#he has it his knee has a history of dislocation and he asked if i was double jointed which I am so he was like look into it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

quaranmine · 1 year ago

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PEARL HAS APPEARED IN THE FIC!! Y’all, there were NOT supposed to be other characters than Scar and Grian (and briefly Mumbo) in this fic but she just snuck in. Also, my recommendation? Do not show up at anybody’s house uninvited for a vacation, it’s really rude to put that on someone else last minute. Like in some situations surprise visits are fun but I think a lot of the time…it’s just so stressful on the “host.” Pearl knows Grian well though, and she’s super worried about him, so her reasoning was that if she arranged it ahead of time he would have plenty of time to perfectly clean up his life and pretend nothing was wrong. Part of the reason she wanted to visit him was because she knew something was wrong. I think Grian’s friends and family, most of them in England but Pearl in Australia, have been worried for quite some time about how he’s doing, but living on a different continent is a great way to self-isolate.

Also I shouldn’t have to say this but don’t read anyone’s mail, even if it’s out. Pearl is allowed to be a little dysfunctional, as a treat…. hashtag god forbid women do anything. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for friends to ask for financial help from friends, or for friends to take it on themself to help out where possible and maybe slip you something. but girl there’s a time and place for it!!! LOL anyway you know that the woman who created a whole cleaning service in HC S9 would be happy to help Grian declutter in this situation too haha

As for architecture, there’s a bunch of different programs but the one I’ve been using as reference for this fic is a 5 year degree with around 2-3 years of apprenticeship/internship/field training. It is generally a pretty intense job to get. Grian did his whole degree in England plus part of the training, but finished the rest and got his license while in Colorado. He did not have his license very long at all in the beginning of the fic, which is partly why he was so resistant to taking off work to go with Mumbo–he was brand new and had to prove himself! Also, architecture work often includes compliance related things in addition to designs (from what I have read.) Grian got demoted after his stunt in the last chapter, so he mostly does things like “contact the electrical company to get power to this person’s house” or “call the county to get information about the local building codes” and so on. Mumbo is a mechanical engineer.

Did you know it actually didn’t snow til really late in the season in Denver in 1988? It’s an interesting juxtaposition for how early the snow was in Yellowstone that year. I’m not from Colorado but from what I googled most ski resorts have at least limited runs open by Thanksgiving so I think it’s reasonable for them to go together. Higher elevation places in the mountains likely did get snow by late November. Anyway, I like skiing. I went twice as a kid and it was a lot of fun but unfortunately now i'm cursed with knees that like to dislocate so i don’t dare go again and risk injury

Also yeah I’m not gonna list out specific numbers but the long distance (especially international) rates WERE atrocious then, and grian is just not getting paid as much as he used to on top of having to cover all the stuff Mumbo used to. It’s not sustainable in the long run, both financially and in that it’s far too easy for him to isolate from everyone who cares about him.

Finally, a lot of the little bits of day to day lookout information I have comes from the book Fire Season by Philip Connors, that I’ve been slowly reading while writing this fic. I think I’m around 160 pages into it? It’s a very interesting book, I recommend it. You will also get a lot of information about forest fire history and wildland firefighting in general. So much of my information about when fires are left to burn, when they’re suppressed, when they’re monitored, helicopters and smoke jumpers, Grian’s work schedules and days off, etc all comes from that book.

Oh, I finally mentioned Grian’s age in this. He’s 28, turning 29 in a few months.. That’s why he says he’s floundering on the cusp of his 30s. To be clear, I do not think there is anything terrible about being in your 30s. I do not think he is old. I do think, however, that he’s looking at a couple of fresh 21 year-olds doing a summer job in between semesters and thinking about how thoroughly he’s torched his own career and life (and how life has hurt him first) to end up where he is right now.

Cicadas! Yes, England does not have them (as far as I could tell through research.) This is shocking as a Texan, given they have been the staple summer background noise of my entire life. I would not know what to do without them doing their little calls nonstop. Also, I lied a bit in that second sentence–England DOES have a species of cicada, but it’s so endangered it hasn’t been seen for over a decade and only lives in a specific forest. RIP.

The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter Six)

Someone’s worried about Grian, and the Forest Service comes to collect Mumbo’s bike.

Chapter Six: 8,724

<< Chapter Five | Masterpost | Chapter Seven >>

The other half of the fifth chapter! I hope you enjoy this 1988 sequence especially, I was looking forward to it a lot (and it single handedly made the chapter so long it had to be split in two!)

No real CWs this time. I personally think that if you have made it this far then I don’t really have to warn you about the themes of loss and grief anymore, but just in case: yep, still very present.

November 20, 1988

It’s about noon on a Sunday, and Grian is…not doing much, actually. He has a thousand things he needs to do, ranging from cleaning out the refrigerator to trying to change his car’s oil to looking into a part-time second job, but instead he’s lying on the couch trying to watch TV. Somewhere along the way he tuned out of the program and started staring at the ceiling instead, mentally tracing out the patterns in the spackle.

The man on the drones on and on in the background, until he’s just part of it. Grian can feel himself starting to drift to sleep.

Then the phone rings.

Grian startles awake and sits up, scowling at it in the kitchen. He hasn’t the faintest idea who is calling him, other than maybe a telemarketer, but do those people work on Sunday? Well, perhaps they do. Everyone is home then, afterall.

It rings twice more, so he gets up and answers the phone. “Hello?” he says.

“Griba!” shouts a voice on the other end of the line.

And–it’s a very familiar voice.

“Pearl?” Grian says, just the slightest bit baffled. “Is that you?”

“Hi!” she says. “How are you doing? Are you busy?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “How are you? What do you need?”

“Can’t I just call to say hi?” Pearl asks.

“Of course, but–”

“But the international rates?” Pearl says. Then she laughs. “Oh, shush, I know you were thinking about it.”

“Oh noooo,” Grian says. “I don’t care about that at all, we can talk as long as you like.”

It’s a lie. He was definitely thinking about the international rates, and then immediately feeling bad about it because Pearl is a friend. He puts friends before money, of course, it’s just…well, it was expensive. But worth it! Pearl is Pearl. But every minute on the phone eats into his checkbook, and it’s hard not to think about.

Pearl laughs again. “Well, I’m glad you don’t worry about that. Not that it matters anyway; this call is local.”

Local. Local?

“Huh?”

“Yeah, you were right Griba, I did need something when I called,” Pearl says. “Can you pick me up from the airport?”

Grian’s head is spinning. “You’re at the airport?” he says incredulously. “Like, in Colorado? In Denver? Right now?”

“Yep,” Pearl says. “And I need a ride. Well, I could go get a taxi somewhere. But I figured I’d ask my friend first. Are you busy?”

Yeah, busy falling asleep to daytime TV on the couch. “Um, no,” he says.

“Great! I’ll see you there!” Pearl says. “Wait, how long will it take? I don’t know where you live, actually. Ooh, this is exciting! I’ll finally get to see your place.”

“Um, give me like half an hour and I’ll be there,” Grian says slowly.

He and Pearl say their goodbyes for now, and after she hangs up he finds himself staring at the phone for several moments. What just happened? First of all, Pearl’s in Denver, apparently. Second of all, he did not know this was happening. Thirdly, his afternoon just got way more interesting.

He grabs his keys off the counter and makes his way downstairs.

»»———-　　———-««

When he arrives at the airport, in the long line of cars waiting to pick people up and drop them off at the terminal, he does not expect to see Pearl waiting outside for him. Yet he picks her out instantly, a familiar face in a crowd of strangers.

She’s bundled up in a black hoodie. The hood is up over her head, but he can see the long wavy tendrils of brown hair peeking out from behind it. Her hands are shoved in the hoodie’s pocket, and her nose is pink from the cold. When she exhales, he can see the faintest cloud of her breath.

He can hardly remember being so happy to see someone before. The second he sees her face, any doubt or mild annoyance at her unexpected stay just melts away.

He pulls his car up as close as he can to her, and throws it in park. She doesn’t know what car he’s driving, of course–she’s never visited him here. He leaps out and calls her name.

“Pearl!” he shouts.

She spins around and a grin breaks out on her face the moment she spots him. He races up to her on the curb and she throws her arms around him in a hug immediately. They cling to each other for a moment, before letting go.

“Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” Pearl says.

“Oh, yeah,” Grian says. “A few years, right? Not since I’ve been here.”

“Ah!” Pearl squeaks. “I can’t wait to see it. I should’ve come for a visit so much sooner.”

Grian breathes a sigh, not of any annoyance or tiredness, but perhaps–of relief? Relief from what, he doesn’t quite know, but he’s so happy to see Pearl it’s like he can hardly speak. His breath clouds in front of him.

“Let’s get you in the car,” he says. “It’s so cold out here, why weren’t you waiting inside?”

“Well, it might be cold out here,” Pearl says, attempting to pick up her bag. Grian steals it out from under her grasp before she can, though, so she just trails after him to the car. “But it certainly isn’t cold at home. It’s kind of nice, actually. Anyway, I wasn’t out here waiting the entire time, I just walked out a few minutes before you came.”

“Well, don’t freeze on me before you even get here,” Grian says. He loads her things in the car, and they hop in. He starts to navigate out of the airport traffic. “How long was that flight?” he asks. “I mean, I assume you flew in from Sydney.”

“Ugh, it was never ending!” Pearl says. “It was like 12 or 13 hours, and that only got me to Los Angeles. Then I had a connection here.” She glances at the clock on his dashboard. “Did you know it’s almost the same time I left?”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. I left around noon on the 20th. Then I landed and now it’s around noon on the 20th again.”

“Wow.”

“It feels like I got put in a time vortex or something and they zapped a whole day from me. And then I woke up and I’m repeating the day again.”

Grian side eyes her in the passenger seat. “Are you, perhaps, a little tired?”

“Exhausted.”

He smiles just a little. “I bet you’re hungry too,” he says. “Let’s get lunch on our way back to my apartment.”

»»———-　　———-««

They get lunch, and it’s great. They talk about various, mostly mundane things about their lives over the past few years. They’ve kept in touch ever since graduating university together, even as their lives diverged on totally different paths on totally different continents. But that was mostly just letters and phone calls. It’s entirely different to be face to face again. It’s so much better to be face to face again.

Grian asks about her career in Australia. “So, have you designed the next Sydney Opera House yet?” he teases.

Pearl gasps in fake horror. “Of course not! There can’t be a ‘next’ Opera House, it’s iconic!”

“Eh,” Grian says. “I think you could come up with a cooler one.”

She rolls her eyes affectionately. “Alright, stop it.”

“I’m dead serious. I think you could make a better one.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Seriously though, I mostly just do office buildings.”

“Hm, well that’s boring,” Grian says and takes a sip of his water. “We for sure don’t need any more of those.”

“That’s what most of the work is,” she says. “Lots of new development to work on! So what have you been up to? Any interesting projects lately?”

Grian hesitates a bit in replying. The answer is no, of course. Pearl’s aware of his job from some of their previous communication in the past three years, but now that they’re sitting here face to face she clearly wants to hear all about it without the constraints of a phone call or letter.

He just, well, has nothing to say. He hasn't even really received projects lately.

He and Mumbo came to Colorado a little over two years ago after Mumbo was offered an engineering job in Denver. Grian had figured he might as well dust off his completely unused dual citizenship and follow him here–it’s not like it was even a difficult process for him. It was the perfect sort of adventure to follow up five years of intense schooling, and an interesting place to put his new skills to test.

It had been that which enticed him to go with Mumbo. That, and the way his stomach had twisted when he thought about saying goodbye. They’d been inseparable for over a decade and Grian refused to accept a reality where his best friend lived so far away. Truthfully, Mumbo was a little apprehensive about moving to an entirely new country alone, so this had worked out perfectly.

Grian would go with him. They’d split an apartment and get settled in for a while and experience life in a new country. Grian would finish the rest of his architecture field training in Colorado and finally get his license. Mumbo would work on creating machines and learn about computers.

It was fine. It was fun. They had a good time–there were endless things to do, from skiing to hiking to rafting to biking.

Then Mumbo went missing, and Grian was just…still here, but missing everything that was worthwhile. He was struggling. Not showing up to work. Getting demoted.

“I haven’t really had anything interesting to work on,” he says finally. “There was this one house–way too massive, really, and the owner could never really decide what he wanted but he wasn’t so bad. But then I had to leave to…”

He trails off. Pearl glances at him and opens her mouth, but she rethinks it after a moment and shuts it again. She’s smart, and part of that intelligence is knowing when to not poke around.

“Mostly they just have me working on codes and compliance right now,” he finishes quietly.

It’s still an important part of the process, making sure that all of the projects are in alignment with local building codes. Sometimes it’s even frustrating, when he has to figure out things like getting a water line from whichever locality is closest for someone’s house perched high on a mountainside.

But he doesn’t have any of his own clients anymore. He does work for his coworker’s projects. He doesn’t do any drafting. He doesn’t touch any blueprints. He doesn’t design anything.

It’s not really the update that he wants to give Pearl. They met each other in university because they studied in the same architecture program. They spent long nights in the library together. He’s seen her rip up her papers in frustration when things weren’t working quite right, and she’s seen him start crying on the floor of her dorm room the night before a particularly major test. They graduated together.

It just doesn’t look good. Of course, he knows Pearl very well. She isn’t going to think anything less of him. It’s more, well, himself that he has to worry about.

Pearl purses her lips, and moves on. “Well,” she says, “that’s all very important. God knows we studied it enough. Don’t worry about projects, you’ll find some cool work soon.”

“As cool as office buildings?”

“With any luck, even better,” she says.

“How long are you staying?” he asks, realizing he still doesn’t know.

“Little over a week,” she responds. “I’m leaving next Monday.”

He frowns. “I probably have work, but maybe I can take off a morning to take you back to the airport–”

“I can survive in a taxi,” Pearl says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, you asked me to pick you up this time.”

“Mm, well, I wanted to see you,” she says, “and I had a feeling you weren’t going to be busy.”

He hates that she’s right, but only just a little. He’s sort of glad he wasn’t busy so that he could see her, since she’s apparently decided to drop this entire trip on him with no notice whatsoever. It does not miss him that she could have done this basically any weekend in the last several months and landed on a day where he wasn’t busy.

“What are your plans for this week?” he asks.

“I want to see everything!” Pearl says, and stretches her arms wide to accommodate the words. She has to pull her arm back in quick, since she nearly smacks a waitress walking by. They both descend into laughter.

“Pearl,” Grian hisses, “we’re in public!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she whispers. “I’m just so excited! I want to sightsee!”

Grian leans back in his chair and regards her with a critical eye. He’s smiling. “I don’t know if a week is enough to see everything,” he says.

“I am going to do my best,” she says, mock-serious.

It suddenly hits Grian. “Wait,” he groans. “I seriously have to work tomorrow. And Tuesday. I could ask off, but…” He winces as he trails off. “I kind of have a track record with my boss and I don’t think he really appreciates me calling out last minute.”

“That’s fine,” Pearl says. “What? I know I came here without telling you but it’s not like I wasn’t prepared to take care of myself. I’ll just see some things on my own.”

Grian nods. “I have a half-day on Wednesday,” he says, “but I think he’d be more amenable to letting me have that as a full day. Then Thursday’s off for Thanksgiving, and Friday too. Then of course the weekend.”

Pearl looks self-satisfied. “Good. I meant to plan it that way so you’d have a little time off.”

“So what do you want to do?” he asks. “One of them, I guess, since everything’s on the table.”

Pearl leans closer to him across the table. “Please,” she says. “I want to go skiing. I’ve never been skiing. Can we please go skiing? Please?”

Grian laughs again at the face she’s making. She’s so dead serious in her begging. “I’ll call around and see if any places are open. As you can see, we don’t have any snow around here right now. But further up into the actual mountains probably does.”

“Eee!” Pearl squeaks in excitement. “I’m so ready.”

“Oh?” Grian says. “I will literally bet you on how many times you fall.”

“I’ll take your money,” she says. “I’ll be the greatest first-time skier there ever was.”

“You will fall on your butt no less than a dozen times,” he shoots back.

They continue talking for a while, back and forth. Pearl tells him about various stories and adventures from Australia. She begs him to come visit–she came here, so now it’s his turn to come to her. Maybe next summer, when it’ll be cooler in Australia and hotter down here.

She’s obviously prepared for their trip and seeing him again, because she’s also brought photos to share with him. He looks through a few photos of what her house looks like, what a few buildings she’s worked on looks like, a picture of her by the ocean (she says he can keep that one, as long as she gets to go home with a photo of him), and even the two cats she has adopted.

They get the check–Grian pays for the whole thing without blinking–and head back to his apartment.

They’re discussing sleeping arrangements as they walk up Grian’s stairwell. He has his keys out already, and they clang a little step-by-step.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he declares. “End of story.”

“But,” she says, “I’ll feel so bad taking your bed from you.”

“You’re a guest!” he says. “I’m not letting you sleep for a week on the couch! You can take my bed.”

Neither of them mention that there’s a third option. Or really a fourth, because Pearl could always get a hotel room if it didn't work out, but she had asked to stay with him. She must have spent so much on flights already, it was the least he could do.

So there’s really only three options, and only two are being discussed. The apartment is a two bedroom. Mumbo’s room has sat empty for five months now, completely untouched. But that room isn’t up for grabs–it’s a time capsule, frozen from the moment he left it. Grian doesn’t mention it. Pearl is smart enough to not ask about it.

“Ugh, fine,” Pearl says, rolling her eyes. “I guess I’ll take your room. If you make me. I still feel like it’s weird though.”

Grian freezes on the top step, and Pearl nearly bumps into him. “Oh no,” he mumbles. “My apartment is–Pearl, listen, I didn’t know you were coming, so I didn’t really take a chance to clean up anything, so it’s definitely a little messy in here, and–”

She cuts him off, voice bright. “So what I’m hearing is the couch might be better than your room?”

“No, ugh, I’m just saying I’m sorry that this place looks so bad.” He sighs.

“I get it,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

“It’s not how I wanted it to be,” he says softly, and slots the key into the handle. “Just let me work on it, I’ll get it fixed up.”

They go into the apartment. Really, it isn’t that bad, but he’s embarrassed about it nonetheless. It isn’t filthy or grimy, it’s just cluttered. He’s always been a cluttered person. There’s stuff lying randomly about, like the somewhat muddy shoes by the door, the jackets shed across chairs, or the laundry basket of unfolded clothes sitting on a dining room chair. At least three random empty drinking glasses are sitting on the coffee table in the living room. And, well, he could have probably bothered to do the dishes from the last three days, but there’s only one of him and he doesn’t cook much, so really it isn’t very much even if it looks bad.

Everything in here would be so fast to clean up, but whenever he tries it feels like an insurmountable barrier. He does things a little at a time, so that it never gets too out of hand, but he can’t remember the last time it looked good. It’s just something that’s continually slipping further and further away. It feels like one day he’ll wake up and it will finally be completely out of control.

Pearl doesn’t say anything. She just walks in and drops her bags–which she had insisted on carrying since he insisted on paying for lunch–on the floor and puts her hands on her hips. “This is a cute place,” she says. “I like the lighting from the windows. And you’ve got a view of the mountains!”

“It’s cute when it’s clean,” he mutters. It’s like he knows how to be ashamed of how the place looks, but not how to do anything about it. He’s got the external motivation of another human being seeing it now though, and he’s itching to work and hide everything here.

Maybe it’s concerning that his main motivation after months on end is just so that he can hide. This thought does not cross his mind, because the sort of people who hide things from others are fantastic at hiding things from themselves, too.

“I saw your dorm room in university,” she reminds him. “You can’t seriously think I wasn’t prepared for your clutter.”

“This is worse,” Grian groans.

“Eh, not really,” Pearl says. “I think you’re doing well, all things considered.”

All things considered. Grian bites his lip. It’s nice that she thinks so. He isn’t sure where she got that impression, but if he can spend the rest of the week cultivating it then maybe she’ll stop worrying.

She walks over to the laundry basket on the chair. “Is this clean?” she asks.

“Yes, of course,” he responds, and he wants to add “I’m not that bad" to the end of the statement until he remembers the floor of his bedroom, which is exactly “that bad.”

“Great!” she says. And then she sits down. And starts folding it.

“What are you doing?” he asks, and snatches the basket away from her. “You’re a guest! You’re on vacation! Don’t be doing that?”

Pearl frowns. “Um,” she says. “Just helping?”

“I don’t need you to help,” he says, and it comes out a bit harsher than intended. “Just, like, go relax or something. Take a nap. I know you’re exhausted.”

A brief look of hurt flashes over her face, and vanishes almost as quickly as it arrives. “Grian?” she asks. “What do you think I’m here for?”

“To see me?” he says, confused.

“Yeah,” she says. “Of course it’s to see you, I missed you. But also to help.”

“I missed you too,” he says automatically, but when the rest of the sentence catches up to him he shakes his head. “I don’t need help.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You don’t? Then why can nobody get a hold of you, Grian? Why does your apartment look like this? Why do you deflect phone calls and make excuses? We’re all worried about you, you know. We don’t know what’s going on.”

“We?” Grian says. “You’re talking about me behind my back? Who’s we?”

“Well, we wouldn’t be talking behind your back if you talked to us,” Pearl replies, matter-of-fact. “And the ‘we’ is your friends. Your family, Grian.”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “I’m sorry to have you worried but you don’t need to be.”

“You don’t get to try that on me,” Pearl says firmly. “I know you too well.”

“Maybe that’s why I don’t talk to you,” he says.

Pearl looks back at him, for a long time. He doesn’t return her eye contact, and instead begins to pick up the glasses from the coffee to take them into the kitchen. He knows looking at her will just make him sad. He also knows that he really, really wants to look back at her.

He misses her so hard it hurts. Mumbo hasn’t come back, but she did. She was never really missing, though–just separated far, far, away by circumstance.

She takes a deep breath. “Well. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you I was coming.”

He says nothing, and turns on the tap. It’ll take a moment for the water to heat up.

“You always try to hide,” she says. She picks up another item out of the basket and begins to fold it. “But you can’t hide if you didn’t expect me to come.”

She reads him like a book every time. It was a definite contributing factor to their friendship–they’d clicked fast and gotten very close in university. They understood each other well, and shared not only the same area of study but also the same ideas about pulling mischief on campus. There used to be a point in time where her reading him like a book served both of them well, but not today.

“I told you to stop folding that,” Grian says.

Pearl drops it with a huff. “No,” she says. “I’m not going to stop. You said I was the guest, right? Guests get to do what they want. And maybe I want to help you clean up.”

He finally turns to look at her. Her blue eyes are wide and just the slightest bit watery. He’s done that–he’s been the one to make her that worried. He turns back to the sink.

“Okay,” he says quietly, words almost lost in the water running into the sink. He says okay because he can’t imagine even trying to fight her on this. “We can work on it together.”

»»———-　　———-««

The cleaning goes well, up until it doesn’t.

“Grian, what is this?” Pearl says from the other room, loudly. She’s finished folding his things and has fortunately just left them all in the basket for him to put up himself, declining to go rifling through his dresser and closet. The next task she has taken upon herself has apparently been working through the clutter in the living room area, which is always a dangerous place.

Grian sticks his head around the corner from the kitchen. He’s finished doing the dishes, and is just drying them off now to put in the cabinet. “Let me see,” he says.

She turns around and Grian’s heart sinks immediately. She’s standing by his desk, the nice one by the window that he always liked to sit and draft at. She’s holding a few pieces of paper that Grian really didn’t mean to leave out. Because he definitely did leave them out–Pearl is nosy, and she’ll fly all the way across the world to drop in uninvited, but she isn’t the kind of person who goes through drawers.

But he did just say she was nosy. Nosy enough to read something he left out.

He drops the dish towel. “Give me those,” he says, and crosses the living room to the corner she’s in. He tries to snatch it out of her hand.

“Nope, not so fast,” she says, and holds them higher, squinting at them so she can read. Grian is, at this moment, extremely annoyed that she is so much taller than he is. He can’t quite grab them out of her hand.

“Pearl,” he whines.

“Shh, I’m reading.” Her eyes widen, and she looks back at Grian. He feels the slightest bit locked in her gaze’s intensity. It’s equal parts scrutinizing and empathetic. Like she feels bad for him, but is also a little disappointed. “Are these late notices?”

She files through them one by one. Grian cringes. He’d rather melt into the floor than be here. “Most of them are already paid,” he says feebly.

“Most of them?” she looks back at him. Her brows are knit up, and it creases her forehead.

“I, uh, get paid this week,” he says. This is another lie. He gets paid at the end of the month, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She doesn’t seem fully convinced, but she hands them back to him and he takes them from her so sharply he almost tears the paper. He puts them in the drawer and slams it shut. It rattles the whole desk.

“The top one was about your credit card payment,” she says slowly, as if she’s halfway between deciding whether to say something and not, but was already saying it before she could finish the debate.

Grian fixes her with a glare and she wilts under it, immediately looking away. He shoves his hands behind his back, because suddenly they seem shaky. His chest is tight, and his jaw is set, and–he’s angry. He’s so, so angry, and it feels like it’s burning him up, white-hot.

“Why did you read those?” he demands.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to find it, it was just laying on the desk–”

“You could have ignored it.”

Pearl crosses her arms. He’s activated her fight mode, and he rarely does well against her when she tries to be stubborn.

“I’m just worried about you,” she says.

Grian shakes his head. “I can’t with you right now,” he says. His tone is icy even while his whole body feels hot. “They were laying on the desk because I didn’t expect to have any guests.”

He turns away from her and walks partway across the living room floor toward the kitchen, and then whirls around again. “You’re just..showing up uninvited, messing with my stuff, reading my mail? Is that where we are now?” his voice cracks a little on the last time. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you in three years and this is where we’re at now?”

Pearl takes a breath. “I just wanted to help,” she says. It falls flat.

“It isn’t your business.”

“You never said you needed money.”

“Because it isn’t your business.” He enunciates every syllable clearly.

She runs a hand through her hair in a nervous, agitated gesture. “None of know what’s going on with you, Grian,” she says. “We didn’t know about this, so what else don’t we know about?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Okay, fine,” she says desperately. “This wasn’t my business. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked at it. But I meant what I said, okay? We don’t know anything about what’s going on with you!”

“There’s the ‘we’ again,” he says.

She shakes her head, incredulous. “Do I have to literally spell it out for you? Did you forget our names when you moved to America? It’s Jimmy, and Joel, and Martyn, and Netty, and Lizzie. It’s your mom. It’s Mumbo’s parents.” She pauses for just a moment, taking in a short, if slightly hysterical, breath. “It’s me.”

He doesn’t want to hear their names again. He misses them enough already.

“I’ve talked to them,” he says instead. Simple.

Pearl throws her arms in the air. “For hardly more than five minutes!”

“Well,” he says, with a bitter laugh, “you certainly know I don’t have the money for long-distance calls.”

“I guess I walked into that one,” she says. She stops, but there’s a funny look on her face that keeps Grian quiet. He’s still standing a few feet away from her after he walked off earlier. Her face scrunches up, like she’s trying not to cry, and after another moment she speaks softly: “Mumbo was my friend too, you know.”

It’s soft, but it still hits Grian like a ton of bricks.

She continues, and doesn’t look him in the eye. “I know he was your friend first, but I cared about him too. We all did.” Suddenly she’s crossing the floor toward him again, closing the distance he had put between them. “But it almost hurts just as bad to know you’re still out here alone. And that you aren’t okay.”

Grian swallows back against the lump that is rapidly forming in his throat. “I’m fine,” he whispers.

“I don’t believe you,” she says.

“I’m fine,” he insists.

“You need to go home to visit,” Pearl says. “Even just for the holidays. Please. Everybody’s worried about you.” She huffs a small little laugh. “They’re all worried and then they’re calling me because they think I know what’s going on. Because I always used to know what was going on with you. And then I have to tell them I don’t know either.”

Grian doesn’t respond.

“They’d be so happy, you know,” Pearl says. “To see you.”

“I’d never come back,” Grian mumbles. “If I went.”

“What?”

“They wouldn’t let me leave,” he says, stronger. “If I went home they wouldn’t let go.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Pearl asks.

Grian shakes his head like he’s breaking free of her request. “I have to stay here, because Mumbo is here.”

Pearl blinks, and then sighs. “Okay. I still think you should visit, though.”

Her eyes drift away from his face and over to the hallway behind him, the one all the bedrooms and bathrooms break off of. She speaks again sharply. “The money problem, it’s because of Mumbo isn’t it? You used to split all of the rent and stuff because he was your roommate. But now it’s all on you.”

“Something like that,” Grian admits, and it feels like he’s speaking around a block sitting in his mouth.

Their apartment is nice. Not luxurious by any means, but still a decent place to live. His neighbor down the hall yells at him sometimes if he comes back home too late and their door used to slam unpredictably until the landlord finally fixed it months later, but isn’t that all just everyday woes of having an apartment?

The apartment is nice, but it was never meant to be paid for by one person. Well, maybe a well-paid person. It’s not like his landlord wouldn’t have rented it out to a single person if they could pay. But Grian had never planned to pay for it by himself. And while architecture could be a well-paying job, he was very much still at the entry level. He’d only barely gotten his license after years of schooling and on-site training.

And then he’d gotten demoted for not showing up. The demotion wasn’t in job duties only, as he’d discovered on his very next paycheck.

So now he does what he can. He pays the major, important things first. Sometimes they’re a little late, depending on if his check has hit his bank account yet, but it gets done. He starts to depend more and more on his credit card for other things. He pays his minimum payment every month but he doesn’t feel good about watching it accrue.

“I can help you pay it off-” Pearl starts to say.

“No,” Grian says. “You aren’t doing that.”

“I can help you pay it off,” Pearl repeats stubbornly. “But Griba, if you can’t afford this place by yourself, you need to just move to someplace else. Smaller. Cheaper.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he says.

She tilts her head, expression gentle in a way that makes him instinctively recoil. “You can’t keep living here if you can’t pay. This is bad.”

“It’s okay,” he says distantly. “It’s only temporary.”

Pearl pauses. She has a horrible look on her face, so Grian looks away from her instead. “Temporary?” she asks. The word is tentative.

“Until Mumbo gets back,” he says. He grabs her hand, and pulls it closer to him, feeling suddenly like it’s very important that she hears him and understands this. “I can’t leave,” he says earnestly. “All of his stuff his here. It’s his home too.”

Pearl’s eyes are wide. “I can help you pack it,” she says. “You don’t even have to mess with it, or look at it, I can do that for you.”

He drops her hand. “No,” he says, baffled. “I’m not moving anything of his out of here. When they find him, he deserves to actually come home. He can’t come back to a strange place!”

Pearl squeezes her eyes shut. “Griba, please,” she says. He notices all at once that she’s brought his nickname out these past few times, which is a fact that should be comforting but instead starts to set off alarm bells in his head.

“I’m not moving, and that’s final,” he says. “I’m not going to abandon him.”

“You’re not abandoning him, you’re just…”

“Just what?”

“Being smart.”

It hurts Grian. “He deserves to come home,” he bites. “I don’t care if it isn’t the smart thing to do, it’s the right thing to do.”

Pearl backs up. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.” She takes a deep breath and exhales long and slow. “You’ll stay. I’ll just help you then, yeah? Bills, cleaning, everything else…”

She turns away from him, and starts picking up various items once more to organize them. “I’ll just help,” she repeats.

She wanders around the room. She’s not getting much done, but she looks busy, inspecting everything around her for one more easy thing to do. Grian just stands in the middle of the room stock still, and both says and does nothing.

Pearl continues to busy herself for a few minutes before grinding to a halt again. “Griba?” she asks, and Grian turns to her again as an answer. “You do have other people to talk to, right? People who live here?”

It’s a valid question. It’s a hard question.

“Of course,” he says.

“Stop lying to me,” she pleads. “I already told you I know you too well.”

He swallows hard. “I have people,” he defends. “Had people.”

It’s just that–it was difficult, after Mumbo disappeared. The new friends that Grian and Mumbo had made, they had mostly made as a pair. They each knew a few people from work, but nobody to really hang out with. So most of the friends they met were people they met while doing an activity together some weekend or evening after work.

So the new friends missed Mumbo too, when they heard about what happened. But they didn’t know Grian the way Mumbo did, or the way Jimmy or Joel or Martyn or Netty or Lizzie or Pearl did. They knew Grian as one half of a pair who was missing his other half. And Grian didn’t know how to interact with them alone. He didn’t know how to go to them for help when they’d barely been in his life for a few months or a year or two.

There’s layers to friendships, everybody knows that. None of the people Grian had met in Colorado had made it to the layer where he could talk to him. They were nice people. They wanted to help. Grian didn’t know how to let them.

So he withdrew.

“You had people. But not anymore?” Pearl asks.

“I didn’t know them very well,” is all he says.

Her expression breaks again. Grian has to stop doing that. “But you know us and you still don’t talk to us.”

“I just want to be alone,” Grian says. “Please, it isn’t personal. I just want to be alone.”

“I guess you’ll have to suck it up,” Pearl says. “Because I’m staying here for a week. And I will drag you outside to go skiing with me. I’m going to make you leave this house and we’re going to have fun together. Because I think you need that. And so do I.”

He turns and stalks back into the kitchen. He’s flipping between so many emotions that he doesn’t know which to settle on, so he seeks out something to busy his hands with instead: the dishes on the counter that still have to be dried.

If he stays in the living room, he might start arguing with her more. He might say something that will make her not want to visit again.

He’s angry at Pearl. Furious, even. Offended. He could look past her coming unannounced to visit, but the whole thing seems like a plot now. She’s got ulterior motives. She’s purposefully trying to catch him unaware and sneak past all his guard walls. She’s snooping through his things–his mail. It makes his spine crawl to think about. She’s literally trying to get him to move, even though she’s barely been in the state of Colorado for three hours, and even though it means Grian would have to disturb Mumbo’s belongings.

And still there’s another part of him that just really, really wants to go skiing with her.

Because–he misses her. He cares about her. And he misses even the simplest things, like getting out of the house to go do something with a friend. It’s just the littlest piece of normalcy.

So he dries the dishes, and she finishes up in the living room. Then he goes to his bedroom and starts working there–without her, because he doesn’t want her in the room until he’s made it look nice. Safe, even. Clear of any items that could incriminate him in anything at all. The sheer irritation of the afternoon fuels him harder than anything in months, and he finishes the task even quicker than expected, his movements stiff and jerky with anger.

On one of his trips back and forth to put things back where they need to go, he spots her sitting at his desk. She looks a little sad, staring at the pattern of the wood grain instead of the pretty view outside. He ignores her and goes back to work.

They exist like this in silence, for a little over an hour.

Then Grian walks back into the living room, picks up the phone book from the shelf, and sits down at the table by the kitchen where the phone is.

Pearl whirls around and he can feel her watching him with intense eyes. “Griba, I…” she trails off. “I wanted to say I’m sorry again. I shouldn’t have pressed you like that. I shouldn’t have looked at your bills. And I shouldn’t have come here without telling you.”

Grian just nods slightly. “Yeah.” He flips through some more pages. He doesn’t say anything else to her, just continues on his search.

She cocks her head slightly. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“Trying to find a ski resort to call,” he says with a weak smile. “Because I still really want you to drag me out skiing with you.”

»»———-　　———-««

June 1989

It’s two days later when a pair of rangers come to collect Mumbo’s bike.

They ask him if he has everything he needs, or if he has any requests for supplies that they can pass on to the main office. So Grian takes the first opportunity to ask them about the Cloud Lake Trail, and if it was really closed last season.

It’s then that he realizes that these two probably aren’t actually rangers at all. They may be dressed in uniform, but they’re just a couple kids several years younger than Grian is. They want to be helpful so earnestly, and their disappointment is clear when they can’t answer his question.

They inform him that it’s their first season working here, so they’re not exactly sure about what the Cloud Lake Trail was like last year, but that it’s open right now if he’s interested in it! Grian realizes that they’re a couple of seasonal workers just like he is, except they’re on summer break from college and Grian’s floundering on the cusp of his 30s.

They’re friendly. Grian tries his best to match the energy, for the sake of politeness.

He asks them what the plan is about Mumbo’s case, and doesn’t really expect much. Apparently, there’s a bit of gossip about the case around the ranger’s office, so they do know a little. The plan seems to be to conduct a few aerial searches of the area the bike was found in with a helicopter. They also told him he could expect a more detailed phone call soon from the main office.

That’s a little amusing to Grian, given his tower does not have a phone line.

He bids them farewell at midday and watches them disappear into the woods. Then, he decides it’s about time for lunch. He takes an hour, locks up the cabin behind him, and heads to a rocky outcropping he knows nearby to the tower.

It’s a beautiful spot to sit and stay a while, and a good vantage point into a little valley. Grian sits on a boulder and finishes his lunch, and tries to think about things that aren’t so negative for once.

He’s so used to looking. Looking for fires, looking for helicopters, looking for storms, looking for lightning, looking for Mumbo. It’s what he’s good at, so he tries to challenge himself to look at something else for once.

A few feet from him, there’s a small stand of light purple flowers with narrow, silvery green leaves growing. They’re snagging their spot in the ground amidst the surrounding rock. One of the features of his tower is a somewhat excessive amount of posters left there from years past, most of which were fire, forest, rock, or plant related. Grian thinks he’s seen this little plant several times before. He’s watched it spread from just a few sprouts in May to coating the meadows in a wash of purple the past few weeks.

It’s a lupine. Growing alone, but steadily.

He looks more into the mini valley below. It’s not so much a vast sweeping valley as it is a wide little canyon for the stream that flows at the bottom. It’s fascinating to look at though. To think how long it might have taken for that little body of water to have carved it down like this. There’s some small rocky cliffs along the edges in some places, and he can see the darker parts of the rocks where the water pours off during a storm.

It’s as quiet as the forest can be. Which, in the summertime, isn’t very quiet at all. There’s cicadas buzzing all around him right now. That was something new for Grian ever since he moved–they didn’t have cicadas in England. But as loud as they are, it’s a pleasant background noise he’s become adjusted to.

He leans back on the rock and stares into the sky for a bit, watching the handful of clouds that there are today drift along. There’s a hawk or an eagle or something flying high up there too, gliding effortlessly along the air currents. He watches it for a while.

When Grian’s hour is up, he gathers his things, and walks back to the tower.

Scar calls him on the way.

“Are you there, G-man?” he asks.

Grian pulls out his radio from his pocket.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am. Some kids came and took Mumbo’s bike away earlier.”

“Yeah?” Scar says. “How was that? What did they say?”

“They didn’t know much,” Grian says. “A couple of seasonal workers. But it’s fine, I guess. I know the main office will be looking into this again. They told me there might be some aerial searches in the future. I just wish it was higher on the priority list, I guess.”

“Well, they have their priorities and we have ours,” Scar declares. “But I think I can shed a little light on it, maybe. I spent most of the morning on the phone.”

It’s kind, what Scar is doing for him. That Scar is helping him like this at all, not even accounting for spending time scouring his notes from the prior season or spending all morning on the phone. Grian needs to thank him, or convey his appreciation somehow, or apologize for snapping at him so much, but instead all he says is: “What did you find?”

“I wish I had better news,” Scar says.

Grian locks away the part of him that is always stabbed with instant anxiety over statements like that. He takes it, locks it away, and smooths it over. He’s walking on the trail back to the lookout right now, one foot in front of the other. He can handle just another conversation.

“Well, I seem to always be lacking in good news,” Grian jokes lightly. “So just give me what you got.”

“I talked to a friend in the main office, she’s really sweet. She went to pull the records for me.”

“They’re still on file? Good.”

“Everything’s on file, Grian,” Scar says. “The government will keep an old shoe for a decade if they think it’s a record, let alone anything that relates to an open case.”

Grian grimaces a little. “Well, go on then.”

“She found his backcountry permit information from last year. And…” Scar trails off for a bit. “He’s permitted for Cloud Lake Trail. He even had designated camping spots, she even told me which ones.”

“So the trail was open?” Grian says.

“Not exactly,” Scar says. “The trail was closed.”

“What?” Grian says. “They permitted him for a closed trail?”

“Apparently?” Scar says. “That’s what I got.”

“Why?”

“I wish I knew.”

“What else did she say? Who issued the permit?”

“She didn’t say anything else, so I don’t know. I’ve never worked in the main office. I don’t think she was even supposed to tell me that, honestly, but we’ve always got along pretty good since she started working here.”

“Right,” Grian says. “You’re not an information wizard…”

“I have no more information to give, unfortunately,” Scar says. “I am a wizard, though.”

“You are not a wizard.”

“I’m many things, Grian. You’re just a nonbeliever.”

Grian just shakes his head at that, leaving that thread of the conversation behind. There’s just so many questions that keep coming up.

“So we can agree he was on Cloud Lake,” Grian says. “Right? Regardless of all that, we can assume this right? He told me he was going there, his car was there, he was permitted for it, and someone said they saw him there. So he was there, right? We searched there, and he was there.”

But…

“It seems likely,” Scar says. “At one point, at least.”

“But then someone found his bike over on Pinnacles. How did it get there? Did he go there for some reason?”

“There isn’t an official trail that connects Cloud Lake and Pinnacles. It’s not a loop or a network or anything. Maybe he could have found a way between them or went on an unofficial side trail. There’s a lot of things that look like they could be a trail that aren’t really trails.”

“No,” Grian says. “He knows better than to take an unmarked trail. He said he was getting maps at the office when he got his permit too, so he would have known where the trails were. He wouldn’t have done that.”

“Grian.”

Just his name, the weight it holds, and nothing else.

Grian’s face crumples a bit. He doesn’t want to admit it. It hurts to admit it. “Okay, fine!” he cries. “Maybe he did go off-trail, maybe he did make a mistake, whatever. But it’s not his fault if something bad happened, okay? It isn’t.”

There’s another option to all of this that Grian hasn’t said out loud yet. He’s been thinking it off and on though for a long time, as he tries to fit these pieces into the larger puzzle. Nobody had any reason to think about foul play but him. There’s no evidence. But what other evidence do they have?

He went camping. He went missing. The search failed. Some of his belongings were found in the wrong place.

And that is, essentially, it.

“Do you think what happened to him…” he trails off. “Do you think it could have been someone else?”

Maybe Mumbo never did make a mistake. Maybe he was exactly where he was supposed to be, sans closed trail, and there was just something else that got in the way.

“Someone else?” Scar says, tentatively.

“Do you think someone out there might have taken him? Hurt him?” Grian is back at the base of his tower now, and he looks up at its spiraling staircase. He begins to take the steps one by one, watching as the horizon slowly inches into view as he climbs above the trees. “Did someone steal his bike? Is that why it’s somewhere else?”

“I…” Scar trails off. “I guess we don’t know if something like that happened. G, there’s a lot of ways someone can get in trouble back here.”

“And one of them could have been someone else,” Grian says. “Doesn’t this connect some of the dots, Scar? So much of this doesn’t make sense, but if someone else was involved, couldn’t that answer some of these questions?”

But the words hang heavier in the air now that he’s spoken to them.

If Mumbo had just gotten lost, or injured, or something else while alone in the woods, Grian has some hope of saving him. Mumbo is blindingly smart, with an engineer’s eye for designing devices and contraptions. He could be okay. He’s a little lost, but Grian can find him.

But if Mumbo’s incident was linked to another person, the odds in Grian’s mind plummet. If Mumbo ran into someone bad at some point during his trip, would he have escaped that confrontation? If someone had decided to hurt him, or take him, or rob him, or whatever–then Mumbo’s continued absence just looms more and more ominously.

Would he make it out of something like that? Would he survive it?

Grian reaches the top of his tower. If he looks straight through the windows of his cabin and out the other side, he can see Scar’s little cabin far in the distance.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore. Thank you for the new information though.”

He turns his radio off and goes inside. He spends the rest of his work day in silence, watching the smoke twist in the air.

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sparkypantaloons · 3 years ago

Text

A Storm

“I promise you.” Bruce had said. “If you come home, I will keep you safe. I will keep them safe. I will keep us whole. I promise.”

Tim is taken. Each of his family react differently.

There’s a rushing in Tim’s ears. Like a waterfall. It’s so loud he can’t see. Can that happen? Can noise affect sight? He doesn’t know.

There’s a hand on his back. Gentle, but firm. He thinks maybe someone is talking to him, but he can’t see. He can’t see anything over the rushing in his ears.

No, that’s not right. He needs to start again. Try again. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, covers his ears, takes a deep breath.

“Tim?” Is it Bruce? Someone’s hands are on Tim’s arms, pulling his hands from his head. The person in front of him is stooping slightly, so they can look him in the eye. “Can you hear me?”

“'m fine.” Tim says. But his eyes can’t focus, it’s too loud in here. “I just need, I… just need t’sleep.” He grimaces, the noise too bright for his eyes.

There’s more sound then. Voices he thinks, but he’s not sure. He can’t see who they belong to. Then there’s a hand around his ankle, gripping him roughly. He flinches in the hold, starts to struggle as his shoes are removed. Then his socks. What is going on?

His feet? What about his feet? He tries to speak, but it’s so loud in here, he can’t form the words. A forehead presses against his, green eyes bore into his own. Jason?

Hands hold his feet to the floor, press down. More talking. It could be shouting now.

The hands let go of his feet. Move to his face. “Your feet, Timmy. Concentrate on your feet.”

Tim opens his eyes. Jason is still there, his bright green eyes, searching and insistent. “'m home?” Tim mumbles.

“Concentrate on your feet, Timmy. What can you feel?”

Tim closes his eyes again. His feet. He can feel… wood. Wooden floor. Wooden floorboards and the thin gaps between them. The Manor floor. The Manor.

“Yeah, Timmy.” Jason says. His hands move from Tim’s face, pull the teenager into a bear hug. “You’re home. You’re home.”

Leslie pushes her glasses back up her nose. Lets out a sigh. “It’s just going to take time, Bruce.” She says. She’s firm, as always. But there’s a softness in her eyes. A sadness. “Like all things.”

Bruce doesn’t speak. Just rubs his face with his hands. Hangs his head.

“Why is he so disorientated?” Dick asks. His right hand is still bandaged up, swollen, but it’s no longer bleeding through.

Jason sucks his teeth from where he’s leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. Leslie and Dick both ignore him.

“Sensory deprivation, especially for so long-- it can take a little while to recover.” Leslie is matter of fact. There’s no point mincing her words. “You have to take it slow.”

“Touch is best to start with.” Jason says, pushing himself off the wall. “It’s grounding.”

Dick, Leslie and Bruce look over at him. He shrugs. “It worked for me.”

A pained look crosses Dick’s face. Leslie interrupts before he can speak. “Let Tim lead, let him set the pace.” Her words hang in the air. “It’ll take time. But he’s strong.” She says. “He’ll pull through.”

Dick wakes up in a sweat, breathless. His right hand is throbbing. He tries to flex his fingers, flinches as his broken knuckles protest. It’s not the worst injury he’s ever had. Not by far. But the way he got it…

He shakes his head, tries to dislodge the memory of a shattered eye-socket, a dislocated jaw, a cracked skull. Tries to shed the jarring realisation that he broke his hand on a man’s face. Tries to make himself at least feel a sense of responsibility for the damage done. He doesn’t.

He makes his way to the kitchen, pads barefoot through the Manor. He pulls an ice-pack out of the freezer, holds it on his aching fist. The cold seeps into his joints, consumes the burn of displaced bone and absent guilt. He feels calmer.

Touch is grounding, Jason had said. Dick doesn’t want to think about how the younger man, his younger brother, knew that. Doesn’t want to know which one of a lifetime of traumatic experiences had taught him that little gem. But he can’t dispute it. The touch of the cold helps.

He makes his way back upstairs. Turns left, instead of right. To Tim’s room.

The door is pulled to. The most Alfred would allow. Bruce had been adamant about staying by Tim’s side, so had Jason, so had Dick. Alfred had refused all of them.

“Wayne Manor is the safest, most secure building on the eastern seaboard, if not the entire continent. None of you will do Master Timothy any good if you don’t get some sleep. He will be safe, in the meantime.”

Bruce had tried to protest, Jason had made threats, all but hissed at Alfred’s suggestion. The older man hadn’t budged. “I will stay with Master Timothy. In case he wakes.”

He wasn’t wrong. They needed rest, all of them. The search had been… long. Too long. Desperate, and increasingly frantic with each passing hour. And there had been so many hours.

He swallows down a memory. Of the howl that felt like it had been ripped out of his soul when they found Tim. Dick hadn’t even realised the noise had come from his own mouth, didn’t notice the tears of rage on his own face, as he took his hands to the men holding Tim captive. Broke his hands on the men who had taken his brilliant, darling brother. Locked him in the dark, alone, for too, too long.

Dick hovers outside Tim’s door. Holds his ear to the wood. He can’t hear anything over his own breathing, his own heartbeat.

“Just open it, Dickhead.” It’s Jason. He's dressed in a spare pair of Bruce’s pyjamas. Despite his size they're somehow still too big for him. It makes him look young. Too young. Dick stares at him for a moment before doing as he says.

The pair of them fill the doorway. Wait as their eyes adjust to the light in the room. Gloomy shadows fall in through the window; the blinds have been left open. Dick’s eyes scan the bed but his ears hear Jason’s breathing hitch. He feels the younger man go rigid beside him, knows his own body has responded the same. Because Tim is gone. Again.

Panic forces itself into what little space is between them, and Dick is only vaguely aware that Jason is gripping his wrist. Holding him too tightly, clinging onto him as though he’s scared one of them will disappear too.

A small cough brings them back to their senses. Alfred. The older man is sat in the corner of the room, by the window. A patient vigil in the dark. He nods to the far side of the bed.

Jason all but drags Dick with him as he marches into the room. They stop just past the bed. Tim is asleep on the floor. He’s curled into a ball, a single sheet held tight over his head. Dick only knows it’s him from the tuft of hair that’s sticking out.

He feels Jason let go of his wrist. The younger man stumbles backwards. He nods to Alfred then leaves the room, gone as quick as he entered.

Dick watches him go, a new worry blooming in his chest. He looks at Alfred, and the older man shakes his head sadly.

Jason is in his old room. His old en-suite more accurately. His knees protest against the tile as he wretches into the toilet.

I am safe, I am warm, I am whole.

He repeats the words in his mind like a mantra. Tries to control his breathing. He fails. Another wave of nausea has him wretching again. Acid burning its way up his throat.

A hand presses to his back and he flinches. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. Bruce places a glass of water on the floor beside him, pushes his hair back from his face.

Jason wipes his mouth on his sleeve, takes a shaky sip of water. Bruce rubs circles on his back.“Don’t.” Jason croaks, and he hates himself when the warmth of the hand is removed. He looks up at Bruce. “You promised you’d keep them safe.” He says, and he can’t keep the hurt out of his voice. Can’t keep the tears from his eyes. “You promised.”

“I know.” Bruce says. He pulls the younger man into a hug, holds him tight against his chest. “I’m sorry.” His son’s tears soak through his shirt.

Jason doesn’t know how long they sit there. Tangled limbs on the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom floor. Only knows that he needs Bruce to let go. He pulls himself out of his father’s arms, pushes himself to his feet. He needs to brush his teeth.

Bruce sits on the floor behind him, as Jason scrubs the bile and acid from his mouth. He presses too hard with the toothbrush, can taste the copper of blood against mint. But the dig of the bristles in the soft flesh of his gums is grounding. Reminds him he’s still alive.

I am safe, I am warm, I am whole.

Jason can remember sleeping on the floor. He’s slept on so many of them. The dingy corner of their apartment growing up, when all they could afford was a single mattress and Willis refused to let him share. The cardboard box by one of the subway vents behind the old Monarch Theatre. The floor of this very bedroom, the bed too soft for him to sleep in, threatening to drown him as soon as he fell asleep. Then the streets again, when he had wandered aimlessly after his death.

He can remember the dark too. Of being locked in a closet and forgotten for days at a time, when his infant crying became too much for Willis. Of his eyes swollen shut as the Joker beat the life out of him. Of his coffin, as he lay there screaming for Bruce to save him.

Jason’s life was a short but terrible history of hard floors and dark rooms and Tim’s was never meant to be like that.

They’d found him in all but a box, eight feet by eight feet by eight feet. There were no windows, the door had been soldered shut. He was being fed once a day. Some bread and water slid through a hatch in the wall, and a bucket too. Swapped out every 24 hours. Nobody ever spoke to him, nobody ever asked anything of him. No-one ever demanded anything from them either, neither The Bats, nor The Waynes.

He spits into the sink. Toothpaste pink with blood. He rinses his mouth. Splashes his face. Takes a deep breath.

They just took him and kept him. Because they could.

Jason had known people like that too, once. If he clings to it, it’s the only thought that makes him grateful Tim has been left alone for so long. Even as it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Coming home, coming back to his family had been as painful and awful as clawing himself out of his own grave. An endless fight against the pit and its madness, that drove him to hurt the people he loved. An ongoing battle against the deep, deep wound in his heart that The Joker still lived. And a terrifying, haunting fear that he would lose them again. That after all they had been through, after he finally got his family back, they would be taken from him and he would be alone once more.

“I promise you.” Bruce had said. “If you come home, I will keep you safe. I will keep them safe. I will keep us whole. I promise.”

Jason turns away from the sink. Walks back into his room. Leaves Bruce sat on the cold, tiled floor.

Eventually Bruce pulls himself to his feet. Jason’s room is empty when he passes through. He doesn’t allow himself to wonder where he might have gone. Of all the broken promises he has made to Jason, he knows this one has hurt his son the most. That Jason’s single biggest fear is losing the family he has so desperately longed for, both of his lives. That Jason would rather never love at all, than love and lose it all over again. This time had been too close. For Jason. For all of them.

It had taken them too long to get a lead on where Tim was being held. Far too long. And even then, they couldn’t confirm an exact location. They’d had no choice but to split up. Cass, and Damian had joined the Titans on the West Coast. Dick and Jason had come with him on the East.

He pulls out his phone, checks on the location of Cass and Damian for the nineteenth time that night. They’re making steady progress. Will be in Gotham before sunrise. His arms ache with a desperate need to hold them, know that they are safe. To have the physical proof, that all his children are alive and breathing, in his hands.

It had taken him a long time to let go of Tim once they found him. To pass his sweet, brilliant boy over to Leslie, so she could check him over. Confirm he was okay.

Tim was older now than Jason had been when he… Tim was older, but he had still felt just as small and young and broken, when Bruce had lifted him out of that box they’d kept him in. Out of the darkness. His body weak and trembling.

It had been Tim who had been taken, but Bruce had looked at the body in his arms and seen Robin, limbs twisted and broken. Seen Nightwing, lips blue and heart stopped by a hand held to his face. Seen another Robin, sword run through him, splitting his battered body almost in two. Seen Red Robin, riddled with bullet holes, blood running out of every one. He had held Tim and seen everyone of his children dead in his arms. An endless cacophony of death.

He reaches Tim’s room. Stands in the doorway and hopes that Alfred can’t see him in the darkness. He tries to remember back to when he took Dick in. Tries to recall what, in the name of all the Gods, had possessed him to allow his child, his children, out into the night with him. Tries to remember how he reached the conclusion that he could risk their single precious lives for his own crusade. How he could risk their safety for a single second.

He steps into the room. Hears Alfred sigh from his seat by the window.

“Don’t ask me to leave.” Bruce croaks out. His throat is tight, trying to hold a tidal wave of emotion at bay. “Don’t.”

Alfred stands. “Of course not.” He says softly, and he gestures to where Tim is sleeping on the floor. “Did you get any sleep?” He asks.

Bruce doesn’t respond. Just stares down at Tim, eighteen but looking for all the world like the ten year old who had shown up on Bruce’s doorstep all those years ago. The sheet is twisted round his limbs, his face screwed into a frown.

“Why is he on the floor?” Bruce asks. Though he has a good idea already.

Alfred takes a steadying breath. “He’s been…” He pauses. “He’s been sleeping on the floor so long, it’s what he’s used to n—“ He cuts himself off abruptly, turns to the window away from Bruce.

Bruce feels a burn in his throat. Knows that Alfred is fighting down the same tears that he is. He places a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “I’ll stay with him now. Get some rest.”

Alfred nods. Places a hand over Bruce’s but doesn’t look at him. “And you, Bruce.” He says and he leaves. Pulls the door closed gently behind him.

Bruce turns back to Tim. His darling boy. He kneels down, gently detangles the sheets from his son’s legs. Tim doesn’t stir. Bruce lies down next to him, lays the sheet over them both.

Touch is grounding. Jason had said. And it’s all Bruce can do not to pull Tim into his arms and never let go. But Leslie had said baby steps. So instead he settles for running his fingers through Tim’s hair and holding his face in his hands. Moves his head closer so he can feel the soft rise and fall of Tim’s breath.

This would have to do, for now.

#batfic #batfamily fanfic #red hood #red robin #nightwing #tim drake #jason todd #alfred pennyworth #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batdad #spbfic

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ozarkthedog · 4 years ago

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𝐋𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐭 || 𝐍𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐝!𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞

summary: Steve always loved tying you up when he had to work.

warnings: SMUT. dom!steve. heavy bondage; hogtied. degradation. dirty talk. rough oral sex. overstimulation. asphyxiation.

word count: 1,730

author’s note: based off the gif of Chris Evans telling Dodger to “Stop”, but then Nomad!Steve came to mind and the rest was history.

📖 Master List

This work has Adult Content. If you click “Keep Reading” you have agreed that you are over the age of 18 and are willing to view such content.

The dark kitchen flooring is harsh under your naked chest as a puddle of drool forms below your face forcing you to keep your head elevated. The ropes were pulled tight this time around leaving no room for compromise.

You teethed around the small red ball gag, softly groaning from the ache and the pressure forming in your tendons. You’d need a long, soothing bath after Steve was done with his meeting.

Pins and needles prickled your feet as they reached towards the sky bound securely to the rope forcing your hands to your lower back. Any time you shifted your rope covered arms, your ankles would move with them, making it impossible to have any control.

Your shoulders were starting to groan under the tension. Maybe if you were able to turn to one side your feet would no longer tingle and the pain in your upper body would quell.

You could feel his eyes the moment you started wiggling more than usual.

He always loved tying you up when he had a meeting, he relishes knowing you’ll be there waiting for him. The obvious distraction of peering over his laptop to find you so helpless drove him mad. He couldn’t help but smirk when you’d huff at him through the gag and writhe for his pleasure.

You angled your feet as far to the side as you could without dislocating your shoulders but without good momentum you were going nowhere.

His boisterous laugh meant he was still paying attention to the conversation coming over the small speakers but you knew he’d be keeping a close eye.

Swinging your feet to one side you threw them to the opposite almost succeeding and rolling to your side but you fell back onto your belly with a soft grunt.

“One moment.” Steve said with a hint of annoyance.

He muted his mic and walked a few paces to your struggling form, still pathetically attempting to turn on your side.

His fingers dove between the band of the ball gag and your scalp keeping you stock still. He tipped your head up looking down at you through his lashes, “If you make any more noise, I won’t hesitate to get the wand and leave you strapped to it until dinner.”

You whimpered under his hard stare, eyes falling to the floor in humiliation.

“Understand?”

You slowly blinked in response, moaning around the gag causing more drool to slip out the corners of your lips.

“That’s my Good Girl.” Steve beamed, slipping his hold from the gag and turning you back onto your belly. Your ribs compressed against the flooring uncomfortably causing you to groan as he walked back to the table and unmuted his mic.

“Sorry about that. Now, where were we?”

His eyes flicked to you, wishing you’d make a noise just so he could watch you suffer a bit longer in the intricate bondage. The thought of standing over your body as you squirmed and cried out to him made his cock harden.

“Not a problem, Mr. Rogers.” A fellow colleague chimed before breaking off into hapless chatter.

The discussion passed by slowly. You stared at the base of the kitchen island and at the rug where you’d stand while doing dishes, barely listening to the conversation.

It was hard work keeping your head up for so long. The muscles in your neck screamed at you to let them rest. The tendons were burning and felt ready to snap at any moment. You tried to move again, wiggling your secured body as much as you could away from the growing puddle beneath your chin.

You struggled endlessly, trying to not hit the ground with your knees as you gained enough drive to fall onto your side with an ‘oopmh’. Your face pinched, a mix of fear and failure painting your features knowing everyone on the call heard you.

If your jaw could tremble it would’ve once your eyes landed on Steve.

He hid the fiery blaze well when a co-worker asked if everything was ok. Steve flashed his million-dollar smile and smoothed a hand over his beard, “All good, Ma’am.”

As much as the pain receded in your arms and your feet no longer felt numb, the shame of disappointing Steve consumed you. You let your head fall to the side, resting while you could because once the chat was over you knew there would be hell to pay.

Not long after you shut your eyes you heard feet pounding closer to your frame shocking you from the light slumber.

Steve pulled you back onto your belly by your arms and loosened the knot at your knees before forcing a wand vibrator harshly between your thighs and nestling it against your folds flicking the power on to the highest setting.

Your body jolted sharply in the binds. You wriggled trying to lessen the intense vibrations as they pulsed through your core.

“You brought it on yourself, Doll.” He crooned, stepping on your arms with his wing tipped shoes forcing you to pause your movements, “If you want to make it up to me, you’ll stay still.”

He unlaced a cord of rope from your ankles and unstrapped the ball gag from your tired, over stretched lips. He gave you a moment to work your jaw around, easing the tension it held before looping a strand of rope around your neck and pulling taut.

Your head was now locked in an upright position by the rope around your ankles keeping you exactly how he wanted.

“You fucked up big time… but I’ll just take it out on these pretty little holes.” You whimpered pitiably as his fingers dove between your lips causing you to sputter and cough. His free hand pulled out his girthy cock and tapped it over your tear-stained cheeks.

The powerful sensation between your legs was making you squeal and shimmy your body, unsure if you were trying to get away or move closer to the wicked piece of plastic.

“Look at you making such a mess.” He grinned wickedly as he lined up his cock to your swollen, spit soaked lips. “These are my fuck holes. Isn’t that right?”

You instinctively nod, cutting off your air with the rope as it pulled on your ankles. Your eyes bug fearfully as your breathing diminishes quickly. Steve loosens the tension with his fingers, sliding between the rope, “Gotta be careful, Sweetheart. I’m the only one who decides when you breathe and when you don’t.” He says with a sly grin.

Suddenly, his cock slides past your lips with a swift punch to your tonsils and it makes you heave.

“Shhh, you’ve taken my cock like this many times, don’t be so dramatic.”

His hips shove forward, grunting with every pass over your tongue as he slots his hands behind your head and literally skull fucks you. There was no time to breathe, his thrusts were so fast and steady you only got air when he allowed it.

Spit and precum fell from your lips, traveling down your neck and gracing your bosom as his balls slapped against your sticky chin. Steve looked like a lewdly pantied watercolor as you shed tears freely while he had his way with your mouth.

He pushed on your ankles, forcing the rope to tighten around the sensitive column of your neck, muffling, frantic moans vibrated his cock as you struggled in your binds like a wild bird caught in a net.

“I love it when you get desperate, makes my cock so fucking hard.” He growled, releasing his grip on your ankles and sliding free from your lips.

You suck in panicky breaths before his bulbous crown is kissing your lips once more. The rope eats into your skin with every needy thrust, pushing you closer to the edge as the vibrations from the wand make your core spasm.

“Can’t believe you haven’t come yet. You must be learning, Doll.” He teased, leaning over your frame and grabbing the wand, “But right now, you’re gonna come.”

Spit landed on your plump cheeks, dripping down to your puckered hole, “Gonna have you screamin’ around my cock. Hell, maybe I’ll even make you pass out. I’ve always wanted to try that.”

There was no time to consider his threat as a digit swirled around your rim before pushing past the tight muscle. His cock rumbled from your hearty moans as he fingered your ass, double penetrating you brazenly.

Everything was too much and not enough. He brought you to the edge so quickly as he dragged his finger over your walls and invaded your taste buds with his musk.

“There’s nowhere to go, Sweetheart. I want you to come, so you’re gonna come.” He ordered before shoving his length into your throat and cutting off your air. Your body shook in the confines when he added a second finger, spreading you open obscenely.

The twisting in your belly goes taut and you scream your blissful release around his thickness. He slides from your lips finally allowing you to breathe as you suck in copious amounts of oxygen and try not to cough them away.

Steve shifts back onto his knees, sliding his fingers from your hole before wrapping them around his spit soaked length, curling with precision as the burning in your lungs tempers.

His face pinches with ecstasy as he jerks his cock over you, ragged grunts fill the room when he comes with a deep growl. Warmth hits your face in abundance; splatters of thick seed coat your skin, sticking to your brow and hairline.

The spend slowly dries in a rich layer as you hear him shuffle and zip his pants. “Well, you’ve got about another hour and a half to go before dinner.” Steve mentioned in passing, as he glanced at his wrist watch.

Steve didn’t bother to wipe his seed from your face, pleased with how debauched you looked hogtied on the kitchen floor. His sticky spend sealing your eyes shut as you writhed under the forceful vibrations from the wand still strapped to your mound.

He fixed the ball gag back into your mouth, “tsks” at your annoyed whimpers when you pathetically fought him. By the time he opened his laptop and set to work again, you screamed out in euphoria as your second of many orgasms that afternoon consumed you.

#steve rogers #steve rogers smut #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers/you #steve rogers/reader #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfiction #nomad!steve rogers #ozzie writes #lariat #chris evans #chris evans x you #chris evans x reader

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harveywritings92 · 4 years ago

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BNHA scenario: You can’t feel pain

You were born with a heightened reflex quirk but you were also born with a very rare birth defect called chromosome 6 deletion, that causes you to not feel pain, hunger or fatigue, and you have like zero sense of fear & self preservation , your boyfriend only knows about your Quirk, you've kept your medical history to yourself, until you have an accident and he notices something off and start asking questions!

=======================

Dabi: He hadn't see you in a couple days and got worried, he then got a call from you asking to take you to the slums walk-in clinic, (I like to think, that the villains have whole a network of black market doctors that sympathize with them and run pop-up clinics, you have to have a password to to know where and how get in.) He checked his burner phone for a pop-up clinic and found one near by.

He got to your location and was stunned when he saw your right arm with a large knife jammed into it and a dead guy on the ground sporting a broken neck, He checked out your arm and winced realizing he couldn't pull it out without causing you anymore damage, He then examine your face, expecting tears, but... you seemed more annoyed by this whole situation then anything, Dabi was expecting you to be crying and whining at him to stop poking and moving your arm around... He thought you were in shock at first, but something was nagging at him that this wasn't normal.

Dabi was silent the entire way to the clinic, his eyes were burning holes into the back of your head, when you both arrived... and the first words the guard said to you was. "Y/n back again, for what? out of pills?" he sighed as you narrowed your eyes at the idiot and raised your injured arm up to show him, his jaw dropped and opened up immediately letting you both in. "What did he mean by that?" Dabi's voice was tense suddenly speaking up, "Why do you need pills?" You stiffened obviously hesitant to say anything, knowing full well Dabi doesn't like people keeping secrets from him!

"Just wait for Dr. Yuhei to come..."

"You're on first name bases with the staff now too?"

"...Dabi."

"..."

The cremator crossed his arms as a middle age man came in looking very happy to see her! "Y/n? what the damage today dislocation? burn damage, (cue Dabi flinching) road rash, broken bones..." His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas as he oh and awed at seeing the knife lodged in your arm. "Ha! you got knifed! I love it!" he exclaimed jubilantly while slapping his knee as he took out his tools.

Dabi just looked at this man like he was mad as a March hare! "What fuck is wrong with you?!" he demanded out getting the doctor's attention, it took a moment for the man to respond.

"Oh! Are you the boyfriend I've been hearing so much about!" the cremator's brows furrowed as Yuhei shook his hand congratulating Dabi for finding a real diamond in the rough! "Not many doctors can say they've worked on a patient with Chromosome 6 deletion!" the raven haired man blinked incredulously. "Chromo what?" now it was the doctor's turn to be confused. "She didn't tell...You didn't tell him?" he watched your face and saw your fraught expression.

"Huh...Well I'll be. That's certainly new!"

The doctor hummed before telling Dabi what was up about your condition, your boyfriend kept a neutral face but inside his emotions were churning. "Her reluctance to inform you of this...is probably to closes adduce to fear I've ever seen her display." Your face felt hot as you stared at Dabi expecting to him storm out instead, he just watched as the doctor pulled the knife out of your arm in fixed you with no anesthetic or pain-killers , Yuhei informed you that the knife had cracked the bone so you had wear a sling for a couple weeks, then reminded you to change your bandages properly, then handed you a refill of melatonin.

The walk back home was awkward as hell Dabi had yet to say anything... Before you reached your safehouse you felt Dabi fingers grab your jacket sleeve while keeping his eyes on the ground. "Listen... this thing you have, did I ever hurt you?" You cocked a brow bemused before recalling Yuhei asking you about your injuries, he mentioned burns... and realized where Dabi was going with this, had he burnt you any given point and not known about it due to you not noticing or not telling him.

You really wanted to say no... You really did! but accidents happen. "Not on purpose..." He winced hearing this as you continued. "sometimes during sex or when you're in a combat high." You reach up and patted him on the head making him flinch before relaxing into your touch. "If it'll keep you sane I'll tell you if I get hurt when we go on a run." Dabi hummed holding you close to him, needless to say the cremator became a tad more wary and protective of you during and after missions insisting he check your body over any injuries you hadn't noticed before leaving.

=====================

Hawks: "Can you feel that?" a Nurse asks baffled as You let out a bored sigh as she and the doctor reset your left leg. "No." you huffed for the umpteenth time, wanting to leave the damn hospital already! but Keigo insisted you needed the hospital, cos your leg was swollen and turning purple after really, rough fight with a villain who had gotten a hold of you by the leg and toss you off like a rag-doll as a snapped echoed through the battle field!

I didn't take long for you to figure out your femur was broken and you were a sitting duck! until Endeavor and Hawks showed up they beat the villain, then noticed you sitting in the road with your left leg in your hand hanging limply in your grasp like a wet noddle!

Your lack of impulse reaction caused them to think you'd gone into shock! Keigo quickly gathered you up flew to the nearest hospital! Telling you not panic everything was gonna be fine, you were gonna be alright! If only he knew the whimpering you were making wasn't from crying, but from laughing at him!

After the docs had reset your leg (with no meds.) and put it in a cast again without any medication, you rolled your wheelchair out into the hall in time to see the doctor telling your fiancée about your one a billion condition! You can see how nervous the blond was he almost seemed skeptical, Hawks asked the doctor if he was overexaggerating a bit? "...I don't think you get it Hawks! this condition so rare that only 40 cases have ever been recorded globally!" you felt your stomach twist... this was definitely not how you wanted Keigo to find out about this. Your original plan had been to sit him down some time next week and tell him about it!

You were brought out of your thoughts by a someone's gaze burning in to your head, you looked up and met Keigo's analyzing gaze as he observed your condition, not in a bed, not hook to an I.V. and certainly not under the influence of any sort of pain medicine... He seemed a little pale as he approached you. "Hey... can we talk?" he asked you nodded as the two of you got on the elevator to the roof. You could feel him still leering at you as you arrived at your stop.

"So..wha- what are you doing?!" You asked watching Keigo pinching your arm hard! and realized he was trying to invoke a reaction, but it was useless task as all it did was annoy you, this was the first thing people do when they find out about your chromosome 6 deletion, checking and seeing if you were faking it, Keigo felt panic bubble in his belly as he observed your reaction... or rather your lack of reaction. "Keigo..." You yelped suddenly feeling something tickling you under you chin, causing you to squirm and whimper as you tried not to burst out giggling.

You looked and saw the feather necklace Keigo had given you to be the culprit. "St-stop Keigo! stop!" When he heard you laugh, the blond relaxed, when the doc said you couldn't feel pain... he started wondering if your other senses were numb too, *of course that would be dumb!* he thought thinking back on how you react during sex and how you were acting now, pretty told him that everything else running fine. "Why didn't you tell me about this Chromosome thing?" You pretty much explained how you were, well... scared wasn't the right word, as you have no sense of the feeling, it was more like you were nauseous that his reaction would be negative...

Hawk looked at you wide eyed. "Wait, you...can't feel fear?" He asked curiously you nodded explaining that you lack of pain has pretty much dampened your instinctive sense of self preservation, which why you tend to go on for so long in a fight even when things get dicey... "So that whimpering on the way over." you nodded. "I was trying not to laugh..." You said bluntly Hawks went oh then curiously asked if he had accidently hurt you during intimate moments?

You were straight with him, he may have gone a little overboard during ruts, but nothing serious. Keigo didn't seem to like this answer. "Hey look at me." you huffed making gold eyes met your [y/ec] eyes. "I know you'd never hurt me on purpose, and if it makes you feel better you can check me over personally and pull me off patrol if you think somethings not right, does that work for you?" you waited as Hawks thought this over before nodding, The next day neither You nor Keigo were prepared for the tabloids headline: #2 Hero Hawks engaged to Bionic woman! You both cringed at the tacky tile!

=====================

Bakugou: "Stop you idiot!" Katsuki shouted as he watched you get up after one his explosions had sent you flying and crashing into one of the simulation buildings on the training field, as you looked around bemused as everyone was panicking, Toshinori aka your dad and Aizawa came up to you worried, the black haired teacher used his scarf as a bandage on you profusely bleeding head... which you just noticed. "Get a stretcher!" the teacher ordered.

"I don't need one I can wal-" Bakugou cut you off. "Get on the fucking stretcher Y/n!" You robotically obeyed as the medical team carried you to Recovery-Girl, who just shook her head when she saw you come in, she knows about your condition. "Y/n back again today, I'm started to wonder if you and Midoriya are related?" she teased causing you sweat-drop as Bakugou listened intently, and was very confuse when the old lady said this wasn't your first visit today....

"Oi, what exactly was she talkin' about?" the blonde huffed eyeing you suspiciously and was put off by you lack of reaction over your injuries. It didn't take a doctor to know that the knockback from his explosion should've cracked your skull and may have also broken your back, when you hit that building. "Oh, I had a little fall earlier, nothing to worry about." you said nonchalantly Your dad who was trying to keep himself from coughing up blood on the other hand spoke up. "I wouldn't call getting hit by a car a "Little fall" Y/n." Katsuki's eyes widened, oh if looks could kill. "YOU WERE HIT BY A CAR AND DIDN'T TELL ME?!" He bellowed as All-might jumped back in shock while You stared at your boyfriend with a blank expression.

He was frothing at the mouth as you listened to the blond rage like a chihuahua on caffeine, you looked at you dad having a metal conversation with the honey blond skeleton who nodded giving you the okay! you were gonna tell your boyfriend about your condition...With a sigh you calmly reached up and pinched Katsuki's nose between your index and middle finger. "Breath damn you!" you hissed the ash blond stilled and looked at you with annoyance for being interrupted.

"I get that you're angry... But you need to know something." Katsuki let out an inquisitive growl as you looked at him seriously. "I can't feel any of this... at all." You chortled his red eyes widened as you continued. "I was born with a rare Condition, Chromosome 6 deletion?" You looked at your dad, Toshinori nodded you let go of Bakugou's nose. as your dad continued. " In short Y/n can't feel pain, fatigue or hunger, so naturally she lacks a sense of fear." Recovery girl returned wiped the blood off your forehead, and kissed your cheek a few seconds later your head was healed, Katsuki stayed silent as he absorbed everything you and All-Might had told him the teen was really quiet which worried you.

Your dad sensed the tension and suggested the two of you go for a walk and talk this out, it was silent as you and Katsuki walked to a different part of the school that was more private, You turned to face you and were met with a fist flying at you! then stopping a few inches from your face, You didn't even flinch just gave him the same impassive expression from earlier. "If that was supposed to get a scream out me of you failed...royally." you hummed as as the blond frowned putting his fist down you can’t feel fear, even Half-n- Half’s eyes twitch when Katsuki psych’s him out!

"Why didn't you say anything anything about this?" he asked voice hoarse from yelling, You hummed trying finds the right words. "Well let's just say back in middle school I had a bad fricken time, kids can be cruel! you hummed not going into details on how others would exploit your medical condition for their own twisted fun. "I was...Scared is not the word, Sick the thought of you reacting the same as them made me feel sick." you were surprise when Katsuki pulled you close resting you head against his chest. "I would never hurt you like those brats did." he huffed wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Don't shut me out like that again," he kisses you nose causing you to blush. "fucking tell me if you think somethings wrong so I don't have to worry about your ass!" he huffed keeping one of his arms around you as you two walked back to class. After that Katsuki was a tad more protective of you often asking where that scratch/bruise came from? and checking to make sure you haven't broken anything during class or missions he was like Toshinori 2.0...

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officialleehadan · 4 years ago

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Solar Safe

Hello darlings! Are you enjoying spring? I certainly am!

Today's story was brought to you by Stella! Darling, This was such fun to write. thanks for prompting it!

Prompt: a continuation of Lady of the Kitchens

+++

Cyra would have preferred her godsons didn’t hear, or in Imlyn’s case see, what she did to the men who had hurt them. After all, they were young, and there were some things that left a permanent mark.

Of course, they also had the resolute comfort of knowing that their attackers were most entirely dead, which was a reassurance Cyra herself often leaned on when her past came knocking on her nightmares late at night.

“Keep your eyes closed, youngling,” she told Phylin when she was done with the would-be attackers. He was too big for her to carry these days, but she kept an arm around his shoulders as she pulled him out from under the table. Imlyn was a little slower, but he was fourteen, and nursing a bad arm, with a beating on top of it. Cyra felt old, familiar fury spark over her magic and took a steadying breath. The men were dead, and her godsons were safe. “follow my hands. We’re going up into your mother’s solar.”

“Alright,” Phylin whispered, shaken to the bone by the screams of the men Cyra took apart to save him. Ge was a good lad, and Cyra was glad when they were out of the kitchens. “Can I- you’re our godmother?”

“You two are the best gift anyone ever gave to me. You can open your eyes now, by the way,” Cyra told him with a reassuring smile to Imlyn, who leaned on her and stumbled like he was drunk. Shock was a hell of a thing, and he probably wouldn’t be on his feet for long. Cyra caught the eye of her scullery maids and nodded once when one of her bakers, a stout man named Nolan, came over to help. “Imlyn, lean on Nolan, he’s going to help you. The rest of you, there’s a mess in the kitchens. See to it, and scrub everything down to the stone.”

“Yes Cyra,” they chorused, more than one of them hard-eyed and angry. They all loved the princes, and many of them had histories as rough as Cyra’s own, although admittedly, not on such a large or violent stage as hers had once been. They would handle the bodies in the kitchen with the appropriate lack of respect for those who came to hurt their boys.”

The matter settled, Cyra ushered the boys and Nolan up to the solar, gave Nolan a firm nod of approval for getting Imlyn to a couch, and sent him off again for the castle’s healer. She hoped that the men in the kitchen were all of the attackers, but if they weren’t, Riala’s solar was well-armored in magic, and well-stocked in weapons. Cyra could hold back an army in the doorway with the armaments that hid in this brightly-lit, comfortable room.

“Auntie, what wasthat?” Phylin asked, shaken and tucked under his brother’s good arm. Imlyn was still ghost-pale, but he seemed to be alright other than some bruises and his bad arm. Cyra knelt before him and checked over his ribs professionally, just in case. He flinched when she found bruises, but sighed when she decided that he had avoided any broken ribs. “You- you killed those men.”

“And I would kill a great many more if they’re fool enough to come for you again,” Cyra told him seriously. Finished with her quick examination, and aware of Imlyn watching her, she sat back on her heels. He had always been a clever boy and he was old enough to understand just how lethal she was to be able to drop so many men with no effort. “Your parents aren’t the only one with a long history, dear one. I’m retired, but that doesn’t mean I forgot who I once was.”

She pushed herself to her feet, cursed her aging knees, and made for the hidden panel in the solar that contained a weapon she hoped to never touch again. Riala had insisted they keep it, although Cyra thought they should have the blade destroyed. Now she was glad she bowed to the wishes of her dearest friend. The panel popped open under her touch, and she reached inside. Cool stone and cool leather meat her reaching fingers, and she curled her hand around a hilt that she knew better than her own name.

After all, it wasn’t everyone who could wield the Blood-Quenched Sword.

It wasn’t cursed, which was frankly a surprise considering how much death it had seen, but it was heavily enchanted, and as the name implied, it likedto draw blood. The blade of it was made of folded steel, and dyed deep red, with a burning core down the center. The stone of the hilt had been white when Cyra first came to wield it, but the white stone slowly darkened with the blood of thousands until it was nearly black.

She hoped to never hold it again, but for her godsons, she would wear it happily.

Sword on her hip, at odds with the comfortable working drss she wore in the kitchens, she turned back to her godsons. They were watching her curiously, but she was glad to see no hint of fear in their eyes. A knock on the door announced Nolan, and the castle’s healer, Talla, was behind him. Talla went to work. Imlyn’s arm was badly dislocated, but not broken, and Talla was kind enough to brush away his bruises while she was at it.

When she stepped inside, she gave Cyra a faint smile, and a nod of respect. Like Cyra’s kitchen-workers, Talla knew Cyra’s history. She also recognized the sword at Cyra’s hip, and understood why Cyra would take it up again.

Talla loved the boys too.

“The castle is clear,” Nolan reported while Talla worked on Imlyn. “Don’t know who they were, but there weren’t many of them. Snuck in, went for the princes. You know how it ended.”

“I do,” Cyra agreed quietly. She made sure the boys were occupied with Talla for a moment, and closed her fingers on a spark of magic. When she opened them again, it was to reveal a communication spell like those she once used to command an army. Moments later, it shimmered and vivid blue magic shot through the almost-black green of her own. The sparks came together in a burst as the spell connected to the intended target. “Riala, there’s been an attack. The boys are safe. I’m with them.”

The queen, whose mouth was open to ask why Cyra would call her so suddenly, closed with a snap that Cyra could almost feel. A moment later, Thalis, the boys’ father, crowded close enough to share the spell with his wife. Cyra obligingly turned her hand so they could see their sons, safe and whole.

“What happened?” Riala asked anxiously. She trusted Cyra beyond anyone but Thalis, but she was a mother, and Cyra wouldn’t call for anything less than an emergency. “You have blood on your cheek. Who died?”

“Someone tried for the boys. I stepped in,” Cyra summed up the situation and pulled out her handkerchief to deal with the blood. She wasn’t sure which of the men it belonged to, and eyed her blood-spattered apron with some regret. She had liked this one. It was embroidered with kitchen herbs. Now it was soaked in blood, which rarely came out once it dried there. Maybe she could get one of the castle tailors to dye it for her to hide the stains. “Imlyn was hurt. Talla has already seen to him, and he’s fine. Phylin is scared. Will you be able to portal home?”

“I sent for a mage as soon as your spell came through,” Riala promised. Her cheeks had gone ashy with fear for her boys, and what could have happened if Cyra hadn’t been there. “You’re wearing your sword?”

“Retrieved it as soon as we reached the solar. Haven’t had to draw it. Turns out a cast-iron pan works just as well to kill a man.”

“You’ve always been inventive, dark sister. We’ll be home as soon as the portal is up.”

“I’ll hold the castle until you’re here,” Cyra promised her with a smile that probably wouldn’t be reassuring to anyone but Riala. The queen, however, knew exactly what Cyra could do, and what she would do, to protect the boys. “Hurry back. I imagine the questions will start in a minute, and I don’t want to tell the story until you and Thalis are here to remind them that I didn’t actually kill you both.”

“You tried a few times,” Riala said with a chuckle, her eyes on her boys behind Cyra. “But you came around.”

“You gave me a family to fight for,” Cyra reminded her fondly. “Your portal will be up in a minute. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be here to hug them yourself.”

+++

What Once Was:

Cyra is a cook. Unfortunately for everyone but her family, she used to be a great many other things, and not all of them were peaceful.

Lady of the Kitchens

Solar Safe

+++

MASTERLIST

+++

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pizza-soup · 4 years ago

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Sorry I've been missing in action.

Long story short I got very injured at the labs, but I've been making a fast recovery. For the more detailed, graphic version, you can read below. Warning: Mention of hospital, blood, car accident.

As I mentioned, I got really injured at work beginning on February 21 at around 9 PM. It was during a routine check at some of the sites, one in particular needed our higher clearance because there had been a breach at a fence that past week, so I, and two other guards went to check out any tampering of the fence again. They say it might be vandals but a lot of them say it was some kind of large animal. The road to those sites are a single path through the woods, lit with a few lights, no curves, just a flat road with a hill on one side. It hadn't snowed that week either, so no fear of ice or anything. It was just a routine jeep trek.

It happened so fast. Our vehicle was knocked over, I'm not even sure how, but we were rolling in the dark down a hill, hitting trees. I remember the shouting, holding fast, and the glass. I remember crawling toward a tree and trying to sit up against it or maybe I was put there by the other guard, Dolores, I remember her telling me to stay awake. I asked her if I was dreaming. It didn't feel real. I asked what was happening to me because I couldn't move right, everything felt so slow and muffled. I passed out by the time they got us into the medical ward. I don't remember them putting me in a gown or putting in an IV. I woke up later, I buzzed the call button out of fear and pain. My whole left side was throbbing. A nurse was relieved I finally came to. She gave me pain meds and called the doctor in.

I was told there had been an accident, that much I already knew, but no one was killed, just injured. I lost a lot of blood, my uniform was soaked in it and they had to cut it off me. Part of the metal from the door frame folded in and pieced my left shoulder and I had minor cuts on my hands and arms from the glass. My blood pressure dropped so low they were scared my heart might've stopped. I was given blood, hooked up to a lot of things and I would have to stay under watch for a few days. There was a lot of tests they needed to do to figure out just how bad my injuries were.

For the next few days I was just sleeping, I couldn't sit up without feeling dizzy. I had to lay semi flat, my blood pressure was still very low. My left side was still throbbing and the stitches itched. A lot of bruises developed from being tossed around like I was, mostly on my arms because I was shielding my face and head. My minor glass cuts stung while batheing. Nurses came in every few hours to check my vitals, help me use the restroom, shower, help me eat, ect. I got so tired from the smallest things. I couldn't call anyone, my phone was in my locker. I finally got someone to help me call my brother to tell him what happened. My brother was naturally scared, he thought something happened to me and he was sad to know he was right. He wanted to see me, but he couldn't, I was in the medical ward on lab property. He wanted to call our mom to tell her but I told him to wait, there was a possibility that I might be transferred to a local hospital where they can visit me, and I didn't want her panicking and trying to drive up here in bad weather. It's best she waited til things cleared up.

After the first week I was transferred to a local hospital after getting a bunch of tests done. No brain trauma, no broken bones, no blood sugar issues or thyroid problems. I could sit up in bed by then and eat on my own. I still couldn't walk very well without feeling really dizzy, again, low blood pressure. A lot of minor bruises were fading away. I never had my anemia officially confirmed, but they confirmed it and had me take daily iron and placed on a blood building diet in the new hospital. I was tested for covid, I came out clear.

My brother and mom visited me daily, and the other doctor said I was recovering really quickly, that gave us a lot of hope. I could be out of there by a few days, though my blood pressure was worrying her. Seems it wasn't so much the blood loss, but that it might have been an underlying condition already linked to my untreated anemia. She would get the in-house dietitian to include a bit more natural sea salt to my iron rich diet, as well as tell me what I should eat at home and that I need to drink a lot more water than I normally did. This is a problem I've had for awhile, I forget to drink enough water. The doctor warned me I better remedy that immediately especially with low BP. My mom was already taking notes. She really wanted to just take me home already. I really liked her being there, I'm not that shy about my body, but I honestly felt better having my mom bathe me and comb my hair instead of strangers doing that. She was also a lot more gentle around my stitches and bruises.

Eventually I did come home, I still needed a lot of rest and help getting out of bed. I had to fight the urge to clean house, help with groceries, ect. I'm so used to being self sufficient. I felt so frustrated that just walking around the room would tire me out, when I'd hike for miles just a few months ago. I was tired of sleeping and sitting down. But there wasn't much else I could do. I did a lot of origami, my bro got me a coloring book, I watched a lot of movies, took my iron -which is nasty btw-, ate meals that were saltier than I normally would prepare but my taste buds would have to adjust. I was happy my new diet included a lot of fish though.

I did have some close calls. I really thought I could stand up in the shower instead of sitting, and wound up calling for my mom to help me up after collapsing. I collapsed again when I was trying to cook dinner for myself. My face, according to my mom, was drained of color and my breathing was shallow. I felt so dizzy and nauseated. She nearly wanted to call the hospital again. My bro said I was pushing myself too hard and I always had a problem with not asking for help. That I needed to learn to stop being so damn stubborn and rest. To anyone else, that sounds harsh, but he knows me way too well, probably better than our mom. I do have that problem, I do push myself too much. After that, I decided to be more patient with myself. I was sick and might be sick for awhile.

This week I'm doing a lot better. I can do my daily things now, I even went to get groceries and take a little walk to the river. But I can't over do it, I can't stand up or walk for too long, and I can't lift anything heavy, otherwise I get bouts of dizziness and need to sit down. The pain isn't as bad on my back anymore though it's still very sore, my arms, especially my left side, have a dull pain. I can't sleep on my back and left side, only my right and on my stomach. A lot of the cuts on the back of my arms and hands have scabbed over, minor bruises are gone but major ones on my shoulder and neck are still pretty dark and tender. I'm still finding glue spots on my chest and stomach from the medical tape and the EKG patches they put on me, but a bit of lotion is taking it off. My stitching, according to my mom, is definitely going to leave a pretty bad scar above my shoulder blade, but it's fine. My body has a lot of scars here and there from close calls, but I consider them ' Marks of Life'. They're proof I survived and thrived.

It'll take time for me to really feel like I'm back to normal. My mom refuses to go back home until I make a full recovery. She hasn't tended to me like this for a long time, mainly because I rarely get sick. I trait from my dad's side. We don't get colds or flus for years, no history of cancer, heart issues or diabetes, and his family usually remain active to their elderly years, not to mention our graceful aging. My dad used to say it was our native blood, we're just built tougher. The only thing that could kill us is getting injured like this. God, he'd be so worried about me though. I remember how he'd fuss over me when I skinned my knee as a child or got my allergies. If he was alive, he'd probably refuse to let me do anything out of bed, but then that's exactly what I should be doing anyway.

I got a report on the other guards health yesterday. Dolores and Elijah. She was the least hurt out of all of us, just a dislocated arm, mild whiplash, and some really bad glass cuts on her chest and arms, she's home recovering with her husband and kids. Elijah was the driver and got knocked unconscious with a bad concussion, his entire left arm was sliced by glass and metal, he lost a lot of blood like me and is recovering just as slow as I am. He opted to stay in the lab medical ward because he doubts his roommate can care for him at home, he's on a lot of pain meds, so he sounded distant on the phone. I think out of all of us, he's going to take the most time to recover. I told him I'd pray for him and if he wants, I can visit. He appreciated that a lot. I thanked Dolores for helping us that night, she was the one trying her best to keep us alive and sent the distress signal on our ARK devices so they could find us in the dark. Without her, I think we would've bled to death.

God, it feels like a distant nightmare. I still can't figure out how we were knocked off the road like that. Something hit us out there and it was strong. I felt the impact in the backseat, but I didn't see it. Dolores says it looked like a bear, but bears aren't that strong. Eli says he saw horns, so maybe a bison. Bison are that strong, especially against a little jeep. The incident is still under investigation. The lab is also very concerned about how this happened. It's possible the same thing that hit us, has been tampering with the fence.

One less thing to worry about is the hospital bill, the accident happened on lab grounds, everything is taken care of through them, probably because they don't want to get sued. They are giving us another two weeks before we report back in to the doctor for another round of tests and physical tests, as well as check to see if my stitches were still secure. Our return to work solely depends on our results, we may not be able to come back until late April. They really want to be sure we're okay. Because I'm an 'Ophanim' aka Tier 3 guard, I'll also be given a mental test before being hooked back into Selene. They just want to be sure there's no cognition issues and I can sync properly to her. I may have to do a refresher since I've been away for so long, but I'll worry about that when it comes.

Well, if you read this far, thanks. I hope I didn't scare you all too much. I am doing a lot a better though, I promise. I'm getting stronger everyday, though activity on this blog will be slow. Send me some prayers, good vibes, whatever. I'd really appreciate anything. Hope you've had a good month, better than mine hopefully.

#Update #medical trauma #accident tw #injury tw #daily update

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sylvanfreckles · 4 years ago

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Don’t Look (FebuWhump 23)

Fandom: Supernatural Summary: Sam and Dean are ambushed and captured by a powerful demon with an ancient lineage. Help is on the way...if they can survive.

(CW for some body horror/sores. Basically, skip if something like rashes and sores would upset you. It’s not terribly graphic, but I know this can be a real phobia for some people).

* * *

“This is obviously a trap, Dean!”

Dean rolled his eyes and sandwiched his phone between his head and shoulder, flapping his fingers at Sam in the universal “won't stop talking” gesture. Sam didn't look impressed.

“Look, man, it's just a bunch of demons,” Dean replied. He checked the clip in his gun, tucked a couple spares into his belt, and reached for an angel blade. “Don't see what has you so worked up.”

“Will you please just wait for me?” Cas's voice was strained, and Dean could practically see the impatience in every line of the angel's face. “I'm less than two hours away.”

“Are you talking while driving?” Dean smirked at Sam, though Sam just shook his head and started double-checking his own gear. “Always the little rebel, ain't ya?”

He waited while Cas spluttered in outrage. “We'll be done before you even get here,” he said, talking right over whatever point Cas was about to make. “And, hey, they've got a drive-in movie theater in this town. We can make a field trip, I think they're playing one of the new Star Wars movies.”

Cas was still talking when Dean hung up the call. He shoved the phone into his pocket with a chuckle, then caught Sam staring at him. “What?”

Sam shook his head again and shoved the trunk of the car closed. “Would it kill you to wait for him anyway?”

“And miss all the fun?” Dean slapped his brother on the arm. “Dude. It's demons. Practically kindergarten stuff for us.” Anyway all the big players were downstairs—or dead—so it wasn't like they had anything to worry about.

His brother was still bitch-facing about it when Dean shoved him down the path toward the abandoned hotel. “All right, I'll buy him a root beer float or something, and he'll get over it by the time that little rolling droid he loves so much shows up on screen.”

“BB-8?”

“Dude, I'm getting second-hand embarrassment just knowing you know that.”

Sam turned around and spread his arms out, walking backward down the path. “At least I don't know all the Starfleet captains by first name.”

“Hey, Star Trek is an important part of our cultural history,” Dean retorted, shoving his brother in the chest to keep him moving. “Star Wars is for nerds.”

* * *

The old hotel was empty, apart from the faint dusty of sulfur on some of the decrepit furniture. There were some tracks in the dust, which was a little weird for a bunch of demons, Dean had to admit, but the tracks were recent enough to prove there was demonic activity here.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Dean pulled it out and made a face at it, swiping over the icon to ignore the call.

“Dude, he's probably worried,” Sam whispered.

“Yeah, he does that,” Dean shot back. He turned his phone off and shoved it back into his pocket. “He does that too damn much. We can handle one little nest of demons.”

Predictably...at least for Cas and Sam...and Dean, too, though he was loathed to admit it...they could not handle the “little” nest of demons.

The tracks lead them down to the old pool house, but before they'd even crossed the yard they'd been swarmed. The brothers had fought valiantly, back-to-back, and taken out a handful of the attacking demons but there were just too many. They were overwhelmed, hauled into the pool house, and tied to a couple of rusty old poolside chairs.

Dean jerked against his bonds—he could probably work himself free, given enough time. One side of his face had swollen up and his lip was busted up. Sam wasn't much better off, between the gash on his forehead bleeding enough to cover most of his face and the obvious dislocation to his left shoulder.

Well. Now he was gonna have to apologize to Cas for going in without him AND for getting himself and his brother captured. And injured. It would have to be a root beer float and popcorn and downloading the rest of the Star Wars movies for the weekend.

The demons were lined up along the sides of the pool now. They'd put Sam and Dean on the side nearest the shallow end, looking down the length of murky, stagnant water. Dean exchanged a look with his brother—what now? They'd been captured and beat up and tied up for, what, the world's worst diving contest?

The water rippled. Dean stared down at it in shock when a woman's head appeared at the deep end of the pool. But she wasn't swimming, she was...walking? And each step brought her further and further out of the water, the algae and slime cascading off of her body without leaving a trace behind. She was tall, with long, wavy blonde hair that fell almost to her hips. Her body was wrapped in a flowing green dress with a plunging neckline that showed off her...er, other features.

And she was walking on the water now. Because of course. Dean rolled his eyes so hard he almost sprained something. While there was something otherwordly about this whole thing, it was so obviously some demon princess bitch pretending to be a minor goddess or something.

She reached the shallow end of the pool and just stood there, looking at them. Dean glanced down at her bare feet, which were resting on the rippling water as easily as though she was standing on solid ground. “Nice trick,” he commented, smirking up at her. “Special power or just full of hot air?”

The demon in the green dress tilted her head to study him—nice try, bitch, that's Cas's thing—and blinked, her eyes clicking to beetle-black. “I am Vephar. Lord of the waters.”

“I'm Dean,” Dean replied, ignoring Sam's hissed warning. “Lord of the highway.”

Vephar studied for a moment, then raised one arm to point at his face. Pain erupted from his forehead to his chin and his brother called his name in a panicked voice. Vephar turned to face Sam next. “Who are you?”

Gritting his teeth, Dean rolled his head back enough to make eye contact with his brother. Sammy was shooting him a panicked look, obviously concerned by whatever the bitch had done. God, it still hurt. Most of the time when these bastards attacked telepathically it was like a cut from a razor, or a punch that somehow bypassed your muscle to hit you right in the organs. This was just...this was wrong. It ached and burned and felt wet somehow.

“I'm Sam,” his brother finally said, when Vephar took a step toward him. “Just Sam.”

“And why are you here, 'Just Sam'?”

Sam shot a look at Dean, who tried to shake his head subtly. “We were just looking around,” Sam finally stammered out. “The-the hotel. It's abandoned, we thought we could find something to sell in it. You know, the market for copper wire is pretty high right now.”

Vephar tilted her head to the other side. “No,” she intoned after a few seconds. “You're lying.” She raised her hand again and Sam jerked back with a cry of pain. Now Dean could see why his brother had looked so horrified. Instead of cutting or bruising, Vephar had raised an angry-looking line of oozing sores on his brother's face. It reminded him of nothing so much as Nick's face when Lucifer was burning through him...or Cas when he'd taken the souls from Purgatory.

“I was once a grand duke of hell,” Vephar explained, walking back down the length of the pool. “I commanded my legions and churned the mighty waters. I rode the seas in glorious battle, until I was betrayed and bound in this place.”

Dean grunted, tugging at the bonds on his wrists as the urge to dig his fingers into his face became nearly unbearable. “Sucks to be you.”

Vephar turned back to face him and raised one delicate eyebrow. “Indeed.”

Then she raised her hand and Dean threw his head back with a scream as another line of pain lanced up the other side of his face.

“What's binding you here?” Sam asked. “Maybe we can break it? Set you free?”

She tilted her head again, her black gaze boring into Sam's. “You're lying again.”

“Sammy, no!” Dean surged against the ropes uselessly as sores burst into existence around his brother's neck. “You bitch!”

“Temper,” Vephar replied calmly, and then the horrible, burning, wet pain was streaking down his chest under his shirt. Every shift in position made the fabric of his clothing rub against the sores, until it felt like he'd covered himself in sandpaper instead of a t-shirt.

“I don't get much to play with here,” the demon bitch said. She had that damn hand up in the air again, her index finger extended, and she waved it back and forth between the brothers as though trying to choose which one to torture. “I hope you last longer than the last ones.”

Dean was steeling himself to shout—distract the bitch, insult her, make her focus all her anger on him to give Sammy a chance to escape—when the door to the pool house exploded inward.

“Cas!” Sam's voice was thick with warning as the demons that had been lining the sides of the pool turned to swarm the angel. Dean grit his teeth and refocused his efforts on freeing himself. Cas was good—damn good—but there were well over a dozen demons, and heaven wasn't exactly running on full power these days.

He saw Cas go down. Dean threw himself backward with a jerk, finally crashing the chair into the stained tile of the pool deck. Something in the chair had cracked and his ropes were a little looser, and he fought to break himself free.

“Close your eyes!”

Dean swore and tucked his head toward his shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. Even then the burst of grace was almost enough to blind him. Damn, Cas hadn't done that in a long time. He hoped his friend still had the juice to recover from an attack like that.

Blinking back the sparks in his vision, Dean rolled onto his side and tried to push himself to his feet. He could see the smoking, empty meatsuits of the demons scattered in a half-circle around Cas, but Cas wasn't looking so good. He had sunk to one knee, and several bloody tears in his trench coat showed where the demons had gotten a few hits in before he'd smited them. Smote them. Whatever.

“Angel!”

Dean threw himself forward and tried to grab Vephar around the ankles as she stalked out of the water toward Cas. The smiting hadn't been enough to end her, though she seemed to be staggering a little and there was black sludge trickling out of her nose.

Cas struggled to his feet, but he was empty-handed—Dean could see a glint of silver just a few feet away, but Cas couldn't reach it before Vephar had a hand around his throat, backing him into the wall.

“I'm going to enjoy this,” the demon bitch sneered. “Angels are so much more...resilient...than humans. Don't you agree, 'lord of the highway'?”

Dean let out a cry as more pain tore through the side of his face. It felt like the sores were swelling, and his stomach nearly revolted when he felt liquid oozing down his neck.

“Hey! Bitch!”

Vephar whirled around, just in time to catch Sam's knife in her throat. Damn, but the kid had good aim. They'd been trying to copy Ruby's blade for years now, and while Sam had never come up with something to match it in power, the runes he'd started carving into the knife he tucked into his boot still did some damage.

The demon released Cas to tug uselessly at the knife in her throat. She glowered at Sam and started to raised her hand, but Cas tackled her from behind.

He'd gotten his angel blade back, during her moment of distraction, and drove it deep into her back, giving it a vicious twist as she screamed out her dying breath.

Dean collapsed in relief. It felt like the sores were still on his face, but the pain had faded significantly. It no longer felt like his skin was going to erupt and peel away from his bone—more like he had a bad case of road rash.

He rolled himself over to check on Sammy. The kid had only worked his right arm free and thrown his knife from there. He sagged in his ropes, panting for breath, but gave Dean a thumb's up when he realized his brother was looking.

Before he could roll back to check on Cas, a firm hand gripped him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Dean found himself staring up at the angel's bruised, angry face. “Next time I tell you it's a trap,” Cas ground out, even as his fingers brushed feather-light over Dean's forehead to heal his wounds, “do me a favor and wait for me.”

Okay. Root beer float, popcorn, the rest of the Star Wars movies, AND another couple pairs of those novelty socks Cas liked so much. The angel had definitely earned it today.

* * *

You guessed it, Vephar is from the Key of Solomon. They’re described as being able to make the seas rough or calm, guiding ships to their destination, and killing by putrefying wounds and sores (fun!). They take the form of a mermaid, so I gave them a female meatsuit and the power to walk on water.

(For those of you who don’t know, the Key of Solomon is my favorite resource for extra-powerful demons. Vephar is the third I’ve used so far, so there’s just 69 to go!)

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday23 #supernatural #fic #fanfic #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #don't look #captured #demons #cw body horror #cw sores #more like BADASStiel am i right?#I'm right aren't i #hurt dean #hurt sam

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megashadowdragon · 3 years ago

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It has been called many things- the unwalkable disease, gutta (drop), podagra, arthritis of the rich, and the disease of kings (which sounded suitably dramatic for a title).

But we more commonly call it gout.

Doran Martell suffers from an advanced stage of gout, perhaps even exaggerated, since he has had his movement restricted to such a degree that nearly all motion is difficult without severe pain. (I'm not a doctor so, I can't say for certain)

Gout as a Facet of Doran's Character

We know that Doran is in constant pain, that it prevents sleep, and he finds no hope in medical treatment curing his disease.

The prince turned his chair laboriously to face her. Though he was but two-and-fifty, Doran Martell seemed much older. His body was soft and shapeless beneath his linen robes, and his legs were hard to look upon. The gout had swollen and reddened his joints grotesquely; his left knee was an apple, his right a melon, and his toes had turned to dark red grapes, so ripe it seemed as though a touch would burst them. Even the weight of a coverlet could make him shudder, though he bore the pain without complaint.

For comparison here is a testimony from a patient with gout in a single leg:

"The patient goes to bed and sleeps quietly until about two in the morning when he is awakened by a pain which usually seizes the great toe, but sometimes the heel, the calf of the leg or the ankle. The pain resembles that of a dislocated bone ... and this is immediately succeeded by a chillness, shivering and a slight fever ... the pain ..., which is mild in the beginning ..., grows gradually more violent every hour ... so exquisitely painful as not to endure the weight of the clothes nor the shaking of the room from a person walking briskly therein."

That is what Doran endures each day, constantly. Even the weight of a sheet would make the man shudder.

It is no wonder to me that he loves watching the little children splash and laugh and play in the Water Gardens. I imagine each glance must be bittersweet- imaging a time when he could run and splash with the other children, or watching Oberyn and Elia do the same. Knowing that now, his mobility, his autonomy has been taken from him, just as his siblings have been taken, leaving him unable to move, and unable to act.

Doran must be quite aware of how the children view him, and he takes special care to put them at ease, even at his own increased pain.

Then nought would do but he must say farewell to several of the children who had become especial favorites... Doran kept a splendid Myrish blanket over his legs as he spoke with them, to spare the young ones the sight of his swollen, bandaged joints

That splendid Myrish blanket sounds heavy with adornment (or even fabric) knowing that even a light coverlet's pressure pained him before this must be agony. It is my opinion that this blanket is as much for Prince Doran as it is for the children. He invites many children to the Water Gardens, a virtual safe haven free from class differences, a near oasis, the Prince entertains them, and it seems he must speak with them and come to know many of them. So much so, that he must say good bye.

Prince Doran carefully guards his image, this is part of the reason they left Sunspear nearly two years ago- he was getting sicker and needed to retreat from the whispers that filled the Shadow City. In the Water Garden's he is better able to project strength and wellness- his people clearly are unaware of how far his gout has progressed.

That this performance also extends to the children speaks to some form of painful self awareness on Doran's part- he doesn't want to expose his legs and upset them. I think he also doesn't want to see the children's faces and face their questions if they saw his legs.

Mobility and Autonomy

Something as simple as walking, is a thing we often take for granted. Doran can't get up to pour a glass of water, he needs help sitting up each day, he cannot support his weight enough to stand. It's paralyzing, it shrinks your perspective down to minute motions where every move is weighed by how much pain it will cause.

I think we can see this same restriction in his political moves as well- a painful reflection of his limited physical autonomy.

Hotah slid his longaxe into its sling across his back and gathered the prince into his arms, tenderly so as not to jar his swollen joints. Even so, Doran Martell bit back a gasp of pain... Hotah bore him up the long stone steps of the Tower of the Sun, to the great round chamber beneath the dome

The Prince of Dorne had to be carried from his seat, in the arms of his guard, up the steps of a tower to his bedroom. For a man in such a medieval martial society, that frames its conceptions of strength over acts of physical strength and war, which scorns physical disability, this must be a humiliating experience.

A Thimble of Poppy

It's after this day of bad news, of constant increasing pain, that we finally see a true crack in Doran Martell's armor. First the letter, which brought news of his brother's death, then his nieces repeated threats and calls for war (Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene), and humiliation from each we see him ask for a thimble of milk of the poppy. I'm not certain why, but these words (even after watching Maester Caelotte worry over possible poisoning) were very sad to read.

Doran has reached a wall, a point where he doesn't care anymore about keeping a clear head and frame of mind. He just wants relief, that constant spike in every joint, to be muted and fade to the background for a while.

Treatment

It seems that his gout has grown quite worse in the last few years:

Two years ago, when they had left Sunspear for the peace and isolation of the Water Gardens, Prince Doran’s gout had not been half so bad. In those days he had still walked, albeit slowly, leaning on a stick and grimacing with every step

Although gout has been treated in our own history for more than 2,000 years, it does not appear that the more advanced medicine of westeros (compared to our medieval history) has developed even basic treatments.

Since the time of Hippocrates we have known that gout was linked to lifestyle, and since Galen we've known that there are genetic factors associated with its development. For both of these periods gout was treated with a flower called the Autumn crocus- a powerful purgative (colchicine) was derived from it.

Strangely, there doesn't appear to be much help for it in westeros.

Maester Caleotte remained behind. “My prince?” the little round man asked. “Do your legs hurt?” The prince smiled faintly. “Is the sun hot?” “Shall I fetch a draught for the pain?” “No. I need my wits about me

In my opinion, this implies that the treatment automatically given is milk of the poppy. A pain reliever which would impair Doran's judgement- and milk of the poppy seems to fit (barring a more specific remedy we haven't heard of).

We also have reference to:

the maester helped Doran Martell to bathe and bandaged up his swollen joints in linen wraps soaked with soothing lotions

Although, I don't expect Hotah to be knowledgeable about the exact methods the maester uses to treat Doran- Hotah is in the third best position to know how the Prince is being treated (after Maester Caelotte, and Doran himself).

Lifestyle

Doran does not appear to have been given treatment options regarding his lifestyle.

A serving man brought him a bowl of purple olives, with flatbread, cheese, and chickpea paste. He ate a bit of it, and drank a cup of the sweet, heavy strongwine that he loved. When it was empty, he filled it once again.

This is, perhaps, the worst dinner Doran could have eaten in regards to his gout. Yet, it also is terribly mundane (by which I mean- likely a meal consumed regularly and not an indulgence). It is a staple meal- flatbread, cheese, and hummus. Simple, and certainly not King's Landing fare. But it is loaded with sugar, salt, and alcohol. All things which make gout worse- much worse.

We have another example:

He had decided to break his fast before he went, with a blood orange and a plate of gull’s eggs diced with bits of ham and fiery peppers

This is just as bad- sugar and meat- another food which exasperates his condition. One of the first lifestyle changes used as treatment was the elimination of alcohol, sweet foods from the diet.

It doesn't appear that Doran is remaining sick with gout to raise his popularity (as it was in our own history)

Gout (Everyone's Doing it These Days)

"The common cold is well named – but the gout seems instantly to raise the patient's social status", and to another in Punch in 1964, "In keeping with the spirit of more democratic times, gout is becoming less upper-class and is now open to all ... It is ridiculous that a man should be barred from enjoying gout because he went to the wrong school."

Nor does it appear that the gout is being used to ward off other more serious diseases (the gout seems extremely concerning)

In earlier times, attacks of gout were also seen as a prophylactic against more serious diseases. According to the writer Horace Walpole, gout "prevents other illnesses and prolongs life ... could I cure that gout, should not I have a fever, a palsy, or an apoplexy?"

My Takeaway:

I took a course on the intersection of disease, medicine, and history a while ago as a fun class- after reading this chapter again (Hotah I AFFC) I don't find him boring or lackluster anymore. If anything, Doran is incredibly human, and extremely relatable once you break him down.

He lives very much inside his own mind, I imagine wherever he is, Doran is always in the Water Garden's in his own head, seeing himself, Elia, and Oberyn shouting and splashing, as they were never able in childhood.

(Note: This is all said in the context of this one chapter, I haven't reread the next in the Dorne storyline yet.)

comments : I am not a medical student, so probably take my words with a grain of salt. Based on the source I listed below, it’s very universally known that sweets, alcohol, and meat (even sugar from fruit) exacerbate gout. The “drops” (Uric acid that builds into crystals in joints) is worsened by large amounts of sugar. (Like in the strongwine that Doran enjoys)Cherries do have sugar, not as much as other fruit, but I think they might have been referring to a combination of cherries and allopurinol which is used to reduce the amount of uric acid.Some older treatments of gout (that originated in the 19th c) basically attempted to purge the body of uric acid through urine. To my knowledge they use other methods today, but it must have been at least mildly effective (I remember reading about negative effects of such purgative treatment- so I’m not entirely sure).

#asoiaf #A Song of Ice and Fire #doran martell #asoiaf meta

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poptod · 5 years ago

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Brought To Your Knees (Kenny x Reader)

Description: 7-Elevens are a lot more versatile than one might originally think. AKA, sometimes you can get locked in them with your long-time crush and, following that, things can happen.

Notes: Freshman means you’re around 14-15 years old, Sophomore is 15-16 I think, Junior is 16-17, Senior is 17-18. Idk the American schooling system too well. Completely male reader.

Warning: Smut :) not sure why its there but hey everyone needs a gratuitous blow job every now and then

Word Count: 6.1k

You were expecting rain. You even brought an umbrella along, tucked away in the side pocket of your backpack, but an umbrella clearly wouldn’t work very well. Snow fell harsh upon the earth, cold and freezing near instantly, making a very thick layer of snow trap you inside the 7-Eleven, the doors frozen shut despite the fact that the heating was still on.

How exactly one gets trapped inside a 7-Eleven with the only person they’ve ever really loved probably needs some explaining, so let’s go back to the beginning; seven years ago. Seven years ago you transferred schools due to an unfortunate accident with a classmate, at least that’s what’s on your record. Half of you is grateful no one knows what really happened, but the other half wishes people knew you punched someone in the face hard enough to dislocate their nose. Though, looking at you, most people probably wouldn’t believe you, considering you haven’t got the strongest body structure. Your (at the time) new school was better than the last one in several ways, but the most important to you was the fact that it was a public school. There were horror stories about public schools, of unruly students and horrible teachers, and by god did you want to experience that - private school was far too clean, far too organized for your mind, and you were going slowly insane.

If there’s a term to describe you, it’d probably be ‘thrill seeker,’ if asshole can’t be said out loud. For the first couple of years you were a nuisance to classrooms, the well known class clown and always up for distracting the teacher (the history teachers were the easiest to distract, math teachers the hardest), and always ready to fight back for what you believed was right. Then came your first year of high school and you found the greatest thrill of all - boys.

Previously you hadn’t taken much of a romantic interest in either gender, and most people said it’d kickstart sometime in high school, which was about right - freshman year you had a crush on a boy named Everett. It wasn’t a particularly strong crush, not compared to your more recent crushes, but it was your first, and you knew exactly what you wanted to do. You wanted him to fall in love with you, hopelessly and endlessly, you wanted him to hang on your every word and dream of your affections... but you didn’t want to be in a relationship with him. No, you just wanted his adoration, and nothing more - only to lead him on and drop his heart to break it. When this didn’t happen and he didn’t fall in love with you, you realized that most boys are not attracted to other boys, and you became deathly silent when it came to crushes.

Several other boys (and maybe a girl) caught your fancy in the remainder of freshman year, but there was one boy you hadn’t yet met that would become the greatest thrill of all. Junior year you had a class with him, and on the first day of school when you walked into English class your bag fell from your hands, clattering to the floor with a loud thump.

He is perfect, in every conceivable way he’s everything you’ve ever imagined, shy and kind, sincere and genuinely interesting - just the sight of him from that day on and your heart speeds up tenfold. You’re a horror story that teachers talk about, so Mr. Davis is clearly flabbergasted at your silence, and for the most part he leaves you alone even though you’re barely paying attention to the blackboard at the front of the classroom. Instead your attention is focused on the boy sitting two seats in front of you and a row to the right. It’s almost surprising he hasn’t noticed your staring, but clearly Mr. Davis notices because about two months into the school year he pulls you aside to talk about it.

“I wanted to talk to you about your attention,” he says quietly, sitting behind his desk as you stand at the other side. You’re playing absentmindedly with your fingers, barely listening to him, only staying where you are to avoid another hour of detention today. “I know you’re usually very loud in class, word gets around easily here, but you’re staring at your classmate a lot.”

“And?” You ask, not really seeing the point. In your mind, he should be thankful you’re not a disruption.

“Is… is there anything you want to tell me? About Kenny?”

“Who’s Kenny?”

“… that’s the boy you keep staring at,” he says slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Ah, you think to yourself. That’s his name.

“Listen, (Y/N), I want you to know you’re always welcome in my classroom. This is a safe space for you, okay?” His voice goes to a whisper as he says, “I have a boyfriend, so we aren’t so different after all.”

“I’m not gay,” you spit out quickly, the venomous tone of your voice not deterring him.

“I know it can be hard to admit at first, and at your age I understand the confusion within yourself. Just know you can talk to me, okay? And try to pay more attention in class? I know you’ve got it in you.”

Without word you pick your backpack up from the floor, slinging it onto your shoulders and leaving. Just as you exit the main doors, noting the dark clouds low in the sky, you’re called back by one of the vice principals, ordering you to your detention.

“C’mon, it’s Friday,” you groan, walking backwards to stare at the teacher as you walk away.

“I’ll call your parents!” She threatens, whipping her flip phone out of her pocket.

“Oh yeah? What are they gonna do? Fuck off,” you laugh, throwing double middle-fingers at her, which lands you in three hours of detention.

At five thirty you’re released, an absolutely sour look on your face as you walk down the pavement. There’s a seedy part of the city that has a 7-Eleven you’ve been to so often you know the workers’ shifts. All of them are pretty nice, though all very tired of life and if you had to hazard a guess, mildly suicidal. At least that’s the look in their eyes, and you don’t blame them - customer service is one of the most horrid jobs in history. Friday evenings Alan has shift, and he’s rather nice, but upon opening the freezing door to the inside, you don’t see him. The door shuts behind you and you wander the aisles for a little while - you don’t have much change, you note as your fingers fiddle with the coins and bills in your coat pocket.

Several minutes later your attention is brought to the weather - it’s snowing, bad, and you groan internally at the wind force practically blowing down the stop sign out front. The few trees that survive in the city are barely hanging on now, flimsy limbs and branches ripping away from the main trunk. Again you groan, a grimace on your face when you think about having to go home in that. With a calming sigh you turn back to the hotdogs, spinning slow and peaceful in the warm light.

Heaven is one big 7-Eleven, you think to yourself. One of the very few things that calms you down is rotating hot dogs that probably aren’t real meat.

From the corner of your eye you can see someone else enter, but the wind blasting through the doors is enough for you to turn your head.

It’s Kenny.

Of course it’s him.

Gulping you turn back to the hot dogs, hoping beyond belief that Alan will get back soon. Kenny is the only person that’s ever rendered you speechless, the only one that’s ever made your cheeks blush without a word. Even in fluorescent light he seems to glow, peaceful and careful as his fingers drag a feather touch across a row of snacks. He hasn’t noticed you, not yet, so you have time to plan out how to hide from him. Instantly you turn to the cash register, wondering if you’d get kicked out of Alan found you hiding behind the counter.

Too late - you can feel his eyes turn to you, burning into the back of your neck as you hold a viselike grip on the edge of the plastic red counter.

“Um, do you, uh, work here?” He asks, now standing directly behind you. Trying to smile, you turn to face him, feeling your heart burn with the speed it beats at.

“No, I - I just know the guys who work here, I don’t know where they are now, though,” you say, oversharing a little bit and praying he doesn’t notice. He’s right in front of you, half confused as his lips part just barely, brows furrowing above grey eyes. You can practically feel your legs giving out beneath you, but he turns to the door before you fall in front of him. Practically gasping for air as he leaves your personal space, you watch as he goes to open the door.

“Is... is this supposed to be locked?” He asks.

“No, it shouldn’t be,” you breathe out, making your way over to the door to try and open it. It’s stuck, hard - you even back up to kick it and it doesn’t budge.

“Wait, you’re… you’re (Y/N), aren’t you?”

“You know me?” You ask incredulously, even though it’s not that farfetched that he would know your name.

“Of course I do, you’re like a legend at school,” he says, getting quieter as his sentence ends. As he fiddles with his fingers, awkwardly trying to look somewhere else, you can’t help but stare as you nearly always do.

“I’m flattered,” is what you manage to say, just as choked and embarrassed as him.

“I’ll stay out of your way, just - just don’t beat me up?” He requests, holding his hands up defensively as he backs away towards the corner of the small store.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I don’t do that,” you say, taken aback by his words. You know your reputation isn’t great, but you didn’t think it was that awful - you’d never beat up an innocent person and you didn’t plan on starting. “What are you doing here anyway? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Um, my friend… he told me to meet him at the library, but the weather got bad and I needed to get inside,” he explains, still not meeting your eye.

God you’re perfect, you think to yourself in reaction to nothing in particular - he’s just so beautiful, so supple you can’t help but wonder what he’d feel like with his bare skin against yours. More than anything you want to belong to him, which you realize is strange for you; generally you enjoy others belonging to you, but… Kenny is different for no reason, but he’s so incredibly special you can’t understand your infatuation beyond the fact that it’s insurmountable and achingly enduring.

“I might be able to make a flamethrower,” you say, trying to think of ways to not be suffocated by nearness to the object of your unending affections.

“Wait, a flamethrower? What -“ he follows you frantically as you begin to search for flammable sprays - “what for!?”

“The door is frozen shut, we might be able to get out if I melt the ice away,” you say quickly, but he’s pulling at your arms to stop you from digging through the shelves. At the force you whirl around, face to face with him as your chest practically touches his, and in an instant you can’t breathe for fear of losing the moment. You both pause, frozen into shock before he steps back like you’re poison.

“I don’t think that’s, uh, necessary,” he says slowly, and just as slow you agree, nodding as you put the lighter away.

“Sure. You have a phone?”

“No, you?”

“I keep mine at home,” you mumble, untensing as the adrenaline of the moment fades away.

“Well this sucks,” he huffs, crossing his arms and turning awkwardly to the shelves as though he didn’t want you to see his face. “At least it could be worse.”

“No, don’t say that, the power’s gonna go -“

Darkness falls over the store and the heating system goes quiet, the dull background hum going out. A loud sigh comes out of you, letting your eyes accustom to the dark before thinking of what to do next.

“I think we might be stuck here till morning,” you grumble, the dim light of streetlamps casting a gold glow over the various rows and, of course, putting Kenny in a perfectly beautiful light. You can practically feel the blood rushing into your cheeks, and you quickly look away with crossed arms.

“I’m… sorry,” he says rather suddenly, just barely making his way closer to you.

“It’s not your fault,” you sigh. “A beautiful coincidence.”

“… beautiful?” He asks, confused by your wording - it can’t possibly be a good thing to him.

“Yeah, I -“ you look over at him, fiddling anxiously with his fingers as he looks up at you - “Never mind. You tired?”

“No, don’t think i will be for a while,” he says, sitting with his back against the refrigerated drinks, the back of his head clunking against the cold glass.

“I’ll get a flashlight and a boardgame,” you tell him, the only idea in your head that didn’t sound stupid; the entire time you’re looking through the back for games, you’re kicking the thought of cuddling him out of your mind. The situation is perfect, far too perfect for it to work out well. Besides, these types of things generally don’t work out for you - as previously said, you’re a bit of an asshole, and that trait has a tendency to screw you over.

He just sits and waits, and when you come back a good five or ten minutes later, he’s still sitting in the same position. It strikes you as odd how he hasn’t even fidgeted considering how much he was doing it earlier, but you just shine the light in his face and cackle when he winces away from the brightness.

“All they had is chess. I guess Marie took back her game, which is fair,” you add as you sit yourself down across from him, putting the box in the middle of you two. “She got fired a while back and didn’t get her game when she left. I helped get her a key for the backroom,” you recall, chuckling, but Kenny looks partially terrified, so you stop.

“You know how to play?” He asks, rubbing his hands together as he starts setting it up.

“A bit. My brother tried to teach me when we were little, I never caught on much though,” you say, thinking distantly of how your brother was doing in university. “He’s a big math guy, loves strategy games like this.”

“So you don’t like strategy…?” He asks slowly, as though worried he’d offend you - you just shrug.

“It’s not that. I’m… just more of a romantic guy.”

For a good three seconds he doesn’t breathe, but when you raise your eyebrows questioningly, he picks up again with an absent nod. Once the last pieces are set into place, he does a quick run-through of the rules, and by the end of it you’re fully aware you’re going to lose at least the first few rounds. Neither of you have a grasp on time as you go through the first round, then the second, and onto the third - you lose very fast, that’s all you’re aware of. He’s sweet about it, for which you’re confused if not thankful. If you were to play chess with some of the people you hang with, they’d be mean about winning and they’d cheat on you, which is fair; you’d do the same to them. Now you’re being nice, trying to actually understand the game, and he’s being a complete sweetheart about teaching you the rules.

It isn’t something you’re used to, but it’s something you could be used to, and something you want to be used to - this sort of kindness. Despite all the thoughts running rampant in your head you manage to stay concentrated on the game - well, him more so than the game - and it almost feels like he might like you. That’s an improvement, you think to yourself, recalling his initial fear of you.

“Could I ask you something? If you don’t mind,” he requests after you both come down from a laughing high, and you agree easily. It’s only far too easy to be open with him. “There’s lots of stories that go around about you - there’s this one, this one’s my favorite, mostly because I don’t think it really happened, but it is really funny.”

“Really? Well, rumors are half right sometimes. What horrid thing did I do this time?” You ask, using the bottle opener on your swiss knife to pop open a beer bottle.

“It’s mostly just… inappropriate, not that it was a particularly ‘bad’ thing. I heard you… slept with Isla and Gianna like, at the same time, like every high school boys’ dream. The guy I heard tell it said you snuck into a sleepover or something?” He says slept like it’s disgusting, so that paired with absolutely everything else about him you assume he’s very unexperienced.

“That’s an interesting story, which I - I don’t usually tell the truth about,” you confess, waiting for him to make his next move in the game, but the moment never comes. He’s far too engrossed in your conversation, and as wonderful as it feels to be having a real conversation with your crush, you can’t help but hate the subject.

“Will you tell the truth this time?” He asks, quiet and sincere in a way that you don’t fully expect. It pushes you to trust him just a little bit more, and it’s all you need for the truth to come out for the first time about that story.

“I went to sell them some weed because they called me up n’ said they’d pay the price for bothering me so late at night, so y’know, I said ‘fuck it,’ you only live once right? I climbed into Gianna’s window for this too, and then they offered for me to share it with them. To be fair to myself I wasn’t feeling… too great about myself,” you grow quiet, “so I said yes. And then they started bringing up sex, and they kept trying to get me to make a move on them, but I wasn’t really feeling it. I didn’t want to do it, but it.. sort of happened anyway?”

He’s quiet, sort of nodding his head but he’s too far in thought to commit to the motion fully.

“Why haven’t you told anyone the truth before?” Is what he asks at first, and you breathe out a sigh of relief when you realize it’s one of the easier questions.

“Didn’t want to seem like a pussy, that’s why,” you scoff, taking a smooth swig from your bottle. “It’s not a big deal anyway.”

“Kind of sounds like it,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a virgin,” you say, that asshole part of yourself that you were so worried about earlier rearing it’s ugly head. Right on time too, right when you could’ve opened your heart.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin. You know what they say,” he says defensively, leaning back against he glass.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“The safest sex is no sex at all.”

“Yeah, and abstinence won’t get you pregnant 99.99% of the time,” you laugh. When he just looks confused, you explain, “Virgin Mary, dude.”

He opens his mouth to let out a tiny ‘oh,’ and at last the game is resumed. Throughout the next several rounds he asks more questions, but those times he doesn’t ever lose track of the game turns. By the end of the night, when you’re both finally yawning with dewey eyes, you’ve only won one round, which you’re very proud of.

“At least I beat you once,” you remark as you help him look for blankets to stay warm with. “I won a round against Mr. Chess Master.”

“And I won fourteen rounds against Mr. Sex,” he says, his eyes bulging out of his head as his hand slaps over his mouth once he realizes exactly what he’s said. You turn to him, shocked yet pleasantly surprised to find him so flustered. Dreadful is how you’d describe him, dreading your full reaction.

“Those aren’t the rounds that matter if I’m Mr. Sex,” you respond, trying to remain as smooth and deep as possible when you wink to punctuate your sentence. His mouth falls open when his hand drops back to his side, and you walk out of the storage room with a small smile.

You heave a massive sigh, gathering yourself back together once the door shuts behind you. It only takes a few seconds before he’s following you, but it’s all that’s necessary for you to gain your chill again.

“It’ll probably be easier to sleep back here,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the entirety of the backroom - it’s a tad warmer and carpeted, which is a plus for comfort. The one office chair is cheap and heavily scratched by god knows what, so you roll it into the corner and lay out a blanket on the floor. It’s not an especially nice blanket, which is what you expected. The only real source of warmth you have access to is the leftover coats from employees who didn’t care to take theirs home.

As you lay down on the blanket, covering yourself in a too-large trench coat, you wonder of the different ways the evening could progress. In fact it’s all you can think about, all your brain can stress about when Kenny lies down right beside you. He has his coat as a pillow, and without word you offer your coat to help cover him - he declines, mumbling something about how he’s already warm.

I could kiss him right now, you think, the thought sending shivers of anxious excitement and fear through your veins. He’s staring at the ceiling, and though your body is facing the same direction you’re looking at him, watching the slow movement of his chest and the tired blinking of his eyes. Or we could leave and never talk again.

You don’t know what you’re doing, hardly aware of your own movements as the back of your fingers caress the side of his face, pushing unruly hair away from his eyes. His breath catches in his chest for a moment before he turns to you, eyes wide but curious despite the obvious fear.

“You’re really handsome,” he barely gets out, a whisper that he stumbles over. Judging by his uncertainty in himself you’re confident in saying he’s being sincere - that and the fact that nothing about him insinuates he’d lead you on like that. There’s so many silent words shared between you, a bond that one hold tights while the other wonders how it’s possible.

One wrong move, you think, one wrong move and I fuck this up, just like everything else. The urge to hold him close, to grab his hands and keep them intertwined in your own runs strong through your cold fingertips, but you wait. You wait for him to make the first move, but he doesn’t even blink; he’s far too enraptured in the way your lips part just slightly, the way your eyelashes flutter when you glance nervously up and down.

“I really like you,” you say, though the words don’t fully come from your conscious self. Something grabs you, ties away your thoughts and says what you mean - exactly what you mean, something you hardly ever do. He reaches up towards your hand lying dormant beside his cheek, trailing over your skin till he tangles his fingers in yours, holding your hand tight in his as he presses a kiss to your knuckles. The entire time you stare, watching his eyes flit downwards as a blush you can barely see in the dark crawls up into his face.

In a swift movement the old coat is off of you, crumpled in some corner as you rest your forearms on either side of his head, supporting your body held above him. His breathing picks up and at last he finally looks into your eyes again, careful to watch for any sign of what comes next, but even you aren’t sure as to what you’re doing. Still you move down, inching closer till your lips press against his.

He’s clearly startled, even though he immediately moves against you, kissing up into you even if his hands don’t know where to go. In your position you can do very little, but you manage to thread your hand into his hair, tugging on it lightly as you move deeper, pulling a tiny, broken hum from him. When his hands wrap around your wrists it’s painfully obvious he’s never done this before, so you break away, letting the both of you breathe and smile when it’s finally, fully, consciously realized what just happened. It’s so starkly different than any other romantic encounter you’ve had, so openly loving and yielding you wonder if you’ll ever be able to kiss anyone but him again.

“I’ve waited so long to do that,” you murmur, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. He almost laughs, breathy and unsure as he runs his fingers down your spine.

“You could’ve done it sooner,” he tells you, whispering the words into your ear, his lips tickling the edge of it as he speaks. “I’ve had a crush on you for months.”

“Really?” You ask, pulling away to look at him fully. He stammers when you rest your weight on his hips, the heat of your thrill burning through the layers of clothes to intoxicate him. “I haven’t ever seen you look at me once in class.”

“We have class together?”

“I sit behind you, Kenny. English class,” you chuckle, watching his lips purse together in embarrassment.

“I mostly watch you during lunch. I - I never said anything because… well, you know why,” he mumbles, once more unsure of where his hands are supposed to go, so he crosses them on his chest.

“I know,” you say, quiet as you think over your words. “You still could’ve come up to me, but… this works too.”

He breaks into a grin, giggling when you join him till you’re both coming down from a high - as the wide grins dissolve into contented smiles, you kiss again, moving slow and soft, softer than the girls you’d been with, sweeter and more innocent than any love you’ve known.

“It’s strange you know,” you mumble against his lips, interrupting yourself by kissing him again. “I usually go for degenerates, you know, people like me?” You kiss him again, deep and needy - “but God, I’ve never adored someone as much as I adore you.”

“Really?” He manages to get out amidst your attack, trying to get ahold of a rhythm you could kiss him to but you’re chaotic, switching from his lips to his jawline and pressing kisses up his neck.

“Yeah,” you rasp out, the beginnings of a hickey blooming red on his neck.

“Oh, I - oh, don’t leave a mark,” he says, but by the way he tugs at your hair and pulls you closer, you’re sure he really wants you to.

“Let me guess, strict parents?” You ask, pulling away to look at your work. He nods as though it’s something to be ashamed of, but you just sigh and smile, tracing his jawline with your fingers. “This is probably the only time we’ll be able to make lots of noise, though.”

“You mean this’ll happen more times?”

“If you want it to. I want it to,” you say, watching as he nods furiously.

“Yes, please,” he practically whimpers, pulling you in for another searing kiss, his new ferocity biting at your lips and making you moan. You’re grinding on him, hardly realizing your actions before you’re both far too worked up from the friction.

“Fuck, I need you,” you say, your hands going up his shirt to scratch at the soft skin there.

“I haven’t ever done this before,” he tells you, almost glaring at you when you mumble, ‘I knew it,’ but the glare is quickly cut short when you palm at him through his jeans.

“Do you want this? We don’t have to, you deserve better,” you stop for a moment, letting your hand grip at his hip while the other strokes soothingly through his hair.

“Better than a quick fuck in the back room of a 7-Eleven? Probably,” he says, a smile breaking across your face at his humorous tone. There’s a delight that runs through you when you hear him swear, but you try not to think about it. “But I don’t think either of us are gonna be able to sleep well with… this.”

“Fair enough,” you say with a shrug, pulling him back into a kiss.

With fumbling hands he works at your pants, managing to unbutton the ragged material and push them partially down your hips. You do the same for him before pulling his shirt off, kissing down what you find to be a surprisingly toned chest. For as much as he’s bullied he’s incredibly attractive and rather fit, and for a second you wonder why he’s bullied so much, before remembering a lot of people are pretty racist, and the whole ‘being gay’ thing was pretty obvious to everyone.

A long, saccharine moan is pulled from his lips, forcing you to think only of him. At the sound you practically gape, a sudden virility going straight to your cock, which is now straining painfully against your boxers. You can’t remember what it was you did that made him moan like that, so you do everything you think could work - it proves a lot for him to handle. Tiny gasps leave him as you trace your fingernails over his chest, biting tiny love marks into his ribs as your own chest occasionally rubs against his crotch.

“(Y/N), please, just friggin’ touch me,” he whines, his head thrown back and staring blankly at the ceiling, too focused on the sensations to care. You almost laugh at his desperation, but when he grabs your hair and practically grinds his dick into your face, you don’t. As demanding as it is you can’t help but acquiesce. You mouth at him through the fabric, and by the time he’s begging you again there’s a prominent wet spot on his underwear from where you sucked. When at last you begin to pull them down he looks at you, watching intently with flushed cheeks as he’s fully exposed to you.

Standing, you undress yourself, making a little show of it when you notice him staring. The moment you finish you’re back on him, just as needy as he is when your bare cock brushes up against his; his shoulders shake at the contact, and he falls back onto the floor, his eyes shut tight. To soothe the ache you kiss him, as tender as it was when you first kissed, and he finally lets out an anxious breath when you part.

“Tell me what you want,” you murmur, running your hand slowly down his chest till you reach his waist, your fingers just barely curling around him and pumping slower than what he deems should be possible.

“I just need you, anything, please,” he replies, breathy and still as wanting as ever.

“God, you really like begging for me, don’t you?” You tease, smirking when he just whines as you speed up your pace. With a kiss to his neck you whisper in his ear, “I love hearing you moan, though.”

“Then make me moan,” he says thoughtlessly, regretting his words when you smirk and move down his body. Regret is the last thing on his mind however, once you wrap your lips around the tip of his dick, sucking and practically drooling as you pump him.

“You taste wonderful,” you hum, attempting to take him deeper.

As experienced as you are it’s chiefly with girls (even if you aren’t as attracted to them, it’s just easier to pretend like you are), and this would technically be the first time you’ve sucked dick. It’s a lot harder than girls make it seem, you note to yourself, but try to take him deeper anyway. A long whine tumbles from his lips when you both realize you don’t have a very strong gag reflex and take him to the hilt, sucking and still roaming the expanse of his thin waist with your hands. He’s close, you can feel him twitch in your mouth, paired with the precum dripping off him and into you, but he yanks you away by your hair and pulls you up for another passionate kiss.

“What about you?” He asks, panting, and you almost laugh again - it’s so odd for someone to ask about you first.

“The sight of you like this is enough for me,” you assure him, laying wet kisses that have his eyes fluttering into the back of his head down his neck and onto his shoulder.

As you continue pumping him, focusing the majority of your energy on sucking a hickey into his skin, you hardly notice yourself grinding against him. In fact you only realize you’re doing it when his legs wrap around your hips, pulling you in till your cocks are slotted next to each other, both achingly hard. The intensity of it has both of you coming soon after, the imprint of your nails a semi-permanent fixture on Kenny’s hips, paired well with the blossoming hickey on his clavicle. He’s not the only one marked up by the end, though - angry red streaks line your back from his scratching, and you only notice when you collapse on your back beside him.

“Would you happen to have a rag?” He asks, both of you breaking into giggles soon after.

“I’ll go get paper towels,” you offer, reaching for your underwear before realizing you need to clean up before putting on clothes. Instead you peck his forehead, leaving him smiling as you leave the room.

Eventually you’re both cleaned up, clothes on, and the trench coat is covering the both of you, cuddled tight in the back room of 7-Eleven. When the story gets out, as all stories do at some point, there’s a lot of varying accounts on what happened in the night. The most popular, and probably your least favorite, was that you terrorized him the entire night, and though most people don’t believe it considering how close you and Kenny act, it’s still the most popular. Another theory was that you introduced him to drinking and you stayed up with him all night, drunk out of your minds; you don’t mind that story as much, but he does, so you try to tell people that isn’t what happened.

He does ask at one point if he’s allowed to talk about your relationship, and your answer is an ardent yes, which surprises him. You adore every part of him, and you find no shame in that, even if he thinks you should. Sure, you do get bullied a lot more, but it’s nothing brass knuckles don’t sort out quickly.

It’s an odd pairing, you acknowledge that. Punk doesn’t usually go well with sweetheart nerd, but it works surprisingly well, and for that you’re endlessly grateful. In-between classes you run by his locker even though you’re on separate sides of the school, always kissing him before each class. Your little expeditions leave you late to every class but English, and by the end of the year all your teachers hate you as usual with the exception of Mr. Davis.

“You concentrate a lot better these days. Did my talk help you out any?” He asks after class one summer day. Kenny is waiting outside the class, so you try to find a quick answer.

“Well… a little. I talked to Kenny at least,” you answer with a smile, bidding him a kinder good-bye than you usually give your teachers, saluting him as you close the door.

“Everything alright?” Kenny asks, walking shoulder to shoulder with you down the empty halls of the school.

“Everything’s perfect, sugar,” you answer, your arm hanging around his shoulders.

#kenny al bahir x reader #kenny al bahir #war at home #rami malek x reader #rami malek #male reader

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