#not only does he look tired but he looks like he’s about to keel over and go to a coma

[tojisun]

something about best friend simon not knowing any boundaries (or, deliberately bulldozing through boundaries)—

the way he’s the one who picks you up in the airport even though you and your boyfriend already made arrangements for the pick up, but simon just says he offered to take over because your parents needed help setting things up in their lake house and that your boyfriend offered to help them.

(simon made him offer to help. it’s hidden so well behind honest concern that your boyfriend didn’t notice that simon’s been pushing him into the role until simon's calling out his goodbye's, saying he's off to pick you up now.

"oh, i can-"

"don't sweat it, mate," simon replies with a pinched smile. "i'll drive carefully, promise. bring her back, all safe and lovely.")

you didn’t even know simon’s invited to the vacation, but you gladly murmured to him your thanks, too caught up in your exhaustion to notice the little mean grin that tugged his lips up.

you clamber to his rover messily, blinking slowly, and before you can reach over to buckle your seatbelt, simon leans over and does it for you.

"could've done it myself, y'know?" you whine.

"sure you can," he grunts as he pulls himself back to his seat. "not like y'were one blown wind away from keeling over, but sure."

you roll your eyes at him playfully before biting a giggle when he scrunches his nose at you in reply.

he takes the long route back.

"want anythin' to eat?" simon asks after a while.

"don't we—" you pause, yawning. "need to hurry back?"

"not really," he replies, eyes flicking to the side mirror before he rounds a sharp curve. your body jostles, falling to the side, slipping towards the gear, and simon's hand falls to your lap to steady you.

he doesn't remove it even when the road straightens.

"okay," you finally reply, tired eyes blinking at the size of his hand on your leg. "m'kinda hungry."

he huffs a fond laugh and says he knows a place close by.

it's a local burger joint, apparently known for their fries and milkshake. simon buys you one.

"aww," you croon, grabby hands pulling the cold cup closer to you. "thank you, si."

you two eat in his rover, too lazy to actually settle in the diner.

it's greasy and messy and delicious. simon says you look filthy, before reaching over to wipe the stray milkshake on the corner of your lips. you poke your tongue out to him in reply; he says to swallow that back in before he yanks it out.

you laugh, chucking a balled-up napkin towards him before jumping out of his SUV to run to the bathroom.

(you didn't notice the throngs of messages coming in from your boyfriend nor the way simon swiped your phone from your back pocket and kept it.

he remembers your passcode—still unchanged even after all these years—and reads the messages that your boyfriend sent.

he's asking if you've landed or if you and simon are on your way back. he says he also misses you dearly, and that he can't wait to finally be with you again.

simon deletes them all.)

the two of you return when it’s well into the night, and everyone's gone to sleep. you sigh, feeling the exhaustion hitting you harder now, and amble to your room where you know your boyfriend must be waiting for you, only to stop when simon holds your arm.

"wanna sleep with me?"

"what," you begin, turning your sleepy eyes up at him. "no that's alright. my boyfriend's—"

"asleep, already. probably got ordered 'round by your pa, huh?" he smiles, his thumb swiping along the side of your forearm. "y'might wake up the poor lad if you go there so why don't you sleep in my room just for tonight?"

simon's words wash over you and you know, somehow, there's something wrong with them, with him, but your mind is bogged down by your drowsiness. you can't rationalize what's going on, so you say yes.

that's all simon needed to pull you to his room and into his bed.

you slip out of your clothes, per simon's instructions—his words all muffled as you try to stay up awake—and slip into something loose and baggy—stretched in its overuse but so comfortable on your skin.

it's simon's shirt, you'll learn tomorrow, but for now, you drop to the bed, your eyes shut close, and fall in deep sleep.

the last thing you feel is the heavy dip on the mattress behind you before a thick arm is thrown over your side, pressing into the fat of your stomach to push you back and into simon's front.

limbs lay tangled together, breaths shared, and the summer heat buzzing as skin meets skin.

-

simon doesn't get any better after that. he gets so clingy, and intrudes in your space and forces your boyfriend out.

your boyfriend complained, of course he did, but what could you do? what could you say? simon's your childhood friend so there's nothing malicious between you two. there's nothing more into it.

he gave up fighting then, fists tucked close to his sides as you kissed his jaw and told him to trust you on your words.

but—

how can he calm down? how can he not burn in anger when he sees the way simon pulls you to his lap and you readily nuzzle close. granted it's all because the two of you are watching some game on your phone and the position must be the only way to watch it comfortably, whatever, but it rubs him so wrong how familiar you and simon fall into each other.

how can he not doubt your words when he catches simon's eyes narrowed at him in quiet delight, before deliberately curling his arm around your stomach, and throws the other one on your lap, so dangerously close to your crotch.

it's even worse when the family gathers to the lake, and you and simon are chasing each other, playfighting in front of everyone. simon picks you up with ease, big hands digging into the fat of your belly or your thighs or gripping your ass like simon's so intimately familiar with your body.

how can he not hate himself a little bit when he realizes that it was always you and simon. that that's the dynamic.

-

(and if simon successfully seduces you during this vacation, well—)

-

ext

[gaoau]

would rather kms than make my only winbre post be about Suo's stupid ass, so it's time to talk about Nirei cause i love him. i read a post and my blood started boiling i dont fuck around so now i gotta defend him with my life. also cause im sick and tired of him not being deemed marketable enough to be included in merch and collab illusts when he's a whole—if not the most important—third of the main trio. (theres something to be said about Tsugeura too, considering they don't use him but love using Kiryuu, but that's a different conversation.)

anyway, on Nirei and the exceptionality of being ordinary.

manga spoilers btw also disclaimer im not eloquent at all i just say things.

there's something about Nirei that just simply isn't special and i think that's wonderful. not in a mean-spirited sense; Nirei is the most regular out of anyone in Furin, so much so that he had to buy an ugly shirt he didn't even like to stand out. he's just a kid with a notebook and a simple backstory trying to follow a hero's example. he's nothing extraordinary, especially seeing the people he's surrounded by. physically, he's very limited, which he knows and doesn't ignore at all, so he can't do much in fights. no one is more acutely aware of his own limits than Nirei. i was reading the first couple chapters again and it breaks my heart to hear his efforts be dismissed as "playing hero," because Nirei is the biggest hero in this whole manga.

it's true, yeah, he can't fight. he's more like another average citizen of Makochi than he is a Bofurin member sometimes. he lacks fighting abilities, his diplomacy isn't particularly the best, and he's two seconds away from going into cardiac arrest at almost all times. but it's not like he gives a shit. every single time he gets beaten into the ground, he picks himself back up immediately. he takes hit after hit, time and time again, because no matter how battered or defenseless he is, his drive to stay and protect the town is ridiculously strong. he does go down when he can't take any more (keel), but it's with improvement and training that he manages to throw his first—albeit useless—punch (noroshi or whatever this arc is called idk). improvement that, mind you, comes from recognizing his own limitations.

some have called him reckless (Suo), but i disagree, because Nirei is right. i know the kids would rather look out for him and have him uninjured by the end of a scuffle, but he doesn't need to be coddled. everybody else jumps into a brawl and gets a broken nose regardless of their fighting skills. Nirei isn't any different. he knows he's limited, he knows he can't fight, he knows he's nothing special. he risks it all anyway, because even though he wasn't built for fighting, he's more than prepared to try over and over again until his efforts are enough to make a difference. he's looked at Sakura's back and thought he couldn't match him, that Sakura gets back up even when he's almost fully tapped out, that he's not needed because Sakura's stronger and will be okay without him.

maybe he's right about this, too. i'm inclined to disagree, but i understand where he's coming from. Nirei chases, Nirei can't stop running because he'll fall behind all these phenomenal beasts that can hold their own. i'm so glad the conclusion he reached was "okay, i gotta step up my game," but i'm not really surprised. this is Nirei Akihiko we're talking about and, i think Suo put it best, he wants to become stronger more than anybody.

he's been at a disadvantage this whole time, "playing hero" rather than being an "actual" hero, but he has a goal. if he has to tear himself apart to stand next to Sakura, he will. he doesn't have to, of course, he's already more than useful the way he is, but when you're so ordinary that you get lost in the crowd, standing beside someone so exemplary makes you want more.

honestly, Nirei's fucking wild. lil bro's actually crazy. we've seen characters go apeshit, but no one in this entire manga is nearly as insane as he is. i appreciate Suo telling him to slow down and chill out, cause he was fully intending to kill himself learning how to fight with zero foundation. my guy was more than ready to actually fight Endo. he meant that. it's a good thing he's properly learning how to defend himself, considering he probably lacks the muscle to go on the offense. those are his limits and he knows that. it frustrates him, but it definitely does little to stop him, because look how big his back is. i hope somebody tells him, after all of this is over, that he's doing more than enough, more than great.

to be fair, fighting isn't even where he shines, and that's okay. he's not strong enough to beat anyone's ass and he doesn't need to be, either. he doesn't need to be a leader like Sakura or a devotee like Sugishita or mimic whatever the fuck Suo's got going on. in the words of my favorite pink curse, the real heroes are the ones who support from the back, and that's exactly what Nirei does. he's said it himself, he wants to guide Sakura all the way to the top and he can, because he thrives in being another citizen of Makochi. he's a regular person and i think that's what makes him so compelling and important.

there's something so fascinating about his simplicity. he really is nothing more than just an ordinary kid. put him in a normal high-school classroom and he'll pass his midterms with a 75. he recognizes what he's good at, of course, he knows the town inside out and it's very useful, especially to Sakura. he's amazing support. it really doesn't seem like it and people love to completely dismiss him, but i wanna be outrageous and call him the backbone of these kids. he was Sakura's first friend and he continues to be the one pushing and prodding to make sure he stands back up every single time. he's more necessary than anyone gives him credit for. i have no doubt in my mind that, if it weren't for him, Sakura wouldn't be able to do half the things he's managing. even Suo, who's out here acting like he knows the secrets of the universe, has to stop and reorganize his ideas when Nirei talks.

if Suo is the heart (debatable, but okay, whatever bro says) and brain, i'd like to think Nirei is the spirit and the soul. there's no chance the kids would work so smoothly without Nirei around—which, yes, arguably the same could be said of all of them, but i've seen Nirei be dismissed as a Zenitsu looking ass gag character and i've never had to hold back a kys so hard. idk for sure what the general consensus on him is cause i've only ever seen him used in the context of ships and never on his own, which honestly makes me a little sad. especially after seeing the popularity poll cause he didn't even make it into the top 5 with not even 1k points personal offense tbh i need a word with the voters. what i've gathered is that aint nobody gaf about his ass im devastated Suo has to fuck off (13k votes is crazy gang come on). which i don't understand. take him out of the equation and everything falls apart. Sakura's the sword, Suo's the strategy, and Nirei is the ambition, the desire, the force, the feelings.

there's much to be said about how he's treated, not only in-universe, but also by the people consuming the media and the pr team. i don't fuck with shipping, but when i'm scrolling through my timeline, Nirei only exists in the context of somebody's favorite ship. and don't fucking get me started on the mischaracterization. look me in the eye and tell me Nirei doesn't have more conviction than any of these dumbass kids. yes, he gets scared and he's fucking horrified most of the time, but motherfucker he's fighting. he's out there in the frontlines, making himself useful, biting more than he can chew and then some. i dare you to treat him like wittle baby that needs protection.

if not for his uniqueness, look at him for his regularity, because i find it endearingly wonderful. i think there's something so special about the ordinary. he deserves a lot more than what he's getting so these mfs better put him in all collab illusts cause if i have to see Kaji in his place one more time i will personally book a flight. okay thank you thats all i promise ill never come back here have day.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Same as it ever was 11

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as neglect, bullying, manipulation, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Between your home life and work, you just can’t catch a break. Especially after you draw the ire of your boss.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen ft. Pete Brenner

Note: I'm just tryna get through the week.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The waiting room is excruciating. You find yourself standing more than you sit. Both are torture. Your concern mounts with your discomfort and the more you think of Hansen’s response. He’s a demanding asshole, he told you several times he takes what he wants, but today, he let you go. Even he could see something was seriously wrong.

Funny how you never dread the doctor so much when you’re there for Simone or Malik, but for yourself, it makes your insides knot. You can’t even think of the last time you made an appointment for yourself. That’s probably not good either.

As the doctor examines you and goes over your symptoms, you wince and struggle not to keel over. He’s patient and gentle, treatment you’re unused to. That stray realisation is even grimmer as it sticks in your head.

“Hmm, I’m going to be optimistic and say it’s a bruised tailbone,” he explains, “we can send you for imaging to check for a fracture but it wouldn’t likely be possible today. I’ll call the lab with a request, just to make sure.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” you lean on the examination table, “so what does that mean? Painkillers? Stretches?”

“Rest,” he points at you with his gold pen, “avoid sitting. You want to keep pressure off the tailbone. Lay on your stomach when you sleep.” He tucks his pen in his coat pocket and goes to the cabinet in the corner by the sink, “you’ll want to keep this handy.” He opens the door and slips out a box, “it’ll help.”

As he gives you the box, you consider the image of the donut cushion on the front. The inflatable seat is stuffed into the tight package. You’re not unfamiliar with it.

“Apply ice. Every twenty minutes for the next two days, then two to three times a day should work,” he takes his pen out and his little pad, writing as he talks. “Make your husband do some of the chores.”

You cringe. You nod as you accept his advice. You were just about to argue; you have two kids and a job.

“I’m writing you a note. You’re not working for a week at least. I’ll fax a letter that should be acceptable for the time-off,” he rips off the top page and hands it over.

“Thank you,” you utter again as you look at his chicken scratch. “What is this?”

“Something for the pain and something for your blood pressure.”

“My blood pressure?”

“Your readings are elevated. It could be stress, it could be anything. Right now, I want you to keep track. Measure it and write it down. Come back in a month so we can go over the numbers.”

“Is it that bad?”

“At your age, it’s not entirely unusual,” he assures you, “better we catch it before it’s too serious. You get headaches? Feel tired?”

“Well, I have kids, I’m always tired and yes, they give me headaches sometimes,” you shrug.

“How often do the headaches come?”

“I don’t know, sometimes two or three times a week.”

“Do you have a history of migraines?”

“Not since college,” you answer.

“Ah,” he nods. “Take the pills, icy your tailbone, and stay in bed.”

“Doctor,” you go to argue.

“If it isn’t already a break, you’ll make it one,” he girds, “the lab will call you about your imaging appointment.”

You swallow down his orders. They’re much easier to follow than Hansen’s. And surely better for you. You thank him once more and leave the room, stopping by the counter to give your work address and get your imaging paperwork.

As you get to the car, you unpack the cushion and use the little pump to inflate it. You drop it on the seat and get in. It still hurts like a bitch but not intolerable. You sit behind the wheel and stare. 

You could cry as you go over the appointment. Is it that obvious that you don’t take care of yourself? That you don’t have time? The doctor saw right through you and that brings it all flooding in. You’re barely holding it all together, you’re not sure how much longer you can.

You make yourself start the car and pull out of the lot. You go down to the pharmacy and turn in the script, wandering the aisles as you wait for it to be filled. You take out your phone to check the time. A missed call from Pete and another from Hansen. You don’t have the energy for either of them. Once you have your meds, you have to get the kids.

You claim your prescriptions and start your race against time. Waiting to see the doctor alone took up the bulk of your day. Now you have to get through the rest.

You nearly speed up to the curb of the school, at the tail end of the pick-up as the clock ticks on. You roll around as you see Simone and Malik waiting with Mrs. Guinness. You roll down the window and wave, thanking her loudly as the kids rush to the car.

You get out to strap Malik into his seat as Simone grips her book in her lap but doesn’t open it. You’re breathing loudly as the pain coils around your spine. You muffle it and give her a smile as she watches you. Her eyes dart to the front seat.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Good,” you say as you snap the buckles together.

“What’s that for?” She points to the cushion.

“The seat’s uncomfortable,” you grunt and push yourself out of the back door. 

You shut the door and get in the front. You settle in, clicking in your own belt and fix your mirror. Simone is smart, too smart. She’s quiet as you shift into drive.

“Mommy, mommy! We played a game today–”

“Shh,” Simone interjects, silencing her brother, “mom,” she utter tenuously, “are you pregnant?”

You nearly scoff as you grip the wheel tight. You laugh and shake your head. “Why would you ask that?”

“Well…” she lets her thoughts hang in the air before she speaks to them, “you and dad have been… arguing and you have that cushion.”

“Trust me, I’m too old,” you shake your head, “don’t worry, you won’t be having another little brother.”

“Oh,” she hums, disappointed, “I was hoping for a sister.”

You take a breath. It’s all so complicated but some of it isn’t. They’re going to know sooner than later.

“Look, the cushion is because I hurt myself. I was waiting until we got home to tell you but I fell and hit my bum pretty bad. Got some bruising is all,” you explain lightly, “doctor says I’m good, just need to rest.”

“Mommy’s hurt?” Malik babbles. 

“Oh,” Simone accepts again, “I… does dad know?”

“He’s been working but I’m gonna give him a call,” you fight to keep your tone steady, “he’s gonna have to come home and help me out a bit.”

“Mommy, you can have Donny, he’ll make you feel better.”

“Mal, she doesn’t want your stupid dragon.”

“Sim,” you rebuff, “don’t be mean. Malik, you can bring Donny in to snuggle with me, okay? That’s really nice of you.”

“Ugh,” Simone huffs and you see her roll her eyes in the rear view.

“Sim, do you have enough time between chapters to help with dinner?” You tease. She doesn’t answer. “Oh, don’t worry, I can manage some mac and cheese on my own.”

You flip on the radio and let the music waft through the car, trying to push away the other worries. You are going to have to call Pete but you really don’t know how much help he’s going to be.

🗄️

You pull into the driveway and repress a groan. You’re really starting to feel it. Your legs are numb yet painful. You push yourself out of the car and grab your purse and the cushion, your keys jingling loudly in your hand.

You open the back door but Simone’s too quick. She’s right beside you, waving you off.

“I’ll get him out,” she insists, “the doctor said.”

“I know what the doctor said,” you chuckle, “thanks, Sim.”

Another car door snaps shut from somewhere unseen. You don’t think much of it as other neighbours often get home at the same time. You wait patiently for your daughter to unbuckle Malik as he squirms impatiently.

“About damn time,” the timbre roils in the air hotly.

You almost let a ‘shit’ slip through your lips as Hansen’s voice makes you tense. You squeeze the cushion and look over Simone’s head at him. She lifts Malik down onto the ground and she turns to face your uninvited guest.

“Ew, it’s him,” she sneers.

“Nice to see you too, toots,” he struts up the walk with his hands in his pockets, “isn’t this sweet? Got the whole clan together.”

“What are you doing here?” Simone challenges.

He tilts his head, brows arching, “you know, maybe I should give your mom some time off so she can teach you some manners.”

“Hansen,” you put your hand on Simone’s shoulder and sidle past her and echo the same question, “what are you doing here?”

“I’m actually being a good guy,” he leans around, speaking to Simone pointedly, “not evil at all. Checking in since I sent you off to the hospital.”

You hesitate. That’s not exactly believable. You know why he’s here; to taunt you. At least he has the discretion to try to hide that from your children.

“Bruised tailbone, doctor is sending a letter, I’ll have to take a few days off to recover,” you say cautiously, knowing he won’t like the news.

“A few days…” he mulls with a sour expression, “bullsh–” he stops himself as Malik comes for to cling to your leg, peeking out from behind you.

“Mommy,” your son whines, “I wanna go inside.”

“Tell him to go away,” Simone hisses.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hansen, I gotta get the kids inside and make dinner–”

“You can do all that but you can’t drag your –behind– to work,” he challenges.

“I have a doctor’s note–”

“I don’t f–” he struggles to censor himself, stopping as he waves off his agitation. He exhales and wipes the frustration from his face, “you’re right. You’re in bad shape, it’s plain to see. So where’s the husband? Shouldn't he be here doing the heavy lifting?”

“My dad’s on his way home,” Simone insists.

“Yeah, he’ll be here soon,” you repeat her lie, “to help.”

“Well, he ain’t,” Hansen bounces on his feet, “but I am, so why don’t I help you out, huh? We need you back to work,” he reaches for your purse, latching onto the strap. “So you should rest.”

“Dude, go,” Simone snarls and pushes his arm.

“Hey,” he growls back at her. “I’m helping.”

“We don’t want your help. She’s not at work, you don’t boss her around here.”

“Simone, Mr. Hansen,” you snip, “please.”

“I’m being a nice guy,” Lloyd retracts his hand and throws it up, “she’s the one making this hard.”

You look at your daughter as she sticks her tongue out.

“She’s twelve,” you state.

“Yeah, and what are you? Sixty?” Simone accuses him.

He recoils, his lashes batting violently, “excuse me?”

“Oh my god,” you sigh, “Simone, take your brother inside,” you hold your keys out, “let me talk to him. It’s just work.”

“And the doctor said–”

“Please, Simone, thank you,” you shake the keys.

She sniffs and takes them. She blows a raspberry at Hansen as she grabs Malik and tears him away from your legs. You rub your neck, the donut cushion around your elbow, as you wait, staring at Hansen as he watches over your shoulder.

“Why?” You ask pointedly.

“What? I’m being good. I let you see a doctor for your fucked up booty and now I’m just tryna fill the hole left by that deadbeat–”

“Not in front of my kids,” you say.

“I was polite.”

“You are arguing with a twelve year old,” you shake your head, “please, I will do my best to get back to work. I know you don’t give a shit but I’m in so much pain, I can’t handle this right now. So please, go.”

“Huh, alright, let���s understand something here, you might be a little broken at the moment but you don’t tell me what to do,” he snarls, “that’s the first thing. Second, you put a muzzle on that daughter–”

“Don’t,” you warn.

“That mouth,” he points in your face, “it’s the ass that’s bruised, not that.”

You clamp your lips tight as your nostrils flare. You stand in a deadlock, silently glaring back at your boss. You feel the tension ready to snap. This is the moment where you could fuck everything up.

Neither of you speak, each measuring your next word but almost afraid to say it. A screech of tires veers in behind your car and fills the end of the driveway. You flinch and look past Hansen as Pete’s garish sports car beams back at you.

“Just in time,” Hansen mutters as he turns slowly.

Pete hops out and swings the door shut, almost frantic as his hair flops forward.

“Hey, I’ve been calling,” he puffs and stops short as he notices Hansen, “uh, everything okay? Where… are the kids?”

“Inside,” you eke out, clearing the frog from your throat, “everything is good, alright?” You try to convince yourself as much as your husband, “Mr. Hansen was just checking in. I missed work today. I went to see the doctor about… my fall.”

Pete blanches and nods, giving a guilty glance to his leather shoes.

“Yeah?” He dares to look at you, “you okay?”

“Bruised,” you answer bluntly, “so I was just telling Mr. Hansen that I am fine. I just need a few days to rest. And I was going to call to tell you the same but I had to get the kids.”

“Your wife’s a busy woman,” Hansen interjects, “hard worker. And she speaks so highly of you, bud.” He claps Pete’s shoulder, “you’re a businessman?”

Pete twitches, as if surprised. He looks at Hansen’s grasp on his shoulder but doesn’t shove it off. There’s a moment of recognition in his eye. Men and their ‘business’.

“Yeah, I run a fitness agency. We do equipment and training, aiming to get into the big leagues, you know, furnish facilities on the National scale,” Pete goes into his pitch.

“Ah, fitness, thriving right now,” Hansen slips easily into his role, “you know, I’m not wearing Louis Vuittons because I work in a dipshit office. I invest and I do it well.” He pulls his hand back and puts it on his hip, “why don’t you tell me more about this agency? I’m intrigued.”

You just stare. This has been an awful, painful day and it just won’t end.

“Uh, yeah, sure, come on in,” Pete sputters excitedly, waving him up the drive. “I got all my stuff in my bag.”

“Great, dinner’s on me,” Hansen offers, “for your time.”

“Oh, awesome,” Pete grins, “I’ll just get my bag out of the car. Honey,” he turns to you.

“Uh, yeah,” you swallow as Hansen faces you with a smirk, “right this way.”

You turn and hug the cushion against your stomach, each step tender and tingling. You sense him behind you, too close for comfort. He snickers quietly as you get to the door. You stop with your hand on the handle.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Be good and I will be, too,” he shoots back.

[thehollowwriter]

*Skerks down the hallway like a cat coming down with zoomies* I heard you were doing Rollo fluff only requests, so I jumped into your ask box IMMEDIATELY. Do you think you could do some bed-time snuggles with him? I just want to cuddle this obviously touched-starved, emotionally repressed twink so bad you don't even KNOW. He'd probably say he isn't touch starved, that he's only does this because you seem to enjoy it, but then we'd wake up the next morning with half his weight on top of us and him clinging like a desperate koala and refusing to let go. No obsession, no sexual undertones, just a depressed man finding solace in a soft bed, thick blankets, and the warmth of another's arms, finding the peaceful sleep he hasn't know for years.

Aaah this is so cute! Thank you for this anon! ^^

Summary: You convince Rollo to get some well needed sleep. Cuddles ensue.

Warnings: None

(Pls reblog and leave a comment ❤)

In Your Grasp

The first thing that came to your mind when you laid eyes on Rollo Flamme was "wow, he needs some sleep."

It wasn't an unusual conclusion. Many people thought the same. The intense gaze of his dark green eyes were just as tired as it was intense. His posture and mannerisms, slow and lethargic as they were prim and proper.

Now, the both of you were dating. It was many months after the events of the masquerade and that thought hasn't changed.

Still, after all this time, the large bags under Rollo's eyes remained.

Rollo was a hard worker and a busybody who rarely gave himself a break. He often stayed up late or even all night in order to get whatever he wanted done, whether it be studying, homework, paperwork for his fellow students or chores.

You knew that he avoided going to bed because he struggled to sleep. He had told you once, during a quiet moment together, that simply laying there alone with his thoughts and nothing to distract him led to thinking about his brother, which in turn led to nightmares plaguing the few moments of sleep he did experience.

While you did sympathise with this, sitting on the edge of his bed watching him fight to stay awake and complete his work made you decide it was time to stop him.

"Rollo," You said softly, taking the paper from his hands. "Rollo you need to go to bed. It's late."

Your words were met with a huff and a dismissive hand wave. "I'm not tired. You should go to bed now, though."

"Not tired? Rollo, look at yourself. You're about to keel over. You drifted off at least twice."

At Rollo's silent, almost disbelieving stare, you sighed. "Let me stay here with you tonight. We can lie together until you fall asleep."

There was a moment were Rollo didn't react, his tired brain taking a pause to process your words. When it did, his eyes widened and his cheeks turned pink.

"T-Together?" He stammered. "My flame, I-I am not sure about that."

"Don't worry about it," You assured him smiling. "It'll be nice. Besides." You gestured to his large bed tucked into the corner of the room. "There's plenty of space so we won't annoy each other."

Rollo, still pink, looked at you, then at the bed, then his work and then at you again. He gazed at the paper in your hands, squinting.

The words looked blurry. His head was fuzzy. His eyes hurt. He felt heavy.

"Alright," He relented with a sigh. "Let me get ready and I'll... I'll join you in a few minutes."

You, already in your pajamas, sighed in relief and gently kissed his cheek. "I'll be waiting for you." You said, moving to nestle under the blankets.

Rollo set his work aside and and began to get ready for bed, his cheeks burning a much brighter red at the thought of sharing a bed with you.

He blinked, staring to the mirror as he removed his make up, a million flustered thoughts whirling through his mind.

Sleeping... together? In the same bed? Next to you and your warm soft self? You, likely to sleep far more fitfully than he ever would?

Surely, you would rather sleep in your own bed? The one you were familiar with in feeling, scent and comfort? Your room wasn't far from his, it wasn't a long trip and he could walk with you.

Rollo was standing next to his bed in his pajamas before his mind caught up with him and the flustered thoughts began to dissipate.

Still red and unsure, he simply stood there with his hands at his sides and his eyebrows furrowed, looking between you and his bed.

After two excruciating minutes, Rollo carefully lifted the black, royal purple and wine red covers and climbed in next to you. He was stiff and awkward in his movement, biting his lip almost as if he was embarrassed.

He lay in his back, and stared at the dark ceiling with exhausted dark green eyes. Stubbornly, they refused to shut long enough to let him sleep, flying open at the images that would flash behind his eyelids.

It was just like always.

Alone, in the oppressive silence of his room, images of his brother and Rollo's own failure to rip magic from the world dominated his psyche, making his breath catch in his throat and his mouth open in a silent gasp.

No... no that wasn't quite right. He wasn't alone. You were right next to him, huddled under the blankets and facing towards.

"Mon chéri," Rollo began before he could stop himself. "May we... talk? Please?"

Please. Anything to fill the dreadful silence weighing down on him, suffocating him. Please please please please please-

"Sure," You said, and he could hear the smile in your voice. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Anything." It took every bit of willpower Rollo had to avoid sounding as desperate as he felt. "I don't mind."

He could feel your gaze, brimming with concern, burning into you.

"Why don't you tell me about your day?" You asked after a pause. "I remember you looked like you wanted to throttle someone earlier. Who was the poor fool this time?"

Rollo let out a breath and rolled his eyes. "Today was... fine. Things were going smoothly despite that idiot Solomon's best efforts. It's impossible to get anything done when he's always glued to his phone..."

His voice flowed into the silence and was soon joined by yours. You shifted from one topic to another, talking about anything and everything. Rollo hung onto your every word, and you returned the gesture.

Slowly, Rollo shifted closer to you, pressing against you and taking hold of your hand in a tight grip. You wrapped your arm around him and his stiff body relaxed a little, comforted by your touch.

It was late when you realised Rollo had stopped speaking. You looked to your side to find him resting his head on your shoulder, eyes closed and chest gently rising and falling.

You smiled at the sight and gently kissed the top of his head.

"Goodnight, Rollo." You murmured. Your own eyes slid shut and slowly the world began to fade away.

***

Gentle golden beams of sunlight filtering through the curtains caused your eyes to flutter open and blink away the sleep.

Stiff and uncomfortable, you tried to turn over and stretch, only to find you couldn't move. Something heavy was weighing you down.

It took a few moments, but your tired mind eventually registered that it was in fact Rollo keeping you pinned on your side.

Rollo had his face buried in your neck and his arms wrapped around you as tightly as possible. His legs were tangled with yours, the position ensuring he was pressed as tightly against you as possible, holding you as if he were afraid you would disappear.

Despite your discomfort, you hadn't the heart to move him. He looked serene, a rare expression to see on his face. You chuckled and gently threaded your fingers through his short white hair, kissing his temple.

"I love you, Rollo."

......................................

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! I got excited writing this, so it'd about 1k words in length urugututur

Tagging: @distant-velleity

[starlitvega]

Ravik Headcannons!

So sorry it took so long to get this out! But it’s finally done. It might come off as a bit out character, so sorry if that’s the case. It also includes a little bit of an explanation at the start as to why the two are attracted to each other. Anyways enjoy!

Havik’s attraction to Rain began after he watched him topple the capital of Seido. The amount of destruction wrought and the satisfaction knowing that his people were free made him almost mad with glee. But it also made him shift his attention towards the man who had done the job.

Water to Chaosrealmers is a staple in their beliefs. They believe that its formlessness and ability to destroy even the mightiest of empires perfectly encapsulates chaos. And although Chaosrealm does not exist in the new era, I feel as if Havik and other followers of chaos and anarchy still believe in this.

So when he watches Rain summon such a vast wave, completely toppling his mortal enemies in one fell swoop, the sorcerer’s status changes from peculiar mage to future follower of chaos.

At that moment, he thinks of all the destruction, all the anarchy, he and Rain could cause together. How they could bring the realms to their knees, and cause untold amounts of bloodshed. Needless to say, it doesn’t take much more thinking from then on for Havik to become obsessed with the former High Mage.

The fact that there is someone obsessed with him, who wants to be around him always fills him with a sick sense of pride, as much as he hates it. Like, he really wouldn’t mind it if anyone else BUT Havik was obsessed with him.

He feels as if his powers and ambitions are finally being recognized by someone who wasn’t attempting to manipulate him for their own gain. Who not only admires his abilities, but wants to help him become even more powerful. But the person in question, and the reason why he wishes Rain could attain more power makes him sick to his stomach.

So while he certainly doesn’t mind the admiration, he can’t say he’s particularly fond of who the admiration is coming from, curbing the pride he would’ve felt.

Havik’s love language is physical touch. He loves having some sort of contact with Rain if it’s possible. Likes resting his head on his shoulder, or putting a hand around his waist and tugging him towards him. He loves watching the mage get flustered or annoyed at their sudden closeness. Makes him all giddy.

Rain’s love language is acts of service and gift-giving. As knowledgeable as he is in the art of sorcery, he’s equally as proficient when it comes to art. He’s made a little piece of metal work for Havik that the other has had pinned to the leather of his attire since.

Havik finds Rain’s reluctance to engage in chaotic or messy habits irritable. He wants his partner to join him in chaos, to revel in the absolute anarchy that he brings with him. He wants Rain to feel free, and hates how his morals stop him from fully actualizing his own potential. Tries constantly to sway him towards chaos and although he yet to succeed, he won’t stop until Rain keels.

Havik likes to bite. Doesn’t matter where, doesn’t matter when, he will bite Rain. He likes to watch the look on the mage’s face as he does so, and gets giddy seeing Rain’s face twitch as he steals himself. He doesn’t do it as a way to claim ownership over Rain. He does it to prove his obsession, showing the mage that he’s obsessed with everything about him, and not just his destructive capabilities. Rain is free to bite him back of course, but he hardly indulges him (much to Havik’s dismay). (WILL MAKE FIC OF THIS)

Havik isn’t used to soft, reassuring touches, and so whenever Rain does something gentle with him, he’s both a bit shocked since Rain hardly initiates contact, and over the moon! Teases Rain endlessly about how he must be “warming up to him” and the mage is sick and tired of it. Really values these kinds of moments with Rain and considers it proof that the mage is growing closer to him.

Likes to freak Rain out by ripping off a limb or contorting his body in a way that a regular person would not survive. It’s not really the blood or gore that freaks Rain out, he’s had to study anatomy beforehand and has worked with cadevours, it’s just the fact that Havik can do it so… casually, and be not only completely fine afterward but laughing and joking about it too.

Both of them are cat people… I don’t make the rules

Havik always ends up bloody and dirty after his fights, which he gets into pretty frequently. Rain refuses to let him into his quarters if he doesn’t wash it off, and ends up just blasting him with a stream of water to wash off what he can.

Rain’s skin is soft and well-cared for, with hardly any markings or scratches on it. He’s gotten a few though through some failed spells, but he always takes some extra time in the morning to cover them up.

Havik’s body is marred and littered in scratch marks, and his skin is rough from the back-breaking labor he endoured whilst still enslaved under Seido’s government. Rain, if he’s feeling nice, might try to do what he can to smoothen his skin, rubbing him down with nice soaps and fermented oils in an attempt to rid him of the thick scent of iron that seems to constantly permeate off of him.

Havik isn’t really a fan of the treatment, but endures it since it’s some of the only time Rain willingly touches him, and so gently too. He relishes in the feeling of the other man’s hands running soothingly along his back. It’s the best he’s been treated his whole life, and he’s not about to turn it down, especially since it’s coming from the mage he’s grown so fondly of.

[lost-in-fandoms]

Logan and Max have another talk, or 'does kissing count as free therapy?' Part 2 of whatever this was. I couldn't fall asleep last night because of how hard I kept thinking about these two. I blame @girlsdads for giving me the brainrot in the first place.

cw: the tiniest bit of implied sexual content

It's another bad race. Fucking 16th, only ahead of the two Saubers, and of the Haas and Alpine that had crashed each other out. There was no reason why his pit stop had to be 4.3 seconds, when Alex's had been 2.7, no reason why he had been fucked over by not one but two undercuts because of shitty strategy, no reason why Alex's side of the garage had to be celebrating 8th place while his was sullen and quiet.

Logan fears he's going to throw up when he steps in and James claps him on the shoulder, saying sorry, next time, as if Logan doesn't know his contract is on the line. Fucking. Next time?!

Logan feels like he's trying to swim with his hands tied behind his back, desperately trying to make it to shore. Nobody cares he's drowning.

He can barely look up during the debrief, feels like he's choking the whole time on the words nobody is saying. As soon as he's free, he escapes, fumbling for his phone as usual. Only this time, he doesn't call his mom.

Are you free?

Max has his motorhome this weekend, and Logan doesn't wait for an answer before heading over. If he doesn't answer, he'll just take a walk.

Yes come over

He's knocking on Max's door before he can rethink it, before all these feelings catch up on him and he decides he's going to break down alone instead. When Max opens his door, Logan immediately regrets it. He's wearing a black t-shirt, hair styled, looking ready to go out. Of course he's heading out, he has a win to celebrate. Unlike Logan. Who should have just gone home.

He opens his mouth, ready to apologize and turn around, when Max's hand closes on his shoulder, his mouth downturned with what would be worry, if it wasn't absurd for Max Verstappen to be worried about him.

"Come in," Max says, doesn't leave space for arguments when he pulls Logan inside, closing the door behind him.

For a long moment they just look at each other, as Logan's waves lap at his neck. He doesn't know why he's here anymore.

"Are you okay?" Max's hand is still on his shoulder. Logan feels like he'll keel over if he takes it back.

"I might be out of a seat."

It's not an answer to Max's question, it's not even what Logan meant to say, it's not something he should be telling to the competition, but really. Logan is barely Max's competition at all, and who wouldn't know that after this season's disaster? Nobody is counting on him to race next year.

He waits for Max to say something, even if it's just empty platitudes, but the other just squeezes his shoulder and nods, and suddenly it's much harder to hold back his tears.

"I just..." he breathes in, willing his voice to not crack, "I don't know what I am doing wrong."

It comes out more desperate than he meant it to, but he's just so tired and upset, and nobody is seeing him drown. Why is nobody paying attention?

"You have a shit car, get bad strategy calls, and have a teammate with years more of experience. You are not the one doing it wrong."

Max says it so matter of fact, as if he's the one driving the shit car, the one with the better teammate, the one having to fight through the back of the field with no success, and suddenly Logan is angry. He shrugs Max's hand away, fists clenching. What does Max know about being the second driver in a bad team? How dares he say he knows Logan's hunger?

"Fuck off," he spits, wrapping his arms around himself to hide the way his hands are trembling. He shouldn't have come.

"You have potential, you are not doing it wrong," Max says again, stubborn and bull-headed as always, jaw set and eyes clear. Logan's anger spikes again. Max Verstappen, the prodigy child, talking to him about wasted potential? This must be a joke. He scoffs, ready to turn around and leave, but Max grabs him again, gets a hold on his elbow and keeps him where he is.

"Why are you angry?" he asks. And yeah, this must be a joke, for sure. Why is Logan angry? Why is he angry?!

"You don't get to..." he starts, but Max interrupts him, squeezing his elbow.

"No. Why are you angry?"

"The team..."

Max takes a step closer, narrowing his eyes.

"Not the team, I do not care about the team. Why are you angry?"

As if there was a right answer to the question that Logan isn't getting! It's his own anger! And Max doesn't care about the team? Of course he doesn't, it's not his team fucking up! Why can't Logan be angry about the team?!

"Alex gets..."

"No. Why are you angry?" Max interrupts again, steadfast in a way that grates on Logan's nerves.

They're too close now, and for a second Logan entertains the idea of punching three times world Champion Max Verstappen. Anger burns in his chest, and suddenly, without knowing who closed the gap, they're kissing. It's not a nice kiss, all teeth and spit, and it almost feels the same as the punch he hasn't thrown, until Max moves his hand from his elbow to his waist, the other one coming up to cup the back of his neck, turning his head slightly. Gentling him.

His anger is back in his lungs, but it's no longer anger, it's back to salt water, and Logan is drowning again. He breaks the kiss, gasping, but Max doesn't let him go.

Logan doesn't remember the last time someone held him like this, like being here matters.

"Why are you angry?" Max asks again, breath soft against Logan's bitten lips. He smells vaguely like minty toothpaste.

"Because..." he hesitates, but at this point he might as feel say fuck it, and give it all. All his fleshy insides in Max's hands, bleeding on the floor between them. "Because I could do better, but I can't do it like this."

This time Max nods. "You could do better."

And Logan knows his parents and friends have said it before, have kept saying it for years. Knows his time in Formula 2 speaks for itself. But it's different, to have Max say it like that, so surely. It's a different kind of validation, and a different kind of heartbreak, because they both know his time to prove it is running out. It's hard to breathe again.

"It is good to be angry. It makes you want to take it," Max says, maybe mistaking the way his breathing has gone funny. But Logan doesn't feel angry anymore. He's tired, and scared, and lonely. He drops his head on Max's shoulder, who moves to card his fingers in his hair, bearing his weight with ease. Logan wishes anything would come easy to him instead.

"I don't know how to be angry," Logan confesses. He doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to disappoint Max, but he disappoints better than he lies anyway. What's one more person.

"That is of course still okay," Max says, instead of some sort of rebuke Logan is expecting. For a second, he thinks about the stories of Max's childhood, of angry men and steel hands. Max's fingers are gentle in his hair.

"What do you want right now?"

It's too big of a question. Logan wants his seat to be safe, he wants to end in the points, he wants a good car, he wants to not feel so distant from everyone else, he wants to go home. He wants someone to tell him it will be alright and mean it.

He shakes his head, forehead dragging against Max's t-shirt. Disappointing again.

Max holds his hair a little tighter, uses the grip to pull Logan up, to make him open his eyes.

"What do you need?"

And it's the same, but it is different, and Logan needs...he needs...

"You can take it. What you need." Max sounds so sure of it, Logan can almost believe it. Maybe Logan doesn't know how to take, doesn't know how to fix it, but here, now, he at least knows what he needs.

"I need to be better," he says, words bleeding out from his split-open chest. "I need to be good."

They both know what Logan means, because the thing with Max is, that it's always about racing, even when it isn't, and it is also always both at the same time.

Max nods, letting go of his hair, and Logan pushes him around, back against the door. Gentle, because he needs to be, but firm, because he wants this.

He eases himself to his knees, and feels Max's hand cup his cheek. His raspy voice isn't disappointed, or pitying, or even sad when he speaks, only fond. A little proud.

"Good boy."

[pinkboxess]

Thinking about tedbecca dozing in the sun after a big meal. Rebecca’s resistant to it at first, she feels like she has eaten too much & doesn’t deserve to rest, but Ted reassures her

Hi anon, this prompt is so good that I wrote a snippet. Enjoy!

The yawns start hounding her almost as soon as she sets her fork down. Rebecca indulged her appetite tonight, something she rarely does, and all the warm food in her tummy is triggering a bout of sleepiness. 

She shouldn’t have eaten so much. She had a second helping at Ted’s insistence, and while she has to admit it tasted delicious, her current drowsiness tells her she went too far. She shudders a little at the thought of how much enchilada she’s currently digesting. Definitely more than should ever be in her stomach at one time.

Another yawn sound fills the room, but not from Rebecca. She looks over to see Ted covering his mouth with a mirthful smile. “Guess you’re not the only gettin’ sleepy,” he says. 

“Maybe we both overdid it a little,” Rebecca says. 

Ted gives her a sleepy frown. “Nah, you’ve just got a food coma. You ever heard of that?”

“No, Ted,” she sighs.

“A food coma is when you eat a lot and it makes you sleepy. Nothin’ wrong with it, though, it’s just, like, the chemicals in your body or somethin’ like that. Means you had a good meal.”

“Well, I’m definitely not in a food coma,” Rebecca scoffs. She’s embarrassed that Ted knows how much she ate. Of course her body decides it needs to yawn again right as she says, this leading Ted to raise an eyebrow questioningly.

“I’ve just had a long day, and I’m a bit tired,” she says defensively. 

“I know, honey. It’s okay. You wanna go outside and lie down with me? I’m thinkin’ it’ll feel good in the sun right now.”

That idea sounds lovely to Rebecca. She could lie down on their patio couch with Ted, rest her head in his lap, and doze off for a few minutes. Her sleepy brain approves of the thought. 

…But surely there are things to do, and how lazy would she feel if she took a nap after dinner because she ate herself into exhaustion? 

“I think I’ll pass, darling, but you enjoy yourself,” Rebecca says. 

Ted’s face takes on the expression of a sad puppy. “Aw, you sure? Y’know if you’re plannin’ on doing more work I’m gonna have to put a stop to that. You’re quite the little workaholic.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes. “I’ve just got to…”

“C’mon, Becca, you know you wanna.”

Ted needles at her until she agrees. Really, he doesn’t have to try very hard, because a nap outside sounds positively divine. She feels like she’s about ready to keel over from sleepiness. Just slump over where she’s sitting and go right to sleep. Apparently it takes a lot of energy to digest two servings of enchiladas.

Ted leads her outside to the couch on their patio. The evening sun lands on it just perfectly, not too intense to feel too hot, but a gentle warming presence that makes Rebecca’s eyes even heavier. She lets Ted lie down against the back of the couch and then takes her place in front of him. He wraps his arms around her, cuddling her as the little spoon, and she sighs.

“It’s okay that you ate a lot,” Ted murmurs.

Rebecca stiffens. “How did you know…?”

“Mmm, I”ve got a bit of a Rebecca sixth sense,” Ted answers. “But it’s really alright. You needed a good meal in you.”

Before she can respond, her stomach gurgles as she shifts around, making her blush and Ted laugh. “Your tummy sounds happy,” he giggles. 

“Oh, shut up.”

Rebecca drifts off to sleep quickly. It’s a light doze, just a quick early-evening rest, but it feels luxurious and indulgent and utterly pleasurable. Ted’s arms are the perfect comfort, as are his soft snores as he loses the fight against a nap. 

No traces of hunger pangs remain in her stomach. She just feels full, satisfied, warm and cozy and drowsy. She would never admit it, but Ted is right. Her tummy is very happy.

[gabessquishytum]

I’m so sorry for popping this into your inbox when you already have half a hundred things lined up already but oh goodness I’m sick, the couch has a perfect imprint of my body permanently fused into the cushions, and now y’all all have to suffer my mad feverish ramblings!!!

Okay but just imagine Hob coming to Dream’s aid so unfailingly every time. Hob adores Dream with every fiber of his being, a sorry fact he’s done well to keep to himself in the year or so after his beloved stranger returns to him. Dream at some point confides in Hob about his imprisonment, between words both unspoken and not over too-sweet wine Hob had rescued off a bottom shelf somewhere to taste test between them, and when he does Hob’s heart does this strange little thing in his chest like the wings of a bird trapped in a garage; frantic and so quick he fears he may just keel over right there. He doesn’t, and he thinks he does a very good job of trying to be casual as he leans over the table and takes Dream’s hand in his own, thumb brushing against the sharp juts of his knuckles and insists on making him a warm meal - since he’d gone so long without one.

And after that Hob can’t stop thinking about it. He thinks of all the days Dream spent in that wretched basement, and he worries himself sick imagining all the times he could’ve saved him, should’ve saved him if he’d just paid a little bit more attention, if he’d searched for Dream after he failed to show up at the meeting. And Hob’s always tried to channel his anxieties into something constructive so if he pours Dream an extra glass on cold nights and throws a jacket over his shoulder and brings him warm, baked goods and horribly dark chocolate (that Dream loves and Hob hates) from the cafe round the corner with both of them knowing full well Dream doesn’t need these things. And it makes Dream feel…strange. Their friendship has long been awaited and now that it’s here it feels strangely fragile and private, a thing that Dream is so worried will break. So he tucks it away, telling himself this fragile thing is enough, and wanting anything more is selfish to the highest degree. They both secretly tell themselves the other will be better off without the damnation of their love

But Dream doesn’t know how far Hob will go until the day he gets in trouble. It was bound to happen eventually, Dream’s only slightly insufferable on the best of days and an absolute grouchy terror on most, and it was about time he pissed off the wrong person with an ill-placed word or gesture or look. Maybe it’s some fae from some runaway court, or some other magical being - and maybe they’d interrupted Dream walking along the park with Hob at night and Dream had scoffed them off and invoked their wrath. But they’re going to punish Dream, and before either of them can say anything Hob just leaps in front of him hollering “I’ll take his punishment! Whatever you were going to do to him, do it to me instead!”

And they do, with some mischievous grin and glint to their eyes like a scythe of impending destruction, and Dream doesn’t even have the time to yank Hob back before the creature taps Hob once on the head then disappears into the night.

It’s chaos after that. Dream is practically vibrating with newborn anxiety he hasn’t felt in centuries as he checks Hob up and down, hand on his wrist, his waist, lifting up his shirt to try to find the wound that creature had undoubtedly placed upon him. And Hob, bless his heart, lets him fuss but he feels strangely…fine? There’s no missing organs, nothings been taken, there’s no bruises or scratches or illness. He’s not even tired, so stop your fussing you silly thing! They both go back to Hob’s flat above the Inn that night and Dream lingers uncomfortably at Hob’s bedside long after he’s passed out from exhaustion, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest in the gentle lamplight from his nightstand, telling himself that Hob is fine, he’s fine, it’s okay, he’s breathing and alive and he’s okay—

And he is fine, for a while at least! The next two weeks pass by uneventfully. Hob teaches and grades at the Inn and Dream finds any excuse to pop by unnoticed just to check on him, although Dream never asks him directly how he’s doing. But Hob is fluent in Dream at this point, he can see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness of his face, that worry and anxiety a physical thing making his body shake. So he’s honest, he’s fine! Nothings wrong you silly thing! And nothing is, for a while. But a few days into his third week he’s walking by his mirror getting dressed in a hurry for office hours and he sees it - the smallest swell to his stomach, some soft, swollen roundness that hadn’t been there in ages. It wouldn’t even be obvious to anyone else, not unless he turned to the side and pointed it out. It’s some barely-there little swell, right above the soft bumps of his hip bones. Hob just thinks back to his many cafe trips lately to fetch treats for Dream (and apple tarts for Death when she delights him by popping in) and makes a mental note to lay off the muffins

But it gets worse, very fast. What was once a barely noticeable swell becomes an undeniable bump in only a few days. Hob writes it off, he’s obviously just gotten an upset stomach and he’s bloated, no big deal. Must be that awful campus food he’s spent months petitioning anyway. Sure maybe his pants are a little tight right now and he can’t really use a belt, and sure maybe one day he’s running along campus in a hurry in his god awful cardigan and the wind hits him straight on and his stomach looks like a sail caught in the wind, but it’s fine, really! If he has to spread his legs slightly to make room for his belly (oh gods he has a belly now) then that’s alright too, and maybe he’s a little slower getting up lately, and one night he even swears he can feel his stomach gently swell another half inch right when he’s dozing off. But these are normal, it’s just the alcohol he’s been taste testing making him bloated, he can’t think of any other explanation and he’s just secretly thankful Dream’s been scarce the past week so he hasn’t had any witnesses to his new…feature

But he can’t explain it away forever. He hasn’t lived so long by being oblivious, just hopeful and bright! But Hob is smart, and maybe a little in denial but still whip smart and he can connect the dots when it comes down to it. I imagine he’s grading papers one night at his desk up in his flat when it happens - something shifts against his shirt. His pencil stops scritch-scratching against the paper and he stops, confused about if he’d felt anything at all or if it was just the fabric of his shirt moving. But then it comes again, and when Hob lifts up his shirt he can see it faintly, a soft little kick from inside of his stomach, the tiniest little bump, and suddenly all of the puzzle pieces click-click into place

Hob understandably freaks the fuck out at last, the dam finally bursting and he accidentally summons Dream by just wishing so terribly he was there. And of course Dream comes immediately, barely even manifesting in the room before he’s walking out of his sand and grabbing Hob’s arm, eyes taking him in from head to toe - the very prominent swell of his stomach that certainly hadn’t been there three weeks ago. And Dream just can’t help himself, he puts his hand on the side of Hob’s stomach, both of them holding their breaths as Dream’s steady palm smooths over the side all the way to just beneath his navel, and a small kick pushes against his fingers

Dream wastes no time sanding both of them to the realm of the creature they’d run into three weeks ago and while Dream is .5 seconds away from violently separating their head from their body they gleefully inform Dream that if only he’d listened to them he’d know that the next generation was to be born on the nearest full moon, and their Queen was having trouble incubating their heir - and, well, Hob did quite literally jump up and offer to ‘help’ so…

Luckily the next full moon is in a few days and the being informs both of them they’ll happily whisk the child (or children, and Hob nearly passes out at that casual comment) away once it’s born. Hob will be safe with the magical womb the being created just for him (how special, he should be so honored!!! Hob is definitively anything but honored!!) and all will be well! Dream promises the being will never play a trick like this again and brings Hob back to his flat and the poor guy just sits on the end of his bed cradling his stomach, almost…appreciating the weight of it between his hips and on his lap now that he knows it’s nothing to be too worried about. Now it’s so strange, to think he’d ever considered it anything else and oh god Hob thinks back to how Dream had put his hand along the side of his belly, thumb smoothing a small circle of comfort into his skin, touch so soft and delicate and concerned—

Luckily Hob doesn’t need to say anything, Dream is lord of daydreams as well as dreams themselves. And his touch is so uncertain when he sits beside Hob on the bed, hand going right back to the side of his stomach while Hob thrums his fingers along the top and laughs and says “Cant say I’ve ever experienced this before, I’m all for trying new things my friend, but if I was going to get knocked up by any magical being I wish they had been yours”

And it’s safe to say neither of them go to bed that night, with their first kiss against the sheets, Dream’s tongue going down, down to show Hob just how much he appreciates that new feature of his, for the next few days he has it for

Another!!! Wholeass fic!!!! In my inbox??? You guys are spoiling me. Anon, I hope you feel a lot better soon. This is glorious.

I just love the idea of Dream taking care of Hob for the next few days. They don't really go out and about because Hob can't afford to be seen, but when they do slip out together for a bit of flesh air in the late evening, Dream is careful to drap his coat over Hob’s shoulders. He brings Hob the most incredible range of treats and delicious things to eat, and when Hob jokes that he doesn't need to get anymore massive, Dream just hums and kisses him sweetly.

All the care that Hob has directed at Dream is now being reciprocated, with a little more on the side. Dream is always comforting him with soft touches, making sure he's comfy against his mound of pillows, making sure he still feels beautiful.

And when the full moon comes, Dream is there to hold Hob’s hand as he brings a new generation of... beings? Into the world. Its definitely not the sexiest night of Hob’s life, but it is the one where he feels more loved than he ever had before.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

shatter

prompt: voice breaking

whumpee: peter sutherland

fandom: the night agent

hi hi hi!! sorry it's been absolute ages since i last posted, school was a Thing but i'm on break now so i'm actually gonna finish off this card at long last :) anyways i watched this show a couple weeks ago and really enjoyed it, hope you'll like this fic!

The first time they actually, literally sleep together is the night after Peter returns from wherever it was that the FBI had shipped him off to (information that Rose, apparently, is still not allowed to know). She isn’t expecting him: he’d called her from a burner when he’d landed in DC that morning, but he hadn’t said anything at all about coming out to California. 

So she’s understandably surprised that evening when he shows up on her doorstep with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside. 

As soon as she’d seen him pop up on her security feed, she’d gone to unlock the front door, and he doesn’t even have the chance to ring the bell before she’s opening the door and pulling him inside. 

“Peter!”

She wraps him in a hug, pressing her head to his chest and listening to his heartbeat and just breathing in his presence. It’s only been a little over a month since they’ve seen each other, but the calls had been sporadic and short and anyway, nothing compares to having him here, now, slowly dripping water onto the tiles of the foyer in her small one-bedroom house with all the security features of a billionaire’s mansion.

“Hey, Rose,” he says against the side of her head. His voice is heavy with exhaustion and he’s leaning into her enough that she has to work to keep her balance. He doesn’t show any signs of letting go of her anytime soon, and honestly she’d be willing to stay like this forever, but she can feel herself starting to keel over, so she reluctantly pulls away from him before they both go falling to the ground. 

For a few seconds, they both just stand there, looking at each other. 

Peter looks terrible. During their one hectic week together (which feels simultaneously as though it had been years ago and just yesterday), when she knows he’d barely slept at all, he’d looked less tired than this. 

There are dark circles beneath his eyes, almost black, one puffier than the other. Quite likely there’s a black eye hiding beneath the exhaustion. There’s a fresh scrape across the bridge of his nose and a yellowing bruise on his temple and he’s almost shaking - she can see it in the way his fingers grip the strap of his bag. 

“You look terrible, Peter,” she says, trying for a tone somewhere between joking and concerned. She pulls the duffel away from him - he winces when the strap brushes his ear, though there’s no visible injury - and sets it down on the floor. 

“Thanks,” he replies. She doesn’t know whether it’s meant to be a sarcastic acknowledgement of her you look terrible comment or a genuine appreciation for her taking his bag. 

She’s about to ask this question, but something in the way that Peter is looking at her makes her hesitate. It’s his eyes, she thinks. Their unnatural shine in the soft light. How he looks simultaneously afraid and ashamed and just fucking raw. 

“Hey,” she whispers, stepping forwards to grab onto him at the same moment that he all but collapses into her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She guides them both to the ground, leaning against the wall. Peter doesn’t say anything. 

“Hey,” she repeats, more insistent. “Look at me.”

He does, but he still doesn’t say anything. He looks so miserable and so tired and she just wants to help but she doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what he needs, doesn’t know what’s wrong. She can make guesses, but she can’t actually - she doesn’t actually know how to help if he won’t tell her what’s wrong. 

But she isn’t going to push him. She sometimes forgets that they’ve known each other for less than two months. She doesn’t know everything about him yet. Doesn’t quite know how far, how hard, to push. She’ll let him come to her. 

He looks away from her again, stares at their knees pressed together, side-by-side. Then, at long last, he speaks.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“This?” For a heart-wrenching moment, she thinks that he means this, the two of them, and she braces herself for a blow that never comes. 

“This,” Peter repeats, gesturing loosely to himself with a hand that is now definitely shaking. 

Oh. 

“Can I - What do you need?”

She’s never seen him look quite so lost. 

“I don’t…I don’t know.” His voice is strained until it breaks on the last word, and Rose doesn’t let herself think. She just reaches out and wraps her arms around him, guiding his head to rest on her shoulder, and Peter freezes up for a fraction of a second, and then he just shatters. 

He falls apart nearly silently, but Rose can hear the hitches in his breathing, can feel him trembling, feel the tears soak into her t-shirt. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Peter whispers after a while, his voice rough and a little unsteady. One of his hands loosely twists the hem of her shirt, and Rose cautiously threads her fingers into his hair. 

“You don’t have to know anything right now,” she whispers back. She imagines the Bureau might feel differently about this, but for the time being, it’s just them. Nothing else matters. 

Peter shakes his head against her shoulder. “I thought I would like it.”

“But?”

He shrugs, sniffs. “I was good at it. But - the Metro bombing, the assassination plot - plots - it’s not…it’s not the same as this.”

Rose thinks she understands. There’s a difference between being thrust into something and jumping in voluntarily, between a day or a week and a month. Between being with someone and being essentially alone. 

Peter doesn’t say anything else. At first Rose assumes he’s just thinking, and then she realizes he’s falling asleep. 

“Hey, c’mon,” she says softly, nudging him. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Peter looks up at her for the first time in what feels like forever. His already-battered face is now tearstained, his cheeks and eyes pink. 

“Sorry about all that,” he tells her, as the two of them get to their feet. 

“Don’t even think about apologizing,” Rose responds, taking him by the hand and leading him to her bedroom. “I’d say you’re more than allowed to fall apart on me, all things considered.”

Peter doesn’t say anything to this, but he squeezes her hand and doesn’t offer up any resistance when she goes to help him out of his still-damp clothes and shoes. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” Rose says, gesturing to the bed, as she leaves the room to sweep the house. She checks that all of the doors and windows are locked, makes sure the alarm and cameras are set, then grabs Peter’s forgotten duffel bag and brings it to her bedroom. 

He’s almost asleep by the time she returns. One of his arms has been left outside of the comforter, and there’s a massive bruise on the elbow. She thinks about the various injuries she’d glimpsed while helping him undress and decides to spend some serious time cataloging them all in the morning, if only to make sure that nothing is seriously wrong. 

For now, though, she just double checks the window above the bed, changes into her pajamas, and climbs into bed beside him. 

There will be time for everything else tomorrow.

thanks for reading!! hope neither of them was too ooc, this is my first time writing them (but probably not my last). love you all (and sorry for the massive unplanned break lmao)!!

[fanficfanattic]

Apples or poison or Tooting (and if none of these work, head). Please and thank you.

There wasn’t any toots or tooting. But!

🍎apples AND ☠️ poison were both in the same fic, so you get from the intro of the one to the outro of the other.

In this fic, Ted does go into the treatment room:

“I don’t even know what me favorite fucking fruit is, cause ten years ago he said some shit about only being allowed to eat apples. No reason given. Just the right shade of drunk that I couldn’t know if he’d remember it or not. And its not like he could tell what we ate at academy. Or in me own home once I had one.

But I still only eat fucking apples. Tried them all, I think. Can tell you which are favorites from that. Granny Smiths are not for me.”

He’d edged back from the rage in his voice when talking about his father. But that just meant he returned to ridiculing himself.

“Like I said, no reason to listen to a word he says. Particularly since I don’t much agree with ‘im bout anything. Once I started though, I’ve just never, never managed to stop.

‘Don’t pass, be the star, caring ‘bout people will hold ye back’.

It jus…he was happier with me when I did what he said, and happier meant a lot less hurting.

But it’s just…it’s just putting that hurt onto someone else? Isn’t it, Keeley?”

And she didn’t want to confirm it, because he was hurting right now and she still cared about him. Loved him in a way she could only do for him. But this is what she’d tried to tell him months ago. And it was the truth. So.

“Yeah, Jamie, that is what it is. I’m not gonna lie to you. But seeing that? Its good, its important.”

“I don’ wanna be like him. I don’t! I wanna be more like I were before all his stupid fucking rules. Fuck. Fuck me.”

“No! No, you’re not. Like him. You’ve done things he wanted you to do, that weren’t good to do. But you said 15 years, Jamie. You were a kid. And I’ve seen you at benefits and signings. You’re so fucking good with kids, babe. You’d never hurt one. Not ever.

And that’s because…people who abuse their family, it’s about control. But you aren’t fucked in the head enough to take that out on someone truly helpless. Even when you turned that hurt on to someone else. You were just trying to find a way for you to have some control back.”

“Not an excuse though.”

“No. But it’s a reason. Oh god, that’s the reason you never wanted me to come round when he was down?”

“Course. I wouldn’ta let him fucking near you, Keels. I don’t let him fucking near anyone, if I can help it. He can’t hospitalize mates if you stop having them.”

“…what? What did you just say, Jamie.”

His face had the dawning horror of someone who realized they’d said too much. Admitted to something they couldn’t take back. And she didn’t know if he was upset that he’d revealed he didn’t have friends. Or that his dad had spread his control out over so many more people.

“Hey, no, don’t need to answer that. God Jamie, I’m so sorry he ever showed back up in your life. Even at my most pissed at you, I’ve never wished anything bad on you.”

“It’s okay, Keels. I know. You’re dead brill. Best thing ever happened to me, honest, and I know I’m lucky we’re still…friends, yeah?”

“Of course, Jamie. We are friends. I don’t let any of my other exes come over to talk or crash my dates with Roy.”

And he honest to god let out the tiniest laugh at that. Just as quickly the quirk of his lips flattened out. He slumped back against the wall, energy fatigued, and went back to looking at the wall.

“Hey, you’re gonna be okay, babe. We’ll get it sorted, yeah?”

“You don’t have to help me sort shit, Keeley. Thanks though. I’m just so tired of it. Of being scared rather than a grown man. All I’ve ever wanted to do was play football, and it’s like he’s turned it into poison. He turns everything to it, sooner or later.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that, though, so she just put her hand back on his shoulder. He’d rested his own hand over hers, for barely a second, when he heard footsteps approaching the door. Heard them before anyone else did. These stood out, loud ones with anger in them he could tell, a skill developed from a childhood of listening for drunken footsteps as a warning system.

His reflexes, trained to be quicker and then quicker still, meant Jamie was already moving as the door slammed open. He pushed off the wall so he was on his knees, upright as possible, putting himself between Keeley and the door.

It wasn’t his father. It wasn’t his fucking da, just Ted and Beard, but his breathing was already sped up anyway. He barely felt Keeley put her hand back on his shoulder, but heard her say softly from behind him, “Hey, Ted.”

“Hey there, Keeley.” Ted responded to her first. Before turning to him. And an angry Ted had only ever yelled at him before, never once tried to hit him. But he hadn’t yelled at anyone else at all, and Jamie was used to being the exception to a lot of people’s rules. He couldn’t get his breathing under control. And he knew Keeley could tell. But she wasn’t scared of Ted. She’d told him that he could trust ‘em.

“Hey, kiddo. Good thinking sending Coach out to help. But I told you to get to the treatment room-”

“Oh. Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t…wasn’t tryin to-“

“Oh, hey, hey, it’s okay, Jamie. I’m not mad at you. I wasn’t trying to keep you from the team. But you’ve got to get checked for a concussion and we need to see if anythings broken.”

“What?”

“Think your nose bone might be broken, son.”

“Its not. Been broke before so I know how it feels. And it ain’t bone, the nose.”

“Well that’s true, it’s cartilage. But all the same I want a team doc to check you over. Can you do that for me?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Your hear-“

“No, not that. It’s…you and Dani and Sam? You all just…I thought it were an act, yeah? You caring, and shit, bout everyone. Let alone me. Cause that’s not…that’s not how people are.”

And Lasso made a choked off sound, but didn’t interrupt, so he kept going. All this poison sitting under his skin, like he’d just told Keeley about? Had all this venom pouring out his mouth now. Was he purging it? Or using it as a defense. As an offense?

“I could easy spend a hundred years next to a Roy Kent. Know how to absorb anger, or let it fall off, know how to survive it. I don’t have any fucking idea what to do with…with…with niceness!”

“Surely people have been nice to you before, Jamie?”

“Plenty of folks. That all want something of you or from you. Sam a mentor. You a more biddable player.

Keeley’s the only new person I’ve trusted in…years.” She just started lightly rubbing the shoulder she’d been touching, didn’t pause or stumble.

“Cause she said exactly what she was willing to give and what she wanted in return. No tricks.

And she said…”

Ted’s eyes moved to hers, quick and fathomless, before focusing back on Jamie. He realized with an almost start that the boy was trembling. He wanted to put a hand on his other shoulder or pull him into a hug. But the sudden movement, with all this adrenaline and the obvious now, so stupid Ted, the PTSD he had…now wasn’t the time.

“What’d she say, Jamie?”

“That you weren’t playing games with me head. You meant it.”

“I did. I do. I care a lot about you, Jamie.”

“Why’d you send me away, then? Once I started finally listening to you?”

[anachilles]

like a goddamn vampire

“Do you need some help?” Obi-Wan’s voice cut through the darkened silence, the offer made in a way that would have been cryptic if not for the backs of his fingers that had found the inside of Anakin’s thigh, petting soft, intentional strokes. He knew the exact kind of help he needed.

Or: The first day of Anakin's period is putting him through the wringer, but Obi-Wan knows just how to take care of him.

5.7k words

also available to read [ HERE ] on AO3

rated: E

A/N: My first foray into writing obikin fic after like 7-8 months of hyperfixation! Hope you guys enjoy!

The jolt that dragged Anakin into consciousness wasn’t sharp.

Actually, for the first few groggy seconds he was awake he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d woken up in the first place. The darkness still shrouding their bedroom made it clear it was the middle of the night, dawn still hours from breaking.

It had been a physically taxing day the one before, and he’d gotten (read: all but flopped) into bed genuinely grateful for the prospect of rest, his muscles aching and fatigue having settled deep into his bones. He’d been snippy about it too apparently, with Obi-Wan having had to scold him at least once for being a brat over the course of the evening back in their shared quarters at the Temple. Somewhere around the second or third time one of Anakin’s little comments must’ve rang a bit too sharp however, and he felt his own dour mood traverse his shields and leak out into the Force, dispersing into the air around them like an unpleasant smell, the withering look in Obi-Wan’s eyes melted away into concern.

They were readying for bed when he managed to catch Anakin by the elbow and stop him in his tracks, before sliding his hand up under his bangs and pressing a palm to his forehead, reminiscent of how he would have done when he was still a padawan, a child. Obi-Wan’s eyebrows had furrowed in confusion at what must’ve been a lack of heat, and he then flipped his hand around and tried to gauge again with the back of his fingers instead, thinking he must be mistaken.

With his head pounding, back hurting, nerves frayed, and feeling like he was about to keel over from exhaustion, Anakin had been focused on no other goal above just simply collapsing into bed. He levelled Obi-Wan with what he could muster of an incredulous look, pulling the other man’s hand away, despite how tempting it was to melt into the touch.

“I’m fine, Master … . ” he mustered up irritably, which inevitably did nothing for Obi-Wan’s worry. He had let it go though, if ruefully, whether due to waning patience and energy or simply running out of lines of questioning to try.

Really, at that point it should have been more than obvious to Anakin what it was; the Maker knew he’d been through it enough times at this point to be well-acquainted with the unique kind of discomfort he was in. He isn’t stupid - why does he consistently miss the signals? How?

His first few moments after waking were soaked in peace, if perhaps confused, disorientated peace. Which only made what followed all the more hellish.

A deep, vice-like pain gripped his lower abdomen and seemed to radiate out around his entire body before momentarily loosening again, teasing relief before another wave of tension. He felt wetness between his legs, of which he didn’t even need to check to confirm what it was.

He squirmed in place where he lay, groaning as he tried to find some sort of mythical position that would be comfortable enough for him to be able to just ignore his body and go back to sleep. That’s what the Jedi did, right? It’s what he’d trained for. Shedding the weight of their physical vessels and attuning themselves with the Force. If only he’d been better at meditation.

It was only the start of the monthly curse, anyway. He never bled much right at the beginning on the first day, and he was so tired , surely dealing with it could wait until morning?

However, as the minutes ticked by the pain only increased, the cramps coming more frequently and with less time between them with every passing one. It felt like his uterus was being clamped to death in someone’s fist. At some point during the entire miserable half hour he ended up suffering through, he glanced over at Obi-Wan, sleeping soundly, and envied him bitterly. Yet still when the pain gripped him and stole his breath Anakin gritted his teeth and daren’t let himself groan, for fear of waking him.

Stubbornly, Anakin screwed his eyes shut, determined to make himself fall back to sleep.

All of a sudden though he felt a hand on his shoulder, and his steadfast concentration shattered. He opened his eyes again and there Obi-Wan was staring back at him, handsome, crow-footed eyes drowsy and half-lidded but still awash with concern. His Master’s hand moved from his shoulder to his cheek, his thumb swiping Anakin’s cheekbone.

“Alright, Anakin, what’s wrong?” Obi-Wan asked simply, imploring him with both his gaze and his tone. “Are you ill? Or hurt? Tell me.”

Anakin took a deep breath, leaning greedily into the other man’s touch despite himself. “Did I wake you? How?” he asked evasively in return, confused how he could have when he’d made such an effort not to.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan answered with a small, humourless chuckle, like that should’ve been obvious. Irritation flared in Anakin, though was quickly extinguished by the comforting lull of Obi-Wan’s thumb as it worked against his cheek. Knowingly, because what is his Master if not all-knowing, Obi-Wan continued, “Your discomfort is bleeding out into the Force like an open wound, darling.”

Ugh . For as skillful as Anakin could be at trapping his emotions behind solid steel, deadbolted walls, physical pain was another story entirely. That, he’d never been so skilled at keeping such a tight rein on.

Obi-Wan’s voice took on a whisper as he shuffled closer, his lips fluttering across the path trodden by his thumb against Anakin’s cheekbone.

“ Tell me what’s wrong .” Gentle, like they were sharing a secret.

His voice, deep and rough with sleep, nostalgically authoritative but so achingly tender, cut through Anakin like a hot knife through butter. His core ached in response, but as quick as the feeling came it melted into yet another much less pleasant one. The sensation switched so rapidly, his face must have given away how painful it was, as understanding washed over Obi-Wan’s face.

“Oh, I see…”.

Obi-Wan’s hand immediately moved to Anakin’s lower back, his fingers digging expertly into that one little spot, the one that often provided at least some semblance of momentary help with the cramping. In all his wisdom, he expected Obi-Wan’s next port of call would be dragging himself out of bed to go and get him painkillers, maybe some tea. Tea couldn’t fix everything by any means, but it could make most things a damn sight better - that’s what his Master said, at least. Anakin was pretty sure he didn’t want any, he barely liked tea at the best of times, but at this point he’d be willing to try the Maker knew what if it had any chance of easing this-

“Do you need some help?” Obi-Wan’s voice cut through the darkened silence, the offer made in a way that would have been cryptic if not for the backs of his fingers that had found the inside of Anakin’s thigh, petting soft, intentional strokes. He knew the exact kind of help he needed.

Anakin’s breath stuttered in his chest along with the thoughts that stuttered in his head. At how Obi-Wan’s voice had stricken him just then, the low eminence of this particular ache, deeper and more guttural than any stomachache and how all too hyper-aware it made him of certain parts of his body, now slick and wet, and his desires. The thought of any kind of relief from the cramping, the bliss of release, felt like the heady mirage of an oasis in the middle of the Tatooine desert sands. And Anakin was parched .

Or maybe it was just the molotov cocktail of hormones surging through his veins, treading the razor-thin line between pain and pleasure. Either way, his core was on fire and Anakin found himself nodding his head, taking Obi-Wan’s hand where it rested on his thigh and guiding it closer to his core.

As if activated by purpose, Obi-Wan nodded and moved immediately, shifting closer to Anakin, cupping his palm over his clothed cunt, placating him at least at first by giving him something firm to rut up against. Anakin slipped his arm round Obi-Wan’s neck, anchoring his hand in the other man’s hair, and bore down into his hand, letting his hips rock as he ground against it. The fabric of his sleep pants provided another layer of blissful friction against the wide, competent structure of Obi-Wan’s hand and fingers.

“There , how’s that? Does that feel good?” Obi-Wan asked, to which Anakin hesitated in his response.

He just wanted the pain to ease so badly; for the ache to be soothed. While chasing that relief, and before he could answer verbally, a particularly awful swell of tension arose and once again caught his lower abdomen in that wretched vice-like grip. A whimper slipped out of him unbidden, and all of a sudden he had no more energy for fight or pretence or putting on a brave face. Not for Obi-Wan.

“Hurts…” he whined.

Obi-Wan, his chest growing heavy with the distress and misery Anakin was leaking into the living Force, clicked his tongue in sympathy. “I know, I know-” He cut himself off as Anakin’s hips stilled, and he’s clearly wracked by another spasm, tears pooling in his eyes with the worsening agony. “Oh, sweetheart .”

Unable to watch anymore, Obi-Wan pressed a kiss to Anakin’s brow and disentangled himself from their embrace, earning himself a whiny little noise of pointed discontent, much to Obi-Wan’s fleeting amusement. He made his way over to the airing cupboard and when he returned to the bed he held a familiar dark brown towel in his hands, clearly worn from use and frequent washes, but that still verged on being invitingly fluffy.

“Lift up a second,” he said, draping the towel out across their bed as Anakin complied. Like a moth to a flame Obi-Wan quickly joined him back in bed and helped him pull off the linen shorts he’d worn to bed.

“There,” he said, with a soft, satisfied smile, as he pushed a creeping tendril of hair out of Anakin’s flushed face. “Now we’re going to make you feel better, hm?”.

Anakin nodded his head eagerly, letting loose an insistent “ Please ”, before his trigger-happy instincts got the better of him and he tried to pull Obi-Wan’s head down to meet his own, simultaneously snatching Obi-Wan’s hand up to direct it downwards. Obi-Wan wasn’t one to be rushed, however, or easily swayed by Anakin’s whims. Just before his fingers skimmed the swollen, sensitive flesh, he deftly wrangled his hand from Anakin’s grasp, and pinned Anakin’s own hand above his head. Half-playfully, like he was dealing with an errant puppy, Obi-Wan swatted Anakin’s nose with his free hand and then took his chin in his grasp, bringing them nose-to-nose.

“Well that’s quite enough of that, don’t you think?” he scolded, sounding every inch the ever-so-diligent schoolmaster, though with a contrasting intimacy that drove Anakin wild . Like he wasn’t even telling him off, not really. Like it was for his own good. Obi-Wan’s lips skimmed teasingly across Anakin’s own. “Calm down, Anakin. For this to work you must relax. You trust me to take care of you how you need, don’t you? I shan’t be able to carry on if you’re insistent on doing it yourself.”

It was almost certainly an idle threat, verging on a joke through the lens of Obi-Wan’s very particular sense of humour. Though right now, in this condition - his brain addled with lust and pain and pure want - he wasn’t up for taking the chance.

Anakin let himself go boneless in Obi-Wan’s hold, every inch of his skin and cell in his body humming under his Master’s attentions. He first went in for an sweeping, indulgent kiss, prying Anakin’s lips open and capturing his tongue between his own in the briefest, but sweetest caress. Quickly though his focus shifted and his mouth moved to suckle the hinge between Anakin’s jaw and neck, and so on he carried down the expanse of Anakin’s chest and abdomen, his fingers simultaneously making light work keeping a teasing, but steady rhythm stroking the inside of Anakin’s thigh.

Usually Obi-Wan liked to take his time much more when it came to working Anakin up and getting him ready, seemingly taking some sort of twisted pleasure in languorously bringing Anakin to the edge and driving him half to distraction before he’d even so much as actually gotten his cock out. But tonight, with this sort of problem, Obi-Wan knew what he needed. Even with just the brief extent of the action so far, the cramping was beginning to feel further from his considerations, eclipsed in part by pleasure and anticipation and the hungry but reverent look in Obi-Wan’s eyes as he serviced his partner’s body; committed himself to the flesh he so beloved.

Anakin still had to fight the urge to hurry things along, and for as miniscule as the physical indication might have been, Obi-Wan must’ve caught it still, smirking from where his head was positioned in the dip of Anakin’s navel.

“Ah ah ah… ” The warning vibrated against the skin, and when Anakin immediately flopped back down, Obi-Wan chuckled. “Good boy,” he praised, giving the younger man’s thigh an affectionate pat, before leaning up to close his lips around his perfectly pink, puffy, achingly sensitive nipple. “Such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” He sounded like he truly meant it, too. “Well, you can be, when the motivation strikes you.”

Anakin gasped, his whole body shuddering with the sensation alongside the affirmation. Tears sprung to his eyes, and a rush of additional wetness gushed between his legs.

Taking advantage of Anakin’s distraction, Obi-Wan let his teeth graze the nub of Anakin’s nipple, just as he slid his hand down over his bare cunt, letting the tips of his fingers graze at an exploratory pace across his folds. Anakin squirmed in place, and without any conscious thought, automatically tried to bear down imploringly onto Obi-Wan’s fingers.

“I know, darling , I know… ” Obi-Wan cooed this time in response to his desperation, as Anakin keenly made his simultaneously overwhelming pleasure and impatient dis pleasure known. “I know what you need.”

Obi-Wan figured he’d teased the poor boy quite enough. Had the twilight tryst been spurred purely by carnal lust and the promise of pleasure he would’ve gone longer; would’ve spent longer working his partner up, ringing some more of that frighteningly limitless energy out of him like a wet sponge. But this wasn’t that. Call it… medicinal? No, that wasn’t quite the word. Therapeutic? Maybe. On closer inspection Obi-Wan would maybe come to categorise it as a loving and dutiful act of service. 

Obi-Wan’s fingers, at long last, plunged into Anakin’s gripping, silky wetness, strangling a groan out of his former charge as they sank so easily. He crooked his fingers immediately, using the tips of strong, adept fingers to first rub and stroke, and then prod more adamantly at his swollen, sensitive walls. They curled up to lightly touch on a very dark corner that, once given some attention, he knew prompted absolute pleasure - crystal clear as freshly blown glass, made evident by Anakin’s reaction - and all consuming. His entire body spasmed at the sensation, from his legs all the way up to his lungs, his breath leaving him in a desperate groan.

Anakin felt like an exposed nerve; raw and vulnerable and sensitive all over, his breath stuttering as he rode the wave of deeply held, primal pain melting into pleasure with the stroking of Obi-Wan’s fingers, his thumb now rubbing his clit in tenderly rhythmic but unforgiving circles. The way he was at the moment, it didn’t take much or too long to bring him to the edge. Hell, even Obi-Wan’s scent caught on a wayward breeze would have been enough to get him there in this condition. But it didn’t make him any less appreciative of his presence now and what he was actually doing.

Why was it that the more it hurt, the more euphoric the climax was? It was something he’d come to realise, in entirely more ways than one.

Obi-Wan lowered his face down to Anakin’s own, swallowing the boy’s moans and groans and whimpers of pleasure and pain and overwhelming stimulation in a desperate, commanding kiss. His tongue licked into Anakin’s mouth in-time to the movements of his hand, and Anakin continued to melt into the ministrations. He could feel the precipice grow closer though, wave after wave of tension washing over him, primal anticipation coiling in his gut and between his legs. He felt himself grasping tighter to Obi-Wan, fingers clenching as he tried to hold him close, closer, close r, and began moving his hips in time with Obi-Wan’s strokes, grinding down harder onto his fingers with an impatient grunt, chasing the encroaching pleasure.

“That’s it, dear one” Obi-Wan’s voice sounded from above him, still slightly rough from sleep and now clouded in blatant arousal as well, as if he could tell where Anakin was at, how close he was to letting go. To be honest, he probably did. There was an obscene squelching as Obi-Wan’s fingers picked up the pace. “Take what you need. Let’s make you feel better, hm?”

Anakin flushed at the words of encouragement, dripping from Obi-Wan’s lips like Akivan honey, but with a grit that betrayed just how turned on he was also getting, the recognition sending a jolt of arousal surging through him. With each utterance he felt even more loved, so deeply cared for, and incredibly seen in such a way that should make him feel uncomfortable. If Anakin were someone else, on the receiving end of such intimacy from anyone else, he may feel compelled to avert his gaze from its intensity. But as it stood they were not other people, they were themselves, and although Anakin had never partaken in any such vices himself, based on what was described in books and in Holonet PSAs, he could only liken what it felt to be loved by Obi-Wan Kenobi to the headiest, most potent hit of the most premium-grade spice to be found in any corner of the Galaxy.

It drove him forward in a needy surge. He buried his face into Obi-Wan’s neck, pressing desperate, open-mouthed kisses as the blood in his veins grew hotter and hotter with each ardent stroke against the so so sensitively inflamed walls of his cunt; with each prod at that hidden little bundle of nerves that had him writhing and moaning like a lothcat in heat. Obi-Wan responded in kind, somehow driving even deeper, his thumb relentless as its circling grew quicker and quicker.

“Let go , Anakin,” Obi-Wan’s voice vibrated against his ear, and with one more short, precise stab, Anakin was powerless but to do as he was told.

His mouth fell open and he let out a deep, guttural scream as the orgasm crashed over him to the tune of Obi-Wan’s insistent but garbled goading of “Yes, yes… that’s it… that’s it… ”, and “There you go…” . His body seized in pleasure, his fingernails dug into the back of Obi-Wan’s neck, bruising crescent moons likely to be left behind disrupting the pale, freckled skin. For a collection of blissful seconds he felt euphoric as the tension in his abdomen loosened, the cramps easing and melting away in the whispers of afterglow.

He flopped back onto the bed completely spent, closing his eyes against both the rising tide of exhaustion and the sight (and sensation) of Obi-Wan’s fingers slipping out of him. Relieved at the thought of Anakin being comfortable enough to potentially doze off, Obi-Wan reached for the corner of the towel laid beneath them and wiped the come-slick blood from his fingers. Really, with the lights off who could really tell the difference between them? He made quick work of it without a second thought, before joining Anakin where he lay, gently manoeuvring the younger man’s body so that he was gathered up in his arms.

“How do you feel?” Obi-Wan asked, his breath tickling the shell of Anakin’s ear.

Anakin suppressed a shiver and responded distantly, like he was still feeling out his answer. “Okay, I think,” he said, not even bothering to open his eyes. “Better. Tired, more than anything.”

Obi-Wan let out a contented breath, smiling as he pressed a far more tender kiss to Anakin’s temple. “Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

There’s a hesitant pause, before Anakin’s voice sounds again, worn-out but soaked in sincerity. “Thank-you.”

“Of course, dear one.”

The silence that settled between them was comfortable, the only noise piercing the veil of quiet being the sound of their breathing, soft and settled and steadily in tandem. With Anakin seemingly falling back to sleep, his curls tickling Obi-Wan’s face, he let himself drift as well, buzzing as he still slightly was from residual arousal he frankly had no intention of making the effort to remedy. The peace wasn’t to last however, as only a few minutes later Anakin groaned into the darkness, curling in on himself and clutching at his stomach, the sudden discomfort rippling outwards from him in the Force like a pebble thrown into otherwise still waters.

With a sympathetic sigh Obi-Wan extracted himself from their hold and hauled himself out of bed, coming back from the ‘fresher with a bottle of pain medication, a glass of water, and a wet flannel he left on the bedside table. He motioned for Anakin to sit up, imploring him with a bit of a firmer gaze when he appeared reluctant to do so. Perching on the edge of the bed, Obi-Wan handed over the pills and the water when Anakin finally acquiesced. He’d say it was on account of the long-perfected ‘scolding Master stare’ of his, but goodness knows how effective it actually was when it only seemed to affect Anakin in adulthood, after becoming… what they were now.

He took a moment to push a wayward strand of hair that had been falling in Anakin’s face back behind his ear, as the other man threw back the pills. Poor thing, he looked so desperate for some sort of reprieve. “I’d say maybe the painkillers should have been the first port of call.”

He honestly hadn’t meant the remark in any way self-deprecating, but even so Anakin nobly rushed to his defence. “You helped plenty. It’s just… the first day is just always, so…” he trailed off, finding the words to describe it to someone who didn’t personally experience it hard to grasp. Shaking his head, Anakin managed a hint of a smirk, heat in his gaze despite the barely held-off pain etched into his features. “I’m personally a big fan of your more holistic approach, for what it’s worth,” he said, laying a hand on Obi-Wan’s thigh, the grip intentional and undeniable.

Obi-Wan couldn’t resist the smirk that bloomed on his lips. His boy was about as subtle as a blaster. As skilled and proficient as Anakin was at so much of what he took on in life, coyness was never something he’d been able to master. Needing no further invitation, he moved onto the bed so that he was looming over Anakin’s frame, trembling slightly as it was. Whether it was from nightly chill as the sweat was beginning to cool against his skin or in need Obi-Wan wasn’t sure, but either way he wasted no time capturing Anakin’s mouth in another soft-eyed kiss.

“Please” Anakin whimpered against his lips, Obi-Wan able to both taste and feel the desperation in the plea. He repeated himself again and again as he lapped at Obi-Wan’s mouth. “ Please, Master… ”.

How could his Master remain unaffected by that? By the pointed use of the old moniker, the wanton begging, and the cloying red mist he could both see in Anakin’s eyes and sense diffusing through the Force from his signature.

“Oh, dearest,” he cooed, having managed to just about drag his lips away from Anakin’s needy mouth. His hand once more reached downwards between Anakin’s legs. “Do you need one more? Just to tide you over until the painkillers kick in?”

Anakin nodded, to which Obi-Wan leaned forward and laid a kiss in the space between his eyebrows, and quickly shifted down so that he was eye-level with his pussy. It was no secret to anyone that Obi-Wan would do anything for Anakin; go to any length, provide any service required, bend himself into any shape, or resign himself to any fate for his well-being and happiness.

This, however, was no sacrifice or resignation. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, his breaths coming heavier now and more laborious, and looked upon Anakin’s opening, desire and wonderment burning in his gaze. Puffy and swollen, it was slick with wetness of different kinds, the visceral stain of crimson red mixed with milky off-white dripping right down into the crease of his thigh.

Obi-Wan gripped Anakin’s hip in one hand and leaned forward, letting his head dip down and his lips only just graze his folds. “So beautiful,” he murmured half to himself, as if in reverence. The featherlight touch had Anakin bucking up to meet his mouth, only for Obi-Wan’s firm hand to keep him pinned down in place.

Just for that he moved his mouth away, momentarily detouring to Anakin’s inner thigh, where he plastered a series of little kisses and nibbles, as he continued. “I know, darling, I know…” he recited, his mouth moving inwards back towards Anakin’s aching core. He wanted to give Anakin what he needed, but he himself was too far gone at this point and simply just couldn’t help himself.

“So perfect” Obi-Wan uttered, punctuating each inhalation with a kiss to his opening. “You know that, don’t you? What you are… what you can do. The sheer extent of what you’re capable of. Forged from the Force itself. Every single muscle, every nerve, every cell.”

Anakin shuddered under the praise as Obi-Wan laid worship to his body, his mind going pleasantly cloudy as he sunk deeper and deeper into the moment. Another cramp however drew him back to the surface of his mind. Just as a half-formed groan was about to bubble up from his throat, it was swiftly intercepted as Obi-Wan at long last breached him with his tongue.

The soft, but unyielding, pressure was instantly maddening, and Anakin made a grab for Obi-Wan’s hair to anchor him in place. The movements of his tongue were first exploratory, stroking his walls unhurriedly, luxuriously, mapping the sweet little spots and motions that made Anakin writhe hardest against his face. He then relentlessly exploited each one in turn as the man under him quivered and shook and whimpered through it.

Sensing Anakin’s growing arousal, Obi-Wan decided to up the ante, letting the solid, prominent line of his nose nudge against his engorged and almost painfully sensitive clit. As deliciously responsive as ever, Anakin seized with a whole-body shudder that knocked the wind straight out of him, his fingers tightening in Obi-Wan’s hair as he tried to bring his head impossibly closer, find more friction… more, more-

“More… p-please… ” he uttered, head swirling with hormones and pain and praise and carnal tension and release and fuck , the feeling of Obi-Wan’s beard scratching his thighs… his aching cunt.

“As much as I have to give you, dear one. Maybe even more than that,” Obi-Wan’s voice sounded from between his thighs, rough and thick almost like it was further away than it was, like he was speaking while trying to wade through quicksand inescapably destined to swallow him whole.

When Obi-Wan continued, the movements were faster, harder, and deeper . His tongue and lips (and now nose as well) worked in tandem to lap at Anakin’s pussy, his pace unforgiving as he licked and sucked with a single-minded interest in fucking the pain right out of him as best he could. Whilst he himself was feeling himself become more frantic in his work, he still found the momentary consciousness to savour Anakin’s taste; honestly, he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t, soppy old romantic he was. His usual musk was still apparent, heady and addictive as it always was, only now infused with the metallic notes of life itself. He only felt himself grow stiffer at the thought.

After a while, he could both feel and sense how close Anakin was coming to another climax, his legs trembling and chest heaving as he shook and moaned with abandon. With that in mind his face lifted from its perch with a parting suckle on Anakin’s clit, just for good measure, the cold air against his wet skin making Anakin shiver.

If looks could kill, Obi-Wan may well have found himself at one with the Force that very moment.

“You can’t be serious,” Anakin whined, petulant and half-fucked out as he tried to raise himself up onto his elbows, only for Obi-Wan to push him back down onto his back, after having given his mouth a quick swipe with the corner of the towel.

Wordlessly, because really, even for Obi-Wan they were beyond words at this point, he pulled off his sleep pants and positioned himself along Anakin’s side, manhandling him so that Anakin’s back was plastered to his chest. The younger man knew where this was going immediately, and the irritable confusion melted from his expression, his brow unfurrowing with almost comical speed.

“Yes,” he breathed out in frenetic agreement, reaching between them to grasp Obi-Wan’s now painfully hard, weeping cock and line it up with his entrance. Obi-Wan let out a curt chuckle and used one hand to pet the crown of Anakin’s head, and the other to stroke his side. He then kissed the top of his bare shoulder blade and pulled his leg up under his arm, holding and supporting it.

“This is what you need, isn’t it, darling?”

Anakin nodded, sucking in a hissing inhale as Obi-Wan slipped into him and he stretched around him with a practised ease despite how big he was. The position Obi-Wan was holding his leg in provided greater access, while allowing Anakin to relax comfortably on his side. Obi-Wan let out a groan of his own as he entered with barely any resistance at all, Anakin’s cunt now absolutely sopping wet and worked open, enveloping his cock in a tight, deliciously searing heat.

The feeling of being filled up, full of Obi-Wan particularly, knocked Anakin off-kilter in the best possible way. He immediately bore down on him, almost instinctively, squeezing and contracting around his cock as it started to drive into him in slick, impressively precise pumps. Fuck , he was so sensitive down there, every stroke felt like a lightening strike through his veins, unhelped by how quickly the tip of Obi-Wan’s dick had found that little spongy clump of nerves buried deep within. He’d cried out the first time it was hit, and then all of sudden it was being abused with a calculated accuracy pump after pump after pump.

With that hand that was still on his head, Obi-Wan turned Anakin’s head back towards him and pulled him into a sloppy, desperately reaching open-mouthed kiss, his mouth immediately laying dominance over his own as he drove into it, just as he was driving into his cunt.

It was the taste of himself on Obi-Wan’s tongue that had begun his descent over the edge, the eroticism of it sending him reeling alongside the steady, tenderly rhythmic jerking of Obi-Wan’s cock inside him.

As if able to read his mind somehow, Obi-Wan ground out a commanding “Yes, yes… come for me, that’s a good boy. You know you need to, just let go,” and snaked his hand round to thumb Anakin’s clit just as he railed up into him in one last definitive stroke.

Anakin came blindingly with a slack-jawed scream. His whole body shuddered and curled in on itself as much as he could in Obi-Wan’s arms as the orgasm ripped through him with no mercy, seemingly sparking every synapse in its wake alight from head to toe, with Obi-Wan following not long after, slowing his pace as he fucked them both through their comedowns.

His mind went blank for a few seconds in the afterglow of the climax, but when he came back to himself Anakin recognised the unspooling of tension in his abdomen, any hint of cramping easing away into blissful nothingness. He tried not to let himself get his hopes up in the haze of euphoria, and waited with baited breath and little hope for the pain to rematerialise.

After a few minutes, it hadn’t.

And after a couple more, still he was at peace.

Anakin wished he could say the relief tasted like sunlight and happiness or anything grand and bright like that, but he couldn’t. It was warm; functional and familiar. It was borne from pain and instead tasted like home and stability, like simple care and service from someone who knows his body intrinsically and loves him completely for both it and a whole lot more.

If he were able to stay awake long enough to think on it, he’d rescind his previous comparison of his relationship with Obi-Wan. It wasn’t a hit of spice (well, not all the time. Some of the time… definitely). A lot of the time it was more like a luxuriously rich, hot drink at the end of the long day out in the cold somewhere.

Obi-Wan lay behind him, still just as close, still inside him, panting to catch his breath as it ghosted Anakin’s skin with a pleasurable warmth. “Does that feel better now?” he asked tiredly, but with an air of hope, once again unable to resist the urge to kiss his partner’s back.

Maybe it was the addition of the painkillers that did it, maybe it was purely from getting Obi-Wan’s cock inside him. Rather than elaborate, Anakin simply agreed, returning the kiss against Obi-Wan’s knuckles. He then leaned into the comfort blanketing the both of them, both physically and in the Force, and let his eyes flutter shut.

Happy to finally rest.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Carpe Noctem 26

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, gaslighting, manipulation, violence, blood, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (short!reader)

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

The car seat does little to assuage the spike driving deeper and deeper under your shoulder. You grip the wheel tight, in silence, as you follow your usual route back to Lloyd's place. Not home. No, you're only there as long as he lets you be. Last night was a message received.

You pull up the long drive and come to a stop beside his car. You lean forward, groaning as another zap runs up your neck. You whimper and stay as you are, mustering the strength to go inside.

A tap disturbs your agonized trance and you push yourself up, straightening your arms as you keep a hold on the wheel. Lloyd's hand falls away from the window and he pulls on the handle. You reach to flip the lock up and let him open the door.

"You hidin' from me, buttercup?" He leans on the door, one foot hooked over the other.

"Nope, had some running around to do."

You slide your keys out of the ignition and grab your purse. You suck down the pain as you get out of the car and rip the door out from under his arm. He stands straight as you hit the lock button.

"Running around? Doing what, exactly?"

You look at him. His shadow looms in the evening, menacing and mean.

"Nothing you need to worry about. I'm home now, what do you need?"

He snorts, "what's the big deal? I'm curious. Daycare don't stay open that late--"

"Like I said, running around. Bank and stuff. Besides, what do you care?"

"I don't, not really, but I'm horny and I don't like waiting."

You suck in your cheeks. That much is clear about the man. He doesn't think above the waist. And you don't seem to have an ounce of good judgment, so whatever.

"Let me just get inside and I'll take care of you."

"Take care of me? How?" He asks giddily as he turns on his heel to stride in pace with you up the walk.

"However you like."

"You okay, Mimi, you sound... tense."

"Fine," you reach to rub your neck, "I'll just get washed up first."

"No need, I like it sweaty," he steps ahead of you and opens the door.

You go inside and keep your back to him as you roll your eyes. He can be absolutely disgusting. You knew that from the start, but you're still not sure why you chose to put up with it. It's almost worth it to go back to Johnny. Almost.

"I got an idea, you get naked, put an apron on, and I'll put you up on the counter again."

"Lloyd," you sigh as you put your purse down and peel off your jacket, "I'm really tired, can we just... be lazy?"

"Hmm, I guess, how about you get on your stomach, I like the view from back there."

"Sure," you kick off your boots. "I just need to get off my feet."

"Mmm, don't sound so excited."

You say nothing. You make a path to the couch, stripping as you do. Jeans then your shirt. FUCK! Another electric ripple that has you keeling over, barely catching yourself against the couch.

You untangle yourself from the shirt and push yourself up. Lloyd touches your back and you flinch, further jolting your neck. You nearly shriek, instead gnashing your teeth as you face him.

"What's up, doll face?"

"Nothing," you his out and strain to reach the back of your bra.

You unhook the clasps and turn away again. You shimmy out of your panties and move forward, getting onto your stomach. It feels nice, despite the circumstance. You angle your face towards the back of the couch.

You wait. Nothing happens. You push yourself up on your elbows and turn your head as far as you can to peek at Lloyd. You give him a 'well?' look.

"You know what," he shifts on his feet as he meets your eye. Usually he'd be too distracted by your ass, "I'm tired."

"Huh?" You drop your head back down, "right."

You steel yourself and sit up. You lean back and groan. God damn it! Everything hurts.

"Disappointed?" He asks.

"No," you say, more crisply than you intend.

You get up, fighting not to fall back, and gather your clothes up. You're embarrassed that you just flopped down like that for him and he backs out. Maybe he doesn't want you anymore. Good.

Or maybe not so good. You don't really have anywhere else to go. He knows that and just like everything else, he probably doesn't care.

“Did I do something?” You ask as you hug your clothes in front of you.

He won't look at you as he bounces on his feet. He shakes his head and clicks his tongue.

“Nope, just not feeling it,” he shrugs.

“Oh, have you eaten? I might make something–”

“Save it,” he waves you off and struts past you, “I got a call to make.”

He leaves you, confused and reeling. You drag your feet out to the entryway and grab your phone from your purse. You take it with you upstairs, hobbling a step at a time. You stumble into the guest room and drop your clothes.

You'll stay hungry. You're too tired and sore. You lay down and resign yourself to a grumbling stomach.

Your appeal should be done soon with the daycare. Worse comes to worst, you'll stay at the cafe and start applying to other places. You're not bound to Lloyd, he's made that crystal clear, so you better get ready to cut the cord.

[clockworkflicker]

<< Rewind

1.4k words, St/ranger Th/ings — platonic Steve and Robin with brief hints of St/eddie and Ro/nance. As ever, Steve is only capable of worrying about others.

Written for @miserablebabes — I was your secret santa ^^

Thanks again to @softsnzstuff for organizing this!

It’s another slow evening at Family Video. Snow falls gently outside, bright silver against the thick cover of clouds. Hardly anyone’s out and about tonight — certainly not for the sake of renting a movie, at least.

That’s not to say there’s nothing to do around the store, though. Far from it. Although they obviously do their best to do as little actual work at Family Video as possible, Steve and Robin still recognize that Keith will be on their asses if they neglect regular upkeep.

The VHS tape rewinder clicks off, and Robin retrieves the rewound tape with a yawn. She fits the movie back in its plastic case and places it atop a growing mountain of movies to her right. Shifting back to the stack of movies on her left, she pulls another from its case and places it in the rewinder, turning it on with a soft click.

It’s all far too dull. On the other side of the customer service counter, Steve is fast asleep, head nestled between arms folded on the table. He must’ve dozed off while she was rummaging around in the back, Robin figures.

She considers letting him sleep. It’s not like she needs him to help deal with the store’s nonexistent patrons at the moment. But a hand with all the goddamn tapes in the return box would be nice. Well, that and she’d love to have someone to chat with. The Family Video is far from quiet — Back to the Future is playing on several screens throughout the store, its audio punctuated by the rhythmic whirring and clicking of the tape rewinder — but the white noise feels distressingly empty without their usual banter.

“Hey Dingus,” Robin says, ruffling Steve’s mess of big, stupid hair. “Have a nice nap?”

Steve groans awake at her touch. “Hands off the hair, Buckley.” The counter he’s resting his arms and head on is ungodly cold, so he clumsily forces himself upright on his tiny little stool, looking like he might start to lean too far one way or another and topple over.

Robin eyes him, unsure of where all this drowsiness is coming from. “You good? It would be nice to have some help sorting these tapes.”

“Shit, you’ve been doing that yourself all this time?” Steve runs a hand through his hair and casts a dazed glance over the stacks of movies scattered about the counter, then a concerned look back at his friend. She looks tired. “Hey, Robin?” Steve mumbles. “You don’t look great.”

“Wow, I bet you say that to all the girls.” Robin rolls her eyes and slides a few stacks of tapes over to Steve. “Scan these in.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean.” He swipes a sluggish knuckle under his nose and gets to work on logging the returned tapes.

Robin shrugs, placing another movie in the rewinder. “I’ve been manning the store while you were knocked out. Perhaps you just might be able to find it in your heart to forgive me for having a few strands of hair out of place from running back and forth between the counter and the new releases. We can’t all look as flawless as Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington all the time.” She glances over at him, but her eyes snag on his slumped shoulders and pallid expression, and she’s suddenly aware that he really does not look flawless at the moment. Quite the opposite of flawless, actually.

Steve leans forward on the counter and rubs at his eyes, annoyed with himself both for falling asleep on the job and for his apparent inability to properly convey concern for a friend. “Right, sorry,” he says with a sniff. God, his head aches.

The VHS rewinder clicks off again, but Robin pauses before taking the tape out. Even if he is pretty out of it, she wasn’t expecting Steve to sound so dejected. When she chooses her next words, her voice is a little gentler. “You’re awfully concerned about me for someone who looks like he might keel over at any moment. What’s going on?”

“‘s nothing, guess I just didn’t sleep great last night.” His gaze is glossy and distant as he keys in the password to the computer, messing it up several times before typing it correctly. Before Robin can probe him further, his eyes narrow, then flutter shut, and Steve ducks to the side with a rough-sounding sneeze. “hiH- GKT’Sshhuh!”

“Mmm,” Robin hums. “You sound sick.”

Steve swipes his nose across his sleeve. “snnft. I guess, yeah.”

"You could’ve said something. Why drag yourself through the mud if you’re in bad shape?”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s just some dumb cold.” He sniffles again, thicker this time, and returns to scanning in tapes.

Robin raises an eyebrow. “You fell asleep at the customer service counter.”

“Really, Robin, it’s fine. ‘m awake now, good to go.”

“And now you’re scanning in movies from the stack you already scanned in.” She walks over to him and plops down on the stool next to his. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Is that an invitation to pass back out? I’d feel bad if I left you with all these goddamn tapes.” Steve gives her a weak smile, slumping back over the counter, chin propped up on folded arms.

“Something tells me you’d also feel bad if you kept yourself awake,” Robin says, brushing a gentle hand across his forehead.

“Christ, Buckley, what did I say about the hair?” Steve hisses, wincing and recoiling slightly.

“You’re burning up.”

“Figures,” he groans.

“Honestly, Steve.” Robin exhales a small sigh.

“Colds always make my head hurt like hell. 's normal.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea, but being this out of it is not normal.”

“No, I mean, like, it’s normal for me.” Steve pauses, an uneven breath sifting through his teeth. He presses his nose against his sleeve in an attempt to rub away the burning sensation prickling his sinuses. “ihheH- hehH’TCH’uhhh! Shit. snf. ghuuhh. Y’know. After all the, uh, the head trauma.”

Robin’s expression softens. “Steve - ”

“ihh-! hH’CHHUHshh!” The second sneeze wrenches through his chest, damp and breathless.

She watches him, shivering and sniffling and folded in on himself on his tiny little stool. Something close to guilt tightens in her chest, and she finds herself foolishly wishing she could rewind time like one of these VHS tapes and take a blow to the head or two in his place. It’s a completely unreasonable thought, but not any more unreasonable than Steve’s proven willingness to throw himself into danger for others’ sakes.

“snnft. ghuhh. Sorry.”

“You’ve gotta stop getting beaten up,” Robin says, handing him the tissue box from under the counter.

Steve exhales a bitter laugh and presses a tissue to his shiny-damp nose. “How else will I have any sense knocked into me?”

Robin slides several stacks of tapes aside and joins him in leaning forward on the counter. “So how many more concussions ‘til you figure out that you don’t have to be Mr. Tough Guy around the people you’ve gone through literal hell with?” Coming from anyone else, the question would’ve sounded accusatory, but the way Robin asks it, staring off into the empty winter night just beyond the front door, she mostly just sounds forlorn.

“How many more concussions? snnft. Yeah, how many.” It’s not intentional, but he’s doing a great job matching her tone, he realizes. Steve rests his head back between his arms and closes his eyes. The lights in the Family Video are way too goddamn bright.

“I’m gonna go grab you some painkillers and call Eddie, okay?”

Before she can get up, Steve speaks up. “Robin, hold on.”

“...?”

“I’m sorry,” he croaks.

“You already apologized, Dingus. It’s fine. Gross colds happen to everyone.”

“No, I mean - ” he pauses to rub his nose against his wrist. “ - I’m sorry I’m, I dunno, such an overconfident idiot.”

Robin tilts her head. “Don’t be. That overconfident idiot has saved my ass a few times. I just wish he was a bit kinder to himself.”

“I can try,” Steve says with a sniff.

“Good.”

“Also,” Steve cracks open an eye to meet Robin’s gaze. It’s weak, but there’s a sly smile creeping across his lips. “Since when do you carry painkillers on you?”

“Shut up.”

“Nance insisted, didn’t she?”

“Shut up!” Robin laughs. If he wasn’t in such bad shape, she would’ve shoved Steve right off his stool for that.

“Yeah, she’s a real walking pharmacy, huh?”

“Frankly, Steve, in an ideal world, everyone around you should be a walking pharmacy. You have all the self-preservation of a wet paper towel.”

[quietwings-fics]

Overextension

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Andy & Sam & Dean & Max) Additional Tags: Azazel's Special Children (Supernatural), Psychic Abilities, Whump, Headaches & Migraines, Psychic Sam Winchester, Mind Control, Post-Episode: s02e12 Nightshifter (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cold Wordcount: 1,463 Summary:

The events of Nightshifter were a lot less stressful with Andy there to keep everyone under control, but he's never done anything like that before. And from the way his head is killing him, he really hopes he never has to do it again.

Notes:

For day 4, I used the alternate prompt "shaking"

The Impala’s window thumps against Andy’s head with each revolution of the tires, a constant rhythm that may have been painful if it wasn’t vastly overshadowed by the migraine already digging into his gray matter. Not looking out the window as they speed down the highway is making him nauseous, but the sunlight burns into his retinas like needles whenever a ray of it gets past his eyelids. The lesser of two evils is curling against the door with his head ducked and his eyes shut. Sam’s jacket is too big on him, but by the time Andy had realized it wasn’t his own, there hadn’t been time to change, and after the fiasco at the bank, Dean hadn’t stopped slamming the pedal, eager to get them out of the state.

Andy is trying very hard not to think about the bank. Or about anything. Using his brain at all makes him want to scream.

Dean and Sam are arguing about something, and the music is blaring like it always does, and the car is growling against Andy’s ear no matter which position he presses his head against the door. Even the window is too cold to lay his head against. Andy shivers and draws Sam’s coat tighter.

The only respite here is Max because he tends to zone out in the backseat, silent and staring listlessly out his window. For the first time, Andy’s appreciating the silence, for what little good it does when every other sound in the car is turned up to eleven. He promises himself he’s never going to bug Max into talking with him again, just for this. A promise he will probably only manage to keep until he gets too fidgety on a six hour drive. No one on Earth has the insane tolerance for road trips that Sam and Dean have developed, and Andy is especially bad at them.

He chose this life. He doesn’t get to complain now. It’s better than going it alone.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter like that will block out the light better than his own hand over his face. He almost feels hungover, except it’s so much colder. He can’t stop shivering, no matter how much he tucks into Sam’s jacket. The sun on his skin provides barely any relief.

There’s a pause in the conversation in the front seat. It stretches out. Another jumble of words Andy doesn’t bother to put together. A pause. The third time, he hears his name in the middle of whatever Sam is saying something-something-Andy-something, and though every part of him protests, he raises his head and opens his eyes. He cringes from the light, wanting nothing more than to curl back into a ball and wait out the pain.

“What?” he croaks, his dry throat heaving out the word. His eyes adjust so that he isn’t blinded, and he can put Sam’s expression together into one of concern.

“He said, how’re you holding up?” Dean tosses back, eyes on the road and hands on the wheel. They haven’t even stopped to get him and Sam out of their disguises. They must be hot in all-black, and Andy wishes for a moment that he’d gone ahead and convinced another guy to strip his uniform off so that he could wear it. He’s not sure if he could have. At that point, after trying to keep the entire situation under control with a few words for every hostage, even talking the two agents Sam and Dean stole from made him nearly keel over. He and Max weren’t wanted, so they limped (on account of Andy’s legs not wanting to stay under him and leaning on Max to keep them moving forward) their way out of the bank, and Andy talked their way out of the custody of an officer, and then the Winchesters picked them up.

“Shitty,” Andy answers, and now that he has an opening, “Could you turn the music down?”

“Just this once,” Dean says, but he’s joking and he reaches for the dial without another word. The tape pops itself out of the player before he even touches anything, falling neatly into the waiting box. Andy glances over at Max at the same time Sam does, and Max shrugs. Andy forces a smile to his face anyway in thanks.

“What you did back there was really amazing,” Sam continues, “but it was a lot. You have a migraine?” Andy nods, and Sam makes a face in sympathy. “Yeah, we get those. Uh, what about a nosebleed?” Sam’s eyes dart down Andy’s front and Andy squints at him.

“No?” He’s never gotten a nosebleed from pushing himself, but then, he hadn’t done this much since he set his mind to getting on T and had to talk his way through a whole clinic and a pharmacy. “I’m just freezing.” As if to prove his point, Andy’s body gives a huge, involuntary shudder.

“That’s a new one,” Sam says. Andy shuts his eyes. Looking at things is too much for him to handle right now.

“You don’t get cold when you’re…” Max’s voice trails off.

“No,” Sam says, “actually, one time I started running a fever.”

They’re both quiet for a second, and then Max says, “You must be some kind of freak.” It makes Sam chuckle weakly.

“We’ll find a place to stop at,” Dean says. Andy’s whole body aches for it, somewhere to lay down and pass out in peace. He misses his van.

But instead, he says, “And wake up to the FBI arresting us? I’m fine. Keep going.” Dean snorts. The car lurches to avoid something in the road, and Andy nearly rolls across the seat into Max.

“I wasn’t asking you. We’re stopping,” Dean says.

“Keep driving,” Andy insists, too strongly. He can feel the rebelling screech of pain in his head before the words have even finished leaving his mouth. He curls in on himself, panting and shaking. Cold sweeps up his spine and into his head, making his teeth clatter against each other when he can’t make himself stop shivering. He hears Dean curse.

“Son of a-“

“Andy, reverse it,” Sam says, and Andy wants to, he really does, but he’s done. That was the limit and he broke it and now he can barely keep himself upright. His fingers feel numb, and no amount of rubbing them together brings the sensation back. Max touches the back of his neck, but his hand jumps away the moment it makes contact with Andy’s skin. “Andy-“

“He can’t,” Max says, and his voice cuts right through Sam’s.

He very rarely speaks over any of them, but when he does, he gets listened to. Usually because that’s when they all remember he doesn’t need to be touching a knife to use it. Sam takes a deep breath. Max’s hand folds over the back of Andy’s neck again. It’s not as firm as Andy would like, but Max doesn’t like being touched and this is practically a bear hug for how much contact Andy’s getting. It doesn’t help with the cold, unfortunately. Max is warmer than Andy is right now, but any given day, they’re two chilly peas in a pod, and Sam really is the freak running a few degrees hotter than anyone should.

“Okay,” Sam says, more to himself than anyone, “okay, Dean.”

“Still can’t take my hands off the wheel.”

“I know. But. Pull over.”

“Did you not just hear me?”

“Pull. Over.” Sam slows his words down, and it doesn’t help. Andy would give him pointers if anything at all would fit inside his head but the pain spilling out the edges.

“Sam-“

“Pull over!” It reaches into frustration the third time, and Andy can feel the tug of the suggestion without even being the one it’s directed at. Max’s hand stiffens against his neck. The car swerves and rolls to a stop. For a minute, all Andy can hear is their breathing and the upset rumble of a car stopped too quickly. “Holy shit,” Sam whispers.

“Don’t do that to me again,” Dean tells him, sounding more scared than angry.

“I won’t,” Sam promises. He sounds scared, too. Neither of them have ever sounded like that about Andy, even when he slips up or pulls out the persuasion for a harmless prank. “You’re good to drive?”

“I’m fine.” Dean is, obviously, lying, but out of the three of them, none of them are going to point it out. He cranks the car back into drive, and as they get down the road again, he says, “Next motel I see, we’re stopping.”

It’s not like Andy can argue. He does his best to just focus on Max’s hand and not how numb and sick he feels.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[selfpositiveundertale]

Hey. Vent post and update. Not a happy post.

I'm not okay. I don't know when or if I will be okay. My health seems to be getting worse. I'm having a problem that, going from the symptoms, seems a lot like hypoglycemia, but my most recent blood work says I am not diabetic or prediabetic and everything looked normal. As I understand it, hypoglycemia without diabetes is a rare condition, but with my luck and my medical history I would not be surprised. I'm needing to eat more and more frequently and it seems like the specific types of food that were helping to keep the problems at bay just aren't as effective anymore, and now I can barely even tell what specific thing I need to eat. Do I need protein? Do I need greens? Do I need complex carbs? Do I need sugar? Who knows! Not me! I just have to guess and hope I guess right, or else my body is going to throw a fit about it and give me a matter of minutes to consume the Correct Thing before it just makes me go to sleep.

I dare not stray outside my list of safe foods, and by safe foods I mean foods that won't make my issues worse. Most candy, soda, white bread, anything with a lot of simple carbs or refined sugars is out of the question if I want to stay awake, upright, and functional, with few exceptions. Even honey, eating fruit, plant based protein, most vegetables besides dark leafy greens and potatoes and sweet potatoes, and things like white rice or bread that's been enriched with nutrients, at best does no good and at worst makes me feel like I'm going to keel over, which really sucks because my ultimate comfort food is soup beans and cornbread, and if I could eat that to get me through the day I would. The only things I can at least somewhat rely on are animal protein(preferably red meat but seafood, poultry, or eggs will do in a pinch, and whey protein is a last resort), dark leafy greens(kale, collard greens, that kind of thing), fruit juice(MUST be 100% juice) or fruit smoothies, and complex carbs(mostly whole grains, potatoes, and sweet potatoes, but oat milk works for a quick fix).

I'm trying to find solutions and work around this whole thing so I can go on with my life. I'm baking a lot of whole grain cornbread these days because it's easy to make and is the perfect thing when I need my carbs. I might need to invest in a bulk amount of beef jerky. I had been getting bulk amounts of cans of apple juice online but that's been harder to get in recent weeks so I've just been getting a 90-something-oz jug of grape juice from the store instead. My therapist suggested I start making green smoothies rather than just eating my greens cooked, so I might start getting my greenery in that way. Throwing the green stuff into the blender with some oat milk, chopped fruit, and a scoop of whey protein powder might make my life easier. I'll also discuss it with my chiropractor when I see him later this week, as he is a licensed nutritionist and can probably help me figure something out.

I'm so dang sick of being tired or hungry or both 24/7 and my body being like a fuel inefficient car that guzzles a whole tank of gas just to get you to the other side of town. If I go longer than an hour or so without eating or if I eat the wrong thing, I start getting hit by fatigue, dizziness, headache, shakiness, confusion, blurring vision, weakness, stuttering or slurred speech, and it'll get worse until I either eat something or fall asleep. If I fall asleep, I usually at least wake up with just enough strength to get something small and quick into my system and give myself the energy to think of what I need to do next.

I don't know what this is or why it's happening. I find myself wondering if it could be related to my fibromyalgia, or a long term side effect from when I caught covid a year or two ago, or if I've messed up my liver by taking Excedrin Migraine for the chronic headaches I've had since 2011, or if I'm alone in this. I haven't met anyone else dealing with this exact thing. Every time I go a-googling, I only ever find articles about diabetes and I want to scream BUT I DON'T HAVE THAT SO WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO??? They say a problem well defined is half solved, but what can you do about it when you don't even have the resources to define the problem?

I have cried so much in the last week or so because I'm so frustrated with this. It's ruining everything in my life. I can't complete my personal responsibilities, I can't keep up with most of my friends except for the small handful of my very closest friends, I haven't been active on here in ages, haven't been able to get any crochet work done, barely been able to practice any self care beyond eating whatever I have the strength to put together, and I'm starting to lose sight of the point of existing if it has to be in a body that hurts all the time and can't hold onto fuel. I'm frustrated, I'm tired, I'm scared, I'm sad, I'm angry, I'm lost, and it's getting harder and harder to not lose hope. I'm really trying to hang in there, but it's so hard.

I don't know what to do anymore.

It's after 2am, so I think I'll stop there and try to get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow will be better. One can hope.

Stay determined. I'm trying to.

[lgcseojin]

✱  BSIDE 001

FLASHBACK — APRIL 2018 : KATC IN NONSAN

A brief look into Seojin's time in basic training. ( CONTAINS: bullying, violence )

It was expected Seojin's stint in the military would be no walk in the park. His father warned him plenty of the hardships men would endure within — to which the overly confident nineteen year old assured him would be a 'piece of cake'. He could not bear to look at his mother during the induction ceremony, too focused on the guilt weighing him down and the final feeling of fingers through his overgrown hair before he loses it all.

Three weeks into basic training and it still did not feel real. The true gravity of the situation had not quite settled. Park Seojin still floated above the clouds, far above the other young men in his unit. They turned their heads away, concealing meek expressions and darting eyes. He, on the other hand, lounged about on his bed, feet propped up, music magazine held above his head as he nonchalantly flipped through the pages.

"...hey."

The opening of a door nor the sharp tone of a voice registered enough for a passing glance. ( Or perhaps he willfully ignored it. ) A melodic 'ooh' escaped his parted lips. "Gibson SG Special in cherry red satin? Damn, not for—" The printed images departed from his hands at full force. Above him lingered another trainee soldier, eyebrows curled like the devil horns of the guitar he had just been ogling. "Hey, asshole. I was readin' that!"

He had little more time to protest before hands gripped into his shirt and pulled him onto the floor.

"Sit up. I said sit up, kid! Are you fucking listening to me?!" "Yessir..." The response was laden with an exasperated sarcasm. "Louder! Tell me your name!" "Uh... YES! PARK. SEO. JIN." The flesh of his face and neck ignited in bright red, the blood rushing to the surface. "Does this look like a public bathhouse to you?" "No, sir."

"Did I give you permission to speak?" The other recruit clicked his tongue loudly. He raised his hand, pushing down against the back of Seojin's head. A resounding thud echoed against his skull. If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn his brain bounced around inside.

"Quit cuttin' me off! Last time I checked, we a—"

A loud grunt forced its way from Seojin's throat. How could his body have resisted the visceral reaction? Getting a shoe stuck in the ribs happened to be far too painful to ignore. He keeled over in his spot, forehead colliding with the floor. A fair amount of drool spilled from the corners of his mouth.

"I ask you fuckers to do my chores and our little roommate said you told him not to do them. You want to look down on a higher rank like that still? Fucking punk. You do what you're told." He dug in his heel. The feeling is familiar, painful against the healing bruise in the same spot. "I'm tired of your shit and your damn backtalk."

Seojin growled out a scream and raised to his feet, stumbling forward until his head collided with the other's abdomen to bring him down. Unfortunately, he caught his footing enough to resist and push Seojin into the nearest wall. The cabinets shook violently and the other new recruits retreated back onto their beds or closer to the door.

It did not take long for punches to begin flying. A throw against a jaw, the dull sound of a tooth cracking against a sharp knuckle. Seojin pulled his hand away, the skin on the surface bloodied and scraped. A fist collided with his cheek before he had time to duck. He bites into the delicate skin of his own lip. Informal boxing lessons could only get him so far. He had been in several real fights before, typically against those his own age, his own size, back in high school. This was different. The man attempting to pummel him into the ground was of taller stature, slightly overweight, and older than him. The fire only quelled when the unit commander stormed into the room. All broke into silence.

"What do you think you two are doing, huh? You think this place is a schoolyard?"

"Commander Choi, sir!" Seojin straightened his posture and gave a salute from his temple. "This crazy as— This soldier thinks he can push us around just because he's got a few weeks start on us, sir! Someone had to show him, sir!"

The commander removed his helmet, simmering anger clear on his scar-flecked face. "You both are still ignorant trainees. If you can't make it through basic without killing each other, how will you manage in your assigned units? You want to die here?"

Both young men shook their heads, chins now tucked against their chests.

"Trainee Kang, you are several years older than Park. You should know better and I will not tolerate abuse of power on virtue of days trained. You think because you have already been assigned that you can abuse power the day before you leave Nonsan?"

Seojin shot a glare in the other soldier's direction. "If only you knew, sir."

"Can it, Park... Before your mouth gets you in more trouble." The older man scoffed. "I want you to run 7 miles around the barracks and clean the toilets until they're spotless. The rest of your unit will do the same."

The other recruit unleashed a reaction he was unable to mitigate, protesting. "Shit, we're fucking dead!"

"What do you expect? All be punished for your screw up. They were obviously too incompetent to prevent you both from fighting. Now, out of my sight. CBR training is tomorrow." He placed his helmet back on, brushing past them. "And brush up on your etiquette, you worms."

"CBR? The hell is that?" Seojin waited until the coast was clear to mutter underneath his breath.

ㅡㅡㅡ

Commander Choi paced along the new soldiers, inspecting their posture and line of sight. "Chemical! Biological! Radiological! Today, you will be given a gas mask. Once you get inside that room, a gas will be released and you will remove your masks and endure! It will not harm you but it will be incredibly painful for those moments."

The booming voice carried, each loud inflection causing the man to Seojin's right to jolt and fidget about. He reached behind to give his wrist a light pinch. He would know what it meant.

They shuffled in a neat line into the crowded concrete room, nervous hands placing the gas masks over their heads. They were instructed to take a seat along the wall as the commander laid down some sort of device that immediately billowed with a yellow gas.

"Remove them." Silence. Stillness. "Remove your gas masks!" He commanded again — to which none immediately obliged. Not for thirty seconds or so. Several of the young men exclaimed with apprehension, hands kept firmly in their laps. They glanced around the room, making fleeting eye contact with one another.

"Fuck's sake..." Seojin reluctantly placed his fingers underneath the material, lifting it over his head.

To say the gas simply burned would do the pain no justice. It seeped into his eyes and mouth, scalding the open cut on his lip that was soon overrun with drool and tears he could not stop. He managed to keep his eyes pried open enough to see no one else with their masks off. Was he too impulsive?

Commander Choi's tone was understandably displeased. "I said take them off!" His eyes focused on Seojin, who simply stared forward with bloodshot eyes. "No one will leave here until everyone has removed them!"

He took in the silence; though, every second felt closer to a minute until the pain made him helplessly numb. He did not quite remember when the rest of the unit removed their masks, a few frantically running to the locked door in an attempt to save themselves.

Humans were hopelessly selfish, Seojin knew that well by now. How many times would he willingly make a martyr out of himself? Turn himself into Icarus time and time again?

( Isn't that giving someone like me too much credit? )

The primitive human condition displayed itself clear as day when the gas dissipated and the doors finally opened. The recruits frantically poured out, leaving himself and the nervous young man sitting next to him, Trainee Jung. He brought himself to his feet despite his sore legs, calmly reaching down to grab and pull him out of the concrete room. Jung leaned against him, coughing violently.

It was not until they made their exit that Seojin threw his head back and exhaled a strangled scream.

ㅡㅡㅡ

END OF PART 1.