanted you to play ‘Piano Man’?”

“I refuse to play ‘Piano Man’.”

Wilson shook his head, amused, and held up his hands in defeat. “Fine. You don’t have to use it.”

“I wasn’t going to use it.”

“Good,” Wilson smiled.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

  House came into work with the harmonica holder around his neck, his harmonica strapped in and ready.

Wilson heard him before he saw him, standing at the nurse’s station at the clinic and glancing over the file of his next patient. He heard House coming, as he usually did, but in symphony with the usual three beat footsteps was a discordant heeee and hoooo timed with each of House’s breaths.

Wilson looked over at him, amused to see House dressed as he usually was in his sneakers, jeans, and blazer over band-tee combo, but with the shiny new harmonica harness around his neck.

“You’re looking dorky today,” Wilson greeted him.

House played a sort of ‘womp womp’ on the harmonica before pulling his mouth away and grinning.”This has made being annoying so much more efficient. I don’t even need hands.”

Wilson nodded, noting that House’s hands were otherwise occupied with his cane and a takeaway coffee. He never usually stopped for coffee on his way in. He probably wanted to test out how annoying he could be before he hard launched the harness at the hospital..

“Very efficient,” Wilson agreed, stealing House’s coffee while he was being too pleased with himself to notice. “Are you angling for something from Cuddy or is this just your usual pursuit of chaos?”

“I was going for ‘make you regret giving me this,’ but now I’m thinking I should have saved it. Do you think Cuddy would cut my clinic hours?”

Wilson sipped House’s coffee and shrugged. “Probably not just for this. It’s pretty benign, for you.”

House finally noticed Wilson stole his coffee and snatched it back. Wilson just smirked. “This is just the first phase of my irritating scheme,” House assured him, taking a spiteful sip of his own coffee. It was still too hot and Wilson enjoyed watching him pretend not to wince. “I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve.”

“I would never doubt that,” Wilson said. He tapped his clinic file on the counter then smacked House on the arm with it. “See you at lunch.”

  The next few hours passed with Wilson treating patients and people coming up to tell him about House’s latest shenanigans. And then lunch passed with House telling Wilson about his shenanigans and Wilson acting like it was the first time he was hearing them.

He laughed around a bite of his reuben. “And she just never acknowledged you?”

“She let me follow them down eight hallways. The rich donor or whatever looked back at me a lot. Which is normal! I was playing every step she took! But Cuddy pretended like she didn’t hear anything.” He grinned admiringly, stealing a chip from Wilson’s tray. “Cold-blooded bitch.”

“She probably only walked that much because she knew it would hurt you,” Wilson noted.

“Probably.” House sighed, the air blowing through his still-mounted harmonica and producing a soft note. “I will have to become even more disruptive.”

“Good God, man,” Wilson said dramatically, pausing with his drink halfway to his mouth. “A disruption? You go too far!”

“I will disrupt, I will agitate, might even do some light discombobulating.”

“Please no disturbances or I fear I may faint.”

House smirked, picking up the other half of Wilson’s sandwich and taking a bite. Some sauerkraut leaked out and dripped on his harmonica.

“That’s gonna taste like that forever, now,” Wilson commented, lightly.

House grimaced, wiping it off with his thumb before sucking it into his mouth. “I eat a reuben every day. My mouth always tastes like sauerkraut.”

Wilson hummed, allowing the hyperbole. House had other harmonicas.

  Wilson’s afternoon was back-to-back patient consults, so he wasn’t privy to what disruptions House was executing. It didn’t escalate enough that anyone from House’s team saw fit to interrupt him, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

This was all but confirmed when Wilson came home to the condo that evening and House was pouting on the couch. House would take issue with the word “pouting” and it might look more like brooding or scheming to the casual observer but Wilson was a connoisseur. Sitting slumped on the couch, legs spread, idly twirling his cane in one hand was peak House pouting behavior.

“Wow,” Wilson started, tossing his keys in the bowl. He heaved a huge breath of relief as he shrugged off his jacket. “I had such a relaxing afternoon. No commotions, kerfuffles, not even a brouhaha.”

House scowled. “Shut up, you sound like a middle school vocab quiz.”

“No, seriously,” Wilson said, setting his briefcase on a kitchen island chair. “I got so much work done! My patients were comfortable, my office was orderly. Peace and love on planet earth.”

“I’m gonna piss in your desk drawer.”

“That would still only be half as annoying as you said you were going to be.”

House groaned, stilling his cane and bringing it up to butt against his forehead. “I got a case. Got distracted. It’s surprisingly interesting. But not as interesting as how much Thirteen and Chase seem to care about it.”

“So, what, you forgot to be annoying?”

“No, of course I was annoying,” House said, rolling his eyes. “It was just localized to my team. Who are practically immune.” He blew out a breath. “I could try again tomorrow but I’ll still be working on the case.”

Wilson hummed, cracking a beer and bringing another one to the couch for House. House took it, leaning a little to the side so Wilson could sit next to him. “Maybe I can bring it back later. Save it for a better time.”

Wilson scoffed, making himself comfortable. “You just got on my case for recycling.”

“It wouldn’t be recycling, it would be a callback. Self-referential humor.”

“Cliche. Not usually your style.”

“You’re right, I need way more bullhorns and whipped cream.”

“How about this,” Wilson said, leaning more of his weight against House. “You already know what’s wrong with the patient, right?”

House swiveled his head, waffling. “I have theories.”

“You know,” Wilson repeated, rolling his eyes. “You’re just playing with your food so you can watch whatever’s happening with Thirteen and Chase.”

House just took a sip of his beer, not confirming nor denying.

“I bet you you can’t last a whole day only communicating through the harmonica,” Wilson said.

House scoffed but in an interested way.

Wilson smirked. “You can still do your DDX on the whiteboard, but you can’t write or text or type or whatever to say words, you have to speak with your music.”

House rolled his eyes but took another sip of his beer, consideringly.

Wilson waited, settling back into the couch and taking a sip of his own beer.

And of course House answered how he knew he would: “You’re on.”

Wilson let himself into the Diagnostics outer office the next morning, greeting the fellows who were already there and helping himself to their coffee set up. The patient must have been stable because no one was panicking and Taub and Foreman were bickering about something outside the case. He let himself dawdle, hiding House’s mug in a lower cabinet and brewing a fresh pot. He didn’t mind waiting. Actually, waiting was kind of the point.

He was pouring himself a fresh cup in the mug that used to be Cameron’s when the ducklings all sat up a little straighter, catching the sound of House’s approach just moments before Wilson.

Not that it was hard to miss. He was breathing into the harmonica as he walked again.

Wilson smiled down at his mug as he stirred his cream in, turning and resting his ass against the counter to watch the show.

House opened the glass door, the harmonica making a kind of “hello” shaped sound as he entered.

“Oh good, we’re still doing this,” Thirteen sighed, turning back to her file.

“Patient’s responding to treatment but started presenting a rash on her pelvis,” Chase reported, unbothered.

House dropped his backpack and cane at his seat, making another sound on the harmonica that could really only be interpreted as a joke about syphilis.

“STI panel was clean,” Foreman answered. “And she’s not allergic to what we’ve given her. Which makes it a new symptom.”

House played a chord in reluctant agreement, limping over to the whiteboard and uncapping his marker.

Wilson wanted to ask him if the rash changed the diagnosis House had already come up with, but he wasn’t about to give the game away. Not when the team didn’t seem to realize what was happening yet.

House added “pelvic rash” to the list of symptoms and then “blurry vision” right below it.

“The patient hasn’t complained of blurry vision,” Taub said.

“Well, she does wear glasses,” Thirteen said.

“And she’s worn glasses since she was 10, why would this only now be a symptom?”

“She probably does need glasses, but if her vision got blurrier, she might just think she needs to change her prescription, not that it’s a new symptom.”

House played a delighted note and pointed at Thirteen.

“There’s no reason to think she has blurry vision,” Foreman argued.

“Unless you think you know what it is,” Chase said, talking to House.

House shrugged and made an ‘I don’t know’ kind of sound. Foreman sighed.

“It doesn’t hurt to check her eyes,” Thirteen offered.

House played a loud bleat of agreement. Then he pointed at Chase, pointed at Taub, played a little trill and pointed out the door.

Chase sighed, getting up, “Fine, we’ll go do an eye test.”

“We’re wasting our time,” Foreman argued.

House played a sarcastic little riff that probably amounted to ‘the patient’s not presently dying, just do the damn test,’ and Foreman scoffed and let Chase and Taub leave.

“What are we supposed to do?” Thirteen asked.

“I can answer that,” Wilson said, standing straight from his slouch.

House narrowed his eyes and played an agitated eight count. Wilson rolled his eyes at him. “You would say that.”

Thirteen looked between them, her eyes lighting with mischief. “I’m assuming we don’t think it’s cancer and you’re here about the harmonica.”

“I am,” Wilson said. “And it’s extremely telling that no one even asked about it this morning.”

Foreman shrugged. “He was messing with it all day yesterday.”

“Yes, but he hasn’t spoken.”

Wilson watched as Foreman and Thirteen blinked, looked at each other, looked at House, and smiled.

“Do you have to talk through the harmonica?” Thirteen guessed.

“Did you lose a bet or is this the bet?” Foreman asked.

“This is the bet. And I need you both to tell me if he cheats.”

House made a discordant sound of outrage, gesturing some mean stuff to Wilson.

“No typing or texting or writing stuff to communicate. The white board is fine and he can gesture,” Wilson told them, grinning at House over his coffee. “Just for today.”

“Done,” Thirteen agreed, immediately. “So do we just tail him all day or…”

“No, I'm sure there’s something doctor-y he needs you to do,” Wilson said, making his way to the door. “And while I’d love to watch him attempt to explain whatever that is, I should get back to work. Have fun, House!”

House flipped him off as he left and Wilson let himself cackle down the hallway.

  House lost, of course he lost, but Wilson had fun watching him try.

As usually happened, the case got complicated, and House couldn’t resist telling his team why they were idiots. He did make it through most of the day, though, so Wilson couldn’t gloat about his victory too much.

He could, however, hold House hostage in his victory, back at House’s old apartment, and make him play for him.

“This is humiliating,” House said, playing the opening keys to “Piano Man” on his own piano. “I’m better than this. You’re better than this.”

“Silence, music man, or there will be no bread for your jar.”

House rolled his eyes but leaned forward to play the opening harmonica. Wilson raised his beer in praise.

He sang along with House on the choruses but let House sing the verses, enjoying his rough baritone giving the song a jazzier sound. He pushed his way onto the piano bench with House, forcing House to sway with him. House shot him annoyed looks but didn’t falter on the music, even smiling at Wilson when he held up his beer to be a microphone.

House played out the song with the harmonica and piano chords at the same time and Wison went in with raucous applause.

“You’re a dork,” House told him, but his eyes were soft. He took off the harmonica harness and laid it gently on the piano. “And a terrible winner. You could have made me do this at an actual piano bar. Or at the hospital. You didn’t even take a video.”

“Why should other people get to hear you play?” Wilson said, leaning his body into House. “They didn’t win a bet. They didn’t get you a good present.”

“This is not a good present.”

“You love it.”

“I do not.”

“Yes you do – you love it and you love me.”

House sighed, bringing his arm around Wilson’s waist. “You got me there.”

Wilson hummed, leaning in to kiss House. House kissed him back hard and they very quickly got carried away.

Wilson could not be blamed: that harmonica had been hogging House’s mouth for days.

[pixie-stikk]

Sing to me: A Clefdraki pregnancy fanfic

y'all this is like my very first fanfic pls be nice. this will be chapter one, if this does well i'll make more.

contains: vomiting, mpreg, fluff, this is mostly just setting the stage.

The day started like any other, site director Benjamin Kondraki rolled out of bed begrudgingly, getting ready to go to work. But, something was different, the man started to feel very.....nauseous. Kondraki didn't think anything of it, he had probably eaten something that had expired, the man ate like a garbage disposal anyway. So, he took some antiacids and headed onto work anyway.

But the nausea never stopped, it had gotten so bad that he had puked all his breakfast up in his office trash can. The older polish man slumped back at his desk, running his large hands through his thick, dark locks when someone opened the door to his office. He looked up, his brown face now a slight olive green to see Alto Clef. The two had been dating for two years, much to the dismay of almost everyone who knew, but at least the two weren't dating actually decent people and kept each other contained. Alto clef sauntered in, the usual sly grin on his face shifting into slight concern

"Geeeeez Konny, ya look like yew've been kissed with death! what happened, ya ate somethin rotten?"

Alto crooned in a deep southern drawl to the sick polish man, who looked up at the reality bender with an even more tired expression than usual. which was almost impossible, that man was always tired of everyone's shit.

"Fuck, Alto...usually, i'd usually tell you to fuck off....but i'm too tired for this shit, do what you will, asshole."

He groaned, his head falling down on his desk with a "clunk" and putting his hands over his head. Alto then saunters over snickering, his yellow teeth glinting in the office light.

"Wheeewwwwwe! that bad, huh? Wuh, you got mornin sickness 'r somethin?"

Alto jested, walking closer to the site director with a cowboy-like gait, who let out a little growl as alto's fat, clammy hand pat Ben's dark, dry curls.

"Alto, please, i'm not in the mood today-"

The gruff polish man grunts as he grit his teeth. Alto took that as an invitation to keep annoying his partner.

"Whut? Ya feelin a bit emo there, Konny dear? got the cramps? Ya need some dark chocolate n' a heatin pad?"

The blonde haired decommissioner taunts, reveling in kondraki's annoyance. He then looked at the clock, it was near time for his lunch break. Even though he looked like he had one too many of those, he started up there anyway.

"Ey, Konny, s' near lunch time, wanna grab a bite with me?"

"Mh...ll' catch up to you..."

Kondraki murmured as the reality bender walked out, not shutting the door to his office. The site director groaned, gathering all his energy to get up and meet his partner at the foundation's food court. While he was walking, the messy blonde's words reverberated in his mind "mornin sickness....mornin sickness....mornin sickness....." Kondraki didn't think much of it, but it had him worried. Even though he didn't have those parts, he decided to check anyway. The photographer took a detour to the site convenience/medical store, bought himself a pregnancy test, shoved it in his pocket and went to the men's bathroom. There, he made a beeline to the stall only reserved for extreme shitting and then took the test. Once he took the results, his heart dropped, he felt like throwing up a second time. He held the test in his shaky hands and shuddered. There were two blue lines in it. Ben took a shaky breath, staring down at the pregnancy test and muttering:

"Holy shit, I'm fucking pregnant"

[daemonbrain]

I love your writing so much!! I can’t believe I missed you posting part 2 of perv Simon omg I just read it and it was so good 😭 I adore the way you write him.

I’m pretty new to this fandom (?) and Simon has overtaken me body and soul. Part 1 was one of the first things I read and ugh I just love this garbage man who is soft for the sweet girl he can’t help but fall for. He’s so awful but is he really if he can’t abide shithead husbands😫🤚🏻??? Your honor he’s a good man, he can jizz on any of my worldly possessions no problem.

I’m sure whatever you have planned for this series will be perfection, and I’m so excited to continue reading! For now, I’m patiently waiting and fantasizing that Simon decides to intimidate shithead!husband into leaving her, forcing him to tell her it’s to be with the woman he’s been cheating on her with. As much as I love when the hot scary man is homicidal, I really want her to fall hard for him, and I think that would be much easier for her if he’s not dead, if she’s instead manipulated into Simon’s arms in a moment of weakness and insecurity because why isn’t she good enough 🥺

Alternatively, I’m hoping that Simon kills him slow and mean, serves him right for mistreating Simon’s pretty birdie. But if so I hope birdie matches his freak, and when she finds out he killed him a couple weeks later, she lowkey doesn’t care. I know it’s so unrealistic but I love when reader likes dark men (truly self inserting lmao) and I would hate for her to be scared of him 🥺. I want him pervy and evil but I also want him soft and loving and there’s no reason for her to fear him ☺️☺️☺️

Omg I was about to click ask and then I realized what I truly deeply want is for shithead!husband to find out about Simon and birdie and to smack her around a bit, truly crushing her loving image of him. She wants to leave him now that she knows how bad of a husband he truly is, especially when she notices him being less subtle with his obvious signs of cheating. Simon sees her at the butcher shop, and while she’s concealed the bruise on her cheek well, she can’t hide the change in her gait and breathing caused by the deep bruises on her rib cage. Simon confronts her, offering (forcing her) to come with him so he can protect her. Shithead!husband shows up and Simon takes care of him 🥰 and birdie feels bad, is a bit scared, but how sad and scared can she be when Simon is right there to make her feel better 😈☺️💗

Okay I’m sorry for my ramblings!! Happy writing :)

I reblog to my side blog btw :) much love! 💗💗💗

ME RN RN:

STOP ITTTTTT. First off im honored to be one of the first fics you read for our beloved simon since there’s SOOOOOO many great fics out there for him. That being said, you’re actually the first person who’s sent me an ask so wow im so happy!! Literally thank you for taking the time to send your ideas and inputs, as well as complimenting my writing you have 0 idea how much that actually means to me 💕💕

NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR THE RAMBLES. I LOVE THE RAMBLES. GIVE ME ALL OF THEM!!!

But yeah the jizz part is so real because im not gonna lie i reached into some depraved-ish parts of my mind for that one (i would fight someone for that toothbrush). If you didn’t know i’m pretty new to posting on tumblr and genuinely just getting back into writing fanfics so i’m not super used to posting smut and all so i’m glad you enjoyed it. I try and balance it to make it seem kinda canon. I don’t see simon being someone dark/physical, more like unintentionally creepy like “ugh gotta protect her from everything even by extreme means 🫡🫡” man def does not know where the line is.

I’m a sucker for sweet reader and so is simon! He’d never do anything to harm and trust she is neeeeever gonna have to deal with that mean husband of hers soon enough.

I will warn you, i’m currently working on what’s probably gonna be like 20k+ words for a Jaime Lannister fic (its at 15k and im only at phase 1/4) sooo i don’t think stalker simon will be making an appearance for a fair amount of time (im sorry 😭). I’m pretty sure it will be getting a part 3 though, just not sure when.

Thank you so much for taking the time out of your day to send this, it brightens my day to know you enjoyed the uh.. creativity.. i bring to Simon Riley. Have a great day or night wherever you are xx

[lasanya539]

need you on the same ground

(written for @dorky-pals; beta'd by @hey-little-gay-boy-why-would-we)

Fandom: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem; Tales of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Word Count: 8963 Summary: Raph huffs, the soft sound disappearing amongst the noise of the city below him. The fresh air has calmed down the roiling emotions from earlier. His limbs feel heavy and fatigued, the absence of his sais from his belt making a noticeable difference as he shifts his weight.

He needs to go home. It’s almost curfew.

“Why a hair salon?”

The voice does not make him jump, because he’s been expecting it. There was no way he was going to get away with practically running away from the sewers in a haste without having some kind of confrontation.

--

OR: A study in big brothers, cracked shells, and learning how to ask for help.

Posted on AO3!

--

It’s a school night. 

Of course it's a school night. Every night is a school night nowadays. Be it homework, or practice, or group projects—from Mondays to Sundays, Raph is always busy with something to do with Eastman High. It’s a far cry from the days when he was practically dying to have anything interesting to do outside of training and comics and YouTube. Now, he’s at the mercy of a bed-time again like he’s five years old. 

The early September coolness hangs in the air, the promise of a crisp fall. Raph shivers against it from his spot on a random rooftop, leaning on his elbows on the parapet and looking at the darkening skyline. 

This has never been a particularly exciting time of year for four turtles living out of a sewer. Having a home in the de-facto trashcan of the city means that ‘fall’ is generally referred to as ‘Wet Garbage Season’ in their family. Their entire house gets covered in sticky leaves and black grime, and it always gets on Splinter’s last nerve. Their chore wheel spins a lot more frequently those weeks. 

‘This year will be different’ , a definitive voice comes back to him. A memory from a few days ago, the declaration by a certain blue-masked brother. ‘This year, Wet Garbage Season will be Pumpkin Spice Latte season.’ 

Raph snorts at the memory, particularly the part where Leo got an orange squishmellow thrown at him for ‘acting like a basic white woman.’ And the part where Leo launched into his mini-lecture to Mikey on gender stereotyping and trivialization and ‘your comedy club needs some serious revamping if this is the best you can do,’ while Donnie oohed the background.

Always so quick to keep them in check, he thinks, and for once that thought isn’t filled with resentment or resignation. It’s a quiet awe mostly, filtering through his haze of exhaustion. Leo’s strong sense of right and wrong and almost debilitating kiss-assery has led to many a grounding from their dad, and he’s always hated him for it. 

But sometimes it gives him pause. Makes him think about the day Splinter gave them all their real weapons, and declared Leo their leader as he handed him his sharp katanas. There hadn’t been a single hint of disagreement from the other three when they bowed respectfully at the orders from their Sensei. Because who, if not Leonardo? The righteous jerk. The disciplined swordsman. The big brother. 

Raph huffs, the soft sound disappearing amongst the noise of the city below him. The fresh air has calmed down the roiling emotions from earlier. His limbs feel heavy and fatigued, the absence of his sais from his belt making a noticeable difference as he shifts his weight.

He needs to go home. It’s almost curfew. 

“Why a hair salon?”

The voice does not make him jump, because he’s been expecting it. There was no way he was going to get away with practically running away from the sewers in a haste without having some kind of confrontation. 

“What are you talking about?” He asks in a gravelly voice, and clears his throat. 

He feels Donnie walk up to his side, his bō staff clicking with his gait. He doesn’t look at him. “You’re standing on top of a building with a really big hair salon. And some kind of massage place, I think. Interesting choice.”

“I don’t know.” Raph replies, already needing conscious effort to not sound irritated. What kind of opener is that? “First building I found, I guess.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees him open and close his mouth, clearly unsatisfied with the reply but unsure of what to say. It should make him smile, reducing his smartest brother to silence. It doesn’t. 

He looks down at the traffic, momentarily distracted by the distant sound of a siren.

New York City is never at the mercy of a bed-time, he notes. It stays just as vibrant and alive at all hours of the night. From his perch, he watches families walking together on the sidewalk, a group of friends laughing over the drinks in their hands in a nearby alley, a dog walker wrangling an excitable golden retriever back home. So many people going out and living their lives, the way they deserve to. 

It’s almost surreal how close they had come to losing it all. Raph clenches his fist. 

“What are you thinking?” Donnie asks, his eyes following the motion. 

“Nothing.” He grunts. 

“Raph.” 

“Nothing, Don, stay in your lane.” He crosses his arms and tucks in his fists, shooting a glare at him before going back to people-watching. “What are you doing out here anyway? Don’t you have a dumb anime to get back to?”

Raph immediately regrets those words, but thankfully Donnie doesn’t take the bait, choosing not to respond to it entirely. “Dad got worried about you.”

He chokes on a bitter scoff. “He should not be worried about me right now.”

“Raph .”

“What?” He finally snaps. Donnie is still in his training gear, like he is. There is unmistakable worry on his face, intelligent eyes trying to decipher him like he’s an interesting puzzle. 

He can only handle the scrutiny for so long before cracking open like a raw egg, all messy. “I’m thinking about Superfly, okay? Happy?”

He hates it; he hates how his voice cracks straight through the middle at the name. He hates how he shivers at the haunting sound of a hissing voice. Deranged and sadistic eyes staring right through him. A claw holding him in bone-crushing grip, a loud crack in his ears, leaving no room for him to breathe. 

When they first started settling into the human world—and the entire country was going batshit crazy at the appearance of so many hero mutants—the mayor of New York City had offered to set their little family up with ‘psychological welfare resources’, which was fancy talk for ‘therapy’. Something, something, ‘post-traumatic stress and stunted social development due to an isolated childhood’. 

At the time it seemed like the dumbest idea on the planet. Sure, the fight with the multi-mutant monster had been hard, and sure, maybe the milking thing had been a little worse, but shouldn’t they all be focusing on a government agency hell-bent on destroying their family instead of stuff like this?

So when Leo and Donnie and Mikey said yes, Raph had scoffed and brushed it off, saying he didn’t need it. Evidently, it didn’t take long for him to regret that decision. 

Raph suddenly stands up straight, not wanting to spiral down that path again. Donnie tenses at the movement, but he just swings his legs over and climbs the parapet, sitting down on the edge with his shoulders hunched. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He says pointedly. “Superfly, I mean. So don’t try to make me.”

“Okay.” He agrees after a second, surprisingly amenable. The lack of persistence actually surprises Raph for a second. Maybe this therapist is actually working their magic on his irritating little brother. 

“But you gotta come home with me now, dude, it’s getting late.”

Nevermind, he’s still just as irritating. He stifles a groan. “No.”

“Bro, it wasn’t that big a deal, okay? No one is mad at you, can you chill?”

“‘Chill’?” He repeats, not missing how the angry growl in his voice makes Donnie flinch. He tries to suppress it, but it’s obvious enough. His flared up frustration fizzles out immediately.

“I’m mad. So just… leave me alone.”

“You’re mad? At who, Leo?”

“No!” Raph exclaims. “Of course not! I’m mad at me, dude. And Leo should be too.”

It started out as a regular training session; they don’t get to have many of those anymore between school and their newly-found patrol routine. Shedding their daily clothes for their old ninja gear, they’d all hauled up in the refurbished space a little ways away from their lair that they use as their dojo. Mikey and Leo were so excited to finally be trying out some new moves, while Donnie just complained about having to leave in the middle of an episode despite the grin tugging at his lips.

The problem was that no one in the family had bothered asking how excited Raph was for the training session. Which was not at all. 

The day had gone like this: Raph was startled awake to Michelangelo’s blaring alarm at 5 in the morning, which was an absolutely criminal time for anyone who wasn’t a first responder to start their day. He’d apologized, sure, but an apology would not put him back to sleep or get rid of the tension headache that followed him for the rest of the day. And then between that, an Algebra test he’d practically failed, his English class with the loudest kids on the planet, and a wrestling practice where he’d lost every single match, Raph had been just about ready to blow a fuse. 

The thing is that he’s pretty good at keeping a lid on it nowadays, a far cry from before and an accomplishment he’s pretty proud of. His meditation pillow and him against the world, right? He can deal with his shit, no problem. Sure, he might snap at his brothers a little more and forget to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to his father, but those are far from unforgivable crimes. One evening of deep breathing, one night of a decent sleep, and he’d be completely back to normal. An infallible solution to a cranky Raphael. 

Now if only his dumb brain would actually follow through on this well-worn path as perfectly as it used to back then. Because the truth of the matter is that sleep is far from decent now. It’s filled with exhausted tossing and turning, restless buzzing that won’t quiet down, his mind flitting from thought to thought at a speed that makes him nauseous. And that’s on his good days.

On his bad days, Raph feels like he’s clawing against the nylon sheet of sleep, relentlessly fighting against suffocating fear. He can’t see, can’t move, only left to echoes of his brothers’ screams that drown out the thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat in his ears. Until he’s finally unceremoniously jerked out of the nightmare, an ungodly amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins. He can never shake the long-suppressed instinct that whispers in his hindbrain, telling him he’s prey.

All that to say: today had not been one of his good days. 

So when he walked into the dojo behind his brothers, stretched and practiced his katas, he’d already been at the end of his line. Told himself that it would just be a couple of hours more, and then he’d be free to zone out with his headphones in his ears and a nonsensical wrestling match in his face, pretending he didn’t exist for a while. 

“It was a mistake,” Donnie tries. “You didn’t mean to shove Leo that hard.”

Nardo had been having one of his good days, apparently. There was a pep in his step and a confidence to his grin that he hadn’t seen in weeks. Joking with Donnie, ribbing Mikey, teasing Raph—gently, because Leo was always good at reading his moods. He also brought up April only once, which meant that whatever was making him so happy had nothing to do with fleeting external validation. 

On any other occasion, this would’ve been a perfect opportunity to really go at it in training. After all, messing with his brothers in the dojo while they practice is one of his favorite ways to spend time with them, and it’s been eons since they’ve done that. Turns out that each of them separating into their own respective niches, after fifteen years of being uncomfortably close, has left Raph just a tiny bit off-balance. Like walking comfortably up the stairs with one hand on the railing, and suddenly finding the railing gone. It’s never enough to make him stop, just enough to make his steps stutter and hope he doesn’t trip and fall. 

“I shouldn’t have shoved him at all.” Raph mutters, a maelstrom of emotions in his chest. “We were just sparring. It was supposed to be fun. It was .”

Until Leo started winning. Call it Raph’s anger, irritation, exhaustion, whatever—but it was making his moves jerky, his technique haphazard, and soon he was forcefully shifted from offense to defense. His Sensei had been telling him to ‘focus , focus , focus’ on the sidelines, nearly inaudible next to the unnecessary commentating and jeering by Donnie and Mikey. And in the crucial moment just before he stumbled, the only thought that rushed through his mind was that he’d be damned before he lost one more fight.

And so he snapped, like a stale breadstick. All those years of practicing the art of ninjutsu and inner peace went to shit when Raph broke form, hooked an ankle behind Leo’s calf, and shoved all of his weight onto his plastron when he slammed him off the mat and onto the solid ground. 

And Leo screamed.

“I lashed out again.” It was pure torture to admit those words, but they were true. “I shouldn’t have, but it—the whole thing—was pissing me off. And then I hurt him.”

Donnie doesn’t refute that, even though Raph wasn’t expecting him to, but it still makes him feel so much worse. 

“Leo isn’t mad at you.” He reiterates. “We all thought his shell must have healed by now. It’s been weeks. Mutant physiology is really more of a guess most of the time.”

“That’s not the point, Donatello!” Raph snaps, tight with it. “I’m not supposed to hurt him.”

Donnie frowns, confused. “'You’ aren’t? Something special about you?”

Raph rolls his eyes, ignoring the immediate sting. Who knew the genius of the family would have such a hard time following simple logic?

“I’m supposed to be the one that protects you guys, Don.” He spells it out for him. “I can’t be dumb enough to hurt any of you, for any reason. Who cares if it was a mistake? I should be more careful. I’m sorry.”

Raph looks away when he says that last part; he can never make eye contact when he’s apologizing for some reason, no matter how genuine it might be. It makes a weird feeling rise under his skin when he does, like he’s too exposed and needs to cower away.

There’s a few moments of silence. The city lives around them as if nothing had ever been dumb enough to hurt it in a fit of rage. 

And then he hears Donnie scoff. “You are so full of yourself, Raph.”

He almost gets whiplash from how fast he turns to face him, the snarling creature behind his ribs cowering in unexpected hurt. Donnie’s the one glaring now, eyes narrow and lips pursed. 

“What the fuck?” He asks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Compared to him, Donnie is the other way around. When he’s overly emotional, he has no problem looking anyone in the eye and telling them how he feels. Which is what he does right now, and Raph can’t glance away.

“I mean exactly that: you’re fucking full of yourself. What the hell makes you think you’re supposed to be our ‘protector’?” 

He repeats the words with air quotes, so mockingly that he actually flinches a bit. 

“I—I’m the biggest, and the strongest, it’s my job to—”

“Oh, are you?” Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because his temper flares. “The ‘strongest’, really? Huh, I don’t remember you coming into this family with a fucking label on you. ‘Handle with caution, can crush you into bits, sole purpose is to take care of the littler, weaker brothers.”

Raph feels lost, as the end of the sentence seems to come out in a growl , which is practically unheard of from him. “Donnie, what are you even saying—”

“Because that’s your problem, right? You think we can’t handle our own shit! You think we’re weak.”

The air punches out from his lungs. Despite his own words, Raph can’t help the bloom of guilt spreading through his body. “That’s not what I said.”

Donnie throws his hands up, pacing away a couple of steps, still glaring at him over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t give me that. You and I both know what you meant.”

“I didn’t.” He says insistently, a sinking feeling in his chest as he wonders if he actually did. “It’s just… I—I’ve always thought it was up to me to be the heavy-hitter, you know?”

“Well, I’m telling you right now to cut that crap out.” He responds brusquely. “Contrary to whatever you believe, I—we —don’t need you for that.”

The words slice through him far quicker than he’d like to admit, and he’s unable to hide it. Raph swallows dryly. And yet, he has to forcefully remind himself that while Donnie’s bluntness is often a cause for strife, it’s almost never that serious. He means what he says very literally. And oftentimes, Raph has to recontextualize the conversation to Donnie’s perspective if he wants to make head or tail of him, and not give into the Cain instinct. 

Raph places both his hands on the parapet, subtly regulating his own breathing and biting back the automatic, bitter reply. He focuses on the rough texture of concrete, and runs the last ten minutes back in his head. 

“Is this still about Leo?” He asks finally.

Donnie flits his gaze away, and Raph thinks ‘ah’.

“Yes. No. I—I don’t know.” He shakes his head, the confusion not slowing down the vitriol. “But it’s definitely about you. You have this really stupid habit of making everything about yourself.”

He gapes, now openly hurt and more than a little angry. “When the hell have I ever made anything about myself, dude? You’re making shit up.”

Donnie turns towards him fully, and strangely Raph can recognize the look in his eyes. That’s how he feels when rage presses against his seams and eventually bursts out of him. It never ends well for anyone. 

“Oh, great question,” he says with faux nonchalance. “Maybe the stunt you pulled on Friday with the football team?”

Oh. 

Now, Raph has seen a lot of high school movies, okay? A lot of them. Most, he understands now, are over-exaggerations. No one can hijack a parade float whenever they want to, no one can give an inspirational speech and change the world in one day. Many of his delusions were wiped clean after his first week in the New York City public education system. 

But there are some tropes that exist because of how true they are IRL. And he’d heard enough about the Eastman High football team to know that one, they suck, and two, they were assholes. And if there ever was a perfect target for a sucky, asshole athlete, it was a nerd named Donnie. 

On Friday, after practically escaping the giant lunch line to go sit alone for some silence, Raph had turned onto the locker hallway expecting to find it mostly empty. Only to see Donnie in front of his locker with a few guys from the football team surrounding him. 

The scene had immediately caught his attention, pinging in his brain. Not just because he’d heard enough about the football team to never actually interact with them one-on-one, but also because of Donatello’s posture and stance. He’d been backed up against the metal door of his locker, holding his laptop over his chest protectively, shoulders hunched. Eyes darting from one person to another with something akin to fear. That had made him freeze.

He doesn’t really remember the conversation, he probably couldn’t hear it over the sound of his blood rushing to his ears, hot and angry. There were jeers and laughs, and the more they spoke the more his brother’s face had been falling. He kept trying to back away further, but his shell wouldn’t let him get too far, and apparently that was hilarious as well. And then one of the players, the captain probably, had reached out and shoved Donnie’s shoulder roughly. 

Raph had seen red.

“Have you ever considered,” he continues, gritting his teeth, “that I can fight my own damn battles?”

In sudden clarity, it all slams into him. Moments from days before flip through his mind like glossy photographs. Angry stares from across the room, tight-lipped responses to his questions, a permanent cold shoulder turned away from him. He’d chalked it up to Donnie’s signature attitude, barely paying attention to some rudeness between brothers. He might have not even noticed it, actually. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

Raph gulps, his ire collapsing into nothing once more. 

“I didn’t make that big of a scene,” he tries fruitlessly. “I didn’t even tell anyone about it.”

“It’s not about the ‘scene’. You barged your way into a conversation that you shouldn’t have. Yeah, sure, they were jackasses, but I could have taken care of them myself. I’m a ninja, dammit. We’re all ninjas.”

Donnie paces away, gesturing wildly as he rants, “And it’s not just this one thing, you’ve been doing this for a while. You freaked the fuck out when Mikey’s phone died the time he was hanging out with his friends. You actually yelled at Leo when we had to file out because of the school shooter scare and he didn’t answer your texts—it was just a drill! Just because you think that somehow you’re stronger than us doesn’t give you the right to treat us like we’re… inferior!”

There’s so much sheer bitterness in his voice. This has clearly been bothering Donnie—maybe all of them—for a while. 

He quells his urge to lash out, say something like ‘if you guys watched your own backs then maybe I wouldn’t have to!’. But not only would that be a sure-fire way to prove Donnie right, it also wouldn’t be true. They are fully capable of everything he is, and much more, especially in the genius’s case. He does believe that, he’s certain of it. 

Raph looks down at his own hands, vaguely registers the calluses on his fingertips, born from years of practicing with his sais, of lifting weights, of pushing himself farther, faster, stronger. Back then, in the before, his goal had been to just be the best among his brothers, beat them at training and impress their father. 

Now, he knows without a single doubt, his only goal is to protect his brothers from any harm that could ever befall them, whether it comes in the form of a jerk football player, a shrill alarm in the school buildings, or a kaiju monster destroying the city. 

“I…” he begins, and stops. Collects his thoughts. Thinks about the look on Leo’s face when he shrieked in pain because Raph couldn’t control his anger. He already knows he’s disappointed Donnie and Mikey. He wonders if he’s disappointed his father. 

“I messed up.” He finishes, again making sure to look away. A little ways ahead, there’s a giant billboard of a new car on top of a commercial building. Raph keeps his eyes on it, subconsciously counting the spokes in the wheels. “You’re right about that, okay? I’ve been butting in too much, constantly getting on your guys' asses about things I shouldn’t have. But—I did it because I was scared.”

Ironic, isn’t it, that it’s scary to admit he’s scared? It might have been the lack of practice, it’s not like he does it very often. Ha. If he actually did have a shrink, they’d have a lot to say about that, for sure. 

Donnie is silent on his side, and he’s too tired to read too much into it, as he continues, “When that huge football guy was ragging on you, all I saw was another gigantic asshole trying to hurt you, and I—I panicked. I grabbed his arm too tight, I lost it on all of them. I shouldn’t have.”

‘Back off!’, he remembers yelling now, feeling nauseous at how frantic his own voice had been. ‘I’ll fuck you up, back off my brother!’

“When Mikey went AWOL, and when Leo wouldn’t reply to my messages, I freaked out then too. But, you have to understand,” he wonders how dumb he must look to Donnie, speaking to the car poster two blocks away with such desperation, “it’s not because I think you’re ‘inferior’ or anything, okay? That’s not it. I—I can’t help being scared, all the time. I always think that something might have happened to you. Yeah, maybe not a whole kaiju monster again, sure. But what if Mikey hadn’t been okay when he went out to Central Park, and instead got taken again, huh? What if Leo hadn’t just been separated from us, and actually got shot at school? There are still people that think we shouldn’t exist, aren’t there? They can still hurt us, and I can’t stop thinking about that.”

Raph curls into himself, arms folded over his plastron and a leg tucked under another. A natural turtle instinct, he thinks wryly. Feel too exposed? Curl up inside the shell. If he wasn’t as bulky as he is, he would have been able to retract his limbs like Leo, that would have been nice right about now. 

He hears footsteps again, and he tries to brace himself. If Donatello put hand on his shoulder right now, he doesn’t think he could stand the contact for long. He already feels stretched too thin, like a rubber band pulled taut and too close to snapping. Also, he really doesn’t want to get yelled at again. 

He stops before he comes too close though, and goes, “Oh.”

Raph snorts despite himself. 

He doesn’t say anything more, but climbs onto the parapet, still maintaining the distance, the bō staff resting between them. Raph’s shoulders come down from his ears. The rubber band loses some of its tension in the companionable silence.

The city lives on around them. The group of friends has resorted to attempting drunken handstands and are failing miserably, howling with laughter. A teenage girl talks excitedly on her phone as she walks on the street. A stranger’s poodle pees on the wheel of an improperly parked truck. 

Raph wonders how the people of New York have been dealing with the aftermath of the mass. Do they need a shrink too? Do they get awfully upset at things they shouldn’t? Do they look at their brothers happily having breakfast in the morning, and are slammed with the heart-dropping realization that all of this could have been taken away in one instant?

How hard do they have to try to feel normal again?

Donnie gulps next to him, the click in his throat audible. “Do you—have bad dreams too?”

Automatically Raph scrunches his nose, even though his heart suddenly thuds really fast. He gives in to the instant urge to deflect and disarm with a pathetic laugh. “Ha, that—that makes me sound like a little kid.”

Donnie doesn’t join his laugh, and from the quick glance, he actually looks contemplative, picking faintly at his purple elbow guard with a slight frown. 

“That doesn’t make you ‘a little kid’.” Donnie responds, his words slow and measured and his tone on the wrong side of bland. “A lot of adults have nightmares. It’s perfectly normal.”

“Yeah, maybe for chumps.” God, can someone shut his mouth up? It’s like it’s on autopilot. He can barely stop the defensive scoff, even as his entire body is tensed up, unnaturally still for the nonchalance he’s trying to project. “Not for me. Tough as nails, right?”

What the hell is he doing? Didn’t he just admit to himself that the nightmares were making him cranky? This is like a perfect opening given to him on a silver platter, and he’s blowing it. 

He risks one more glance. Donnie’s frown seems to have gotten deeper, head bent low, fingers messing with his gear. He works his mouth once, opening and closing it, before pursing his lips and staying silent. And turns away. 

Odd. 

Recontextualize the conversation. Raph clicks the rewind button in his mind once more.

“...‘too’?” He repeats uncertainly. 

Donnie tenses. 

“Nothing.” He responds immediately. “I didn’t say anything.”

Raph gapes at him. The world sharpens around him like it does before a mission, all his ninja training on the skill of observation suddenly in full effect as he studies Donnie thoroughly. There are unmistakable eyebags hidden behind his giant dorky glasses, just a hint of redness in his sclera. 

“You’re having nightmares?” 

Like the slowest puzzle on the planet, the pieces click together into one sobering picture. Suddenly, it feels like Raph sees Donatello through a cracked looking-glass; all the wrong parts he wasn’t willing to notice in himself blown up in higher proportions in his brother. The anger, the fear, the desperate urge to prove himself better than inferior—all of it rings true between them.

Donnie holds out for one long moment, as if not responding would just take the question out of the air, before he sighs, dropping his shoulders. Opening up, in a way Raph can’t help but be envious of. 

“Yeah,” Donnie nods, looking him in the eye. “I’ve been having them for a while. I thought they’d go away, and they do sometimes. But some nights they’re just—terrible.”

Yeah. They are. They’re terrible enough that they can fuck up his whole day, that they can make him act like a jackass to his own family, yell at them when they don’t deserve it. Some nights they’re so bad, he can’t get over himself enough to think about the person sitting next to him. About his little brother, who’s trying to push everyone away, in the way that should make big brothers pull them closer to see what’s hurting underneath. 

“I didn’t know.” Raph mumbles numbly, hand gripping the parapet tight enough for the texture to imprint into his palms. 

Donnie gives him a challenging glare. “Yeah, well, I guess I gotta be ‘tough as nails ’, right?” 

“No!” He backtracks immediately. “No, you don’t gotta be anything, dude. You can just—be .”

‘Raphael, you and Leonardo are my oldest,’ he recalls his father’s stern voice from an evening years ago, when he’d gotten fed up from staying cooped up and tried to sneak out topside before he got caught. ‘It is your duty to set a good example for your younger brothers. They look up to you. Whatever you do or say, they will absorb. You must not lead them astray.’

Bullshit, he remembers thinking to himself when he’d been sent to their shared room. Complete and utter bullshit. What kind of fucked up responsibility is it to have to be ‘perfect’ for his dumb little brothers? Why can’t he just live his own life the way he wants, make his own mistakes, not care about what anyone thinks of him?

But that wasn’t fair of him to ask for that. It wasn’t fair because, despite all his problems with Leonardo, Raph watched and studied him like a hawk. Even if he only ever made fun of him, ever since they were kids, he had been privy to every action and blunder Leo ever made. Sneaking cookies after midnight, eating Mikey’s ice cream, staying up late reading comics—he’d picked up all of those habits from him, and was usually there for the fallout when Dad scolded him. 

Until eventually, Leo stopped making blunders altogether. He turned into their sensei’s premier student, and their father’s wisest son. The teachings of bushido, personified. 

Had Leo felt the… pressure of being the biggest brother so strongly? Did he have to forcefully turn himself into a picture-perfect, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes because of how acutely aware he was of the three of them always looking toward him? Sure, they never outright listened to him, and mostly just tried to ruffle his feathers. But despite all the nagging and taunting, wherever Leo stepped foot, they’d always been right behind him, following the flutter of a blue bandana.

It had been so long since Raph remembered that for two smaller idiots, his footsteps bore the same significance.  

“What do you dream about?” He asks, and this time he looks his little brother right in the eye. He’s done making this about himself. If the way he’s been managing his own problems are giving them all the wrong message, then fuck that shit. He’s going to be better about… all of this, he has to.

Donnie seems to judge his sincerity, eyes ticking all over his face, and he stops himself from shying away at the scrutiny. Finally he sighs, “Honestly? I dream a lot about Cynthia.”

Raph absorbs this information and tucks away his own reaction. His fingers tap steadily on the concrete. “Okay,” he says, keeping all emotion out of his voice. “Anything specifically?”

Donnie’s gaze flicks down to Raph’s forearms, and the line between his eye-ridges gets deeper, an upset motion to his downturned lips. “The milking part, dude, obviously.”

Reflexively, Raph rubs a thumb over the vein the IV cannula had been attached to, the scar having long faded away but the phantom feeling of an unpleasant needle still persisting. “Okay.”

“Just yesterday, I had this nightmare. We were all back there again, and this time the TCRI machine was so much bigger, and you were there, she had you strapped to it, and—god, you were screaming and none of us could do anything, it was like I’d lost my own voice, and—” he cuts his damp voice off. “It was horrible.”

“...I’m sorry, man.” Raph can’t think of anything else to say. He’s intimately familiar with the horror in his voice, he knows exactly what it feels like to be helpless in the face of his brothers’ pain. 

Donnie looks up at him, the streetlamps reflecting on the lenses of his glasses. There’s a palpable amount of trust in his gaze, as he asks in a small voice, “How am I supposed to deal with them?”

His tapping stutters, and proceeds to get even faster, as the onus of the conversation shifts back on him again. 

Raph racks his brain, trying to think under the pressure. He’s not the guy they come to for emotional help! He’s the guy they ask to open a tight jar, or reach for the thing on the top shelf. How the hell is he supposed to know how to deal with nightmares? If he knew, then they wouldn’t be in this mess, now would they?

He breathes deep, feeling the air cycle through his lungs, eyes back on the dumb car. What advice would Leo give Raph if he’d asked him that instead? 

Leo would tell him to stop letting everything fester inside, and talk about whatever was bothering him. He’d tell him to get out of his own head because that would only make his problems worse. He’d also tell him he’d be a good listener if that’s who Raph chose as a confidant, even if he'd be extremely awkward about the offer. 

Leo would tell him that he didn’t have to go through this alone.

“Have you talked to your—your therapist about this?” Raph asks, hesitating over the word and trying not to be all weird about it. 

Donnie huffs and rolls his eyes at him, so he clearly failed. But this time there’s no derision in the look he gives him. “No, not yet. There’s so much else to talk about with her, my life is so interesting. Did you know it’s not normal to base your entire understanding of the modern world on books and TV shows? Crazy, right?”

“Oh, that’s wild. I never would have expected that.” Raph snarks back. “What’d she have to say about it?”

“Um, well,” Donnie fidgets during a short pause, the levity gone as quickly as it had come. He bites at his lip the way does when he’s thinking, before he begins in a practiced cadence, “Dr. Chaudhri—she says that expecting the real world to function within the framework of a fictional universe is actually unfair to yourself, more than anyone else. She said it’s because it forces you to strive towards ideals that aren’t possible to achieve, outside of a storybook ending.”

“...Oh,” Raph swallows his suddenly dry throat, his fingers tapping in a quick and unstable rhythm. He had no idea what the hell he was expecting, but it hadn’t been that . He keeps his tone carefully neutral. “What else did she say?”

“She says it’s important to recognize your mental and emotional limits, and not ignore yourself if you start to feel overwhelmed. Forcing yourself into positions when you’re not ready is only harmful to you. You can't win every fight. You don't even have to fight every fight."

There’s a stare on the side of Raph’s face. It feels far too shrewd and sharp for his liking, much like the words that seem to have found the chink in his carapace. He’s trying to ignore it as best as he can, while trying to suppress the feeling of ‘too-exposed, too-exposed, too-exposed’ rising under his skin steadily. 

He only hums in response, as Donnie continues, driving the point home, “She also says that expecting yourself to switch back to what you were before… everything, is unrealistic. If you apply a hard, external force on your bone and break it, even after it heals, it will still show signs of the injury. You have to go through PT to adapt to the newly formed bone structure. It’s the same logic for our brains. The neural circuits of the brain get altered after highly traumatic events, so you have to accept that you work differently now and actively learn how to deal with it. Instead of just—shoving it all under the rug.”

Again, the pointed frustration doesn’t escape his notice, and for once he doesn’t react with his usual defensiveness. Because his genius brother is right, he’s always right. 

Raph is so exhausted from pretending he’s got his crap together. Trying to rise above the swell of angst that greets him every morning, and acting like walking through the murky sludge of simply existing isn’t draining everything out of him, is clearly not working well. ‘Tough’? He’s the farthest fucking thing from ‘tough’. He seems to have fallen in the face of the heroism the world has bestowed upon them. But worse than that, he seems to have failed himself.

“Chaudhri also says it’s not our fault. What’s happened to us, I mean.” Donnie finishes, his tone a lot gentler as he scoots to be closer to Raph, close enough he can feel his body heat but still not touching. Raph can’t put into words how much he appreciates that. “The bad things that we’ve been through didn’t happen because we made mistakes. Whatever we were doing, we did in the name of saving the world. But what they’ve left us with, all those nightmares and bad feelings and trauma—because it is trauma, that’s literally what we have—is our responsibility to deal with. Otherwise we’ll be too busy drowning in guilt to do a single damn thing, much less live our new lives.”

Raph’s eyes are watery. Are those tears? Huh, he only ever cries when he’s in extreme pain, and barely even then. When he was being milked, he’d left most of the weeping to Mikey, bearing it in groans of pain. He isn’t in pain right now. 

Donnie doesn’t say anything about the tears, leaving Raph to get them under control on his own. He finally chokes out a humorless chuckle. “How many sessions have you had, dude? You could give Dr. Phil a run for his money.”

He barks out a surprised laugh, just slightly hysterical with relief. “Oh, yeah, sure, a dumb talk show host, that’s my future right there.” He grabs his bō, twirling it in the air once, before running a hand down the length of it and back up again absentmindedly. “And… yeah, I guess I’ve talked to her enough to like. Make some kind of a difference, or whatever. Let’s hope it actually does something, right?”

He’s making light of it for his sake, Raph can tell. Which fills him with equal parts regret and sadness. 

“If she’s helping you, then she’s good in my books.” He tells him honestly, meeting his eye when Donnie looks at him, surprised. “I’m serious. Maybe… maybe therapy isn’t really as big of a joke as I thought it was.”

He blinks once more, before lips quirks up in a shy smile, and suddenly he looks so much younger and more innocent than he is. More like the irritating boy in the tent that sobs loudly every time he watches a sad K-drama, no matter if it’s the middle of the night. Like he’d never had a car flung directly at him by SuperDuperfly and had to be pushed out of the way by Raph before it crushed him. 

“Really?” Donnie asks hopefully. “So—so, you think you’ll give it a shot, maybe?”

Again, Raph has to make an effort to keep the wince off his face, but he seems to have caught it anyway, because he rushes to explain, “She’s really cool, I promise! No bullshit, no emotional, lovey-dovey stuff. She’s… just the right amount of blunt, and the right amount of care.” He grins at him. “Kinda like you.” 

Raph pauses, genuinely touched. And, as easy as anything, he loops an arm around Donnie’s neck and knocks their shoulders together. The exaggerated groan from him is response enough, even as he leans his whole weight on him. 

It’s not just that he’s opposed to the idea of psychology, he’s not completely an idiot. He understands there is quite a lot of merit to it, and he knows how important it can be for people who need it. It’s just that, despite everything, he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s not supposed to be one of those people who needs… help. 

“What if… she doesn’t work out for me?” Raph asks quietly. “I know you seem to be getting a lot out of what she’s telling you, but maybe it won’t help me.”

“Then we’ll find you another one,” comes the near immediate reply, dripping with sheer confidence. “Even she says that CBT is a bit of trial and error. And even if therapy isn’t the solution, we’ll figure something else out.”

It sounds like an order, like he has no choice but to listen to Donnie, and it cracks a smile on his face because of how similar it feels to Leo. 

And no matter how irritating Leonardo and Donatello may be, Raph knows when it’s time to cut his losses and blindly agree with them, his trust in his brothers stronger than the cynicism in himself. “Okay.”

If Donnie’s surprised once more, he doesn’t show it, and together they lapse back into a quiet that seems far less burdened. The sounds of Manhattan waft around them, intermingling with the chilly wind. The pedestrians wrap their scarves tighter around their neck as they walk, the cars drive five miles per hour above the speed limit, both eager to get to their various destinations. Resilient in their quest to not lose what they have in the face of what they’ve been through, in the way only true New Yorkers can be.

They all need to go home. It’s almost the end of the evening. 

“Do you think Leo’s disappointed in me?” The question leaves Raph’s mouth before he can stop himself, but he doesn’t cringe away. His calloused fingers tap against his brother’s shoulder nervously. 

“No.” Donnie states without hesitation. 

“Are you sure?”

This time he definitely does roll his eyes in response, but he also jostles him to the side in a friendly gesture, looking both fond and annoyed, which is usually a mixture only Raph can induce. 

“If you’re really that concerned,” he begins, and in one fluid motion, heaves himself up with his bō and does an elegant flip back onto the roof, “let’s go back. You can ask him that yourself.”

Donnie holds out a hand, a smaller one with the callouses in different places, a hand that’s better at wiring circuitry and operating delicate tools than maneuvering a sai. Yet no less strong or capable. 

Raph doesn’t hesitate as he clasps it, climbing down from the parapet and following his little brother home. 

When he reaches the front door, adorned with pretty fairy lights, he pushes it open quietly, not wanting it to creak ominously as if signaling his own doom. The living room and kitchen are mostly dark, save for a single old lamp next to a worn armchair, and his father’s eyes flickering up to them as they walk inside. 

Raph tenses, head bowed low, bracing for impact. 

“Oh, boys,” is all their Sensei says, as he immediately stands up to walk towards them. There is nothing but liquid warmth in his voice and concern in his eyes when he raises a hand to his face, stopping just before making contact. 

All the turtles outgrew their father when they were thirteen, a fact that dear old Splinter always complained about despite how happy he clearly was. But none of them have been able to shake the habit of bending down towards him to look him in the eye when he reaches out towards them. Which is what Raph does now, and butts his face into his offered palm. 

“Hi, Dad,” he whispers softly. 

“Hi.” Donnie says behind him, raising an awkward wave so they don’t forget he’s still there. 

“Are you okay?” Dad asks, studying his son through his glasses. Raph catches his gaze lingering towards the moisture still collected over his cheeks, but he shakes his head to disarm him. 

“I’m okay, promise,” he replies honestly. “Sorry if I stressed you out.”

His thumb makes gentle circles on his cheek. “Stressing out about you four is my whole life.” He quips back, and it sounds so fond, Raph can’t bring himself to feel too bad. “I am sorry training went badly for you.”

He winces. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” Dad interrupts with a soft smile, looking every inch like the man who taught him the importance of patience and forgiveness. “I am only happy you are okay. Where did you go?”

Nope, he’s not going to cry again. He won’t, even if he has to clear his throat to answer. “We were on top of a roof for a while. A—hair salon, I think, according to Donnie.”

“Yeah, so, um. The joke was gonna be that you’re bald.” Donnie says suddenly, and it jarrs them out of the moment, as they give him similar looks of confusion. He rubs the back of his neck, equal parts sheepish and shit-eating. “It was funny you were on top of a hair salon because you have no hair. And a massage place is redundant because, you know, shell.”

Dad huffs out a chuckle as Raph gives him a flat stare. “Your sense of humor is worse than Mikey’s.”

“Hey! I take personal offense to that!” A voice pipes up from ahead, as Mikey pushes away the curtain to their shared room and joins them. Raph searches his face for any shred of upset, but Mikey grins at him with his signature sunshine charm that could forgive a million and one mistakes of his. He can’t help but smile back. “My humor is impeccable. Here, here, I’ll show you one, okay? I just came up with this.”

He clears his throat. “What does a pizza say when it introduces itself?”

Raph sees what’s coming from a mile away, and groans, “Oh my god, dude, please don’t—”

“It’s slice to meet you!”

Dad guffaws as he always does because he finds dumb puns hilarious, even as Raph groans even louder, hamming up his reaction, his head falling onto his hands. “Horrible. That was horrible.”

In true younger sibling solidarity, Donnie doesn’t mock him, but the laughter seems to be bursting out of him as he says, “No, bro, that joke was so good! It—it was so good, it should be on the toppings list!”

All three break out into more hysterical chortling. Raph shoots him a betrayed look. 

“Alright, I’m tired of you two,” he rolls his eyes, pointedly walking away. “I need a break, and there’s only one other person that knows how dumb your jokes are.”

He hopes they have the common sense to pick up on the obvious hint and stay in the living room, as Raph quietly brushes the curtain away and tiptoes inside.

Faint music plays in the room, coming from the purple speaker that certainly doesn’t belong to Leo, who lays flat on his plastron, reading a comic book. He’s braced on all his sides with pillows, his carapace bandaged in white wraps and cotton padding. He looks up as Raph comes in, and gives him a decidedly loopy smile. 

Ah. On the heavy pain meds, then.

“Raphie,” Leo croons, reaching out a hand lazily towards him, comic forgotten, “you’re back!”

Raph gives him a twisted smile, caught between the guilt of having reduced Leo to the experimental drugs the American Veterinary Association had concocted for them after their battle, or the heart-melting affection at the sheer trust in his eyes, even in his drugged state. 

“Hey, dude,” he greets around the lump in his throat, kicking the rolling chair towards his bed and sitting down close. “Listening to Adele again?”

For once he actually doesn’t mean it in a teasing way, and Leo answers equally seriously, as he immediately sobers up and levels a gaze at him. 

“I need you to understand how good 30 is.” He states. “It’s so good, man. So good. It’s—like… it’s transcendent!”

“It is,” Raph purses his lips, wondering if he should remind him if he was the one who got him into Adele. “Remember the concert?”

“The best night of my whole life.” He answers, nodding with each emphasized word so Raph could absorb the sincerity to his words. “Nothing will ever top that.”

Raph remembers Leo saying the exact same thing when they’d been coming back home, ninja-ing their way across rooftops. The two of them had duetted every song Adele sang without missing a single word, while Mikey recorded it and Donnie threw candy wrappers at them. When they’d been at the hospital, they’d shown Splinter the video, who proceeded to get extremely emotional about his two oldest sons bonding, much to their awkwardness. 

Truly, nothing would ever top that. 

He hums in response, idly wishing he could go back to that moment again, when things had been simpler. Objectively worse, but simpler. 

Leo tilts his head at him, a knowing look in his eyes. And Raph gets forcefully reminded that even at his most stoned, he can still read him like a fucking book. 

“Okay?” He blinks at Raph slowly. 

Despite his earlier stoicism, faced with Leo’s genuine concern, Raph’s lip tremors, unbidden. Every single self-deprecating thought about ‘you should yell, shout, hate me’ batters through his mind like papers caught in a tornado. Donnie’s steadfast faith serves as his only anchor, mooring him against the winds. 

Until eventually, he just mumbles brokenly, “I’m so fucking sorry, Leo.”

Leo takes a moment to ingest this, and blinks a few times again, just as lethargically. His whole demeanor seems extremely anticlimactic to the shitshow Raph had been expecting, his own shoulders hiked back up to his ears. Adele’s voice fittingly sings the chorus to ‘Easy On Me’ , music warbling in the air around them. 

Ever so slowly, like a turtle coming out of his shell—heh—Leo holds his hand out for Raph. He grasps it tightly like it’s a lifeline, the strength of it shocking him out of his funk. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Leo tells him, looking him in the eye. “It’s okay.”

“Is it?” Raph asks, relief and hope clashing terribly in his chest. 

“If Mikey or Donnie hurt you without meaning to and apologized,” he explains, big-brother-mode on despite the drugs running through his system, and Raph listens with rapt attention, “would you forgive them?”

“Yes.” He says after a second, actually thinking his answer through, knowing for certain it was the truth. He’d forgive his little brothers anything. 

Leo smiles at him dopily. “So we’re good, then.”

He doesn’t make a move to let go, even as his head eventually falls back onto his pillow, neck too tired to hold up the weight. So Raph doesn’t either, clasping Leo’s palm between both of his.

He’s aware that the days ahead will bring even more to worry about. He knows Donnie is talking to Dad and Mikey outside about getting him an appointment with Dr. Chaudhri. He knows Mikey will probably save him an extra piece of pie tomorrow, as a reward for finally getting his head out of his ass. He knows he has to go back to school and deal with the same excruciating routine, clinging to the knowledge that a safe haven is waiting for him at home, full of laughs and colored bandanas and turtle piles, to get through the day.

But for now, he holds Leo’s hand and squeezes it, the creature behind his ribs finally sated, and breathes, “Yeah. We’re good.” 

[gaitwae]

lovely new scent of the season

[pyfilove]

｡ .◦ ° ʚ  𝐿𝑒𝑡'𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ɞ ° ◦. ｡

Description: Edward may be strange at times, but Y/N managed to become a good friend to him

Warning: Smoking and foul language

Word count: 1897

Y/N exhaled the smoke from her cigarette and extinguished it on the railing. Throwing the bull off the fire escape, her eyes darted to the window, where Edward was already standing and looking tiredly at her. It was her roommate; they had been living together for four months now. In fact, she would like to move back to her parents' house, but with Edward life was much more pleasant and comfortable.

“Are you going to go out through the window every time to smoke on the stairs?”

It may have sounded a little rude, but her antics amused him.

“At least I can fit through the window.”

Y/N smiled slyly, hinting a little that he was chubby. He rolled his eyes in displeasure and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He opened it and immediately exhaled with displeasure.

“You know, I don’t mind you taking cigarettes from me, but can I at least ask about this?”

The girl turned around.

“I didn’t steal anything from you... I promise.”

The stupid smile never left her face.

“I started counting them and two cigarettes were missing.”

"Sometimes you can."

She shook hands. Looking into the distance, she watched as several police cars drove along the road, the howl of a siren hitting her ears. Looking down a little, she saw a couple of bastards injecting something or using something. Y/N didn't really understand, so she didn't pay attention. There was always garbage lying around the house. It was dirty and unpleasant. This whole city made her feel tense, as if she lived not with people, but with animals. To get away from it all, a cigarette, good night weather and a starry sky helped her. Looking up, she saw a beautiful sky with numerous stars.

"Beautiful."

She said quietly. Until someone's hand touched her shoulder. Y/N jumped looking back. With a smug smile, Edward stood behind her and held her shoulder.

“My size doesn’t stop me from climbing through that damn window.”

He said, reaching his hand to his pants pocket and taking out a lighter from there. With his other hand he held a cigarette.

“Will you?”

He asked with the same smile. The girl was still in shock, she wanted to say something about this.

"How?"

"What how?"

He said a little hesitantly from the incomprehensible answer from her.

“How did you get in?”

“Like you, through the window.”

"But..."

“Just because I weigh more than you doesn’t mean I can’t fit through that window. Although I thought I would get stuck...”

He laughed quietly, adjusting his glasses a little with the back of his hand. He handed her a cigarette.

“You know, I want to be your lung cancer sponsor.” The guy answered, bringing the cigarette closer to her.

“I’ll pass,” she answered dissatisfied. Edward shrugged and put a cigarette in his mouth, he lit it. With a calm gait, the guy walked closer to the railing, placing his elbows on it. Exhaling smoke through his nostrils, he pulled the cigarette from his lips and looked at Y/N again.

"Is something bothering you?" When their eyes met, the girl was already on her wavelength. While Edward was feeding his nicotine addiction, the girl was enjoying his movements. How gracefully he smoked, and how he adjusted his glasses with a busy hand. And how he exhaled smoke. This smoke fascinated her. Y/N fucking loved it. She would have continued to stare at him until another word came out of his mouth.

“Hey, Y/N...what are you thinking about?” Edward took another drag on his cigarette and looked straight at the girl. The girl immediately thought, she shouldn’t have told him that she was enjoying his nicotine addiction. So I said the first thing that had been bothering me for several weeks.

“Um... well... Gotham... You know, I want to get out of this hole.” She said quietly.

“So get out of here.” Edward said as he took another sip of nicotine and exhaled smoke into the night air. “You don't deserve to live here.” The guy's thoughtful face immediately appeared.

“Wow, exactly like that. Does that mean I’m worse because I don’t deserve this shitty city?” She immediately smiled slyly. I wanted to wipe this expression off my face. But he just put out his cigarette on the railing.

“You know what I’m talking about... so that you go to the city better, much better, arrange your life, and not rot here.” Throwing the bull over the railing, he looked at the night sky. Y/N smiled more at his words. Despite the fact that they were roommates for only 5 months, they got along very quickly. Perhaps she expected such an answer from Edward.

"And you?" The girl answered calmly, looking at Edward.

“I...probably...don’t even know...” He mumbled something under his nose.

“What don’t you know? You're a smart enough guy, I think you can handle the move. I especially think you will be appreciated in a normal city.”

"Don't think." He answered sharply, turning his gaze to Y/N. “Everyone wants status, money, but not intelligence.” The girl came closer to him and gently placed her hand on his back. The hand stroked his back in circular motions.

“Ed, you may not be appreciated at work or anywhere else...know that I appreciate you very much. And I think that they don’t even deserve to communicate with someone like you. Know that you are important. Important to me.”

Edward froze at these words. Something flashed through his head, as if he had already heard these words.

“Important...? We’ve only been talking for 5 months, how can I be important to you?”

“Auch... do you doubt my feelings?”

“No, it just feels like you’re lying so I don’t feel pathetic.”

“Nope.” She continued stroking. “You know, I say this from the bottom of my heart. In this city, only with you I was able to get along well and I appreciate it.” The gaze turned to the night sky. “I’ll probably even be sad without you...” She said quietly.

The guy's cheeks quickly turned red realizing her words. A smile adorned his face. And the hand closed its eyes in embarrassment.

“I'm glad you're my roommate, not some weird bastard.”

“You know what, Ed? Let's move out of this city together?"

"Together?" The hand immediately fell from her face, and her eyes stared at her.

“Y/N, are you sure? But what about the difficulties and…”

“I don’t care, more precisely.” She thought. “Other people move and nothing happens. They live there, no matter how hard it is.” She turned to him and looked him straight in the eyes. “Let's leave this hole together. You and me."

These words made his heart beat faster. Edward couldn't tell if she was joking with him or serious.

"To hell." There was a soft smile on his face. “We’ll leave this hole, just you and me.”

“And we’ll live in... Mmm... I want to go to Las Vegas, oh no Boston... You know, let’s go to California..."

“But I have a question.” Edward adjusted his glasses.

"What question?" She said enthusiastically.

“Why do you want to leave with me? And without that ‘you deserve it’... Do I mean anything to you?”

She was silent, thinking about what to say. "Do you want the truth?"

“You know I don’t like lies, so I only want to know the truth.”

"I think I like you."

“D-do you think that...?” He was shocked, thinking that he had mixed up her words.

“I like you.” Her look was a little uncertain from his reaction.

Immediately his tall figure loomed over her, making the girl feel so small and tiny. Two large hands cupped her cheeks, gently stroking the skin with their thumbs. The girl looked at him, a blush filled her cheeks, she definitely did not expect this from him. Looking away, Y/N laughed nervously, her hands grabbing his wrists but not trying to free herself from him.

“It's a little embarrassing.”

“M?” He answered quietly, without stopping to gently stroke her cheeks. His thumb touched her lower lip. My heart rate quickened and the butterflies in my stomach started celebrating. Y/N wanted to say something, but didn't want to ruin the moment. My eyes closed in anticipation of what would happen next. His head bent down, bringing his lips very close to hers. "Can I…?" The voice trembled a little.

“Yes,” she answered almost without breathing.

Edward's lips gently touched the girl's lips. Both his and her hearts were beating wildly in their chests. The girl squeezed his wrists a little, feeling a wild surge of emotions and adrenaline. But the guy himself just stood up like a statue and could not move from embarrassment. Feeling that Edward was not moving, she opened one eye to look at him and was immediately surprised.

"Why are you crying?" Y/N gently cupped his cheeks and wiped away his tears with her thumbs. At this moment, his hands slowly moved to the girl’s waist and hugged her tightly, holding her close to him. His head buried himself in Y/N’s gentle shoulder and the guy whimpered quietly, pressing himself against her.

“I..just don’t believe it.” He purred against her skin. “I'm glad, very glad that you feel the same.”

The girl laughed quietly and hugged him back tightly, wrapping her arms around his neck. The hand slowly moved gently to the back of his head and gently stroked and also fingered the strands of his hair. The guy felt better from her touch and her recognition. All he wanted at that moment was to gently hug her and kiss her, quietly telling her how much he liked her. Edward calmed down a little, but still did not want to let her out of his arms. The guy raised his head a little and brought his mouth to her ear.

“Can I kiss you again. Your lips are too beautiful for me to stop.”

The girl just smiled shyly, feeling that her legs were becoming weak.

“I would be only too glad,” she said, moving away a little from him to look at him. The guy's eyes and cheeks were still wet, but his sweet and small smile shone throughout his face. He tightened his arms around her waist and immediately kissed her. Lips greedily grabbed Y/N's lips so that she gasped in pleasure. The girl's hands moved to his cheeks, needily cupping his face with her palms. In my head there were thoughts only about him and how greedy his lips and touches were. Edward continued to greedily enjoy Y/N, his possessive hands gently penetrating under the T-shirt and roughly touching the girl’s back.

“Let's leave this town.” He whispered into his lips.

"Certainly. And we will live happily far from here.” She immediately wanted to kiss the guy again, but he averted his face. Y/N looked back at him questioningly.

“Let's not continue this here.”

“Well, yes...Then one at a time?” Hinting at a cigarette.

"Fine." With a sweet smile, he took out two cigarettes and handed one. The girl immediately took it and Edward lit her cigarette and his own. The two of them lit a cigarette and enjoyed the night.

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Destinytober24: Day 26 - Divine

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

Dust and rocks crunched under the Drifter's boots as he approached Eris Morn at her station on the Moon.

Eris's lip quirked up into a smile when she heard the sound. He was making noise as he walked on purpose to let her know he was there. She knew his gait instantly.

"Drifter." She addressed him, wondering if he had waited until the last Guardian had transmatted away and, if so, how long he had been waiting. It could not have been long or she would have smelled him.

"Hey, Three-Eyes! Came as soon as I could. What’s this mysterious thing you need me to see?"

Eris stepped toward him and clasped his hand in hers warmly.

"It is in a cave in the Anchor of Light. There will be Fallen on the way. May we take your Sparrow?"

"Yeah we can do that. We’ll have to snuggle, though. And it may be a bit more bumpy than you're used to."

"I am accustomed to walking."

"Right, well, this will definitely be faster than that. Wanna ride shotgun or drive?"

"I would prefer to drive."

"Ha. You say that now, but you might regret that."

. . .

A few moments later Eris was frowning as the Drifter climbed in behind her. It was a tight fit but that was not the source of her displeasure. The Sparrow engine made a grinding noise as she tried to turn the ignition. The vehicle lurched to the side but did not move forward.

"How is this even remotely tolerable to you?"

"Well, up until now I’ve been the only one that’s had to deal with it, and I’m used to it."

"It doesn’t even start."

"It starts, you just have to jiggle it a bit, give me your hand."

He put his chin as close to her shoulder as he could without pressing it into the Hive chitin on her pauldrons and reached around her, wrapping his gloved hand around her own.

"Like this." He jiggled and then twisted the switch hard. The engine begrudgingly kicked in and began to rumble in an unstable fashion.

"It sounds as though it is about to fall apart."

"I mean, you’re not wrong. We could walk."

"No. You will shoot and I will drive."

"You got it."

She pushed the accelerator and felt the vehicle churn as it responded, only to have to course correct to avoid driving them into a rock wall.

"Why does it pull to the left?"

"Ah yeah, that." He said in her ear as they picked up speed. "I’ve been meaning to fix that but I never got around to it. I’ve just gotten used to compensating for it."

"I’ve seen you build functional machines out of garbage. You have the competency. Why have you not fixed this?

"There’s this old saying, the cobbler's children have no shoes."

"People who make footwear abuse their children?"

"Nah, it’s just you do something all day every day and then you neglect that thing for yourself. You do it too. Like a lot."

"I doubt that."

"Yeah? How much rest and self care do you do when I’m not around, unofficial therapist of the Vanguard?"

"Hmmm… Two on your left.'

"On it."

The Drifter shifted behind her and his scout rifle began to fire.

. . .

"Well this sure is a spooky cave."

"You should see the Hellmouth sometime." Eris' glowing orb hovered above her hand as the Drifter followed.

"I’ll pass. Wha-"

Eris caught him as he began to slide down a rough incline. Gravel and dust continued past where his boots had stopped. They slid into a dark pit.

"Tread carefully."

"I am treading carefully. I just can't see in the dark like you."

"Take my hand. I will guide you."

The path was winding and steep but Eris' grip was firm and he did not slip again.

After a few minutes the cave opened up into a larger chamber.

"Here. This is what I needed you to see." She held her Ahamkara bone up high. Its light was largely swallowed by the surrounding darkness.

"You may wish to add some flame to the Soulfire," she added.

The Drifter snapped his fingers and a flaming coin appeared between them. He held it in front of him.

"Moondust… am I seein' what I think I’m seein?"

"I believe so."

"Is this some kind of joke?" he asked as he walked forward. "Someone pulling a prank on you?"

"Unlikely."

A large sigil was scratched into the floor. A four-lobed flower. Eris’ symbol, the Bane of the Swarm, the same one she had on all her charms and wore on her chestplate. It was several feet in diameter. The scratches were uneven and deep, as though they had been made by claws.

The Drifter walked across it to what could only be a stone altar at one end of the cavern. He held the flame in his hand up to the knee-high figure in the middle of the altar presiding over the room.

It was a rough-hewn effigy of a human figure made of stone. Crude armour made of rotting Hive chitin had been affixed to it with distinctive pointed pauldrons at the shoulders. In one hand it held a sword carved from bone with a very distinctive knife-point perpendicular to the blade affixed to the tip of it. A spherical green stone was in the other hand. In the figure's face were three finger-width holes containing small green stones.

"Huh. How’d you even find it?"

"I was led here."

"Led? By what?"

"A Thrall."

"Come again?" He looked back at her.

"It groveled to me and did not attack."

"What happened to it after you got here?"

"It left. Still groveling. Backwards out the way we came."

"You didn’t think they were trapping you in here?"

"It would not have ended well for them if they had."

"Huh. So they are worshiping you now?"

"I do not know. It is a shrine, but… Hive worship is usually some form of death: theirs or someone else’s."

"I mean, you were a god to them."

"I was."

"Have you showed this to anyone else?"

"I wanted your thoughts first."

"I mean, it’s certainly new behaviour that’s for sure. Do you think you can… control them?"

"The lesser Hive are easily controlled magically for short periods of time. They will cower to anyone with sufficient power."

"But for more than that? If they worship you, do you think they'd like… do what you want, long-term?"

"Doubtful. I have no way to receive their tithes. Their own worms would devour them."

"Wild. Has it changed since you were last here?"

"Hmmm… perhaps there is more detail? I cannot tell for certain."

"I wonder what would happen if you… leave them something here."

"I don’t know what I would leave, or why."

"Well, they wanted you to see it. Maybe something to… I don’t know… acknowledge them?"

"And what might accomplish that?"

"I mean, I’m just grasping at straws here but… nah that’s a terrible idea never mind."

"Speak."

"That’s a statue of you, right?"

"Mmhmm"

"It’s just, Hive are really into bodily fluids for some reason… usually pullin’ them outta other people, mind you… but… maybe smear some of your eye goo on the statue’s eyes maybe? Sorta like… peeing on it, without actually, you know, peeing on it? Claiming it in a way?"

"Crude, but… there is internal consistency in your logic… and it works within the principles of contagion magic. Very well."

Eris pulled her hand out from under her Ahamkara bone. It remained hovering beside her. She removed the gauntlet from her left hand and reached up to her cheek, sliding the tips of index, middle, and ring fingers through the paracausal tears flowing from below the bandage she wore around her eyes. Then she stepped forward and placed those fingers into the three eye-holes of the statue, drawing them down to leave dark streaks on the stone.

Hissing echoed through the tunnels.

"Uh." The Drifter held up his flaming coin, looking around nervously.

Louder hissing seemed to answer the call of the first.

Eris tugged her gauntlet back on and summoned her orb to her hand. "We should leave."

"Yeah."

"Stay close." She drew her sword.

"Don’t have to tell me twice, Sister." He moved behind her, his coin in one hand, his hand cannon in the other.

"Of all the things to call me." Eris began leading him back the way they had come.

"Fine, Lover."

"Hmmm…"

"Hmmm yourself," he said near her ear as the hissing seemed to swirl around them. "You’re smiling. I can hear it in your hmmm."

"Hmmm…"

They heard the sounds of claws scrabbling along stone in the distance.

"Faster," Eris said and began to move more quickly.

The Drifter matched her pace. "Can you make a portal to get us out quicker?"

"If necessary, although it would also make plain our position."

They heard more hissing coming from behind them. It was louder.

"Oh I think they already know we’re here."

"But which ones, I wonder."

"Let’s not stick around to find out."

"Agreed."

A dead Eliksni lay beside the Drifter’s sparrow when they emerged from the mouth of the cave. Its entrails had been ripped out. Its limbs were splayed in an unnatural configuration.

A wrench was still clasped tightly in one three-fingered hand. It held a wire rifle in another. The ammunition cartridge had been spent. A Marauder cloaking device had been pulled off of its belt and smashed. Bits of its other two hands were still embedded in the sparrow itself.

"Uh… " The Drifter looked down on the dead body with confusion.

"They protected your sparrow ."

"That's unfortunate," he said dryly. "It wasn't worth dying for. "

"I'm sorry. If it's any consolation we probably would have had to defend ourselves from it on our way out."

"Maybe. Still sucks."

"Yes."

The Drifter crouched down and pulled the dismembered fingers out of the vehicle. He dropped them into the hole in the middle of the corpse.

"Looks um… displayed," he said, Trust dangling from his fingers as he examined the body.

"An attempt at communication."

"Ghost!" The Drifter's ghost appeared at his shoulder. "Scan that." The ghost began to do as he asked.

"Maybe we can get them to communicate less violently?"

"Doubtful," Eris answered him. "This is the Hive."

The Drifter's eyes flickered to the empty tunnel mouth and then returned to the corpse.

"House of Devils." He muttered looking at what was left of its clothing. "That's weird. You ever seen House of Devils on the Moon?"

The Drifter's ghost emitted its single tone to announce it had completed its scan and disappeared.

"I am not certain. I do not believe so. I thought the House of Devils operated primarily on Earth"

"So did I. Never seen 'em on the Moon but you hang out here more than I do."

Hissing and scratching echoed up through the tunnel mouth. It sounded very close.

Eris mounted the sparrow and after a couple of tries, got it running.

"Are you coming?" she asked him.

The Drifter nodded. He paused to fold the dead Eliksni's four arms over its chest cavity and covered its head with what was left of the tattered cape bearing the sigil of its house.

"Best I can do." He told the corpse before standing and climbing on the back of the sparrow behind Eris. "Let's go."

The Sparrow made a grinding sound and lurched. Eris growled at the controls. The engine coughed and sputtered.

The Drifter reached down and picked up the wrench from the dead Eliksni. He gave the sparrow a sharp smack with it just in front of Eris' left knee.

The Sparrow's engine roared to life. Eris sighed and began driving them back across the lunar surface to Sanctuary.

Link to the entire month's worth of prompts on Ao3, posted daily.

[thenon-fictiondays]

Hirano to Kagiura light novel translation 3-2

Chapter 3: Present.

Part 2

Prev || Next

Having put on their sandals and passing through the entryway, they weave their way through the courtyard upon which the veranda looks out. The kids open the bag of fireworks, their chests puffed out in eager anticipation.

Watching them rifle through their stock of firework sets and peel off the tape seals, Kagiura is struck with the profound sense that summer has truly begun.

Up until last year, it had been the job of one of the adults to light the candles and place them around the courtyard, dripping a bit of wax on the ground to fix them in place.

This year, the task falls to Kagiura.

And what had been his job up until last year—filling buckets with water—had been left to one of the elementary-aged cousins. At one point, he’d been the one getting clapped on the shoulder and told, “it’s the most important job you can have when it comes to lighting fireworks,” by…wait, which uncle was it, again?

He lines up three mosquito-repellent incense sticks on the veranda and lights them.

His middle school-aged cousin, who had just arrived this morning, is taking no chances with bites in a long-sleeved shirt, long pants, and socks. He looks as if he’d come for a camping trip.

His older cousin, who’d had a bit of a rest after drinking a glass of beer, is sitting on the veranda supervising.

It’s nice to have Hirano here—a little strange, but Kagiura’s still glad. The earrings he’d given him just the night before shine brilliantly in his earlobes.

He had told everyone at breakfast that it was Hirano’s birthday, so they’d all sung happy birthday while eating their fish.

Kagiura’s aunt had run out to buy him a cake, so Hirano spent the whole time gratefully apologetic, but he’d seemed happy.

The air is thick with the white smoke rising with the burning gunpowder.

Every so often, a large bug comes close to the group, but after a while they stop caring about them, entranced by the beauty of the multicolored fireworks.

When one fades, they light the next.

The fidgety children had been jostling each other for a turn at the fireworks set, but somehow there were no collisions.

When they reach the end of their stash, they divide up the two types of sparklers and compete to see who can make the small, round fireballs last the longest.

“So pretty!”

Who was it who’d voiced that quiet exclamation of amazement?

And once the sparks fall to the ground, suddenly the world is bathed in darkness.

They submerge all the fireworks in the buckets, throw out the garbage, and blow out the candles.

“We can leave clean-up until tomorrow, since it’s dark now.”

The words had come out of Kagiura’s own mouth, but his voice was unrecognizable, almost as if it belonged to a complete stranger. His silhouette seemed to burn out with the light of the fireworks and melt into the night. But the traces yet remain. He wants to stay just like this, immersed in the faint heat coursing through him down to his fingertips.

“We didn’t light enough fireworks, did we?” At the sound of Hirano murmuring those few words, Kagiura is struck with the feeling that if he lets the moment end like this, he’ll regret it.

“Should we go buy a few more, then?”

Having crammed just their wallets into their pockets and told Kagiura’s aunt their destination, they stood in the entryway spraying each other with insect repellant.

“Akira-kuuun, it’s not safe at this time of night, so make sure you bring your cell phone with you!”

The voice at his back was perfectly clear, but Kagiura deliberately ignores it.

When he’s with his relatives, the time seems to go by slower if he leaves his phone alone, even when it’s done charging.

Stuffing his feet into his sandals, he steals a glance to the side at Hirano, who spreads both his hands with an expression of feigned ignorance. He’s not bringing his phone, either.

Like this, they have plausible deniability.

Kagiura’s gait is light with the feeling of being free from the strict curfew of the dorms.

The intermittent street lamps are dim, and the borders between the slim waterways and the road are dangerously indistinct.

The faint hums of bugs they couldn't hear during the day tickle their ears. It almost feels like the end of summer, even though there’s no sign of cooler weather.

But today is only August 1st, Hirano’s birthday.

Summer isn’t over just yet.

“Where are we going, Kagi-kun? A convenience store?”

Walking while engulfed in the warm night air conjures the illusion that they’re spending the summer the same as when they were little kids. 

Leading the way, a little ahead of Hirano, Kagiura slowly nods.

“Yup. That’s where we’re headed.”

No matter how many times he walks down the neighboring streets, the 24-hour supermarket is the closest to their house, and always has a good selection of products. The road to the convenience store is straight, but it takes 20 minutes to get there. If they walk slowly, they can have just a bit more alone time together.

“What should we do if they’re out of fireworks?”

Given the season, that’s not even a possibility, but the words came out of Kagiura’s mouth on their own.

“Buy some ice cream and call it a day?”

Buying snacks for the road is a daily occurrence for Kagiura, but this is the first time he’s heard Hirano suggest such a thing.

“It’s gonna melt by the time we get back home!”

“We can eat it while we walk. We’ll just buy enough for us two.”

“.....Oh, that’s what you meant.”

“What, did you wanna bring something back for your younger cousins?”

“Well, it’s just, my older cousins brought stuff back for me when I was a kid, so I thought maybe that’s what you were suggesting.” 

He doesn’t snack nearly as much when he’s at home, so he has a little extra pocket change and besides, his relatives had given him some spending money—these words are on the tip of his tongue, but Kagiura leaves it at that. Even if their pockets were light, he doubts Hirano would be swayed from the idea.

“Oh, really? Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

“You think so?”

They keep their voices quiet so they don’t echo down the night road, which makes it feel like their bodies are blending in with the darkness. As Kagiura listens to the voice of the person by his side, it feels like they’re on their way to a place much further than the convenience store, and he swallows.

“Ah…you know, your relatives are kinda like you. Even though I just met them, it doesn’t feel that way at all. To be honest, before we got here, I thought, ‘it’s gonna be super awkward if I don’t fit in with them’, but just like you said, I’m glad I came.”

“You’re fitting in just fine, Hirano-san. You’re really good with the younger kids, too.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz I usually live with a young person.”

“Hm? You don’t have younger brothers or sisters, right?”

“I’m talking about you, dumbass.”

“.....Do I really seem that much younger? Am I a handful?”

“You suck at waking yourself up even on days you have morning practice, you tell me you fall asleep in class all the time, and even though you suck at studying you probably wouldn’t even cram before a test if I don’t tell you to.”

Kagiura’s at a loss for words, and his eyes swim.

Hirano had hit the nail on the head, so he doesn’t even have a comeback.

Hirano’s eyes crinkle with affection at Kagiura’s reaction.

“Of course you’re a handful. But I also know that you’re kind, and you give everything your all. I bet this is the first time you’ve gotten a break from club practice all term. The basketball hoop in the courtyard’s obviously well-worn, too. When I heard from everyone that you put your all into practice even when you come home over breaks, I thought, “man, Kagi-kun’s serious about playing basketball,” and I was impressed all over again. Even on a regular basis, if you’ve been working that hard for your club, of course you can’t help but fall asleep in class.”

Kagiura’s body temperature gets one degree warmer for each kind word spoken in Hirano’s soft voice. His silhouette, nearly dissolved in the windless night air, distinctly sharpens, and hot blood swells all the way to his fingertips.

He’s endured days of sorrow and being so tired he wants to complain that ‘working hard for something I want to do is only right’. In this world where results are everything, he’s not doing this just so he’ll be praised for his efforts. He’s also banking on the idea that he can make up for his lack of study skills with things he’s good at.

That’s why, Kagiura’s a little uncertain if it’s okay to show openly how glad he is that Hirano understands his feelings enough to be able to validate him.

He’s always tried too hard to play it cool in front of him, hasn’t it?

But a certain memory flashes into his mind.

At the beginning of May, when he’d just started school, even when he’d uttered his disgraceful feelings of jealousy towards his teammate, Hirano had praised him, hadn’t he?

He knows all too well of the uncontrollable piteousness and impatience that had seemed to line up at the starting mark beside Kagiura’s teammate.

“Thanks, Hirano-san.”

They wait a bit at the traffic light, now running on the nighttime schedule, and cross at the crosswalk, where the traffic lanes increase and the sidewalks get wider. The line of stores facing the large street contains many famous chains.

When they come near the front of the video rental store, emitting dazzlingly bright light, Hirano says “once we’re inside, you’ll have to guide me,” with a laugh. There’s still quite a few cars passing by.

As they start walking side by side, Kagiura’s fingertips, throbbing with his pulse, most definitely brush against Hirano’s hand.

Sucking in a breath, he steals a glance to the side, where the brand new earrings shine in Hirano’s earlobes. The faint sparkle of blue that matches the gentle color of his eyes shines all the more brightly against the night road.

“Hirano-san, those earrings look amazing on you.”

Having chosen them himself, Kagiura is all the more proud, and he grins from ear to ear.

“That’s ‘cause you picked them out.”

He’s right.

The one who is by Hirano’s side the longest—not quite 24/7, but from the time they come home to their dorm until they head out the next day—is none other than Kagiura.

Of course he’s the right person to pick out the perfect pair for him.

*****

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Sorry for another tag so quickly lol but as always thank you to reading list members @jeizet, @jujupanic, @massyworld, @umbreonwolfy, and @acidsuzanne-blog 💗

[lebuc]

keep it movin'

* on the daily, the bits & bites we consume can lead to a serious case of indigestion

more aptly, without question, mental vexation

as it gestates within sans regurgitation.

our special dispensation is not to linger at any one station

as we trek the track to there & back

to home base, the basal space of our repose & peace, our chosen pace

on our race to the green stacks or golden plait awaiting, should we not falter in our gait

or slack in clearing our own plate as any well-meaning diner of the finer things life offers, not choking on the proffers provided in overripe streams to us quaffers

mindlessly sipping our brews, digesting sliders slip-sliding through.

can't speak this truth without eliding, but you get it dear fleeks, that's no lying;

garbage in's garbage out - that's been proven & corrosive intake leads to a gout state;

in such case, we all best keep it movin' so the toxic waste won't accumulate. * 2/24 - lebuc - keep it movin'