#i think that's what i tagged this last time apparently if i stop cleaning i start hyperactive posting

[obviouslacking]

medication titration is such a bonkers concept they're like here *throws prescription at your forehead* fuck around with your brain until something sticks, and so you basically have to treat yourself like a weird little science experiment for months

[hypewinter]

Prev

Tim came down the stairs with an empty mug in hand. As he entered the dinning room he found a kid happily eating pancakes. Ah this must be the new adoptee, he thought to himself as he recalled last night's group chat.

"This is not a new adoptee," Bruce said looking up from the boy. Man, Tim hated when the old man guessed their thoughts like that.

"Say whatever you need to convince yourself B," Tim replied with a shrug as he went into the kitchen.

Bruce shouted after him, "He already has a family!"

The boy immediately interjected, "She's not my family silly! She's my friend."

Tim chuckled to himself as he filled his mug and came back into the dining room. "Aw B," he said smugly, "he doesn't even have a family. You're not saying we're gonna leave him on the streets are you?"

Bruce for his part, glared halfheartedly at Tim before turning back to the little boy. Tim also took this time to observe the boy. He believed Oracle had said his name was Danny. Danny was currently happily kicking his legs as he stabbed at his pancakes. Tim couldn't help but note how the pancakes had already been cut into bite sized pieces. Other than that, he seemed perfectly fine. No apparent injuries or adverse reactions to sudden movements. His clothes were also nice and clean. Probably Alfred's doing. Speaking of the old butler, he came in and set a plate down in front of Tim.

"Oh I'm not-" One eyebrow raise was enough for the young man to shut his mouth. He looked down at his plate only to immediately turn back to Alfred with an eyebrow raise of his own. "Mister Danny claimed it was not fair he was the only one to receive such special pancakes. He was rather insistent that everyone experiences such happiness this fine morning," Alfred informed.

Ah, that explains why Tim had gotten star shaped pancakes. He looked over at Danny who was smiling giddily at him. As Tim took his first bite of pancake, he couldn't help but agree with that assessment.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Danny?" the boy looked up at him. "As you know our... mutual friend left you in my care. As such after you're finished with your pancakes, what do you say I take you back home?"

"Ok!" the boy replied before shoveling more pancakes into his mouth.

"I think I'll tag along too," Tim said. There was no way this little "drop off" was going to go as planned and he wanted to be there to see it. After all, someone had to keep the group chat updated. Besides, he took great joy in Bruce's half perplexed half annoyed expression.

"Don't you have some meetings to attend today?" Bruce asked through gritted teeth, guessing his son's angle. "Nope," Tim answered sweetly. "My schedule's all clear today."

"Fine," Bruce relented. "If you want to come along on this very quick drop off, I won't stop you."

Tim smiled into his mug. This was gonna be fun.

-----

"We're here!" Danny exclaimed as they pulled up to an abandoned looking apartment building.

"Are you sure this is your home?" Bruce asked cautiously. Tim couldn't blame him, this place was on the outskirts of the Bowery and looked like nobody had lived there in years.

Danny opened the door and hopped out. "Yep!" he said. "I know because I'm a big boy and big boys know how to get home." He puffed out his chest proudly.

"Right," Bruce muttered pensively as he examined the building.

They all entered the building and began ascending the questionable stairs with Danny taking them two steps at a time. As they climbed, both Bruce and Tim noted how rundown the building looked. Walls were peeling and there was rubble and trash all over the floors. The railing on the stairs looked so rusted that a gust of wind could probably knock them over. Most of the lights didn't work because of one thing or another which luckily wasn't a problem considering it was daytime. But none of that was even the most concerning part. No, the most concerning part was how silent it was.

As they walked down the hall, it was simply too silent. Even taking into account that most people would already be at work right now, it was still too quiet. There was no hint of people coming back from work the night shift. No sound of those staying home sick or someone with a day off. No dogs barked, no cats made any noise. It was an eerie silence that seemed to blanket the whole building. It was unnerving.

Danny stopped in front of a door and opened it with ease. There was no lock or anything. Once again adding to the list of concerning evidence. They entered after Danny to discover a shabby looking flat past the door. There was barely any furniture, and the furniture that was there looked like it should have been thrown out years ago. The floor boards seemed as if they would give way at any moment too. The windows to the far side allowed lighted in but that only served to illuminated the mountain of dust everywhere. The apartment didn't even look lived in. There were no clothes anywhere, no dishes, no sort of decorations, nothing.

Danny seemed undeterred by any of this and happily pranced into a room off to the right. Tim followed him as Bruce stayed behind to look around more.

As he entered, Tim was relieved to find that at least this space looked lived in albeit barely. The bed had Superman themed sheets on it and there was a backpack leaning against the closet. The bed also had a blanket laying on top of it which Danny ran to and grabbed. He came back over to show Tim.

"This is my most precious thing!" he explained excitedly. "My friend gave it to me. Feel it! It's super soft."

Tim knelt down and felt the blanket which was black and had stars all over it. "You're right," he said. "It really is soft." Danny beamed. "Told ya!"

Tim smiled at the boy's obvious excitement despite his less than stellar living arrangements. Just then, Bruce called for him. Tim returned to the main room with Danny in tow, still clutching onto his blanket.

Bruce turned to him and handed him a piece of paper with an unreadable expression. The paper had cursive scrall on it that simply read, Take care of him my knights.

Danny looked up at them both curiously and Tim just sighed. So much for this being a quick drop off.

[kykyonthemoon]

Drizzle at Midnight

When you miss his twenty-seventh birthday.

── .✦ Zayne x Female Reader|MC

── .✦ Tags: angst, emotional hurt, hurt/comfort, angst with a better ending, break up & post-break up

── .✦ Word count: 1k3

── .✦ Requested by bon.

── .✦ Masterlist ♡ Request a fic

You entered Linkon City territory just as the clock on the panel displayed four round zero digits. The cool air combined with the scent of passing rain signaled the arrival of autumn. Your shadow lingered on the road all by itself. In solitude.

Your steps were rushed from the minute you exited the train station. On the deserted street there was still a shop open. Your favorite bakery. As soon as your shadow became apparent, the owner delivered you a properly wrapped box. 

“Here you go, Miss Hunter. Lucky you, our shop's about to close.”

“I'm so sorry that my order came so late at this hour.” You spoke while attempting to catch your breath. 

The bakery owner smiled at you. "Not an issue at all. We've only just started cleaning up. Last time you called to cancel the order, I was concerned that something might happen between the two of you. But today when you called again for this cake, I assumed that everything was okay.”

You clasped the box in your palm, unsure what to say for a minute. You simply nodded and smiled faintly. The bakery owner noticed that the Hunter uniform on your body had not yet been changed and realized you were too busy to be certain that you would be able to return on time to pick up the cake. After that, you gladly bid farewell to the owner and continued walking along the desolate road ahead.

Your steps slowed as you moved further away from the bakery. The shop owner knew you and the person whose cake was ordered for that day. Just the previous month, you had spent hours there asking them for advice on cake selection, decorations and other necessary things. All for this special day. But one night, the bakery received a call to cancel this specific order. You thought you would no longer need this cake. But when your mission was over and you were on the train back to Linkon, you suddenly wanted it back.

You had called that very afternoon, hoping the bakery could still make it in time. You could pay more if necessary, but the owner insisted that they still kept my order. Thinking about it, the bakery was a place so familiar to you and that person; the shop owner had also witnessed happy moments of both of you. They preserved your previous purchase because they sincerely thought you would come pick up this cake and personally deliver it to the person you loved.

Finally, you showed up. Unlike what the shopkeeper expected, you ordered this cake just for yourself.

Your footsteps halted in front of a large building. You sat down on the stairs, placed the cake box on your lap, and gazed into the distance. One side of Akso Hospital was visible in front of you. You consciously counted the number of windows that were both still illuminated and entirely dark. You stopped by his window.

The office was still lit. You smiled. Your hands trembled as you removed the ribbon from the box. Once it opened, there was a blue and white cake inside, crowned with exquisite macarons and a glistening snowflake on top. It was just how you imagined when you ordered the cake.

You also imagined his reaction when he unexpectedly spotted you at the hospital, after his shift ended. His eyes would brighten up, even before he realized the cake in your hand was for him. You would sing the happy birthday song, then urge him to close his eyes and make a wish. Most likely he would claim that he did not need to wish, because what he desired most was right in front of him. 

You had envisioned that scene so many times. Each time, you would add a small little detail; his smile, the way you stood on tiptoe when you kissed his cheek, the way he held your hand when you both returned home... But it all shattered, into thousands of pieces of ice that cut into your heart. Like all beautiful dreams that come to an end, the pain of waking up to the discovery that you have lost everything was too much for you.

Let us stop... You could not forget those words coming out of your mouth. The fault was neither his nor yours, it was just that you two no longer share the same destination. The road was divided into two directions. Looking back, you realized that he was no longer there waiting for you.

You had been away from him for a fortnight. You erased an abundance of memories about him from your phone, but his birthday reminder still existed. You turned on the screen, his account was still offline. The last time he had sent you a text message was to remind you to wear socks before going to bed. It was already cold. He was no longer by your side to take care of you like a baby. Was it because of your childish behavior that burned him out? You knew too well that he respected every decision you made, including the one that ended this relationship. Yet, honestly, you wished he would hold you tight at that time. Did he let you go because he understood that you both needed space then?

You missed him. So much. You had left Linkon and threw yourself headfirst into the mission just to temporarily forget the void he left in your heart. But the further you stayed away from him, the more you felt that air had left your lungs. You could not think about anything else but him, the surprise birthday party you had prepared in advance for him. Everything happened so fast—the argument, the goodbye... All was whirling around in your head, and the only thing you could cling onto were memories.

The past cannot be altered. You could not turn back and stop yourself from saying those stupid words. You could only wish him the best on his own path.

You turned on the lighter and lit the candles. Twenty-seven candles on the cake shimmered in the area where you sat. Your lips released a tune, your whole body swaying back and forth to the rhythm. When the song ended, the window in the front office went dark. Lights off. You blew out the candles.

“Do you want to do something special on your birthday, Doctor Zayne?”

“Every moment with you is special to me.”

“You must have eaten a lot of mint candies recently! No surprise your words are so sweet! But I still want to do something for you so that you'll never forget that day.”

“Weren't you supposed to go on a mission far away on that day? You won't try to escape back here for me, will you?"

“I am Linkon's top Hunter! I'll finish soon and come back to you, okay?"

“All right. I'll wait for you."

Twenty-seven candles went out. Tears fell from your eyes. Still, you smiled at Akso Hospital. 

“Happy birthday to you, Doctor Zayne.”

You burst into tears. Your entire body trembled so badly that the cake on your lap nearly tumbled over. You had no idea how long you sat there. The temperature grew cold, and drizzle began to fall. You raised your face to the heavens. 

There were footsteps approaching and halting in front of you. An umbrella appeared to shield the rain over your head, and that dearest face you knew emerged.

You brushed the tears away from your cheeks. Was it a dream? Your lips parted, trembling:

“Doctor Zayne?…”

He was silent. Zayne appeared astonished to see you here and unsure what to say.

“You… What are you doing here?” 

Zayne remained silent for a little longer. His gaze locked on you, then down at the cake in your lap. As if he had realized something, he formed a gentle smile.

“I'm waiting for you.”

[growup-thatbeautiful]

always an angel (never a god)

Tags: mentions of childhood abuse, language, childhood best friends, weddings, angst

There was a time when you’d painted Jake’s fingernails. “For practice,” you explained, picking out the perfect blue to match his eyes. “So I can do my own next.” You had been sitting in his backyard, a ziplock bag of colors in between you. The grass was soft and green and dewey, just at the end of summer, and the air was ripe with the smell of the peach tree you sat under. The t-shirt you wore was probably his- even then you ended up stealing half of his clothes during last-minute sleepovers and spontaneous swims in his pool. 

Of course, he’d agreed- he always did. If anyone asked him- a football teammate or a nosy teacher- he would tell them to fuck off. Everyone knew that meant it had to do with you. He would take shit about anything except for you, they learned. 

But his dad came home early from his business trip. Jake didn’t have time to take the polish off before George Seresin saw his son’s blue nails. He didn’t care much that they matched Jake’s eyes. They ended up matching the bruises hidden across his ribs; the bruises you tended to when he snuck through your window later that night. He didn’t need to go through the window anymore, your mom knew about his “troubles at home” and he was welcome anytime, but it kept up the childlike appearance. 

He had been 13, at the time. Apparently, the nails were too much, because George stopped coming home after that. No one in the town said anything about it, and the Seresins went on like nothing changed. You knew Jake’s mom, Dolly, well enough to know that she wouldn’t tolerate anyone talking about her children, so no one ever did. You were probably the only one who ever saw Jake cry about it; it only happened once when he was the only player on his baseball team not to have a father to throw with. Dolly had searched for hours the night before to find George’s old glove, but it was nowhere to be seen. 

Jake’s older sisters, Violet and Jenny, painted your nails from that point on. You never asked Jake to do it again, and he never brought it up. You were young enough to think that it really had been the nail polish to made George leave, and Jake believed whatever you did. It would be years until you realized that it probably had more to do with the fact that George never loved Dolly, hated his children, and wanted nothing more than to drink himself sober. 

“Angel,” Jake used to call you. Because he’s always thought you’re the most beautiful person. Because it’s what Anakin called Padame, and you had loved Star Wars. Because what else was there to call an angel? When did he stop calling you angel? It couldn’t have been that long ago, right? When did you lose him for the last time? 

When he left for boot camp, you were a senior in high school. It had been unbearable. You wrote him letters sprayed with the perfume he gave you for your sixteenth birthday. It smelled like clean laundry and green grass. You thought it smelled like home. Years later, he would tell you that it did, in fact, smell like home when he was thousands of miles away from you. 

Blue eyes and sandy hair. Dirt underneath his nails and calloused hands. Electric blue skies shifting into a watercolor of purple and pink through gingham curtains at his kitchen window. Mud mixed with twigs to make witches' brew and Christmas sweaters you pretended to hate. That’s how you’ve always know him. When he came back from basic, he was the same, just different. His hair was shorter, cropped close to his head. He’s lost some weight, and the football muscle becoming leaner. Of course, he would grow the muscle back later on; he could never stand not being able to pick you up and spin you around like he did after all those football games. Ironically, his accent grew with time apart. So did his ego, but you expected that. 

The first girl he brought home was the sweetest one. Short black hair and grey eyes, like a thunderstorm. She left after one week with his family, leaving behind a heartbroken Jake. You were the one to help him through it, drinking a bottle of vodka underneath the stars on a wooden fence with barbed wire cutting Xs through the sky. Jake didn’t cry about girls, but she’d messed him up pretty badly. Bad enough for him to be honest with his sisters. Bad enough for Dolly to call your mom and have her send you over with a tray of cookies that Jake never told you he hated. Violet was kind enough to make you her hangover cure the next morning after you woke up with red eyes and a dry mouth in Jake’s bed. Nothing happened, naturally, but you never could convince Violet that. Whenever Jake was upset, it was a family affair. 

The next girls he brought home passed in a blur. As he got older, they got worse and worse. Fake, rich, and bratty. He said he loved them and they would be enchanted by his stories about flying a plane. They didn’t stick around long enough to hear about the parts of him that hurt, though. Not like you did. Maybe that’s why he can’t look at you the way he looks at them. They see the stained glass, you see the breakage it took to make it. 

You never thought it would end like this. 

An engagement ring. Shining in a Tiffany blue box, casting a kaleidoscope of color across the kitchen. A wedding veil, long and draped and crusted with diamonds at the end. White heels with tulle bows on the back. A backyard, down-to-earth wedding, despite the possibility for more. An always-present local violinist rehearsing old country love songs on the porch, a sweating pitcher of iced tea on the table beside him. 

All for her and Jake. 

Dolly’s house is buzzing with energy. Her family and his family all coming together in a chaotic mess of introductions and “how can I help?”s and “I’m good with whatever”s. Jake’s fiancé is the perfect future wife with a steady job and the desire for a big family. From the few times you’ve met her, she seems lovely, and Jake is completely enamored with her. For the first time, you see hearts in his eyes. 

You’re just here to drop off some food- it’s supposed to be family tonight. Dolly invited you, and Jennifer begged you to stay, but they both knew that it was pointless. It’s utterly selfish of you, but you can’t get over the fact that he’s getting married. A cruel part of you tells yourself that you never even tried to get his attention.

You’re meant to be in and out, but you can never say no when Dolly asks for help. You should’ve known she would have an alternative motive when she asked you to get flowers from the back of the barn- it’s been a dead patch for years. 

The sunlight peeks through the stubborn clouds, and his hair moves golden with the wind. He isn’t facing you, but he doesn’t need to for you to be able to recognize the broad expanse of his shoulders or the hanging posture of his head from the way he leans forward over the rotting wooden fence. 

If you were smarter, you would turn tail and run away. Save yourself a night of crying. But you aren’t, and, about him, you never have been. 

He doesn’t look up when he speaks before you get the chance to. “Were you planning on lookin’ or actually coming over to say hello?” 

“I wasn’t looking at you,” you defend, knowing it isn’t true. If he catches your lie, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he asks the question you’ve been dreading. 

“Why aren’t you coming tomorrow?” 

Why, you ask yourself. Why? Because you can’t stand to see Dolly embrace her like she’s a daughter. Because you don’t want to be the only one not smiling at the reception. Because you’ve loved him your whole life, and he doesn’t seem to know. Because she’s lovely and beautiful and you’re the one he used to play dress up with. 

Because you’re selfish and twisted. 

“Angel,” he says. And, no, he can’t do that. He can’t call you that now. Now, when he’s going down the one path you can’t follow. Now, when he’s pretending like he doesn’t know how you’ve loved him since he was eleven. Now, when you’re losing him. “Things don’t have to change. Right?” If you didn’t know any better, you would say he sounds scared. 

You do know better, though, so you know Jake never gets scared. 

“You know that’s not true,” you respond. The way his grin falls breaks your heart in two. Here you are, standing before him, bleeding out with a smile on your face. Dying and saying the tears are out of joy. “You’re going to be a husband, Jake. I can’t be in the middle of that.” 

“You’re my family,” he tries again. 

“I’m your friend,” you counter. Dolly and Violet and Jenny would disagree, and, honestly, you don’t believe it either. But it gets you through the conversation. “And I don’t think she’ll appreciate my presence. None of the others ever did.” 

“She’s not like that.” He means it, and you know it’s true. She’s been nothing but gracious and generous to you. 

“I know,” you respond quietly. “But I can’t do it. I just can’t. I don’t expect you to understand.” 

He waits a moment before he responds, his eyes looking into yours. There’s emotion in them that you aren’t used to seeing towards you. “I do.” He says it softly, and you almost don’t hear him. 

“What?” 

“I understand. Every time you’ve brought home someone, I feel what you’re feeling right now. The pain. Feeling like some part of you is being taken away.” He reaches up to cup your cheek with a gentle hand. Every part of you screams that you shouldn’t do this; you shouldn’t give him a reason to hate you for years. But you lean into his touch, the warmth of his palm against your cheek. It’s a fight not to beg for more. You do have some semblance of pride, though. 

“It doesn’t matter.” There’s a sad smile on your face and a matching one on his face. No one should look that heartbroken the day before their wedding. “It’s too late.” 

He doesn’t have to say anything; you both know it's true. With a heavy heart, you place your hand over the one cupping your face. There’s going to be a wedding band on one of those fingers tomorrow. It gives you strength to remember that.  

It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done; lacing his fingers with yours only to drop his hand to his side. He accepts the gesture. He lets you go. 

It wasn’t meant to be. He has a new angel now, one that will love him for as long as she can. It’s for the best, you tell yourself as you walk away. 

Blue eyes and blond hair. A little boy with a broken heart and blue nail polish. That’s how you’ll remember him.

[narcissosbythepool]

@pricegazweek Day 2 - Shotgun

Tags: smoking, shotgunning, discussion of illness and death, pre-relationship (or the liminal space between that and romance)

//

“I don’t think our target is going to show up today.”

Gaz, looking out to the empty street from the window, lowers his binoculars. “No, I don’t think so either,” he admits and sits down on the floor where Price already is located, hiding under the window’s ledge, gun propped up against the wall.

“Tomorrow?” he asks and Price shrugs.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better to keep watch either way, but I have a hunch.” He sniffles. “And it rarely leads me astray.”

“Ah yeah, the famous hunch,” Gaz rolls his eyes and gets an amused look. Price returns to patting his pocket. His eyes light up as he finds what he wants, a cigar and a lighter, and he lights it with an air of gratitude that only a good nicotine hit can sate. Gaz is suddenly grateful he closed the windows – such an obvious tell would be the most embarrassing to be found out.

They’ve been on the look out for two days now and their target is nowhere in sight. Price assured him this is nothing abnormal – him and MacMillan waited for Zakhaev for three days back in Pripyat, apparently, and Gaz hopes they won’t break that record this time.

Gaz sets his weapon on his lap, muzzle facing away from Price, and starts disassembling it as Price smokes. The smoke puffs in the air like from a great dragon, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” Gaz says, “there is no safe exposure to secondhand smoke.”

“Yeah?” Price replies, blowing smoke in his direction. Gaz waves it away, holding back a laugh.

“My sister ranted about it to my brother once,” he explains. “Last leave. Told him to stay away from his smoker friends, when they’re out.”

“I’m sure that went over well.”

“I’m sure it did,” Gaz sighs. “Didn’t have the heart to tell her that my boss smokes constantly.”

“Like a chimney,” Price grunts and Gaz can’t fight back the grin anymore.

“I didn’t say it,” he simply quips back and knows that if they were any closer, Price would elbow him for his insolent behavior, like a proper commanding officer.

“Could be worse,” Price says then, inspecting his cigar. “A nasty habit, this one. Started years ago and was never able to stop. So don’t ever start.”

“As if the exposure won’t do it,” Gaz chuckles.

“Well, there are worse ways to go.”

“What, worse than lung cancer?”

“That’ll be my problem, won’t it,” Price drawls and were his Captain any other person, he would have winked.

“Not exactly,” Gaz says, taking out a rag to clean the parts of his gun, hands working as they speak. “It’s even more dangerous to the bystander.”

“Really, now?”

“Heightened risk, same result.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Inflammatory and respiratory effects appear within 60 minutes,” Gaz rattles on, and then turns to look at Price. “Can last up to three hours.”

“Hm.”

“Isn’t it interesting?” Gaz asks, putting the parts of his gun aside. “That it lingers like that?”

“Not just on your clothes,” Price’s eyes rake over his form and it makes him shiver.

“But inside you too,” Gaz confirms. Price blinks slowly and takes another inhale of his cigar.

“That is interesting, Sergeant,” he says, blowing the smoke away this time.

He’s not a stupid man.

Gaz doesn’t know what this reaction means – perhaps it excites him? Knowing he never leaves Gaz’s system, even when they’re apart. That he lingers in Gaz’s work clothes, his fatigues too… He mourns a little when he puts the clothes into the wash, willing the scent to stay – but it always fades away after a wash, unlike the smoke in Gaz’s lungs. It creeps into every part of him – from his lungs to his blood stream, his heart, his brain, envelops him into a deadly embrace from within; a warm sort of burn that doesn’t abate once the light is out. He wonders what it would be like to get it right from the source, not just have a scent memory that takes him back to the backseat of a car, to an office, to a quiet night on a mission. He’s never been a real smoker, but he could try. His fingers itch with the absence.

“Being with you is a little like secondhand smoking, you know,” Gaz blurts out.

“Being?” Price raises a brow and Gaz tries not to flush.

“Working.”

“Go on.”

“Leads to premature death.”

That makes Price laugh out loud, making him cough and cover his mouth with his fist. Gaz grins, willing his palpitating heartbeat to calm down – surely this isn’t the moment that his heart gives up on him, of all places, not on the job and exfil nowhere to be seen.

“You’re right about that,” Price chuckles once he’s recovered from his coughing fit. “Can’t tell which is going to kill you first, serving under me or my smoking.”

“I think we’ll find out,” Gaz shrugs. “Visit me at the hospital?”

“I’ll bring flowers to your grave every week, Sergeant,” Price says almost earnestly. Gaz nearly thanks him, save for the look in his eye. “But a pity. To die for the second-best thing.”

“At least I’d die from a real bullet.”

“You think I’ve tainted you enough by now?” Price muses.

“I think you did it by the trip to Moldova.”

“Like a smoke sauna, that car.”

“You ever been?”

“Nikolai took me once. You’d never know the difference.”

“I think I became a firsthand smoker,” Gaz grumbles, the memory of the stench of the smoke lingering in the car seats still ingrained in his memory.

“Almost like the real thing,” Price says.

His eyes linger on Gaz’s, then move to the stillness of the room. The smoke rises above them, swirling in the low light.

“Would you ever offer me one?”

“One of my cigars? Never.”

“Why is that?”

“Cigarettes suit you better,” Price says, voice low. “Your fingers… More slender than mine. A cigarette would belong there.”

“You’ve clearly thought about it.”

Price gives him a heavy look, straying to his hands – empty, still, aching to reach out.

“Yes.”

Gaz bites his lip. Price’s eyes travel back to his face, the blue of them piercing through his very being.

“Pity I don’t carry any.”

“Secondhand smoke it is, then?”

Gaz weighs the situation for a moment.

Ah, fuck it.

“Won’t hurt to have it straight from the source,” Gaz says, and crawls across the space between them – feeling slightly self-conscious, but it’s dulled by the expectant parting of Price’s lips. When he settles astride Price’s legs, Price meets his eyes – hooded, expectant – and brings the cigar to his lips.

Shotgunning is a delicate art – it has to be deliberate. The smoke, directed from one person’s lips to another, has to be a gentle blow; the inhalation precise. Gaz leans in slowly, chases that sliver of smoke from his lips, inhaling it into his lungs. And he feels it, first hand, the real thing, Price’s hand on his thigh and the other holding out the cigar, to stop the ash from falling on his clothes.

But there’s already a fallout: Gaz hands clutching the straps of Price’s vest, his mouth chasing the alluring smoke from Price’s lips, and when he leans back, it’s only for Price to inhale once more, and to pull him close by the chin.

He wonders which one’s better, the denial or the chase of it? The expectation of it or when it already burns his lungs? He thinks he already has the answer as the smoke turns into the soft press of Price’s lips, when the burning sensation turns into a greedy kiss.

Gaz hopes this will linger, too.

[starstruckmoony]

lover.

masterlist

pairing - james potter x muggleborn!reader

summary - james gets into a fight and you take care of him (you also scold him).

trope/tags - fluff, established relationship

word count - 1.3k

warnings - mentions of blood/violence but nothing explicit or graphic, mention of bullying but again nothing extreme

hogwarts was considered a calm place for a school, more often than not. and calm in a sense where students weren't taking their shots at trying to bite each other's heads off every other day. it got boring sometimes, without all of the age-typical drama and big fights, or brawls, or whatever one may call them (the ones where at least one person would land themselves a place in the hospital wing).

which is why you found it rather weird when a fifth year hufflepuff told you that a fight had broken out in the corridor outside of the potions classroom. apparently, almost all participants left bleeding, and one's nose wasn’t in a particularly divine condition. that wasn't very likely for wizards your age, their usual forms of battle would be hexing each other till one cried.

you brushed it off, it wasn't significant enough for you to dwell on it, and it didn't seem like it involved any of your friends. that was what you had suspected, at least. the sight of your boyfriend standing in the common room with a bleeding lip and brow was the last thing you wanted see when you stepped through the portrait hole.

"what did you do?!" you were in front him in a matter of seconds, looking at the other three boys in search of an explanation behind this.

"nothing happened." sirius was quick to defend whatever james did this time, and you shot him with a deadly glare. he chuckled awkwardly, ducking behind remus who appeared to be only moments away from shoving him to the floor.

"what do you mean 'nothing happened', look at him!" you snapped, pointing at james and the terrible condition he was in. he kept his eyes on the floor, not daring to spare you a glance.

"i mean, not much happened." peter lied, but it didn't do much to help. you ignored him, your focus still on your disheveled boyfriend in the middle of the room.

"i think we should let james do the explaining." remus suggested, and the irritated tone of his voice indicated that he wasn't exactly proud of his friend either. that, or something else happened.

"well?" you crossed your arms, your expression slowly softening.

"can we talk in private, please?" james finally looked up from the floor, meeting your worried face.

"fine." you sighed, letting him take your hand and lead you up the stairs to the boys dormitories. you made him take a seat on his bed not even a second after you walked through the door, and busied yourself by searching for bandages and other supplies through his trunk and drawer. luckily, he had told you remus had some, which the boys occasionally needed to use after their strange little forest explorations and full moon nights.

you made a swift trip to the bathroom and grabbed a towel which you had previously run under some water, and took a seat on the bed across from james.

"alright, speak." you gave him a nod of encouragement, and reached to clean up the blood around his lip with the cloth in your hand.

"promise you won't be mad at me?" james said with pleading eyes. you furrowed your eyebrows.

"what?" you accidentally pressed on the wound on his lip a bit too hard, causing him to hiss, "ouch." he muttered, his face scrunching up.

"sorry," you sighed, "i won't be mad, i promise." you muttered, your gaze stopping at a bruise that was beginning to form on his cheek.

"so, you know how i messed with snivellus the other day? made his potion explode in front of everybody?" you nodded. it was rather hilarious, especially since it happened not even five minutes after severus had bragged about his outstanding skills and knowledge about potions, and tried to get into slughorn's good graces (as if he already wasn't his favourite).

"well, i think he wanted to get back at me because he started following me in the hallway, chatting shit as usual," you stopped what you were doing for a moment, afraid that the story was about to go in a direction you had predicted it will, "i wasn't paying attention to him at first, i was trying to catch up with pete cause i stayed behind to talk to minnie, but then he..." james trailed off, much more nervous than before. he pressed a hand to the back of his neck, sighing uncomfortably, his expression sour.

"...started talking about you. rubbish, just pure rubbish, and he called you...you know, that word. the one for muggle borns, said you had dirty blood." you squirmed in your spot, feeling a bit uneasy. it was sad to say you'd gotten used to hearing such words thrown your way, they almost stopped bothering you, but it was different now, since it was affecting james, too.

"and then i punched him. square in jaw, also broke his nose. then mulciber came at me, then avery, snivellus was too busy whinging on the floor," james scoffed, and you didn't miss the way he rolled his eyes at the recalling of the scene, "a bunch of students showed up to watch, it was such a mess. and then moony and padfoot came and managed to fight them off somehow."

you sighed, putting your face into your hands and shaking your head. you stayed like that for a while, and when you looked up, you found that james had been staring at you the entire time. and without a drop of guilt in his eyes.

"did you really have to break his bloody nose for that?" you chastised, ripping the bandages open frustratedly and making the tiny papers they were wrapped in fly everywhere.

"what was i supposed to do?" he pouted. his ultimate weapon in fights, one that he was certain would always make you go easy on him. truth be told, you were beginning to feel a little less annoyed. if anything, you were more scared that something like that would happen again. and what if he's not lucky enough to have remus and sirius come by? what if someone uses a curse on him? slytherins like mulciber were brutal.

"not that! three against one, james. have you completely lost your mind?" you placed one of the smaller bandages onto his eyebrow, and dabbed the towel against the scratch on his lips a few more times. it was a bit ridiculous how you were scolding him and taking care of him all at once, but james was secretly (not very secretly) enjoying it.

"i'm not gonna have anyone talking about you like that." heat rushed to your cheeks. james bit back a grin. trying to come to a peaceful agreement about this was impossible, you both knew that.

"you didn't have to do it, you idiot." you smacked him across the head with the wet cloth, which only made him snicker. as disappointed as you were, you couldn't ignore the giddy feeling that was overtaking you. you tossed the towel staight to the floor and pulled him into a clumsy hug.

"thank you." you buried your face into his neck, your words were a bit muffled.

"you don't have to thank me," he kissed the top of your head, "next time he does that, he's dead."

"dramatic arse." you pulled away, fixing his chair and glasses as you did. good thing those idiots didn't break them.

"you love it." james winked, smiling cheekily.

"true, i do." you grinned back, and he quickly pecked your lips.

"you sure it's smart to do that?" you raised a teasing eyebrow. his lip was split open, so snogging really didn't seem like the most intelligent thing he should be getting up to right now.

"if you think this," he pointed to the small wound,"is stopping me, you are very wrong."

"james–" you gave up on even attempting to shove him away about two seconds into the kiss. it was james bloody potter, your stupid boyfriend who does stupid things because he loves you more than anyone could ever show, and who were you to resist him?

[angelsanarchy]

Tangerine Skies: Possum x Y/N Series CH 3

Tagging: @svgarcaine @icarus-star @romanroyapoligist @tempt-ress @madamemaximoff06 @shady-the-simp @liquidsmoothdomme @auggiethecreator

Possum and Y/n have been co-habituating for almost two weeks before she found him stripping down outside smelling his shirt.

"Possum? Everything okay?" She asked curiously.

"Apparently not." He continued to strip down.

"What's going on? Why are you getting naked out here? It's not that warm." She felt the chill in the air.

"The convenience store told me I couldn't come back until I didn't stink. I was offending patrons." He shrugged.

"So what's the plan here?" She held onto her coffee mug as Possum kicked his shoes off to remove his socks.

"I usually just air out the clothes for a day. That will buy me some time." Possum had started taking his belt off and Y/n finally walked towards him.

"Okay that plan sucks. You can use the shower in the RV and I'll toss your clothes in with mine. I can do laundry a day early." Possum froze hand hovering over his belt buckle.

"Really? I'm pretty dirty. I'd hate to make a mess." Possum looked surprised by her offer but she rolled her eyes.

"Do you have a set of clean clothes?" Possum shook his head.

"Okay, leave all of your dirty clothes on the picnic table with those pants. I'll start the shower and find you something to wear." She left the door of the RV open and turned the knob for hot water so it would be warm by the time Possum walked in. She didn't have a ton of extra clothes but she did have a large pair of sweatpants.

"Okay I might have to-" Y/n froze hearing Possum enter, turning to see he was completely naked.

"Um...alright. We could have left our underwear on." She blushed trying not to stare. He was thin but the definition he had from his hips only served to draw her attention to his happy trail that lead to a dark bushel of pubes. If there was one thing she wouldn't have suspected of Possum, it was that he would have a large cock. It hung uninterested to about the middle of his thigh with a thick head. He had dirt on his legs and a few cuts on his shins.

"I don't wear underwear." Possum said without hesitation. Y/n cleared her throat and shook her head.

"S-sorry. Um...the shower is ready." She held up the towel and sweats, putting them on the table adjacent to the shower. Possum walked past her and she felt him graze against her. She blushed so hard that she took off out of the RV to get started on his clothes.

She ended up wearing rubber gloves to wash his clothes, mostly because they were crusty as if he hadn't washed them in a good month. She could understand why the store manager told him he couldn't come in. She listened for the shower to turn off and got lost in the thoughts of what fucking Possum would be like. Would he be a rough fuck or slow and sweet? In conversations with him, he seemed calculated yet at a slower pace. She knew it was the drugs but she liked their time together.

She couldn't help but think about the last time she actually had sex. It wasn't with someone whose cock could serve as a limbo stick and it certainly wasn't slow paced. She remembers getting herself in the car on the way home swearing to herself that she would stop hooking up on the road. It had been months.

"Can I help?" Possum appeared behind her now wearing the sweat pants and the towel over his shoulders, hair sopping wet.

"Jesus! I'm going to get you a bell to put on. You're too silent when you move." She knew it was more her fault being lost in thought and not his sneaky movements.

"Did I scare you? I'm sorry." He put his hand on her arm.

"No no I was thinking-

"About me naked." Y/n blushed.

"W-what?" She questioned but he shrugged.

"It's okay. I like to be naked. I don't mind you staring at me naked. I've been told I have a noteworthy cock but I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing." He was very nonchalant about his naked body.

"It's a good thing. It's a very good thing." She laughed.

"I didn't mean to stare. I haven't see a naked man in a bit." Possum's eyes went wide.

"Really? I could take these off-" His hands moved to the top of the pants and she grabbed them to stop him.

"Possum! Work with me here! If you're naked, I will be too distracted to hang your clothes." She laughed and he smiled.

"Okay then I will keep them on." He walked over to assist with hanging the clothes and she shook her head.

"Hold on." She took the towel from around his neck and put it over his head to dry his hair a bit more.

"I have a hairdryer under the sink if you want to use it. You can't just walk around with soaking wet hair or else you'll get sick." She explained with his head hidden under the towel. When she moved it off his head, she could see him smirking at her.

"What?" She asked returning the smile.

"I feel like Pretty Woman." He said proudly.

"You feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman?" She laughed.

"Yeah...thank you for taking care of me and hanging out with me. You don't even have to pay me, I want to hang out with you." His smile spread wider and his cheeks blushed.

"Go grab the blanket off my bed so you don't catch a chest cold, Vivian." She teased.

"You know, Pretty Woman is one of my favorite movies." She called to him as he walked back onto the RV.

"No way! That's my mom's favorite movie. She made me watch it with her every Saturday while we had Crunch." He emerged with the thick blanket over his shoulders, he held it to his chest.

"Crunch? You mean Brunch?" She questioned.

"Um no we wouldn't have the money to go out so we would have breakfast for lunch on the couch. Crunch for couch brunch." Possum's explanation was sweet.

"That sounds really nice." He finally stood next to her, holding the basket of wet clothes while she removed them to hang on the line.

"Yeah I miss her...my mom. I think about going back East all the time." Possum admitted.

"You should. I'm sure she misses you too." She smiled at him. The fell in a comfortable silence for a few moments before he finally spoke up.

"You would make a terrible prostitute." Possum said matter of factly.

"Oh yeah? Why's that?" She couldn't help but laugh.

"You're too nice. You just give things away." He smiled. She could think of a few things she would give to Possum, no questions asked.

[nine-of-words]

Out in the Cold (Part Seven)

M Orc x M Troll (Hulder) Reader

PREVIOUS || STORY TAG ||

Wordcount: 3909

Content Warnings: Sick Reader, Discussion of Abuse

I think we could all use some fluff after this week. Conveniently, that’s exactly where this chapter was already going!

You’ve made it through the night without freezing solid, somehow.

Warm thoughts alone just aren’t cutting it anymore.

You want your lovingly crafted winter cloak. You want the nest of furs piled high on your slept-in bed.

Most of all, you want your lover.

But as you remind yourself, sullenly tracing over the details carved into the face of metal fibula in your fingers in thought, all of those things have been forsaken now.

…And you can't help but feel like you've made a horrible mistake. 

But it's too late to turn back. He wouldn't take you back now… 

Would he…? 

No, you force yourself to stop thinking about it. No use in giving yourself false hope.

What's done is done. 

The last paltry flame of your campfire burns out. Looks like it's time to move, even if light is just barely breaking the horizon.

You sneeze, feeling pitiful; chilled to your very core. 

LAST SUMMER

The weather is perfect for outside work today. It’s sunny, but mild, with an occasional gust of breeze. The last of summer is still holding out, but the autumn crisp is starting to creep in at the edges.

Because you are still essentially a floater when it comes to work assignments, you’ve been doing some of the care tasks of the communal flock of alpigs for the last week, since the normal shepherd is on bedrest. Which, while not ideal for them, is great for you, because you absolutely love these cute little guys. They’re dangerously smart, with sturdy, rotund bodies, and wooly fur covers their bodies and hangs down in a curtain over their eyes, only their wide snouts and a set of tusks each poke out from each of their heavy fringes.

They seem to like you as well, but you have a sneaking suspicion it's because they can use their body mass to bully extra food from you when you’re feeding them, since you're so much smaller than their usual keepers.

You sneeze dramatically into the elbow of your tunic, blinded by the summer sunlight.

Maybe you’re allergic to something flowering right now?

You thought at first you might have an allergy to alpig dander, but Torg informed you their fur is naturally hypo-allergenic, so they most likely aren’t the culprit. 

He also told you to go to Shaman and he’d take over your tasks for today. But he’s just being his usual worrywart self- The last thing you want to do is visibly start slacking so soon after moving into the Chieftain’s household. It's a bad look, and you've put in enough work becoming the settlement's beloved oddity that you don't want to lose it now.

And you don’t even feel bad- so why make a big deal out of a sneeze or two?

You’ve finished milking, now you set about feeding them. They only almost knock you over once, even!

But, you still have to muck out the pen… then give them some love and brush out their coats. It's apparently almost time for the last shear of the summer, so you want to make sure to do a good job of maintaining their fuzz. Today is tusk cleaning day, too… better pick up the pace if you want to finish before sundown.

You head over to grab the pitchfork, but you don't even make it inside the building.

Suddenly, you feel rather dizzy, the colors of the pen around you smearing into a beige soupy mess. You manage to catch yourself and sit on a bale of hay instead of falling over, but just barely.

Just need to… sit down for a minute…

You collapse back against the bales of hay, suddenly completely overcome with fatigue.

Why am I… so tired? We didn't even do anything very strenuous last night…

You think to yourself in a lightheaded haze, absentmindedly petting the fluffy back of the alpig that’s hopped up on the bale and made itself comfortable at your side.

Too bright…

You squint, raising a gloved hand to shield your curiously over-sensitive eyes from the caustic brightness of midday sun.

And when’d it… get so hot…?

Your world goes black after that, your next blurred memories consisting of being lifted from your straw nest and carried somewhere with a softer light and more varied swirling colors.

Your whole body aches, every muscle fiber crying out in complaint like you’ve just pulled a full day of physical activity, despite you being at rest. Your head throbs dully, your throat is raw and scratchy and your eyes are just so hot - burning in their sockets like two smoldering coals.

And it’s not just your eyes- You’re burning up all over. Even though you’ve been stripped down to smallclothes and covered in minimal bedding, you're still soaking them through with clammy sweat.

Strangely, the ceiling you’re looking up at looks nothing like where you’d expect to wake up, and instead the vaulted ceiling of a noble’s home.

You’re back in your childhood bedroom at the jarl’s castle, somehow. You’re overcome with instant, deep seated dread.

Someone is sitting at your bedside, but you can’t make out any of their features from the distorted shape.

“Mother?” You question piteously, unable to think straight through the heat of your fever.

The dark blur of color at your bedside speaks to you, but their voice is warped to your ears, the words indistinguishable, sound both a low rumble and a high pitched ringing.

You choke out a sob, gripping their forearm. You know words are coming out of your mouth, that you’re arguing desperately over something that feels so important at the moment, but they might as well be a foreign language to your own ears.

You’re barely sure what is real and not, memories of your past bleeding into your current senses. Time melts together like the blurs of color in your vision and the distorted ringing in your ears. Eventually you give up on communicating and fall back into fitful sleep, but you have no clue how long it takes.

The next time you open your eyes and manage to keep them open for longer than a few moments, you see the correct wooden beams on the ceiling of Torg’s - and you suppose yours as well, now- bedroom.

“H-Huh-?” You sit up, the damp rag slipping down from your forehead from the sudden movement. You slump back again immediately, reigned in by the sense of exhaustion hitting you in return.

Torg reaches out, collecting the rag to douse it again. He’s pulled up his behemoth of a well-worn armchair to your bedside.

“Torg?” You rasp his name through your hoarse, pained throat, more of a greeting than a question, comforted by the mere sight of him.

“I’m here.” He smiles, but looks tired; his hair messily gathered up and his shirt heavily crinkled. The beginning of faintly purple bags are starting to form under his eyes, the kind he gets when he’s been working too hard with too little sleep.

He pours you a glass of water from the nearby pitcher. You drain it immediately, then half of a second one before your throat is damp enough to speak again.

“...What happened?” The last thing you clearly remember was dozing off in the alpig pen. You know time has passed since then; judging from the evening vermillion visible out of the window, you’ve lost at least most of the day.

“Tusk flu. But don’t worry, Shaman said you’ll be fine."

"I don’t feel fine." You croak weakly, then pout when Torg chuckles at your plight. “Everything hurts.”

“I told you to go get checked out.” His grizzled voice gently chides you with a weary sigh. Even getting scolded, the sound of his voice is music to your ears. Torg reaches out, feeling for your temperature on your cheek and forehead with his hand. “The fact that you have the strength to complain now means you’re already doing better, anyway.”

“Mmmh.” Your eyes flutter closed at the welcome feel of his comparatively cool skin on yours. You don’t have it in you to plead your case- mostly because you know he’s right.

“Good. Much cooler than before.” You can hear the relief in his voice as he judges your temperature. He smiles down at you warmly, and pulls one of the fur blankets back up over you, now that you’re slightly colder. “Your fever must’ve finally broken.”

“Hmmm… Before?”

“Yeah. You’ve been in and out since yesterday morning.”

“That long?!” You wheeze, turning your head and feebly covering your mouth as if it would help at this point. No wonder he looks tired, if he’s been caring for you for that long. ”But won’t you get sick too?”

“I won’t. I already had it as a child.” He leans in and gives you a quick peck on the lips as if to prove his point. “Apparently it's only this bad when you get it for the first time as an adult- at least according to Shaman. And I doubt you had been exposed to it, wherever you came from."

“The alpigs-” You say forlornly, remembering your failed task. 

“Relax.” He laughs, shaking his head. “It’s all taken care of already.”

A sigh escapes your tired lungs as his hand gently strokes through your hair and comes to rub at one of your soft ears. You sink down into the blanket, eyes closed in pleasure, and smoosh your face into the touch. You have to forcefully keep yourself from purring.

“This reminds me of when you first came here.” He laughs fondly. “Should I get used to finding you passed out?”

“Mmm…” You pout and whine, but still enjoy the feeling of his affection too much to swat his hand away in indignance. “Give me some credit! It’s only happened twice…”

“And twice is much more than never.” The deep rumble of laughter that comes from Torg’s chest almost makes the teasing worth it. …Almost. “When I came to make sure you went to Shaman’s and found you laid out on that hale bale instead, I thought you were just taking a catnap in the sun.”

“I would never do that.” You lie, blissfully.

“Hah, right… I’m glad you’re back to yourself.” Torg says quietly, his eyebrows beginning to furrow in a deep, furtive slant. “...You were saying some strange things while you were burning up.”

“Mmn-?” One eye finally pops open, staring up at him quizzically. 

Cold fear grips you.

Oh no. 

Did you blow your cover while you were out of your mind?

“You called me ‘Mother’, for one thing.”

“Oh, pfft-” You snort, breaking into laughter. Then you take his large hand and press a kiss to the back of it. “Don’t worry. You don’t look very motherly, I promise. Especially not like mine.”

“Heh. I feel like one after the last day or so.” His amused smile falls a bit at the seriousness of his next words. “Most of what you said was nonsense, but some of it was… Well…”

"Scandalous?” You try to laugh it off with a cock of your eyebrow. “Or just embarrassing?”

“...Concerning. Like you were being made to do something you didn't want to do."

“Oh. Well, my life up until I came here has mostly been doing things I didn’t particularly want to do.” You shrug, nonchalant.

"I don't want to pry into what those things were, if you don't want to tell me. Though, I admit I am curious." He scruffs his beard with his hand in thought.

"It's… Nothing all that interesting." You fiddle with the edge of the blanket. “Nothing worth talking about, really. Nothing good.”

"Right." He says, noting your discomfort and seeming to back off of the idea. "I just want you to know that you can tell me anything."

You have to admit, that is a tempting prospect.

You could tell him. You could just… tell him everything. You’ve essentially been given an invitation on a silver platter.

You have to wonder what would happen if you did. You assume you would be kicked out- or worse. But… maybe you wouldn’t? Maybe he could help you get out the mess you’ve made for yourself…

Then, you snap back to your senses.

…No, that’s nonsense, you decide. Nothing could ever be that easy. Not for you.

The fever must’ve gotten to you for a moment.

You have to stop yourself from laughing incredulously. It's a lovely sentiment, but you have a feeling it just doesn't extend to deceiving him with the intent to steal from him for all this time.

But you should tell him something… Otherwise the fact he doesn't know something will keep nagging at him. You know him well enough by now that you know that to be the case.

"Oh, you know how it is... Classic sob story, really." You say flippantly with a wave of your hand. "My mother never really wanted me and it showed."

You decide on information that is not inherently false, but won't have any bearing on keeping up your deception.

"Ah. What makes you think that?"

"Well, the general disinterest for my wellbeing from a young age was probably the biggest sign. After my father left, she lucked into getting remarried to the jarl of our village, somehow... It became pretty clear that I was only a nuisance to her after that. Getting in the way of the life she deserved, I suppose. Because after that, he always came first."

"Hmm." He leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. "He was no better than her, I take it?"

"No. He was a slimy weasel of a man. Heartless and miserly. He had to control everything down to the smallest detail.... Enjoyed tormenting people below him. He's the reason I ran away when I did."

"Ran away?"

"I left home when I was 14." 

That was more than a decade ago now. Time flies when you're struggling to stay alive every single day… 

"That's so young." Torg can't hide the look of deep concern on his face, no doubt thinking of any of the tween-aged orclings around the settlement he's responsible for having to endure the same strife.

"Being on the street seemed like the better option."

"I’m sorry. It must've been unbearable, then."

"It was a culmination of a lot of things, really. The day before I left, he caught me in the pantry sneaking food after I was sent to my room without dinner, and he cornered me and wouldn't let me by until I guessed what he wanted as 'toll’- You know, because I’m a troll. He thought he was so funny. I may have been young but even by then I knew that wasn’t going to lead to anything good. I was lucky a servant showed up when they did and he had to pretend to be normal."

"Your mother did nothing?" It's subtle, but you see Torg's jaw clench in rhythm like it does when he tries to keep his temper in check.

"I knew she wouldn't listen, but I told her anyway. She told me I was making things up for attention- that I was ruining things for her like I always do, and if I hated her husband and his hospitality so much, that I could leave. So, I left and never looked back. I wasn’t going to stay where I wasn’t wanted." You shrug, putting a mirthless smile on and deciding to hand-wave the rest of the details between then and now, so as to not rouse  suspicion. “As you can imagine, it was a lot of doing unpleasant things after that, to not starve. Not many lucrative jobs for underage runaways.”

Living in the settlement has been the most security you’ve ever had, especially in terms of reliable access to regular meals. A hot, communal evening meal every night is something that you could have only dreamed about, before. That’s not even to mention the quality of the food… You’ve definitely added a couple pounds since you’ve been here, just from never having to skip a meal, as was a norm for you before now - even after joining a thieves’ guild.

"You shouldn’t have had to endure any of that." Torg gives you another soft stroke on the cheek, his hand trailing down your neck to squeeze your shoulder for emphasis. "I'll make sure nothing like it happens to you again."

You hum in approval, your heartbeat picking up in your chest from the intimacy and the fondness of the statement. For being such a large, gruff and intimidating man, he sure is tender with you.

“Are you hungry? ” Torg seems to remember something, getting to his feet. “Dinner should be ready soon, but if you’re feeling peckish, there should be more than enough in here to tide you over.”

Torg moves a brightly colored basket to the nightstand within your reach. It’s stuffed dangerously to the brim with seasonal fruit, jars of preserves and honey, and other treats. There’s a piece of thick paper stuck into the middle of it.

You take the card, and unsurprisingly, can’t read the text, because you still haven’t picked up Orcish script. There’s a large phrase at the top, with the rest of the paper filled with several smaller pieces of script scrawled in different handwritings. There is also a large, crudely drawn cat smack dab in the middle.

“You’re quite popular around here, you know. Looks like you’ve been fully adopted.” You can hear the approval in his voice. “The knuckleheads dropped it off this morning when they came to check on you, but you were still out of it at the time.” 

“...Cute…” You can’t keep the silly grin from your face, looking at the wonky face on the cat.

“The big part says ‘Get well soon’.” Torg points to the text with a large index finger, chuckling at your look of intense focus.

“I know, I figured that out, context clues…��� You mutter, ears laying flat black and flicking in annoyance. The sight just makes him chuckle harder.

Torg returns to the stove, but you keep looking at the card, pouring over all the signatures even if you can’t actually read them.

Emotion pricks at the back of your eyes, and your throat tightens the longer you look at the paper. For just a moment, you had forgotten you’ll have to actually leave eventually, when you take your quarry back to the guild.

But no one at the guild has ever given a fraction of concern as the orcs here have. There was no care given when you were sick or injured, just considered dead weight. Even if you could call some of your ties with your fellow thieves friendly, it’s laughable to think any of them would do anything for you that didn’t have some sort of mutual benefit for them. There were certainly never any gift baskets or ‘get well soon’ cards.

The thought of leaving now fills you with a horrible, crushing sense of loss.

Your body wants to cry, but you’re not about to let it, and struggle to force the feeling down and keep it buried. 

You weren’t supposed to get attached. And here you are, having done exactly that. You’ve been a fool, and now leaving is going to be that much more painful… 

No one to blame but yourself, you suppose…

Finally, you select a beautifully colored honey-pear from the basket, hoping that eating something will make it easier to quell your emotions.

You chew in maudlin silence, trying to think as little as possible, until his voice finally breaks the silence again.

"You know… I left home on less than amicable terms too.” Torg says from the kitchen area.

He keeps his back to you as he works, and his posture is the smallest bit tense, like he has to goad himself to even speak about this matter in the first place. You study his broad back muscles moving underneath his light linen shirt.

"Ah. Are you a runaway too?" You speak through pauses of nibbling on the piece of fruit. It’s juicy and perfectly ripe, the viscous nectar soothing your irritated throat.

"No, I was exiled from my birth tribe." He sighs, shaking his head in scorn. “Though, I was of age already, so it wasn’t quite as hard for me to get by on my own as it sounds like it was for you."

“You- exiled?!” You nearly spew chunks of fruit across the bed in your hoarse outburst. “But you’re so… orderly!”

“Everyone has a breaking point.” He says grimly.

“True enough… What happened?”

“Fistfight with my father.” Torg says in the most matter of fact manner possible as he stirs whatever he’s cooking.

“Did you win?” Maybe not the most emotionally intelligent of follow up questions, but it’s the first one to pop into your head.

“Hah- I knocked him flat. Broke his nose in front of the whole tribe.” There is a hint of pyrrhic pride in his voice, even with his back to you. “I may be an orc, but I take after my mother in a lot of ways. I was already bigger than him at that age, and tired of his bullshit. He didn’t expect me to finally stand up for myself.”

“Oh, he sounds lovely.”

“Nicest man I’ve ever met.” Torg quips mirthlessly. “An absolute joy to be around.”

“This all sounds like a personal matter, though? That’s exile-able?”

“My father also happened to be Chieftain... He lost a lot of respect for it, I’m sure. Losing a test of might, then throwing out the winner because you’re bitter? And his own son at that? Dishonorable.”

“Oh wow.” You chuckle and cover your mouth with your hand, and can’t help but feel a strange surge of fondness for him. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you- That’s just so unlike you! I don’t think of you as a violent person at all...”

“Good.” He returns from the kitchen with a full tray and a grin. “I prefer it that way. ...Here.”

He hands you one of the steaming bowls off of the tray, keeping the other for himself as he takes a seat next to you.

“Hmm?” You reach out to take it, the rising steam already making your face feel better. “What is it?”

“Summer Root Stew.” His voice barely hides his amusement. “Though, it might not be seasoned how you like…”

You groan. You’ll never live it down.

Your comically overblown grimace quickly is replaced with a melancholic smile as you eat in comfortable silence.

“Something on your mind?” Torg asks after a while of you zoning out and picking at your stew.

You shouldn’t verbalize what you’re thinking about, but you can’t help it. He can see right through you when you lie about something like this, anyway.

“I’ve… never really had a place where I felt like I could stay. I always had to leave, for some reason or another. Usually not by choice...” You sniffle thoughtfully, fiddling with your spoon, hoping in some way to cushion the blow of what’s bound to happen someday soon. “I suppose part of me feels like it’s only a matter of time until I’ll have to leave here too...”

“You can stay here.” He says your name for effect, firm but gentle. 

And you wish so badly that you could believe him.

>> ✨ MASTERLIST >> ☕ KO-FI

[ghoulodont]

Alveolar Bone

Rain needs to have his wisdom teeth extracted — an uncommon predicament for a ghoul. Dewdrop is there for him in the days that follow, showing a similarly uncommon side of himself.

Relationship: Raindrop Characters: Dewdrop, Rain, Swiss Tags: Surgery, Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort Words: 4384

Read below or on AO3

Six months or so after he’s summoned, Rain attends his first dentist appointment. It’s horrible.

Dewdrop told him they were going to scrape his teeth with a metal spike, which did not make him feel better in the slightest, but that’s really all it was, and it was fine — a mildly unpleasant sensation. He marveled at how clean his teeth felt after. Overall, that part was acceptable. No, the real issue was what the dentist told him, which is that he has too many teeth. Apparently some people have more teeth than others, and each person only has enough room in their mouth for a certain number of teeth. Lucky him, he has extra.

He didn’t even know they existed, all the way in the back, tucked up inside his skull and his jaw bone, hidden away but causing trouble. The dentist knew, though, and had asked him sneaky little questions about them, like if he ever had pain in the side of his face. He asked it while pressing his gloved fingers against a surprisingly tender area in front of his ear.

Yes, of course he did. Everyone gets headaches, right?

Apparently not, or not like that. He had given a dangerously wrong answer to this question and revealed that his secret teeth were dysfunctional, and thus needed to be removed. The dentist tells him it’s a procedure much more common for humans. Humans are born without any teeth, and grow them in one at a time, so things can go wrong or something like that. Ghouls get all their teeth at once, during summoning, and generally only make as many as they have room for. His body must have miscalculated.

So Rain is an outlier among ghouls in this way, and now has a very human problem. It’s seen as something of a rite of passage, growing those teeth and having them removed, for young humans. It’s not something he could have ever anticipated dealing with as a young ghoul.

Back in the common room, he tells Dew of his plight. Dew doesn’t have any extra teeth. He never had those ones in the first place.

“Hey,” Dew projects across the room at Swiss, “how many molars do you have?”

“Molars?”

“Yeah, two or three? On each side.”

“Uh, I think three?” Swiss’ jaw drops slightly as his tongue explores the back of his mouth. “There’s three.”

“See,” Dew elbows Rain, “he’s like you.”

“He’s not though, because his aren’t stuck. They’re in his mouth.”

Dew hums. “Guess you’re extra special, then.”

—

Less than a week later, Rain is back in the strange and sterile dentist’s chair again.

There’s a lot more stuff in the room this time, spread out over the counter and on the little tray table. He spots something that looks suspiciously like pliers and then he stops looking.

The dentist’s assistant dotes over him, attaching the same funny paper bib from last time plus all sorts of other equipment. She clips something on his finger that makes a machine nearby beep in time with his heartbeat. He briefly wonders if it’s really that serious — why do they need to know about his heartbeat? But somehow it feels too late to be worried. He’s already here.

The dentist comes in and explains the procedure. He will be given some medicine “to relax,” and then something to make his mouth numb, and then the dentist will remove his teeth. With pliers, probably. Fine, it’s a plan.

The prerequisite for relaxation is apparently to put a big needle into his arm. He turns his head the other way. He sees the pliers again. He looks up at the ceiling. Whatever liquid begins to trickle into his vein makes a chill seep up towards his shoulder.

The dentist starts talking to him about the procedure again, reiterating the steps. At least that’s what he thinks is happening. It’s hard to tell because right in the middle of a sentence the world suddenly becomes hazy, distant, underwater. His body feels warm, and so, so heavy, or maybe it’s actually merged with the chair he’s sitting in. When he moves his eyes they glide over his surroundings like sliding on ice. The whole situation feels surreal, and it strikes him as amusing, just inherently funny to be in this room, experiencing this, waiting for someone to remove his teeth.

The dentist asks him how he’s feeling. He opens his mouth to explain that it’s like he’s had one drink too many, and a giggle comes out instead. He tries again, but words are too slippery. He gives up.

The chair tilts back. He blinks. He’s opening his mouth, because he was asked to — he doesn’t even have to think about it. He watches as the dentist approaches with an enormous, horror-movie syringe. Oddly, he doesn’t really mind. He closes his eyes.

The world becomes a blur of fingers and instruments in his mouth. There’s pressure, vibration, more and more sound. They’re doing road work inside his head, jackhammering asphalt and shoveling gravel. He can clearly picture the people in hard hats and high-visibility vests, tiny, inside his mouth, working away.

At some point the pressure becomes intense, close to unbearable. Bulldozers roll in, and big, heavy steamrollers. He reaches up to bat them away. A hand places his arm back on the chair.

The pressure eases. He opens his eyes a tiny sliver and watches an off-white chunk of something covered in red leave his mouth. His eyes slide closed again. The assistant says he’s doing a good job. He wonders what he’s doing. He’s doing nothing. The pressure returns.

Sensations swirl around him. Time feels wrong — dense, but also infinite. How long has it been? Minutes, hours? Days? It’s impossible for him to know, and he’s not sure he could even guess. When the dentist tells him they’re done, he feels surprised, or some attenuated version of it, mildly puzzled. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift, the construction crew having finally gone home.

When he wakes up — he was asleep? — the world is solid again. He’s alone in the room. The entire lower half of his face is numb. The comfortable, sleepy distance from before is replaced with a different kind of tiredness. He’s not heavy anymore but simply exhausted, like his body is registering the fierce battle — a catastrophic defeat, really — that just occurred in his mouth despite being completely unable to feel it, a sort of painless hit-by-a-truck feeling.

The assistant comes back in and coaxes him to slobber a huge wad of blood-soaked gauze into a bowl. She whisks it away, off to some other place. He’s alone in the room again. He closes his eyes.

The next time the assistant comes back, she stands him up on wobbly legs and walks him towards the entrance. He bumps awkwardly against the doorframe when they exit the room.

Dew is waiting by the entrance for him. Rain lets himself be handed off, passed into Dew’s guardianship. Dew hooks an arm around Rain’s waist and guides him down the hall.

“They took my teeth out,” he explains to Dew, but also to himself.

“They did,” Dew affirms.

The dentist’s office is in the infirmary, which now feels miles and miles away from the ghoul dorm. When they finally arrive in Rain’s room, Dew directs him to sit on the edge of the bed. 

Dew says he’ll be right back. “Stay right there,” he instructs.

Rain complies. He lets his eyes fall closed. He doesn’t realize Dew is back until he hears him placing something on the bedside table with a quiet clunk.

“Here.” Dew holds out a plastic cup of applesauce and a spoon in one hand.

Rain eyes it, apprehensive. He’s pretty sure his mouth doesn’t work right now.

“You need to eat something before you can take this.” Dew holds up a silver blister pack of pills and flicks it gently with one finger, making its contents rattle. There’s only three little perforated squares.

“What is that.”

“Painkillers. You’re supposed to take one before the numbing wears off.”

Right, of course. He had been so relieved that the procedure itself was over that this part, everything else, slipped his mind. He groans.

“Do you want to eat something different?”

He considers it. The entire concept of food seems unappealing right now, so no, not really, nothing in particular. He’s sort of hungry, though, he suddenly realizes. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday. He shakes his head.

Dew peels the foil top off the applesauce and hands it to him. Rain takes the applesauce. Dew hands him the spoon. Rain takes the spoon.

Rain lifts a spoonful of applesauce to his mouth and it runs into something. He feels around with his other hand to figure out what it is. It’s his lower lip. His mouth is barely open. He recalibrates. He feels sloppy, childish. Dew could tease him, but he doesn’t.

It’s slow going but eventually he hands Dew a mostly empty cup and Dew hands him a glass of water, and then a white tablet.

This is a new challenge. Putting the pill in his mouth is simple enough but when he tries to drink from the glass a small waterfall rushes over his chin and onto his chest. He ends up tilting his head back and aiming carefully, which gets the job done. Dew brings him a dry shirt.

Dew sets the two of them up on the bed in front of his laptop and turns on some docuseries about the ocean. Rain is content to zone out in front of the pleasant colors and shapes of coral reef biota, of rippling anemones and waving grasses and drifting jellyfish.

Half an hour or so into the episode, Dew interrupts the narrator, who is explaining something about snails. “Hey,” he prompts.

“Hey,” Rain echoes.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you be okay by yourself for a little bit? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, let me know if you need something?” Dew holds up his phone. The screen lights up right at that moment, awoken by a notification appearing.

“I will.”

Dew climbs out of the bed and heads into the hallway. He turns and takes one last look at Rain, checking on him one more time, before he disappears out of sight.

Rain can’t imagine what Dew thinks might happen to him, alone in the middle of his bed. He feels babysat, maybe, just a little bit. He continues to observe the coral reef.

A school of fish undulates across the screen and the entire world moves with it.

He splays his fingers against the bed, bracing himself. He turns his head away from the suddenly overwhelming visuals on the screen. Every motion of his head ricochets off the edge of his field of vision and makes everything else go the opposite way. Being upright feels precarious, like standing at the edge of a cliff. He slides down the headboard, scared that if he breaks contact with it he might float away completely.

He curls up into a ball on top of the sheets. The bed rocks like a ship in a storm.

He oozes off the bed and onto the floor, willing it to be firmer, more stable. The motion feels like doing somersaults. He closes his eyes and spreads out over the floor like a starfish. The solidity of the hardwood does make him feel a little better, at least.

Actually, everything is almost okay as long as he stays completely still. He imagines calm, stable things. A sturdy rock formation. The glassy, perfectly smooth surface of a quiet pond.

He’s not sure how much time passes before he hears footsteps in the hallway, then coming through the door, then rushing over to him.

“Whoa, what happened?” Dew paws at his shoulders like he’s trying to peel him off the floor. The world tilts. The rock formation topples and a standing wave forms in the pond.

“No, wait— Stop—” He doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening.

“Sorry, sorry, what’s wrong?” Dew brushes hair out of his face that he hadn’t realized was there.

“Everything is moving.” He doesn’t dare open his eyes right now but he can feel Dew looking at him, the weight of his concern pressing into his skin.

“Okay, um—”

For a second, Rain can’t figure out what’s happening, but then Dew is lying down on the ground next to him. Dew’s fingers brush over the back of his palm. Rain takes a leap of faith and flips his hand over, giving up one of his points of contact with the solid ground in favor of something else, contact of a different kind. Dew intertwines their fingers and squeezes their palms against each other. He slides closer, pressing their sides together. His body is solid, a rock in the stormy sea.

They lie together like that until Swiss walks by the open door. He stops in his tracks when he sees the scene inside. Rain squints at him, scared to open his eyes all the way.

“What’s happening here?” He tilts his head to the side to align his gaze with the two of them, horizontal on the floor.

“He’s too high,” Dew explains. Rain hadn’t thought about it that way, but it’s exactly what’s happening.

“Wouldn’t it be nicer to be on the bed?” Swiss walks through the door and stands over them, hands in his pockets.

“The bed is moving.”

Swiss glances up at it. “I don’t know, looks alright to me.”

Rain frowns.

“Come on, you can’t be comfortable there.”

Rain is feeling blessedly little pain at the moment, actually. He could be lying on hot coals and he wouldn’t care, as long as it didn’t make him dizzy. He wonders if he’s going to feel sore later after lying on the hard ground, muscles tensed up, holding himself together, or if he’s just going to be perpetually drugged up enough to not feel it. He wonders how Dew is feeling right now. “Okay,” he concedes.

“Okay? Can we get you up on the bed?”

Rain nods, forgetting that it will make the world wobble. He presses his eyes closed.

Swiss and Dew guide him first into a sitting position, and then pull him up until he’s standing. Rain keeps his eyes shut as tight as possible. He holds onto Dew’s hand for dear life. Dew sits down on the edge of the bed with him. From the other side of the bed, Swiss helps him turn and lie back into the same position he started in, lounging against the headboard. Dew scoots up next to him. Swiss sits against his other side.

The spinning settles. Rain opens his eyes. Dew is kneading the back of his neck with one hand. The show is still playing on the laptop, the narrator’s calm voice describing the vital ecological role of algae to whoever will listen.

Wedged between the two of them like this, the bed isn’t so bad. He places his head on Swiss’ chest, rising and falling with his inhale and exhale. The world rocks in a steady, comforting way.

Once he’s a bit more settled, Dew gets up and brings him ice cream. It’s plain vanilla — a perfectly acceptable flavor in its own right, but a disappointment knowing that his options are limited, that he’s not allowed to have one with anything exciting in it. It feels like eating cookie dough ice cream after someone else already systematically ate all the cookie dough pieces out of it.

He can feel his face now, though — well, sort of, as much as he can feel any of his body, a tenuous claim — which is a small win for his dignity. He is able to skillfully operate a spoon.

It’s hard work. Every action seems to have twice as many steps as normal. The ice cream melts into a growing puddle at the bottom of the bowl. He imagines his body might be doing the same.

At some point he falls asleep, but not completely. He has strange, vivid dreams about watching a nature documentary on his bed. On the screen, Dew swims through a school of fish and catches one in his teeth. Swiss paddles by in scuba gear, clad in a wetsuit, with big flippers on his feet, and gives a thumbs-up. The camera rushes to the surface and he jolts awake.

In the real world, Swiss isn’t there anymore. Dew is still pressed against his side, tucked slightly underneath him, his chin hooked over Rain’s shoulder. The ice cream bowl is on the bedside table now, its contents fully liquid. There are no more coral reefs or schools of fish on the laptop screen — it���s showing whales now, a group of them swimming together, breaching the surface and blowing big clouds into the air. A calf nestles against its mother.

The next episode is about turtles. Babies hatch from eggs and scoot their way over the sand, dragging themselves with tiny flippers, down the beach into the breaking waves.

Dew brings him dinner — soup, another exciting, no-chew food option. They run out of episodes of the ocean show and switch to a documentary about the African savanna, with elephants and zebras and lions.

Halfway through, Dew pauses it and gets up to grab something.

“You’re supposed to take more of this.” He holds up the blister pack from earlier. One of the wells is broken open and empty now.

“Do I have to?” He knows he should. His face is already starting to ache more and more.

“No, I can get you something else, hold on.” He heads into the bathroom but returns quickly, holding a small bottle. He opens it and shakes something into his hand.

Dew hands him two pills, little clear blue ovals — ibuprofen. It’s what he took for his headaches, and the same dose. To take the same thing after having the source of said headaches violently excised from his face? There’s no way it would be enough.

“I want more than that.”

“I don’t think you can have more, you’ll hurt your organs or something.” Dew lifts the bottle and squints at the text on it. “You should take the prescription one if it’s bad.”

“No,” he whines, drawn out. He’s almost embarrassed to hear the sound coming out of his mouth. “I’ll fly away, seriously.”

“I’ll be right here with you, I won’t let you fly away.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay, well, you can take these for now and if it’s bad you can take the other one?” Dew offers the ibuprofen again.

Rain nods. He holds out his hand and Dew places the pills on his palm. Maybe it’s enough; ibuprofen hasn’t ever failed him before. How bad can it be?

—

It’s bad.

The pain itself is bearable but it’s loud somehow, persistent and intense. He’s sweating.

“I should have made you take this one, I’m sorry,” Dew frets. He hands Rain a familiar white tablet and a glass of water.

Rain moans in response. He’s as sober as he’s been in a while now, but he still feels addled, in a brand new way this time, like he can’t hear his own thoughts.

It sort of crept up on him, starting out mild. Dew brought him ice packs, two clear plastic pillows full of something blue and slushy, to press against either side of his face. It helped, at first, but it just kept getting worse and worse. Dew was the one who noticed something was wrong, that he was becoming increasingly fidgety, bordering on agitated.

Well, it wasn’t that Rain didn’t notice, more that he didn’t know where to draw the line. He was trying to ignore the problem. He was prepared to endure it. Dew wasn’t willing to watch him do that.

Somehow it took Dew pointing it out, the worry in his face like a mirror for Rain’s own distress, for it to sink in — the pain, and the acceptance.

“Maybe if you go to bed now you’ll sleep through the side effects?”

Rain nods. He places the pill carefully between slightly parted lips. The water feels scalding hot in the back of his mouth, like it might sizzle into steam there.

He shuffles to the bathroom and, after asking Dew — who seems to have memorized the care instructions he was sent home with — if he’s allowed to, he brushes his teeth very, very carefully.

He returns to his bed and crawls under the covers, too overwhelmed to do anything else. He feels the mattress dip under Dew’s weight.

—

He’s roused by someone shaking his shoulder. He opens his eyes, just slightly, and the room is dim. The light through the curtains is yellow, like it’s early in the morning. He blinks.

The hand is on his shoulder again. They’re being gentle, like he’s fragile. He wonders how long they’ve been standing here, trying to wake him from a painkiller-enhanced slumber with light little touches. He rolls over and Dew is there, in sweatpants and one of the oversized t-shirts he likes to sleep in.

“Good morning.” Dew’s voice is soft, gentle like the hand on his shoulder. He reaches his other hand out, and he’s holding something — four pills, four little blue ibuprofen pills like beautiful, shining gemstones. “I asked the dentist and he says you can have four,” he says.

Rain’s heart swoops. “You did that for me?” For a moment he feels like he’s going to cry, so overwhelmed by this gesture. He holds out his hand to accept them.

“Of course.” Dew hands him a glass of water.

He sits up. The world threatens to spin, but ultimately remains correctly oriented. He can still barely open his jaw, so he has to direct the pills individually past his front teeth. The inside of his mouth tastes absolutely horrendous. He drinks all the water.

“You can go back to sleep,” Dew says as he takes the empty glass from him.

There are so many things he wants to say — there’s thank you, of course, but also how are you so thoughtful, and what did I do to deserve this, and, most of all, I love you so much, but he can’t figure out how to say any of it right now.

Instead he reaches out and grasps Dew’s hand — more like his wrist, because he overshoots a bit — in his sleepy, floppy grip and tugs it closer. Dew understands, and crawls into the bed next to him. Rain dozes off again with Dew’s head tucked against his shoulder.

When he wakes up again, Dew is sitting up, looking at his phone, which he holds in one hand, and absentmindedly stroking the other up and down Rain’s arm. He looks up from his phone when Rain stirs.

He frowns, his eyebrows raising and pulling together, and reaches out and brushes his fingertips over Rain’s cheek. “Are you hurting?”

Rain shakes his head.

“I’ll be right back.”

Dew has been saying that a lot recently. The thought makes Rain’s chest tighten. Dew is a rather independent person, not really one to announce his intentions like that. But recently he’s been so careful, so considerate. Rain feels like he’s seeing a secret part of him, a hidden side, something precious.

When Dew comes back, he hands him the two ice packs from yesterday, refreshed by an overnight stint in the freezer. “For the swelling.”

Rain presses them to his cheeks. It feels like they’re easing some kind of pressure inside his head.

“Are you hungry?”

He nods between the ice packs. He’s been subsisting on slop since yesterday.

“What do you want to eat?”

It’s been barely twenty-four hours of soft foods only and he desperately wants something crunchy. “Cereal,” he requests. It’s a truthful answer to the question but he knows what Dew is going to say.

“...No.”

“Potato chips.”

“Also no.”

He tries to think softer. “Strawberries.”

“Probably not a good idea.”

He whines wordlessly.

“Is it okay if I just bring you something?”

Rain resigns himself to a mushy world devoid of substance. He nods.

“I’ll be right back,” Dew says, and he slips out the door.

Rain rolls over onto his side. He makes a sandwich of his head between the two ice packs. The one on top slides off his face when he removes his hand from it, flopping onto the bed with a sad, wet sound. Instead of replacing it, he presses his fingers against his cheek, probing, curious. His skin is cold, but so are his fingers. There’s a huge lump underneath, solid and radiating heat, like a golf ball embedded in his jaw.

He rolls off the bed, leaving the ice packs on the pillow, and pads to the bathroom, where he stands in front of the sink. His reflection in the mirror above it has puffy, round cheeks, like a chipmunk. He leans forward and brings his hands to his face in an inadvertent imitation of a shocked expression.

He returns to the bed and flops back onto it, face down, maybe a little harder than advisable, his abused head bouncing against the pillow. He feels blindly for the ice packs and replaces them on his cheeks, holding them there with quickly cooling hands.

He lies there, motionless, until he hears Dew’s footsteps again. He rolls over laboriously, still holding the ice packs to his face, to see Dew standing over him.

“Here.” Dew hands him mashed potatoes. When Rain takes the bowl from him, eschewing one ice pack, he immediately turns back around and goes right back out the door without another word.

Rain marvels at how thoughtful this menu selection is. When he puts some in his mouth he nibbles with his front teeth, completely unnecessarily, pretending he’s eating chips. It’s not very convincing, but it makes him feel better.

Dew returns a few minutes later, holding a glass of something pink. A smoothie. Rain feels like he could cry, which is quickly becoming a theme.

“Strawberries?” Rain asks.

“Strawberries,” Dew confirms, casual, matter of fact, like there was no other possibility, like he never considered bringing him anything else.

[hotluncheddie]

Tell me if this is too much… Steddie scenario where one of them gets a new toy that the other is like, “Uh that’s too big, it won’t fit,” which turns into the other being stuffed until relaxed and horny and lubed up enough that it *does* fit, and he’s never come harder.

not too much not too much!!! very obsessed with thisssss

i noticed you’re making me pick who gets filled, u goblin 👹

i’m gonna go with steve. just bc i think he’d get off on the challenge. and i’m in my eddie going crazy watching steve do anything era.

also dunno how this turned into 3.8k but 😛

commence steve getting filled, in more ways than one..

[ rated: E | tags: chubby steve harrington, belly kink, stuffing, button popping, coming untouched, sex toys (big ones), established relationship ]

-

He brings it back after a 4 day trip visiting robin in Chicago. Apparently they’d gone out to the gay bars and Steve had, maybe, still been a little drunk when they stumbled into the sex shop the next morning. 

(It had been before breakfast so he hadn’t been able to soak up the alcohol with a couple of the generously filled bagels from his favourite place. Or get the donuts he’d been craving from that one store - hadn’t stopped thinking about them since the last time he visited her.) 

But basically he doesn’t think, he just sees that it’s big. Maybe too big. But he thinks about the word full, and he can’t help but buy it. 

It’s bigger than Eddie, Eddie’s can admit that, he’s man enough. Looking down at it on the bed, this thing is kinda huge. But Steve just looks up at him, eyes all big and pleading, mouth a little pouty and Eddie knows he’s going to give Steve everything he asks for if it’s the last thing he does. 

and Steve knows it too, knows it as he whispers his idea into eddies ear, with all the filthy little details. Smiles as he trails his hand up his boyfriends thigh, feels him hard in his jeans, just from talking about it. 

Steves going to get exactly what he wants, he's going to be full. 

They don’t set a date necessarily, but schedules line up and time frees and the next day is there for sleeping in and it just kind of happens. 

Steve has a shower beforehand and stretches himself on his fingers. Lets Eddie watch as he works their biggest plug into himself, ready to let it sit there through the meal, a good start for what’s to come. 

Steve thinks about his plans for later as he sucks in to button his too small shirt and tuck it into jeans are just getting tight, just starting to bite. 

Eddie watches, loosing braincells and they haven’t even started yet. 

They can't really go out to dinner, not like they want, like a real date. So Steve likes to make it special at home, set the table, light a couple candles, hold eddies hand across the tablecloth. It works.

He also couldn't eat the way he wants if they were out, or dress the way he has. And where’s the fun in that? 

So they stay at home. It’s perfect. 

Steve made lasagne. 

Eddie has his standard serving and Steve works his way through the rest of the pan, more than enough for five, maybe six people. Eddie has two or three spices of garlic bread and Steve devours the loaf. Sopping up sauce, uncaring that it drips onto his shirt, stains his mouth. 

Eddie helps him finish the last couple pieces, the last mouthfuls, cleaning the plate. Looking at Steve with so much adoration. Perched on his chair, knees between Steve’s spread thighs, Eddie trails his fingers through the gaps in Steve’s shirt. Where the buttons strain against his belly, windows of pale skin, threads ready to snap.  

He pushes the last piece of greasy bread past Steve’s lips, hand exploring the hard crest of his belly. ‘Getting full baby?’ Eddie asks, plucking the button at the widest part. ‘Not even close’ Steve huffs, unable to take a full breath, but aching for more. 

Steve grabs the quarter that’s left from the bottle of soda, brings it to his lips and chugs. Eyes closed but Eddie’s watching, watching the bubbles hit his stomach and round his belly impossibly bigger. ‘Oh’ Eddie says, awed. Steve feels his stomach surge forward, the faint sound of a button hitting the tile. He groans around his final gulps, other hand prodding and feeling where his belly’s broken through the shirt, stretched it to breaking. He moans and pants, finishing with a wet burp. Eddie’s hands never leaving, petting and prodding and kissing over his form. 

Eddie takes the empty bottle, crowding into Steve’s space, panting into his mouth and Steve feels Eddie’s hard cock straining his jeans, grinding lightly against Steve’s exposed middle. ‘Ready for part two?’ Eddie asks, kissing Steve and dipping his tongue in to taste. Steve moans, sucking on Eddie’s tongue, he’s so ready. 

They manage to make it to the bedroom eventually, between making out and Steve stopping to pant around his full stomach. Eddie stopping them just to grope at Steve’s plush sides and grind filthily against the plug in his ass. They make it to the bedroom. 

Eddie strips Steve of his clothes slowly, savouring each button that’s left, watching it slide out of its hole with a ping, pulled apart by Steve girth, framing his round belly so nicely. Undoing Steve’s jeans and fly, knuckles against still soft underbelly, pulling them down to expose Steve’s dimpled thighs. He’s all hard and soft, muscle and soft pale chub, fullness and overindulgence over his whole broad frame. 

They prop him against the pillows, nearly laying flat but not quiet, high enough to see Eddie over the crest of his belly, enough to comfortably spoon the soft tub of ice cream into his panting mouth. Pillow under his hips and knees bent to allow Eddie access to his greedy hole thats aching to be stretched. Pink all over like Steve’s weeping cock. 

Eddie has to grind the heel of his hand into his own boxer clad dick. He’s so amazed by Steve already, popping his buttons, laying there so round and pretty, starting on the gallon of ice cream he’d requested. Just what he needs to get him there, stuffed enough, dazed enough, to reach his peak. 

Steve squirms, ‘Eddie.’ He whines, sucking the spoon clean, impatient to get started. Eddie chuckles, kissing Steve’s belly and pressing two fingers against the plug. ‘I got you baby.’ He says, pulling it out and pushing it back in a few times. Watching Steve’s eyes flutter shut on a moan, lips pink and sticky and strawberry red as his desert. 

Taking the plug out, Eddie squirts lube on his fingers, circling Steve’s shining hole. Still wet but Eddie wants it wetter, wants him soaking. 

Three fingers slip in easily. Steve shoves more ice cream in his mouth. Eddie goes for four. Steve sighs, filling his mouth again, relishing in the stretch of his stomach and hole. He cants his hips slightly, feels Eddie’s fingers go deeper, brushing that spot. His belly sloshing and his hard cock bouncing against it, he moans, feels so big, so round. 

Eddie scissors his fingers, leaning over Steve to lick into his mouth. Taste his berry red lips and feel the hard soft of Steve’s stomach against his flat one. ‘You ready baby?’ Eddie asks leaning away enough to look in Steve’s eyes, pupils blown wide. ‘Ready to be full?’ And Steve whines, pulls Eddie’s head back down to crash their mouths together, all spit and tongue and heat. Steve turns away first, panting again, can’t hold his breath from all the food inside him. ‘Pl-please Eddie.’ he says, whiny, desperate, gulping for air. shoving more fatty desert in his mouth. 

Eddie grabs the toy from behind him, holding it in his hands for a sec, taking in the weight and girth against his palms. He looks at Steve through his lashes, brings the tip up to his mouth and kisses it. Steve can’t pull his eyes away, spoon moving slower now from tub to waiting mouth. Eddie takes the attention in his stride, slipping the thick head past his lipe, groaning at how quickly the girth fills him up, almost makes him gag. ‘Fuck.’ Steve breaths and Eddie slips his eyes open, watching the melted ice cream fall off Steve’s spoon and onto his hairy pecs, enamoured by Eddie’s display. He pushes the toy an inch further, fucking his own mouth, making himself gag. Steve whines again. 

Eddie pulls off, panting slightly. But he smirks as Steve moves a little again, humping his hips into the air couple times, making his cock bob and slap against his belly. ‘I got you baby.’ Eddie soothes, voice raspy, making them both leak. 

Eddie coats the toy, some dripping onto the bed, and circles the tip around Steve’s loose rim. He pops just the head inside right as Steve shoves the spoon in his mouth again, just to watch his eyes roll back on a moan. It’s so hot. Eddie pushes a couple inches more in, Steve pants, eyes closed tight. Eddie pulls out a fraction and goes back in, adding a little more. ‘Oh my god Eddie, oh my god.’ Steve babbles, delirious. Shivering at the intrusion, the stretch at his hole and pull at his stomach. 

Eddie dips forward, hand holding the toy still within Steve. He licks up the fallen ice cream from Steve’s chest hair, sucking a round pink nipple into his mouth. His pecs have gotten so thick and pretty lately, like a real set of tits, Eddie’s never been a boob man but he’s obsessed with Steve’s. ‘Fuck baby.’ Eddie moans, switching to the other pec and opening his mouth wide, trying to fit the whole thing inside, licking at the little pink stretch mark he has there. 

Steve moans, fingers coming to tangle in Eddie’s curls and push his face further into his own softness. ‘Oh god Eddie, Eddie please.’ He says as Eddie pushed the toy in further, slowly filling Steve to the brim. 

Eddie pulls away, eyes hooded and dark, staring at Steve’s open mouth. ‘How, how far is it?’ Steve asks, voice high, and needy. 

Sitting back on his haunches Eddie looks down at the toy in his hands, ‘about half way baby, you’re doing so good Stevie, taking it so well.’ Eddie says, amazed by how Steve’s thick body is eating up the length, stretching to accommodate. ‘Just relax a little more for me yeah? Did you finish your desert?’ 

Steve’s hands have stopped scooping, his head resting back on the pillows. ’Ed’s, Eddie, need help.’ he whines, gesturing vaguely to his distended belly. He must be getting really full, his stretch marks shining and bellybutton jumping with each gulp and hiccup of breath. 

Eddie takes the ice cream to see what’s left, mostly soupy and melted now, about half to go. He licks the spoon clean and tosses it aside, keeps the tub close by on the bed and pushes his knee against the flat hilt of the toy. He rest both hands gently against the widest curve of Steve’s stomach, packed tight with food. ‘I got you baby, just relax for yeah? Just a little more. Just need a little more room don’t you?’ He soothes, rubbing his hands over the dome, fingers dipping into the layer of pudge. Grabbing the still soft section of overhang and tracing the roll of spare tire that travels all around Steve’s scarred hips. 

Steve stars to release wet little burps along with his moans, sinking further into the pillows he relaxes even more, opening up, letting the toy in. 

‘So so good baby, you’re almost there, just a little more for me now.’ and Steve looks up, blinks his sleepy sugar high eyes at Eddie. Licks the lips of his sweet needy mouth as the tub gets passed back to him. ‘More.’ he begs, like a prayer, ’full.’ Like it’s sacred. Tipping the tub back and letting the thick liquid take him there, that ultimate feeling. 

Steve gulps as much as he can, skin and insides stretch tight, full to the brim. He burps again, ‘m’full, m’so full Eddie.’ He manages, letting his hand roam the stretched wide ball of his belly. Grabbing onto his underbelly to squeeze and lift the whole impossibly large thing. ‘Feel so fucking big, so fucking full.’ He’s so stretched open, so packed tight. 

Eddie watches, awed, as Steve manhandles himself, making his soft parts jiggle around his distended gut. He looks down at the toy, so close to being all the way in, Steve’s cock sitting heavy and red and leaking just above. 

‘Tell me what you want baby.’ Eddie pleads, so amazed by Steve, by his love. Taking to toy so well, eating so much, pushing himself to the limits again. 

Steve shifts like he wants to move, but flops back down quickly, panting. ‘Jus, just want to be full Eddie please.’ He begs and Eddie kissed over his stomach again, swirling his tongue into Steve’s bellybutton just to hear him moan. ‘I got you. Just a little more.’ 

Steve nods vaguely, bringing the tub back to his lips. Draining the rest, swallowing the cool creamy liquid as fast as he can, letting it land in any remaining cracks and crevices. And Eddie pushes the toy in the rest of the way, right to the flat base, all the way in. Filling his baby up just like he asked for. 

‘Oh, oh my god Eddie.’ Steve whines, delirious. Completely and utterly stuffed. He tosses the empty tub aside and gropes at himself, toes curling and hips canting just to feel his swollen belly move. 

He’s never felt so stretched, so split open and big, so round and stuffed and finally, finally, full. 

Eddie pulls the toy out a fraction and fucks in back in, sticking his tongue back into Steve’s wide sensitive belly button, sucking and swirling as he moves the toy in and out of Steve’s writhing frame. Everything building and growing and stretching. Steve’s mind and body and soul ready to snap to fall over the precipice. 

Eddie pushed his face further into Steve’s stomach, against the impossible fullness, licking and kissing and sucking while his hand moves the toy. Steve thinks, vaguely, that if he was still skinny you might be able to see the toy in his abdomen, see it bulge. But as he is there no hope, too much food and fat and indulgence between. He puts his hands on either side of his belly, feeling how wide it’s gotten, how big he is. 

Eddie slams the toy back in, catching Steve’s prostate as he goes. 

Steve wails. 

Eddie feels hot wet cum hit his chin. Steve releasing untouched all over his packed belly. Eddie keeps fucking the toy, milking Steve’s cock with his hand, watching the final pearls slip out of him as he pants and stills. Cheeks red and eyes glassy. 

‘So fucking pretty. God Steve, you, I can’t believe you.’ Eddie says smearing Steve’s cum on his boxers as he ruts against his stomach, leaning forward to kiss Steve all over, lick into his mouth and suck on his tongue. 

‘Ed- Eddie. Fuck, fuck me, please.’ Steve whimpers, voice small and pleading. Eddie almost comes from the sound alone.

‘Yeah?’ he asks, ridiculously hard. ‘You want me cum in you baby?’ He takes off his boxers and licks a stripe up the underside of Steve cock, over the slit, wanting to taste. 

Steve just moans, splayed out on the bed, spent and held under the weight of his full gut. ‘Pl-please’ he slurs, wanting Eddie, wanting to be full of Eddie now. 

Eddie soothes him, petting over his thighs and pulling the toy out of Steve slowly. He groans, watching Steve’s pink hole stay stretched and open as he reaches the narrower tip. ‘Fuck Steve. You’re gonna be so loose.’ And he pushes the toy back in a little, rubbing against Steve’s prostate, watching his cock get hard again as he continues to moan, wanton and floaty from the top of the bed. Never fully coming down from his orgasm, still stuck in that amazingly full headspace. 

Eddie finally takes the toy out, after fucking the whole impossible length in and out. Once Steve’s cock is hard and red in his hand again, wanting to get his baby off twice, just for being so amazing tonight, taking so much so well. He pets over Steve’s wet hole, easily slipping four fingers in. ‘M’not gonna last baby, but gonna fill you up, kay? Fill you up and put the toy back in so you feel me for days. Gonna wake you up tomorrow by filling you again, you’re gonna be loose for me baby, gonna be so easy to slip inside.’ Eddie babbles, delirious and turned on. 

Steve’s mostly still he’s so spent. Just letting out a series of needy whines and whimpers, lost in the filth of Eddie’s words, the feeling of his heavy body.

Finally sliding his aching cock into Steve’s wet heat Eddie’s back arches, face to the ceiling. ‘Fuck.’ He moans. 

He rocks his hips and grabs Steve’s thighs for purchase. Relentlessly fisting Steve’s cock, circling his hips and relishing in how stretched Steve is, how loose and wet and perfect he is. ‘Together, come again for me baby, with - with me.’  Eddie pants, gripping Steve’s belly with one hand, sinking his fingers in. 

‘Eddie.’ Steve whines finally lifting his head back up. Eyes glossy and distant, mouth panting and so so pretty. He’s so pretty. Fucked out and loose. Hopelessly, helplessly stuffed. ‘Gonna, m’gonna.’ He manages, a tear slipping out and falling into his sweaty hair. 

Eddie stares at him, looks down at his hand fisting Steve’s cock, his own cock fucking in and out of Steve’s hole. Watches how the movement makes Steve’s body wobble, belly swaying and bouncing with each of Eddie’s thrusts. ‘Fuck. Fuck.’ He says watching Steve’s eyes roll back in his head, body tensing and grabbing at his own mass again, leaking and coming all over himself for a second time tonight. 

Eddie can’t hold it. His vision sparks and bursts and he releases buried deep inside. Filling Steve up, fucking it in and out of him. Squeezing and grinding and loosing himself in it.  

Eventually they come back up for air. Come back down to earth. 

Eddie slips out and crawls around to Steve’s side, up close so he can see his face and cradle his cheek. He wipes a tear away, kissing his jaw and slack lips, whispering praise into his hair. Until Steve is breathing more normally again, still short but not actively panting, coming back down from his high. 

‘I’m gonna go get something to clean us up okay baby?’ Eddie asks, not wanting to leave Steve alone without confirmation, he drifted so far, took so much so well. 

Steve blinks his big glassy eyes at Eddie slowly, smiling all dopey once he focuses on Eddie’s face. Steve looks down at Eddie’s lips and pouts his slightly for a kiss. Eddie smiles and obliges, he’s so cute. ‘Jus’ don’t be long.’ Steve says, eyelids drooping again. ‘Wanna cuddle.’ And Steve shimmies down the bed a little as best he can, sinking more comfortable into the pillows. He shivers as he feels Eddie’s cum leak out of his hole, it almost feels numb after the toy split him open the way it did. 

He stops moving when his belly sloshes uncomfortably, still digesting his huge meal but he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so content, so spent and satiated. He’d never been so full. 

Eddie comes back with tissues and a towel, wiping between Steves legs gently and easing the pillows from under his hips. Steve sighs, he loves how careful and caring Eddie is after they do something like this, after Steve pushes himself. It took a little while, coaxing and tentative, but once they realised how much they both enjoy stuffing Steve’s to the brim it was like the floodgates opened and they haven’t looked back. Just another pilar in their love, another aspect of how much they adore each other. Steve feels like the luckiest guy in the world, to have Eddie. 

Eddie wipes over Steve’s chest and face, ridding him of any lingering spit and stickiness. Kissing as he goes. Steve’s really fighting sleep now but he wants to lay on his side, wants Eddie to spoon him and fall asleep with Eddie’s hand on where his belly now rests on the bed. 

But Steve wants to see that pretty blush on Eddie’s cheeks one more time, tease him like he did when he first showed him the toy. 

Steve lets Eddie pull more pillows away from behind his head, laying down flatter and more normally, getting them ready for sleep. Steve rocks a little, huffing and attempting to roll into his side. For a second putting his full strength into it, just to see. And, dizzyingly, he’s kind of really is that full, that tired and round, that it would be an actual effort to get himself over on his own. 

He doesn’t tell Eddie he could, not yet, he just lets Eddie see it’s a struggle. ‘Help baby, please.’ He whines, looking up through his lashes and seeing Eddie stopped in his tracks, hand still where it was wiping the damp towel over his own flat stomach. 

Steve half pushes on his elbows again, trying to shift his weight over but flops back flat quickly enough, huffing with half fake effort and blinking up at Eddie. 

‘Fuck.’ Eddie whispers. Steve thinks he sees his cock jump. And he can’t help but smile, relishing in the attention and lust he can get Eddie to give him, look at him with. 

Eddie grabs Steve’s outstretched hand, other coming to the roll of his waist. counting down softly and then tugging to tip Steve over. Steve helps and then adjusting his belly slightly, letting it rest soft and round next to him, filling up more of the bed that he ever thought imaginable. He trails his finger over it, over the stretch marks and scars. dipping into his wide bellybutton and snuggling down into the pillows. 

Eddie’s still staring at him. Amazed by Steve’s change. Amazed that they can have nights like this now, wrapped up in each other. Nothing to hide from that’s more than an extra bill or an annoying neighbour. No monsters, no gashes in the ceiling. They can just be together, safe and in love, exploring each others wants and desires. 

And that feeling covers Steve on the outside, over his chest and hips and thighs. That rest, that relaxation and safety. All soft skin and chubby belly.

Eddie throws out the tissues and tosses the towel in the hamper. Crawling into bed next to Steve, pulling the sheets over them both and kissing all over his neck and shoulders. Nuzzling into the hair that curls around his neck, wrapping him up in his arms and sliding up as close as he can, right up against Steve’s broad scarred back. He squeezes him, holding his belly and breathing him in. 

Steve sighs, sinking into Eddie’s hold, sinking into the sheets. He feels sleep curling at his eyelids and mind, letting the food and exertion take over finally. 

They fall asleep, wrapped up in each other. Hands entwined over Steve’s full stomach.

<3

hehe

ao3

wg writing tag list (open) : @scoops-aboy86 , @cheesedoctor , @chickensinrainboots

[geesenoises]

wip snip

thanks to @teledild0nix for tagging me and giving me a good excuse to post this.

i wrote this two weeks ago, in a small fit of inspiration after thinking about one of my favorite movies, Columbus. idk where this thing is going, or if it's going anywhere, but i tried a little bit for the vibes of the movie. cw: mentions of termimal illness in a parent

-----

Draco had no great desire to be at his father’s bedside when he died, but his mother did and he could tell she needed him there. The hospice facility was light, airy, trimmed and furnished with birch and oak. The staff were all quiet and respectful, performing their duties with the height of discretion. And Draco still felt like he was being slowly crushed from all sides whenever he was there. He made sure his mother was comfortable in Lucius’s private room and then escaped outside.

There was a brook on the grounds. He stared at it sightlessly as he collapsed on to a bench overlooking it and lit a cigarette. He’d managed about three drags before some wanker chastised him.

“The designated smoking area is on the other side of the building.” Draco stiffened in recognition but obstinately took another pull from his cigarette.

“Everyone here’s dying anyway,” Draco muttered dispassionately.

Potter came to a stop in front of Draco’s bench and regarded him for a moment before sitting down.

“What do you want, Potter?” Draco asked tiredly without looking at him. “He’s dying. Another loose end tied up for you.”

“Erm, no, I’m not here to talk about your dad. Or, I am, but only to say—” Potter stammered out. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a long time coming. He’s been ill for years.” Draco looked around at the grounds. The clean lines of the building’s architecture and the sunlight gleaming off the brook, softly babbling over artfully placed rocks with lush ferns overhanging it. Every last detail expressed tranquility. Draco waved a hand at it all. “This is all probably better than he deserves.”

Potter didn’t have anything to say to that, probably neither wanting to seem eager in grim agreement, nor able to bring himself to offer a polite lie of demurral. They resolved into silence until it occurred to Draco—

“You too. I’m sorry. Terribly rude of me; it should have occurred to me sooner. Is it anyone I know?”

That seemed to startle Potter into flustered motion again. “Oh! No, er, it’s nobody. I’m not—I volunteer here sometimes. If they don’t have anybody to sit with them, or when their family has to be away. I saw your dad’s name on the room assignments when I was checking in today.”

Of course. Saint Potter, here to bless the dying. Never anywhere out of self-interest. Draco dropped the cigarette butt, stepped it out, and vanished it before Potter could tell him off for littering. He even cast a cleaning charm for the ash. He wouldn’t want to sully the consecrated ground Potter walked on.

“How noble of you,” Draco said, trying for withering and knowing he’d landed on parched at best. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He left without waiting for Potter’s response, heading back to his father’s room to make his excuses to his mother, letting her know he’d come back for her later. They’d taken rooms at a nearby well-appointed bed and breakfast and he apparated there as soon as he’d cleared the property boundaries.

tagging @moonmanatee @oknowkiss @wolfpants @citrusses @saintgarbanzo @basicallyahedgehog if you'd like!

[theschizotypalsolilquy]

Well

Apparently I need to reintroduce myself and hopefully clean house.

Hello

I'm Piper. I'm in my mid 40s and have been on mental disability for the last ten years. My blog name should help you with that. I've got a plethora of other mental illnesses too.

I don't know what you Dementors think this blog is, but lemme just lay some truths down for you.

I'm not nice.

I'm not here to feed into your delusions.

I'm not here to validate or invalidate your opinions on the nature of the relationship between Jungkook and Jimin.

As I'm also, it seems, one of those idiots who gives antis a platform, lemme lay another truth down on yall.

I'll tag however I see fit.

Maybe I tag those fucktards because I need other people to see some of the vile shit that's being said.

Ya know. Spread awareness.

To be on the lookout for homophobic yns or solo stans who like to spread vicious lies not only about Jimin and Jungkook, but other members as well.

Like how there was a bitch on Twitter saying that Yoongi killed four people in a DUI accident last night. Luckily it got taken down, but people were still falling for that shit.

This fandom is fucking toxic, and a lot of people ignore that. Why, I have no earthly idea. Supposed ot7 accounts who don't call out any group who slanders Jimin and Jungkook, but get all up in arms protecting other members.

And before you call bullshit, realize you're in denial about this fandom.

Yall wanna just blame shippers. But every corner of this fandom reeks of toxicity, from solo stans to ot7.

It's not like there's not receipts to back that statement up either.

Some of yall act like the moral police. And it's quite hypocritical.

Sure. It would be nice to just be all rainbows and puppies 24/7 and oh we all get along and love all the relationships between members group hug!!!

But it's not. And I'll show that ugly side and call it out.

It's about time eyes were opened to just how some of this fandom is treated by the fandom as a whole.

Like a blog I love and follow, an anon was sent in to tell them to stop posting ugly pictures of the other members because they were just there for Jimin and Jungkook.

Da fuq??

Be better.

So, in conclusion:

My blog. My rules. You don't like the things I post, or the beliefs I hold? Well, there's this handy thing called an unfollow or block option.

Imagine that

IMAGINE THAT

My feelings will not be hurt if someone unfollows me. I implore you to do so.

And if you keep following me, don't bitch about the things I post.

Peace. Love. Dope.

[adrienneleclerc]

literally just found your tumblr through another repost and i’m dying. finally someone’s showing ajax some love!! thank you! you’re out here doing good work keeping us fed. 💜

Hi!! I hope you like my Ajax Petropolus work, I’m kinda over the Wednesday fixation but I still find Georgie Farmer cute so I’ll keep writing about Ajax.

A Cute Distraction

Pairing: Ajax Petropolus x Hispanic!Reader

Summary: Pretending Nevermore Academy is NOT a boarding school, Ajax works in the Weathervane after school, however, he gets distracted when his cute girlfriend stops by during his shift.

A/N: College is horrible, but I could use the distraction so I’m writing again! Also Y/N is a normie so they only see each other after school. This is inspired by a Jess Mariano fanfic by @fairsexynasty

Ajax was walking out of school to start his shift at the Weathervane. When he entered the cafe, he was greeted by Tyler with an annoyed look on his face.

“You’re late, Petropolus.” Tyler said, handing Ajax his apron and name tag.

“By 2 minutes, Galpin, you need to relax. How come you guys get out earlier then us Nevermore kids?” Ajax asked as he tied the apron and walked behind the counter.

“Our classes are entirely different. Can you get started with cleaning the tables?” Tyler said, as he poured the coffee into mugs to give them to a couple in the booth. Ajax got a damp rag and wiped down the tables after picking up the dishes left in the table. Half an hour after working, the bells rang and both Tyler and Ajax looked at the door. Tyler groaned in annoyance while Ajax sighed lovingly. “Great now you’ll never get anything done.”

The person at the door was Y/N L/N, Ajax’s girlfriend and also Tyler’s friend at school. Ajax and Y/N met at the fair and they’ve been dating ever since. Ajax finds her absolutely adorable and can’t get enough of her. Y/N sat at a table in the back.

“I’m on break.” Ajax said as he untied his apron and walked towards Y/N’s table.

“Nothing! You literally did nothing!” Tyler shouted as Ajax walked away. Ajax sat at Y/N’s table.

“To what do I owe pleasure of your presence, my love?” Ajax asked before giving Y/N a kiss.

“Oh you know, I came here to get some homework done, get a brownie. How’s work?” Y/N asked.

“Exhausting.” Ajax said.

“You started half an hour ago!” Tyler shouted from the booth he was taking orders for.

“Ajax, if you can focus on work while I’m here…” Y/N was going to get up but Ajax got right behind Y/N to hug her and kiss her neck.

“Please don’t leave me, I need the company.” Ajax said as he left kisses on Y/N’s neck.

“You are lucky you’re cute.” Y/N said. Ajax let go of her and Y/N sat back down. Tyler rolled his eyes and walked to their table.

“Hi, what can I get for you today? We have frappes, muffins, and apparently an open position for a waiter/barista if you don’t get your ass back to work in 2 minutes.” Tyler said, looking at Ajax while he said the last line.

“Oh come on, can’t I spend time with my girlfriend?” Ajax asked.

“Y/N, Don’t make me think about banning you from the Weathervane.” Tyler said.

“You’re so uptight, I’m just here to do homework.” Y/N said, taking out her laptop. Tyler walks away to greet other customers. “Papito, you need to work.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to spend time with your handsome Greek boyfriend?” Ajax asked, with his hand on his chest as if he’s offended,

“After you finish your shift.” Y/N said,

“Okay fine, Tyler, you win, I’m going to work!” Ajax shouted as he got up from the table to walk to the back room and put his apron back on.

“Finally!” Tyler said and Ajax rolled his eyes. Ajax continued his shift but every 10 minutes, Ajax goes to Y/N’s table to give her a quick kiss and then goes back to work. It went on like this until he finished his shift.

“I am now free, so what do you want to do?” Ajax asked Y/N as he sat down at her table.

“I Don’t know.” Y/N said. Ajax was gonna say something until Tyler sat down at their table.

“New rule, when Ajax is working you can’t come here, Y/N, he never gets anything done. You’re a distraction.” Tyler commented.

“She’s a cute distraction.” Ajax corrected Tyler.

“Whatever.” Tyler said and he left them at the table.

“So what do you say, my cute distraction, should we go get ice cream?” Ajax asked, getting up and holding out his hand for Y/N.

“Ice cream sounds good right now, let’s go.” Y/N said, grabbing his hand and walking out of the Weathervane.

Hope you like it! I don’t know how to feel, I’m a little rusty after months of not writing.

[liminalmemories21]

Fuck It Friday

tagged by @jesuisici33.

Apparently I'm just using this tag as a way to post outtakes.

This is a deleted/rewritten from Knave 2 that eventually became "Then - 7 Months Ago (August)". The two bear almost no resemblance to each other, but it was the same idea of TK's past coming back to haunt him. Also, I'm still kind of playing around with the idea of what exactly Carlos's colleagues think of him, and more specifically him and TK.

“Am I a problem for you?”  TK asks suddenly.

And it feels like such a non sequitur that he’s lost.  “What?”

“At the station, am I a problem for you?”

“What did this guy say to you?”

TK shrugs, “Nothing that wasn’t true, and that’s fine when it’s me.  My sins, my penance.”

“How very Catholic of you,” Carlos says dryly, on autopilot, trying to find the plot thread to this conversation.

TK smiles briefly, but the smile drops away again almost instantly.  "The guy who taught me how to grift, he told me once that you have to get out of the game as soon as you have something you aren’t willing to lose."

And he’s not following, and feels stupid.  TK gives him an unhappy look.  “I thought I’d done it right.  I got clean.  I got out.  But it’s always going to follow me around, I just don’t want it to follow you around too.”

He reaches out, and then stops just shy of touching TK, not sure if he’s welcome.  “I think I’m going to need an actual verb at some point.”

“I’ve heard people talking, at the station, when I drop something off, or if I meet you there.”

“Who?” he asks sharply.  “Garvey?  Because Garvey’s a dick to everyone who isn’t a middle aged white guy.”

TK frowns, “No, not Garvey, although that kind of proves my point.”

“TK seriously, can you start at the beginning and just keep going until the end so I can figure out what the hell is going on?”

TK looks up, startled.  “Shit.  I’ve never actually seen you lose your patience.”  He glances at his watch.  “That took what, eight months?  That has to be a record for me.”

He gives in to exasperation and worry and tugs TK over to the couch and pulls him down.  “TK.”

TK’s smile is brief and humorless.  “Massey - the guy on the our Board - he said he’d been talking about the program over dinner, mentioned my name.  Next day his brother-in-law stopped by his office with a bunch of stories about me - true stories as it happens, although I’m not sure he cared a lot about asking that question.  He said he’d brought it up with Tanya who was,” he makes air quotes, “‘woefully naive’, so it was his responsibility as a Board member to keep an eye on me.”  He waves a hand, “which, whatever, as long as he doesn’t try and get me fired I don’t actually care.”

“But?”

TK blows out a breath, “But then he mentioned you.  Said he’d heard that we were involved.  Said that was the kind of thing that didn’t reflect well on young detective,” he scowls, “dude seriously talked like he was an 80 year old out of Dickens’ novel.”  He flicks a glance at Carlos.  “He said, it was the kind of thing that made people think twice about coming for backup.”

Carlos takes a steadying breath.  “Okay, sweetheart, this is what’s been tying you up in knots?”  TK nods, frowning.  “I’m gay, Tejano, and a legacy hire.  People thought twice about coming for backup a long time before I started dating you.”

TK flashes him a wry smile.  “You’re saying I should get over myself?”

He snorts, “I’m saying that I know who to trust and who not to, and none of that is a calculus that’s changed in the last eight months.  And, even if it had, I still wouldn’t give you up for it.”

“I can’t be the reason you get hurt,” TK says seriously.

“Off the top of my head I can think of five people at the station you might have overheard saying shitty things about me.  They’ve been saying them since I got there.  I worked hard for my job, and I earned it whatever anyone else might think.  And, I’m not giving it up because someone who's living in a fantasy of the 1950s doesn't want me there, and I'm sure as hell not giving you up for them."

“How do you go to work every day if you think that?”

He looks at TK with a straight face, “Well it helps that I’m 99.9% sure that I’m having much better sex than they are.”

TK gapes at him for a moment, and then shoves him, hard and he topples back into the sofa cushions laughing.  “This is your idea of being comforting?”

He straightens up, and reaches for TK’s hand with less hesitation this time.  “I think I can’t change anyone’s opinion by willing it, all I can do is live up to my own expectations for myself and hope that they can respect that.  Giving up someone I love, because someone tells me to, I couldn’t respect myself if I did that, so how can I ask someone else to respect me?”

TK looks at him seriously.  “I think you’re giving other people too much credit, but it’s working in my favor so I’m not gonna argue too hard.”

tagging anyone who has outtakes they want to share, because like anyone who grew up with DVD blooper reels, I love me an extra.

[benevolenterrancy]

Fic author interview!

Thanks for tagging me @morporkian-cryptid I'm taking a leaf out of your book and being a bit late responding, oops ;;; (also, like my last one, posting this on my art/writing blog despite getting tagged on my other blog :P)

@meso-mijali @rose-of-pollux @yarrayora @sorrel-scribbles @auxiliarydetective @pazithigallifreya

1 How many works do you have on AO3?

76!

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

667,467 apparently, which feels like way more than I expected. Then again, I also didn't expect to have seventy six fics on there either...

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Lost In Translation (7,256 kudos) An Overwatch fic. I was baffled when it did as well as it did while I was actively posting it and frankly I'm not sure how to deal with the fact that it's still head and shoulders above every other fic I've written. I think it must be from people sorting by kudos and creating a weird positive feedback loop.

How To Torment Cats (And Witchers) (2,124 kudoes) A very light-hearted Witcher one-shot with Ciri and Dandelion

Standard-Issue (1,143 kudos) Another Overwatch fic, this one about McCree's recruitment into Overwatch

Sunlight and Sea Foam (1,102 kudos) A Witcher mermaid!au. This one I'm still pretty pleased with, it was a lot of fun to write.

Mark My Place (952 kudos) A post-canon MDZS fic in which I get to lavish love on Wei Wuxian! A pretty impressive kudo count given that it's only a few months old

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Generally I try to! I really appreciate getting comments and I want to let people know that <3 Fandom is the most fun when it's a community and the only way to get that is to actually connect with people. Also I personally appreciate it when an author responds to comments when a new chapter drops because it helps me keep track of fic updates, so I often do that too for on-going stories :3

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I don't really go in for anything without a happy ending ^^;; Maybe In My Hands I Held The World purely because I didn't finish it and stopped writing in the middle of the all the hurt and never made it to the comfort? Or Promises Misconstrued just by virtue of it.... well, being what it is.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

We only believe in happy endings here!! I really couldn't narrow it down, I like a happy ending... The Celestial Shell Game was a pretty recent one MDZS fic that was just pure post-canon fix-it and reconciliation and lightly bullying the juniors

7. Do you write crossovers?

I do from time to time, but most aren't ever cleaned up or completed to the point of posting -- they're just Fun For Me fics.

My only completed crossover is a Torchwood/MASH fic called An Officer's Guide to Surgery, Shelling & Pterosaurs. It was honestly just a wild ride to write. Very proud of how that one turned out

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

A bit, but not for years. The only one I specifically remember was someone who was very unhappy that I wasn't including individual chapter content warnings, I guess because they've never read a novel?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Not often, I am Very Ace, but it does happen occasionally. Bound and Held was my most recent one, which was really just 20k of pure kink exploration because Geralt and Dandelion just have the vibe

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't think so...

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

One! An old Les Mis fic got translated into Chinese years back :3 that was very flattering that someone would want to go to that amount of effort

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Me and @meso-mijali will co-write stuff from time to time, but nothing that's ever made it to completion. I do use her relentlessly to help me solve plot dilemmas (or make new plot dilemmas, depending on how things are going)

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Could not tell you, 100% depends on sort of mood I'm in sorry xD I bounce all over the place. At the moment I am deeply into wangxian, to the surprise of no one following me on tumblr at the moment

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Well, any of my three current fics I'd love to make some progress on >:/ but I'm still hopeful about getting them finished, albeit slowly and painfully. I have a Hogan's Heroes dating sim that me and @meso-mijali have been working on but the longer it goes undone the more I suspect it never will be *sigh* it took so much planning but it's hard to pick up again in the middle. I also had a Lupin soulmate au called Mosiac that I feel bad about dropping. I still quite like the concept but I'm stuck on where to go next with it...

15. What are your writing strengths?

Uhh... I dunno, there must be something because people seem to enjoy my work well enough but I'll be damned if I know what it is. I think I write high intensity, sensory-based scenes pretty well? At least I like doing them a lot. And I get complimented on my character voices sometimes, so hopefully that!

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

Pacing >:/ I will ramble and ramble and ramble and then need to go back and cull things until I have a fic that's even halfway readable. It's so hard to get good pacing down.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Big fan, I'm always here for a bilingual bonus. Either I understand it and get a little thrill out of it or else I just google translate it real quick. As for me writing it I generally don't because I don't want to fuck it up beyond reason... sometimes I might dabble with French if it's character appropriate.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Les Mis! I'm too terrified to reread anything from my Les Mis era because god only knows what my writing was like back then, but it was such a warm and welcoming fandom it's what finally gave me the nerve to starting engaging in fandom space as more than observer

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

...I'm not sure I have one, if I want to write about something I generally do, even if I don't get it to be "publishing" worthy... Maybe Hogan/Kinch? I really like that ship, but I've never written much Hogan's Heroes fic to begin with, I think I only have one published work, and I find it a hard one to write shippy things for

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Huh... I'm not sure. There a number of fics I've written that I still really really like and will reread (the author's amazing! she knows exactly what I like!) I'm really proud of my Torchwood/MASH crossover, it's my longest fic and took the highest level of technical skill to write. I also tend to reread A Poet Under Pressure fairly often because I do love tormenting Dandelion u.u

[bellygunnr]

Saturated the Floorboards, past the Carpet

Bonnie stares at you, a little too alert to have just been sleeping, her hair pulled back into too sharp a bun. She’s in sleep clothes all the same, though you spy dried ink and paint on her finger tips that she tucks into her palms a moment later, teeth clicking as she shuffles in place. Her shoulders are drawn up tight, muscles in her jaw standing out in prolonged tension. You nearly ask her what’s wrong, then think better of it.

You know what’s wrong. You’re the problem-- and the murder, maybe, no matter if time has passed since then. Bonnie probably thinks about it still, if she hasn’t convinced herself it was a fever-addled dream. You wouldn’t blame her if she did, actually. You wonder if you should ask her why she didn’t just move away.

“It’s late, Michael,” Bonnie says. “What are you doing here?”

“Maybe it’s just early,” you try, smiling. “KITT and me are off the clock, thought we’d stop by…”

That’s not the whole of it, but you’re not lying. You haven’t been sent on a case in a week or so, but you’d taken your time hopping back across the country anyway, reluctant to come home to debriefs and business. Then KITT hadn’t seen Bonnie for anything recreational in awhile. Then you remembered you got a little stabbed at some bar in fucking Utah a couple days ago and, well.

“Just get in here.”

She retreats into her apartment. You duck inside, immediately casing the place, scoping out the changes from when you were last here. There’s a vase of flowers on the coffee table-- several more, actually, in just immediate sight-- and the last of the moving boxes are gone. The television plays quietly but you don’t recognize what’s playing.

“Lotta flowers. What’s the occasion?”

You trail after her into the kitchen. She rattles around her cupboards, sleeves sliding down her arms as she reaches for a tea kettle on the top shelf.

“Norman. Apparently, he’s a groundskeeper of sorts. Keeps bringing me clippings from the courtyard. Tea?”

Ah, Norman. You haven’t yet apologized for shaking him down.

“You know he has a crush on you?” You can’t help but mention it, sliding in to fill the empty space beside Bonnie. “And sure, I’ll take tea.”

“I do know that,” she chuckles. “But we’ve talked it out. It’s fine. Chamomile okay?”

“Absolutely,” you say very seriously, drawing out the third syllable.

“Good. It’s all I have.”

She moves around you, only meeting your eye when your elbows brush. She puts the kettle on before grabbing the mugs, then nudges you aside to get at a folding box nestled beside the microwave. From there, she produces two little teabags, gripping them by their brightly colored tags. This close, you can see the bags under her eyes, the slight shake to her posture.

You resist the urge to touch her.

“You doin’ alright, Bonnie?” You say softly, unable to stifle your concern.

The mugs clink against the counter top. The stovetop clicks away, merrily trying to boil the kettle. Bonnie drops her head, a momentary lapse in vigilance.

“I’m fine, Michael. Just-- a touch of insomnia. I’ll get over it.”

Your left thigh is a dull ache from the knife. Bonnie looks like she’s aching all over despite her clean, polished edges, too neat for the safety of her own home. You reach out slowly, bringing your open hand to rest atop her shoulder instead of clasping it, gentle, restraint eroded.

She startles, then relaxes, giving you a bemused look. Her muscles bunch tightly when she rolls her sleeves up high. The kitchen light brings her stained hands into sharp relief.

“Working on something?”

“Something like that. Unfortunately, I can’t really tell you anything. It’s classified,” she says, voice lilting like it’s a joke. “S’why I haven’t been at the estate for a bit. Not-- that you’d know that,” she adds, frowning. “Did you two just get back in town tonight?”

You rub at her shoulder idly while she talks. You have no idea what she does outside of FLAG, aside from her brief stint in San Francisco. Classified, though-- that’s interesting. That sounds above even Devon’s pay grade.

“Maybe,” you say, chancing a grin. “Straight out of Utah. Why? Worried about me?”

“Hardly,” she scoffs. “I hope you didn’t plan on crashing here--”

“I’d never be so presumptuous,” you mock, throwing your hands wide in a placating gesture and leaning back. Your weight rolls onto your bad foot, sending pain zinging down your leg. You bite back a hiss. “I was gonna fetch a hotel. I just-- we just-- wanted to see you.”

You can’t save face. Not with KITT’s feelings on the line, nor yours. You drop your hands, letting the early-late hour bog you down. Now that Bonnie’s mentioned it, the ten-some hours you’ve spent driving are starting to take their toll, drawing out the cramps that KITT’s seats inspire.

Bonnie’s expression softens, but the kettle shrieks. You arrange the mugs and tea bags for her to pour the hot water over, humming as heat leeches out of the ceramic into your finger tips. Her grip seems a little steadier than before.

Carefully, once the tea is poured and steeped, you both creep to the sofa where the television is flickering and the flower vase casts odd shadows. The cushions practically crumple underneath your weight. Your thigh twinges, a burst of pain radiating up and down your side.

“You’re bleeding, you know,” Bonnie says suddenly, face hidden behind her mug of tea.

You raise your eyebrows, delay your response by taking a long drink. It’s herbal and bitter and green-tasting. KITT would probably enjoy it, but less so if you gave him a day-old teabag to analyze. It’s not the thought that counts with him.

“I am?” You get out, glancing down.

The light in the apartment is low, but you can see what she’s talking about. A dark blot of red in the swell of your jeans. That explains the persistent ache and the strange tacky dampness that’s been following you for the past ten minutes. You hurry to your feet, suddenly embarrassed, worried that you’ll bleed all over her couch.

“Shoot! You got a first aid kit anywhere?”

Bonnie rolls her eyes. She’s already on her feet and moving, beckoning you along with a wave of her hand like you’re a particularly unruly dog. A part of you is surprised that she’s not more alarmed-- or worried-- but it is two in the morning. You can barely muster up the energy to be anything more than inconvenienced.

Her bathroom is as cramped as you remember it. A glorified closet with a bathtub inside it. You watch her rifle through the compartment behind the mirror from just outside, favoring your bad leg for the first time tonight. She doesn’t speak, mouth drawn into a focused line, only humming when she finds what she’s looking for. She tosses you a chunky plastic box stamped with a red cross that you catch with one hand.

“I’ll be out in the living room. Let me know if you need anything,” Bonnie says, voice clipped, at odds with her slightly pained smile.

It’s only after she pushes past you that you remember-- she can’t stand the sight of blood.

---

Approximately twenty minutes later, you’re wandering back out into her living room. She’s leaned onto the arm of the couch, a dense book nestled between her hands and legs, mugs steaming on the coffee table. You linger at the threshold between hallway and open space, suddenly so aware of the silence your heartbeat pounds in your throat. She licks her thumb to turn a page.

“I didn’t get anything on your couch, right?” You ask quietly.

Bonnie shakes her head without looking up. You return to the couch, settling just beside her. The mugs are full again, filled with a darker liquid. You won’t drink this batch.

“Want to try going to bed?”

You’re tired now that the novelty of being here is gone. Granted, the dreary reality of having a stab wound also saps what little energy you had left. But you know she’s just as exhausted-- she’d startled when you came near. You have a feeling she’d never been the jumpy sort before.

Bonnie closes her book with a solid fwip. Her fingers drag across the elaborate hardcover, nails catching on the raised embossing. The bags under her eyes seem to have deepened and grown more intense while you were gone. She shrugs half-heartedly.

You’re again possessed of the urge to touch her. To hold her. You rub your hands together to try and alleviate the feeling.

“I’ll keep watch, if you sleep,” you say, low and urging.

She looks at you sharply, listless fatigue suddenly calculating. The muscles in her jaw twitch with the grind of teeth. You drop your gaze demurely, frightened that you misread her countenance and she’s taken umbrage with it, despite her temper being usually KITT-oriented. But this isn’t the Foundation, or the trailer, or work, so you truthfully have no idea how to read her, or how she’ll behave.

Her eyes dim slowly from their alertness. She sinks down into her side of the couch, tension easing out of her bunched up shoulders, a table-side lamp casting long shadows across her face and chest. You watch her uncertainly, mouth thinning into a fine line. Her book is discarded to the floor. A slip of striped paper falls out of it.

“Do you keep watch for KITT, too?” She asks in amusement, head tilted back, eyes closed.

She hefts her legs up, drapes them over yours. You wring your hands, frozen with a long-buried recollection. Stevie used to come home and do exactly this-- lay in your lap and rest her eyes. You painstakingly lower your hands over Bonnie’s calves, lungs tight.

“Sometimes. Did you know he sleeps?”

KITT denies it, of course.

“It’s not sleeping, per se,” Bonnie starts, but you interrupt her.

“He dreams, Bonnie,” you say softly. “Did you know that?”

It’s not just dreams. It’s night terrors, violent enough to match your own. Fitfully, you start running the flat of your hands across her legs, cursing yourself for your loose tongue and weakened resolve. Her muscles flex beneath your hands until her foot is jabbing your stomach insistently. You push it away reflexively, staring at her.

She stares back. Her exhaustion has drawn to a fine point of grim apprehension and despair.

“We can talk about it in the morning, Michael,” she says. “Okay…?”

You nod slowly. Tension leeches out of her all at once. The couch creaks as she sinks into it, eyes now fixed on the ceiling, arms crossing loosely over her stomach. Absently, you continue running your hands over her pants, restless with anxiety and nerves.

You didn’t mean to tell her about KITT. You’re not sure what you’ll do when you find out what she thinks.

But she falls asleep first. The lights are still on, your painkillers haven’t kicked in yet. Exhaustion bears down on you just as heavily, so you sink deeper into the couch until your neck has a modicum of support. You’ll wake up with one hell of a crick, but it’s worth Bonnie dozing off so handily, either soothed by your presence or worn out by your antics. Either option works.

Eventually, you doze off, too, but not before whispering a quiet good night into the half-dark.