#not to mention the severe joint pain

[dollgutted]

tumblr is just gonna become my thought dump now that i can't use quotev to update everyone abt my interests and how i'm doing: and can i just say, i'm not doing well. i'm gonna throw a FIT actually. my doctor's appointment went pretty poorly, and i'm not really on the road to recovery at all, i'm still at the beginning basically.

crohns fucking sucks and i'm angry about it. it actively effects my daily life and i'm just sick and tired constantly. i want to feel better for once. i swear to fucking god, crohns is making my MDD worse. and to top it off, on these antibiotics i'm taking for my current crohns related inflammation problem, i can't take my antidepressants. so like, i can't even begin to manage my depression alongside managing my physical symptoms. and of course, the steroids they have me on to manage the physical symptoms? yeah that causes insomnia. which also worsens the depression. because i sit up all night thinking about any and everything when i should be sleeping. which in turn worsens my already existing daily fatigue that just comes with the territory of being disabled.

it is pure misery right now boys and there is no sun on the horizon. my doctor basically said there's nothing she can do to help me at the current moment because my insurance won't cover the tests i need, and i can't afford that shit out of pocket either, so it's just a waiting game. waiting until i get so bad i have to go back to the ER and they HAVE to take care of me out of necessity OR waiting for this new insurance to accept me and help me cover the tests. whichever comes first. sigh.

[tj-crochets]

Hey y'all! Weird question time. Medical related, but not super detailed so I'm not putting it behind a read more Since I moved, I have a new endocrinologist, who is pretty great! He ordered a whole bunch of tests, some I'd never had before, and I tested negative for like...everything. He wants to put me on short course steroids to see if it helps*, and if it does, he wants to test me for autoimmune arthropathy. I had to look that up, but it looks like that a broad term for autoimmune issues involving the joints? Here's the problem: I don't have joint issues. Can autoimmune arthropathy just like skip the joints and only affect other systems? *it will help. It always does. Also, it is extremely weird to me that I tested negative for everything, had zero symptoms in his office, and the guy is just giving me steroids. I will never get used to Tennessee's medical system compared to California's

[neonacidtrip]

I am home from apartment hunting and I would just like to say I am extremely disappointed, as an able-bodied person, to learn only 1 out of the 13 complexes we visited had an elevator.

[videogamerkm]

I hate capitalism I have advertisements I hate capitalism I hate advertisements

[captainkingsley]

I am going to have to go into work tonight.......... <- still feeling the effects of the flu shot

[cocklessboy]

The biggest male privilege I have so far encountered is going to the doctor.

I lived as a woman for 35 years. I have a lifetime of chronic health issues including chronic pain, chronic fatigue, respiratory issues, and neurodivergence (autistic + ADHD). There's so much wrong with my body and brain that I have never dared to make a single list of it to show a doctor because I was so sure I would be sent directly to a psychologist specializing in hypochondria (sorry, "anxiety") without getting a single test done.

And I was right. Anytime I ever tried to bring up even one of my health issues, every doctor's initial reaction was, at best, to look at me with doubt. A raised eyebrow. A seemingly casual, offhand question about whether I'd ever been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Even female doctors!

We're not talking about super rare symptoms here either. Joint pain. Chronic joint pain since I was about 19 years old. Back pain. Trouble breathing. Allergy-like reactions to things that aren't typically allergens. Headaches. Brain fog. Severe insomnia. Sensitivity to cold and heat.

There's a lot more going on than that, but those were the things I thought I might be able to at least get some acknowledgement of. Some tests, at least. But 90% of the time I was told to go home, rest, take a few days off work, take some benzos (which they'd throw at me without hesitation), just chill out a bit, you'll be fine. Anxiety can cause all kinds of odd symptoms.

Anyone female-presenting reading this is surely nodding along. Yup, that's just how doctors are.

Except...

I started transitioning about 2.5 years ago. At this point I have a beard, male pattern baldness, a deep voice, and a flat chest. All of my doctors know that I'm trans because I still haven't managed to get all the paperwork legally changed, but when they look at me, even if they knew me as female at first, they see a man.

I knew men didn't face the same hurdles when it came to health care, but I had no idea it was this different.

The last time I saw my GP (a man, fairly young, 30s or so), I mentioned chronic pain, and he was concerned to see that it wasn't represented in my file. Previous doctors hadn't even bothered to write it down. He pushed his next appointment back to spend nearly an hour with me going through my entire body while I described every type of chronic pain I had, how long I'd had it, what causes I was aware of. He asked me if I had any theories as to why I had so much pain and looked at me with concerned expectation, hoping I might have a starting point for him. He immediately drew up referrals for pain specialists (a profession I didn't even know existed till that moment) and physical therapy. He said depending on how it goes, he may need to help me get on some degree of disability assistance from the government, since I obviously shouldn't be trying to work full-time under these circumstances.

Never a glimmer of doubt in his eye. Never did he so much as mention the word "anxiety".

There's also my psychiatrist. He diagnosed me with ADHD last year (meeting me as a man from the start, though he knew I was trans). He never doubted my symptoms or medical history. He also took my pain and sleep issues seriously from the start and has been trying to help me find medications to help both those things while I go through the long process of seeing other specialists. I've had bad reactions to almost everything I've tried, because that's what always happens. Sometimes it seems like I'm allergic to the whole world.

And then, just a few days ago, the most shocking thing happened. I'd been wondering for a while if I might have a mast cell condition like MCAS, having read a lot of informative posts by @thebibliosphere which sounded a little too relatable. Another friend suggested it might explain some of my problems, so I decided to mention it to the psychiatrist, fully prepared to laugh it off. Yeah, a friend thinks I might have it, I'm not convinced though.

His response? That's an interesting theory. It would be difficult to test for especially in this country, but that's no reason not to try treatments and see if they are helpful. He adjusted his medication recommendations immediately based on this suggestion. He's researching an elimination diet to diagnose my food sensitivities.

I casually mentioned MCAS, something routinely dismissed by doctors with female patients, and he instantly took the possibility seriously.

That's it. I've reached peak male privilege. There is nothing else that could happen that could be more insane than that.

I literally keep having to hold myself back from apologizing or hedging or trying to frame my theories as someone else's idea lest I be dismissed as a hypochondriac. I told the doctor I'd like to make a big list of every health issue I have, diagnosed and undiagnosed, every theory I've been given or come up with myself, and every medication I've tried and my reactions to it - something I've never done because I knew for a fact no doctor would take me seriously if they saw such a list all at once. He said it was a good idea and could be very helpful.

Female-presenting people are of course not going to be surprised by any of this, but in my experience, male-presenting people often are. When you've never had a doctor scoff at you, laugh at you, literally say "I won't consider that possibility until you've been cleared by a psychologist" for the most mundane of health problems, it might be hard to imagine just how demoralizing it is. How scary it becomes going to the doctor. How you can internalize the idea that you're just imagining things, making a big deal out of nothing.

Now that I'm visibly a man, all of my doctors are suddenly very concerned about the fact that I've been simply living like this for nearly four decades with no help. And I know how many women will have to go their whole lives never getting that help simply because of sexism in the medical field.

If you know a doctor, show them this story. Even if they are female. Even if they consider themselves leftists and feminists and allies. Ask them to really, truly, deep down, consider whether they really treat their male and female patients the same. Suggest that the next time they hear a valid complaint from a male patient, imagine they were a woman and consider whether you'd take it seriously. The next time they hear a frivolous-sounding complaint from a female patient, imagine they were a man and consider whether it would sound more credible.

It's hard to unlearn these biases. But it simply has to be done. I've lived both sides of this issue. And every doctor insists they treat their male and female patients the same. But some of the doctors astonished that I didn't get better care in the past are the same doctors who dismissed me before.

I'm glad I'm getting the care I need, even if it is several decades late. And I'm angry that it took so long. And I'm furious that most female-presenting people will never have this chance.

[tadpoless4]

adding to this post, they’re all disabled, Sparkling is mentally disabled rather than both physically and mentally like the other three

fun fact, my arms and legs also do the thing

[queertransetc]

- ED trigger warning -

Being skinny ruined my life. If you’re thin and think to yourself, “why don’t fat people just lose weight?” Please read this

I was the “ideal fat” in the sense that I did everything skinny people wanted me to do. I tried every diet in the book. I exercised regularly. I worked with doctors and dietitians to figure out the best way to lose weight. But nothing worked. I did everything “right” to lose weight, and my weight stayed the same

But the thin people in my life kept telling me that I wouldn’t be happy, attractive, healthy, etc. until I lost weight. So, heartbroken, I came to the conclusion that anorexia was the only option left. It felt safer than bariatric surgery, and was obviously much more affordable

I became the perfect anorexic. 700 cal a day or less, except once a week I allowed myself 1400 cal. For reference, my body required at least 2800 to maintain weight, and at least 1800 to keep my organs and stuff fully functioning. Still, 700 a day, I persisted because everyone in my life told me weight loss was all that mattered. If dieting didn’t work, anorexia had to

And it did. My weight dropped all the way down to 110 pounds. I was skinny - underweight, even - in all sense of the word. The people in my life saw it as a miracle. The ultimate success story. My mother, my “friends,” my doctors, they all congratulated me on my accomplishment

When I confessed my eating disorder to my doctor, he told me, “that’s not the best way to go about it, but I’m glad you lost the weight.” My mother took pictures of me and sent them to relatives to brag

Okay, great. I was skinny. I did what I set out to do. But there were severe consequences

The most obvious was my joint pain doubled, maybe even tripled, to the point that I couldn’t leave the house without a wheelchair

I also developed several health complications, including fatty liver disease and extremely painful GERD. I had to see a handful of specialists and get an endoscopy because of severe stomach pain

My partner, who was the only person who saw my weight loss for what it was (a horrible thing that only happened because of an eating disorder), convinced me to enter a recovery program

For nearly a year, I relearned how to feed myself. I ate everything I was told to eat, nothing more and nothing less. My diet was 100% in the hands of somebody else

And I gained back every pound I has lost. All of the work to become thin went right out the window. It was proven to me that thinness and health were incompatible with my body. If I wanted to be thin, I had to forgo my physical and mental well-being. And vise-versa

Prior to the anorexia, I never once struggled with binge eating. I was naturally an intuitive eater, and I did a good job of having a well rounded diet. After the anorexia, after recovery, I developed a binge eating disorder. I had spent so long starving myself, that my brain and body got stuck in survival mode, desperate to consume any and all calories out of fear that I might starve again. To this day I struggle with binge eating

I did everything thin people wanted of me. I dieted. I exercised. And when all else failed, I starved myself. Now I have liver disease, stomach issues, and BED. Not to mention the loads of mental issues that accumulated as a result of my weight loss journey. During the throes of my anorexia, I had to be hospitalized for suicidal ideation

When you tell fat people to “just lose weight” you are suggesting they give themselves illnesses for which treatments are not always effective. You are asking fat people to destroy their stomachs and livers. When a fat person loses so much weight that they become skinny, they are likely giving up so much of their health in efforts to be treated like a human being

If you’re thin, do your part. Treat fat people like people before we tear our bodies apart

[cecilhawthorn]

kinda just realised how often I just ignore when I'm in pain (to the best of my ability)... like I've had a headache all morning and it just registered that a headache isn't like,, the normal starting point of the day feeling? idk maybe it is?? I don't think it is though

[thebibliosphere]

I probably have hEDS, have had tense muscles since I was 8 and more and more of my joints started to be in constant pain, 10 years spine, 14 years hips, then hands at 19 and now all of them. And though I'm over 40 and don't practice any stretching, I still can contort myself in any direction.

But I don't know if it's worth the energy to fight for a diagnosis? Because it doesn't seem like there is any help, other than mild painkillers and physiotherapy, and I already get that. It is so much work to convince doctors to look into the source of joint pain, as soon as they can rule out rheumatoid arthritis they stop caring. And I don't belive I will get stronger painkillers even with a diagnosis anyway.

Do you think a diagnosis is woth the hassel?

For me, diagnosis was worth it because it meant getting the correct kind of physical therapy, which is often very different from the regular kind you usually get if the physical therapist is good at their job.

Regular PT used to damage my joints more. PT designed to target hypermobility has actually helped build joint stability, retrain my muscles, and reduce some of my pain by lessening the frequency of injuries.

It’s also good to know because hEDS affects more than just your joints.

I have a lot of problems with my internal organs due to how my connective tissue is affected, and my brother, who is undiagnosed but likely affected, suffered from spontaneous retina detachment twice. When I mentioned it to my eye doctor he said, “yeah, that happens to you zebras” and now I get my retinal health assessed every six months because fuck that.

It can also be good to know because of how it affects your care during things like surgery, ranging from which anesthesia they use to the type of sutures required.

When my mother had a mastectomy, she experienced several surgical complications, including not being able to get the wound site to close, so they kept dragging her back into surgery.

When I found out, I told my dad the surgical team needed to know my mother likely had hEDS because I did, and my mother and I are carbon copies of each other. When my dad told the surgeon, he apparently said, “Well, if I’d known that, I’d have done the whole thing differently!” and finally got my mother stitched up properly and into recovery.

In that regard, my diagnosis helped not just me but a family member, but also indicated the type of care I’ll likely need if I’m ever in the same situation.

So, yes, it's a hassle to get diagnosed and some (bad) doctors will frame it in terms of “there’s no cure so there’s no point.”

But for me, it’s not only been worth it but also vital to the management of the rest of my care. And let me be clear, there are some people for whom this is just a crappy joint disorder, and they are otherwise fine. But for many of us, we’re more than just our fucky joints. We’re an entire plethora of health problems that all cascade from our weak connective tissue, and it's important more people recognize that.

So is it worth it for you? That's a you decision. But it was very much worth it for me.

I wish you luck and fewer days of pain. This shit sucks.

[hanckocks-dagger]

Shake, rattle, and roll

masterlist

John Hancock x f!reader

Description: After three weeks on the road, you come home to Goodneighbor to find a sweet surprise from Hancock. Naturally, you fuck him about it. 

Tags: Such sappy smut guys, holy shit theyre in love, Hancock is a simp. Reader could be viewed as SoSu or not, no y/n, female anatomy

Warnings: smut! Pretty vanilla though, honestly, so nothing else to mention

Word count: 6K

Cross posted on my ao3

The last day of travel was always the worst; with the end goal in sight

The morning sun beat down on you, the trek from Lexington having seemed almost endless. There was only one thing on your mind as you marched over the Harvard bridge; Hancock's bed. You had the full intention of crawling right into it and staying there, comatose, for several days.

Of course, it wasn't quite that simple. You needed to unload the spare weapons you'd picked up, throw those to KL-E-0. You also had some things to drop at Daisy's, some things to pass on to Ham for the Third Rail...

You pulled your pack higher onto your shoulders, ignoring the ache of your back from the weight of it, all the junk you'd decided to ferry back with you. The straps of the bag were sure to leave deep, painful indents in your skin, almost permanently rubbed raw after weeks of travel.

Downtown, you skirted between Diamond City outposts, making your usual wide berth around the city itself. Despite being human and technically welcome inside the city, you'd taken to avoiding it, as if their prejudice was infectious. You hadn't entered the gates in months by now, and even though you missed Power Noodles and stopping by the agency to bother Nick, you felt no real urge to step inside.

The inhabitants' paranoia, towards the institute and towards outsiders, made the air in the city oppressive. Compared to the freedom of Goodneighbor, even with all of its own problems, Diamond City felt tyrannical in comparison.

You made a wide berth around the old scrap yard, overrun by feral dogs, climbing a fire escape to reach the elevated turnpike.

The closer you got to Goodneighbor, the hard it was to push forward. With the end in sight, close enough that you could practically count the steps you had left, aware of every finite amount of energy you had to eke from your body. Still, you reused to break, pushing forward, hands wrapped tight around the straps of your pack, like a schoolchild with their brightly colored schoolbag

Just a little further. Just a little more. The turnpike turned North, and you had to duck and pause as some gunner scouts passed, the highway connected to some high-rises, precarious wooden planks forming bridges.

Crouched down low, your calves burned, your fingers ached as you gripped your revolver, checking the bullet count on autopilot and lining up a shot, just in case you were spotted.

You weren't, the mercenaries passing from one end of the bridge to the other, wood creaking under their weight, loud, unconcerned conversation passing between them.

You sneaked past them in a crouch, knees and back protesting, familiar flood of adrenaline humming through your blood, heartbeat in your ears. The thrill stayed even once you were out of eyesight, until you'd shaken out your joints and rolled your shoulders, back to your brisk pace.

One of these days, you promised yourself, zeroing in on the broken jaw of the freeway that you used to find your bearings, you'd find a way to make a portable Ham-radio. Staying away so long was making you half-insane. You hadn't heard his voice in over two weeks, and at this point you would have sold all the loot you were lugging around to see his face a few minutes sooner. You'd pay insane sums to be able to hear him on the regular while you were away. Joking, complaining, hell, even just reading off his fucking caravan logs.

The body of the freeway dropped to the ground, crumbling concrete surrounding a Gunner camp, probably the one those two idiots earlier were supposed to be protecting. Well, you thought, pulling a trip-mine from your pack, it wasn't your fault if they were fucking morons.

Behind the rusted body of a truck, you waited for the perfect moment to strike, listening with patience to the Gunners as they yelled and laughed, carefree in the way only over-confident assholes ever could be. On a different day, you would have attacked with something more complicated, something that could blast the entire camp in one go, but today, you were tired and homesick.

At the right moment, you activated the mine and tossed it, scurrying from behind your car to drop off the side of the freeway, landing in a crouch in an alley a street over from Goodneighbor, booking it as the mine went off and the yells changed from happy to panicked.

You'd often thought, as you and Hancock laid spread eagle on the bed, or sprawled over the couch, that between the two of you, you were by far the one more likely to turn feral. He was too clever, his mind too sharp, even dulled by drugs. You were the one running around the wasteland, scampering like some little creature, hoarding old-world junk, killing nearly indiscriminately. You survived on the high of your own adrenaline, surviving scrapes by the skin of your teeth, by clawing, biting, crushing, choking.

You held your breath until you could see the glow of the welcome-sign, neon arrow pointing at the door, like to the entrance of a dingy nightclub. It shone like a beacon even in the daylight, beckoning you home.

When your fingers touched the door, you swore you gained a second wind, the eerie stillness of downtown Boston turning into the hum of bustling Goodneighbor residents. You greeted the Neighborhood watch as you entered the town, and they variously tipped caps or winked at you, hands always on their guns.

Daisy's was full, the sure sign of a newly passed caravan. You spotted that Railroad guy, sipping from a bottle on the bench in front of the store, doing his usual job of completely failing to fit in by being almost unnaturally nondescript. That might work in Diamond city, but not in Goodneighbor.

Your steps were slow as you maneuvered through the crowd, aware of the pack on your back and the guns slung over your shoulders. You headed for Kill or Be killed, planning to unload some ammo and spare rifle you'd picked up. You kept your eyes peeled for that flash of red in your periphery, the heat that filled your chest whenever you were near him.

KL-E-0's store was empty, meaning she was probably on the second floor, conducting some less than savory business. You'd hustle out of there if you heard the sound of her laser powering up, but you decided to spare a few minutes.

You leaned your forearms onto the counter, taking some of the weight off your sore feet and back, eyes running over the visible apparel, wondering what things you should offload.

Sure enough, barely a minute passed before you could hear the wood creaking above you, footsteps descending the staircase and an achingly familiar voice:

"-Talk when my girl brings something new, call it a uh- personal favor."

You raised your head from where it had been lolling, that familiar voice sending a sweet ache through your chest and a giddy smile onto your face. His girl.

Hancock was turned away from you, speaking to KL-E-0, trusty shotgun in his hands.

If your pack had been lighter, you would have bounded into his arms and dragged him right back to the old State House. You would have indulged the exhibitionist in him, wrapped your legs around his waist and let him stick his tongue down your throat right there in the street.

Instead, though, you settled for walking over, supporting the bottom of your pack to keep it from rattling. KL-E-0's red eye flickered over to you for a moment, inscrutable as always, but she stayed quiet, allowing you to surprise Hancock as he chattered about the recoil of his gun.

You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, smushing your face between his shoulder blades. You breathed him in, the familiar smell of tanned hide, cigarettes and that ever present old-museum-smell that he'd tried many times in vain to get rid of. You inhaled with a shudder, pressing a kiss to his back, feeling his momentary frozen shock melt away as he seemed to register who was touching him.

He spun in your arms, leaving you face to face with soft eyes and a softer smile, a hand coming up to cup your cheek.

Warm lips pressed to yours and you melted arms sliding up to hook around his shoulders, pulling him flush to you. A corner of your mind– or your heart– which had spent the past two weeks growling about being apart from him, finally quieted down.

"Is that your gun digging into my hip, or are you just happy to see me, love?" He asked you when you separated, leaving you to snort and hide your face in his shoulder, so giddy you thought you might burst with it.

You swallowed past your joy, composing yourself so that you could lean back and flick the tip of Hancock's tricorn-hat upwards, giving you a better view of those lovely dark eyes, always so emotive, crinkled at the corners.

"Good to see you too, Mister Mayor," You breathed, hands sliding from his shoulders down to his waist, backing out of KL-E-0's store, dragging Hancock along with you. He came willingly, not allowing even an extra inch between the two of you.

All thoughts of bartering, even your own body's complaints were forgotten, your heart singing. You blinked against the sunlight, convinced suddenly that the weather was reflecting your mood.

"What's your plan for the day?" You asked, when it became clear Hancock was too busy staring at you to say anything. The two of you seemed to be wandering in a leisurely pace towards the old State House, but you didn't care where you were going. You'd follow him around all day if you had to. You could be going right back into the Wastes for all you cared. You'd trail behind him as he did whatever he needed to do, collapse from exhaustion and let him carry you back to bed.

"Oh, you know," He said, pulling you up the steps to the Old State House, opening the door for you, ushering you inside, "Was gonna get high and mope around all day, waiting for you." He had no sooner shut the door than he grabbed you by your belt, pinning you to the wall, your heavy pack hitting the wall. "Probably drive Fahrenheit crazy with my pining–"

You hum, smoothing out the lapels of his coat as his hands wander.

"Now, I'm thinking we go up and let the whole town we're reunited."

"Sounds perfect," You agreed, pressing a kiss to his jaw before pushing him gently in the direction of the staircase. He led the charge, half toppling over every step in his desperation not to let go of you.

The second you hit the landing he whisked you back into his arms again, hands restless as he squeezed your sides, traveled up your arms, touched your face, all before coming right back down again to squeeze your ass. Another breathy laugh escaped you, so happy you couldn't put your smile away even as you kissed him.

His hand slid up to your lower back, guiding you towards the bedroom, your lips still locked together.

you pulled away at the door as Hancock filled with the stubborn doorknob, always jammed right when you needed it to open. You keep your arms hooked around him, but you give a salute to the neighborhood watchman stationed in front of your door. His face stayed stoic, either used to yours and Hancock's antics, or from copious threats from Hancock. Both seem equally likely.

He did give you a nod, though, as Hancock crooned in victory, having managed to fling the doors open. You gave him a smile, right as Hancock grabbed your arms and pulled you in. You kicked the doors shut behind you, already laughing as Hancock showered your face with kisses, dipping you like a dancer.

You separated from him enough to finally drop your pack, which thumps to the floor. Your guns come off, placed down with more care, followed by your bandolier and scavenging jacket.

Hancock cracked the doors open as you busied yourself, calling out, "Make sure to keep all the riff-raff out today, yeah brother?" And then the doors were shut and locked. A peaceful quiet descending over you.

He takes your hands, pulling you to the center of the bedroom, leaving you bathed in afternoon sunlight peeking in from the open balcony door. The room was as clean as it ever was, five hundred years of grime that you'd long given up on trying to get rid of.

With the door open and the spring air flooding in, everything felt fresher, not weighed down by centuries of history, but just a normal bedroom. Your books had been stacked in neat piles on the dresser, where you could see one of your shirt sleeves peeking out from the drawer. The bed was newly made, and....

"Is that..?" You stared, taking in the sharp white color of the fresh sheets, looking brand fucking new. Not Commonwealth new either, no, this looked like the bleached and pressed sheets of a fucking prewar hotel.

Your eyes sought out Hancock's, expecting to find him grinning, boastful, the usual exaggerated ego coupled with his general cool-demeanor, but instead you found him looking... uncertain. One hand rubbing the back of his neck like he was... bashful.

"Where did you get this?" You asked, stepping over to the bed. You ran a hand almost irreverently over the fresh sheets, feeling the starched, crisp texture of it, not rotting and mildewed like almost everything was.

"Oh, a uh– new trade caravan passed through last week. From somewhere out west, they've been growing cotton and weaving shit.

As if in a trance, you started shucking off your clothes, not wanting to sully the fresh sheets with your blood and dirt stained layers. You only get as far as your outer shirt when Hancock's hands sneak back onto your waist, almost timid in their touch. You half wanted to slap them off in your urge to get naked, get under the sheets and let him touch you there all he wanted.

Instead, you spin around to face him, guide his hands under your shirt to the warm skin of your stomach. "You're an angel, you know that?" You said.

He laughed, "Only for you, sister. Devil to everyone else."

You laughed back at him, finally shedding your shirt. As you try to wrestle off your boots with the force of your heel, all the examples to the contrary fly into your head: Every kind action he'd done, every willingly shared drug, every situation where he'd chosen less violence than he needed to. The nights you'd spent watching him agonize over whether he was good enough for his community, whether he was making the right decisions.

Instead of bringing those up, you pecked his lips in thanks. With his 'help' (groping), you got your undershirt and bra off, leaving your torso bare.

You leant down to unlace your boots, your earlier attempts having been futile, but before you could Hancock had you off your feet, tossing you head first into soft, fresh sheets. He took over, hands trailing teasingly over the waistband of your pants before he turned to your boots, sliding them off and taking your socks with them.

You groaned, cheek smushed into the mattress, as nimble hands pull your pants down and off. Trailing fingers, tickling the backs of your naked calves, up into the hollow of your knees. You had to stifle a giggle as a feather light touch against your inner thigh made you jump.

The bed shifted as he climbed onto it, his legs bracketing yours, knees pressing into the flesh of your thighs.

Fingers on the waistband of your underwear.

"How about we get these off?" His voice, low and gravelly, suddenly hot in your ear. A gentle bite to the cartilage of your earlobe, the drag of fabric as your underwear was pulled down your legs and then tossed somewhere.

"You know," You breathed, raising yourself onto your elbows so you could crane your neck and tried to catch him in a kiss. You missed, but settled for kissing his shoulder, hovering just by your head. "I'm feeling a bit exposed here. You've stripped me bare and you're still clothed."

You turned underneath him, determined to get him to kiss you again, were met with his grinning face just above yours. "Well, let no one call me an unfair man," He said, sinking onto his haunches, just out of reach of your desperate mouth. He plucked his tricorn from his head, settled it onto your.

You raised yourself to him, stole a quick peck, languishing in every brush of his lips against yours. It was dangerous, how much you'd missed him on the road, pining to the point of distraction. The times you'd ducked into buildings to ease an ache brought on by reminiscing, imagining him besides you, or on you, or in you. Imagining him being beside you as you stumbled into firefights, imagined his hands patching you up, rather than your own.

"You didn't happen to remember to take any Rad-X this morning, didya?"

His words pulled you from your stewing. You groaned. In your excitement to get home, you'd completely forgotten.

"Can't we just... skip it? This once?" You asked, pulling on his collar, dragging him down to lie on top of you, his mouth in reach again. You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, hooking one leg around his waist to ground him to you, keep him from getting distracted.

"You and I both know you'd regret that in the morning, sister."

He was right, the bastard. Spending your morning throwing up, hooked to a Rad-Away was not your ideal first day back. So, lamentably, you release your grip on him, hands and leg flopping to the side as he leant over to grab a bottle from the nightstand.

"I'm sure we can find something to... entertain you, while we wait for it to kick in."

You pouted, making a show of how frustrating his interruption had been, how desperate you were to get him back. Here you were, naked, spread-eagle and waiting, with patience you didn't have.

You watched, silently, as he dug into the bottle, drawing out two pills. As he stepped back over, you pulled yourself back onto your elbows, waiting for him to hand them over, or maybe deposit them into your mouth himself.

Instead, as he kneeled onto the bed, he put them into his own mouth, leaning over you to meld his lips to yours. You grabbed at him, feeling his arms wrap around your waist to support your weight as you melted in his arms. Slowly, in long, deep, searing kisses, the pills moved from his mouth to yours. Once they were on your tongue, he pulled his mouth off yours, scarred lips shining with spit, and moved to your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin as you gather enough saliva to swallow the pills.

Rad-X was quick to kick in, but the effects weren't instantaneous, leaving the pair of you with at least ten minutes to kill. On a normal day, you would have been happy to spend those minutes making out, taking your time in stripping Hancock off his clothes, egging each other on with dirty words and dangerous fantasies. But you'd spent over three weeks away from Goodneighbor, over three weeks of precarious mental foreplay, dreaming of his touch at night, fantasizing of him in the day. Suddenly, even the prospect of radiation sickness was not enough of a reason to stay away.

You tore at his coat, rucking his frilly shirt out from under his sash, exposing his slim stomach. You watched the muscle there tense under your touch, as you ran cold hands over his hips, tugging him closer to you. With practiced hands, you made quick work of untying the sash at his hips, satiny fabric sliding from your fingers and onto the floor like a waterfall.

Hancock bit into the flesh of your shoulder, making you hiss and dig your nails into the skin by his hip bones in retaliation.

You pull his chin upwards, leading his mouth to yours again, keeping those teeth from doing any more damage just yet.

Your generous hands wandered, up and under his shirt, roaming over the breadth of his chest, feeling it expand as he inhaled. You nipped at his bottom lip, drawing out a rumbling groan, felt both in your mouth against his, and in the vibrations against your fingertips.

You scooted to the edge of the bed, bracketing his hips with your thighs, freeing his hands so you could tug his coat off. Your hands slipped up under his collar, pushing his narrow shoulders backwards, giving you enough leverage to push the heavy coat backwards, the heavy fabric thumping to the ground.

Sometimes, when Hancock looked particularly vulnerable, usually collapsed on one of his couches, bleary with the haze of jet, his outfit reminded you of a child playing dress-up. In ancient coat tailored for a man with broader shoulders, a hat fit for a pirate and a disdain for the sort power he wielded.

You pulled your lips off of his, formulating a plea that would get you what you wanted, what words would make him understand just how badly you  ached for him, just how unbearable the emptiness in you was. You pressed a chaste kiss to his sternum, bare but hiding in the ruffles of his shirt, and made a blind grab for the waistband of his pants, words suddenly elusive.

His hands stopped yours, stilling them just by the button on his pants, so close to their goal.

You whined, the sound almost entirely involuntary, tilting your head up to meet Hancock's gaze with your own, sure now that he was teasing you.

"John," You managed, "This is cruel."

His eyes crinkled, as if you were the one making the joke, as if you weren't the one burning from the inside out.

"Well, now, I can't have you destroying my reputation. I worked hard to be known as a generous lover."

"Then stop teasing and fuck me."

But he only snickered like a bawdy teenager, gentle hands guiding yours to grasp at the fresh sheets. You watched helplessly, heartbeat in your throat, as he stepped back, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows before sinking to the floor in front of you, guiding your legs over his shoulders.

"This'll coast you over, sister."

He grabbed you by your thighs, tugging you closer until you could feel his breath on your [core]. Your thighs trembled, heels digging into his back, desperate to push him closer, to get his mouth where it needed to be.

Your eyes were squeezed shut, hands balled into fists, half convinced you would burst into tears if he didn't do something. You swore you could feel him laugh, right up against your pussy, unable to hear it over the rush of blood in your ears, a split second before his tongue was finally, mercifully, on you. The slick drag of it landing quickly on your clit, lapping at it teasingly, every strike on your nerves making you seize, already so worked up from being near him.

You cursed on an exhale, lungs burning, every nerve in your body sparking, your blood heating. There was an obscene slurping as he sucked hard against your clit, pressure just on the right side of pain, his fingers digging into your thighs.

Your head pushed hard into the mattress, Hancock's hat falling into your eyes, rendering the outside world suddenly dark.

Suddenly, all pressure vanished, making you let out a long, pitiful whine, releasing your death grip on the sheets to raise the hat and see what the ghoul would be torturing you with this time. You raised your head, found Hancock on his knees by the bed, looking at you with pure reverence, fingers running up and down over the plush, soft skin of your inner thighs.

You could feel the way his ministrations had spread your juices, the way the skin at the meet of your thigh and pelvis were glued together, sticky, pulling at your pubic hair just enough to be uncomfortable.

"What are you starin' at?" You panted, trying to get his wandering mind back to the matter at hand.

He grinned up at you from his perch, "What do you think?"

Fingers, crawling slowly, teasingly, up your thigh, into the divot where leg meets hip, tickling. Then, slow, gentle strokes through your pussy lips, scooping up all your wetness. A teasing, fleeting touch across your clit, making you seize, arching off the bed with a whine.

Then, the slick, slow glide of those fingers inside you.

"F-Fuck," You huffed, meaning to say something more like 'fucking finally, you torturer'.

"Such a pretty girl for me," Hancock says, that sly purr sending its own spark up your spine, mixed with his fingers, a slow, tantalizing in and out, "Been thinking about you for  days,  love. All alone out there, with no one to help you out. Running back home, to me, to let me help."

His fingers stilled. You clenched around him, every muscle in your legs seizing, your chest heaving.

"Is that what you were doing?" His voice was delicious, closer now. There's a bite into the flesh of your stomach, just above your belly button and you tensed against it, squirming into his fingers.

"Yes," You breathed, grinding hard onto his fingers, willing something, anything, to put pressure on your clit. You try squeezing your legs together, but Hancock's arm is in the way. A pathetic whimper escapes you.

"Wanna tell me about it, sister?"

You get out a "Please," legs moving restlessly, trying to get him to do anything, go in our out, anything at all. Blindly, you reach out and get him by the back of the neck, trying to push him downwards. You can feel his smile against the skin of your hip.

"Nngh- mmm, yes, I thought of you. Every day I was away." His head sunk lower, chin resting on your pelvis. "Thought about this, or sharing a hit of jet, or letting you pour wine into my mouth."

His mouth found your clit again, and you were sure you could cry, feeling his tongue flicking at the little nub, fingers starting to move again, a slow, languid in and out.

You arched off the bed, hands gripping the back of Hancock's head, legs going over his shoulders, pressing into his back.

"Shit," You breathed, one hand shifting to grab his forearm. The pressure on your clit increased suddenly, sending a spark through you that left you limp. Your hands slid from their grips, spilling onto the bed.

You looked down, finding Hancock's eyes on you. Then, he twisted his fingers in a way you didn’t recognize increasing the suction on your clit until you felt like he was trying to give you a hickey. You gasped, fingers digging hard into the bed, fabric rustling in your palms, hips snapping upwards, further into his mouth.

"Wait, that felt– do it again," You panted, to which he happily obliged, tongue and fingers twisting in a way that lit a spark in your body, like the strike of a lighter. A few more repeated movements and you moaned, probably loud enough to wake the drifters in the attic. Hancock's free hand wandered up the bed, catching one of yours in his own with a gentle squeeze. A moment so sappily romantic it managed to push you over the edge, your orgasm cresting over you like a warm wave.

Slowly, with a few extra nips to your inner thigh, Hancock sat back. Face wet with you, mouth curved up into a smile. You squeezed your legs together, shading your clit from the open air, chest heaving as you recovered from over stimulation.

"Get up here, please," You called, voice languid, hands reaching out to embrace him, crush him to you, hold him there forever. He obliged, crawling up against you, the texture of his pants against your naked thighs sending goosebumps across your skin. He slotted perfectly into your arms, pressing his mouth to yours.

You ached for him, wanting to get him closer, to tangle with him until you were impossible to separate. You kissed him like you were starving, all teeth and desperation, hands moving to shove off his vest, to unbutton his shirt, to get him naked, get him closer. He helped you, tossing the vest and then the shirt to the floor, warm chest pressing to yours, your tits trapped between the two of you, his rough skin grazing against your nipples, heat building behind your sternum.

Between your bodies, you felt his hand work at his pants. You were pressed so close together that every fumble grazed against your core, sending shocks of heat through you. You were so overwhelmed with need you couldn't decide where to put your hands, sure you'd be more of a hindrance than a help if you tried to get involved.

He made quick work of it, tugging down his pants, followed by his underwear.

He lined himself up, your excitement mounting until you were sure you would come again the second he entered. He captured your lips in another searing kiss, and finally your hands moved without you having to think about it, settling low on his hips in an effort to drive him closer.

"Ready?" He asked, and you felt your mind flash back to your first time with him, a rushed affair after a night drinking with him at the Third Rail. Even then, as it was a desperate fumble to get naked as fast as possible, spread over the couch in his office, clawing and biting with ferality, both of you desperate to get closer, even then, he had paused, hands on your panties, and asked, in that same soft tone, if you were ready, as if he expected you to have changed your mind.

"Yeah, I'm ready," You breathed, eyes squeezing shut in anticipation.

It's a slow, slick, delicious glide that has both of you groaning. Something in you slots into place, all your frenetic energy calm, as you grip at Hancock's back, burying your face in his neck as he starts to move.

"God, that's so–" you gasped, unable to finish, unsure of the words. You hitched a leg up onto John's waist, dragged him in for another kiss.

His pace was achingly slow, his touches sickeningly sweet. You focused on the fullness of it, the way the glide and drag of it seemed to fill your lungs even as he stole your breath with his tongue.

You wanted to live in this moment forever, here with him, inseparable in every way, as close as you could be. Hancock's hips drove deep, making you arch your back with a gasp for air, his lips vanishing off yours. The pace stayed sweet, sentimental, and you relished every sound that came from his mouth, every trembling breath.

"Wait," you breathed, tapping his shoulder like a time out, "Lemme, ugh–" With a few moves, you've twisted the two of you around, him on his back, you supporting yourself over him. He looked up at you, eyes twinkling with pure adoration, as you settled yourself with your legs under you, hands moving to his chest so you can keep your balance.

You settled yourself down onto his cock, your hips flush with his, and his hands found your waist, squeezing with that same softness. You set a pace, still calm, but decidedly faster, enough that your tits jiggle as you move.

"If this is some fucked up hallucination," Hancock rasped, voice choked, "I swear I'll lay off the drugs."

You laughed, breathless, grinding down to find that perfect spot inside you, hitting it over and over again, until the pleasure of it turns the inside of your eyelids white and your hands buckle, give out.

Arms caught you, of course, Hancock flipping you back over, managing to land that sweet spot again, enough that the tension spreads across your body, every muscle tensing up as you moaned, inches away from your second orgasm. His fingers on your clit do the trick, a few tight circles and the tension suddenly seeps out of you, a long, silent exhale. He fucked you through it, pace slowing down as you catch your breath.

You lean up to capture his lips again, grinding your hips to meet his thrusts, encouraging him to speed it up, to chase his own pleasure, relishing in the way his pace grows frantic, sloppier.

He gripped your wrists, bringing them over your head, held tight in his hands. Your torso lengthened, chin tilting upwards, exposing the length of your neck to him. He pulled away from your mouth so you take the chance, craning your neck upwards to nip at his skin, finding the soft tendons and sucking hard.

Through gasping breaths, he asked, "Where– nngh– where do you want me?" Your legs tightened around him, hands clawing at his back, using all the strength you had to keep him where he was.

Already, you can feel the way your own pressure is building back up, the way the repeated slide of it drives you right back to the edge.

"In– in me," You gasped, muscles shaking as he managed to hit that perfect spot in you over and over, back arching clean off the bed. You still weren't ready to let him go, even as you neared your third orgasm, still desperate to keep him where he was.

"Are you–"

"John," You cried, his hips slowing as he stopped again to check, your welfare always at the front of his mind. Sure, it would leave you raw and burning, making the next round a bit more pain than pleasure, but all you could think about was keeping the sensation of him imprinted on you as long as possible. "I'm sure, please."

He rutted against you, hips grinding against yours. His head dropped to your shoulder, gasping against your sweat slicked skin, two fingers sliding down against your throbbing clit.

You whimpered against him as pleasure flooded your body again, your grip on him weakening as your muscles shook, legs slipping from around his waist.

You mumbled words of praise as he came, hands roaming around his back, onto his cheek, your whispers of, "So good, so perfect, you're perfect, baby," audible only to him as he moaned. You felt the heat of him inside you, the slow building of fullness even as he softened.

You felt the slow, familiar tingling that preceded the lightly burning pain that would start. You felt Hancock shifting out of you, his mouth twisted into a guilty frown in the skin of your shoulder.

You clenched, feeling the slow dribble of heat spilling onto your skin.

Hancock's lips traced a path across your shoulder, down your arm, the occasional wet smack or nip at your skin pausing his journey. He detached himself from you slowly, regretfully, as if taking his skin off yours was some great sin. And it was, but in the service of a greater good, grabbing a clean strip of cloth from the bedside drawer, cleaning you up in gentle caresses, stickiness removed from your inner thighs, even softer touches over your pussy lips.

You let him busy himself, even as your fingers itched to get him back, wanting to tell him that you'd had worse pain, that you'd hurt for him every second if you had to. Instead, you only smiled at him when he glanced up at you, reaching up to pull him back to you. He came willingly as you pulled him back into your arms.

Tension faded out of your muscles and you melted into the bed, hands wrapped around Hancock's middle. "Did you miss me while I was gone?" You asked, smiling, voice soft. You just wanted to hear him say it, your own little version of 'I love you'.

Hancock raised his head, pecking your lips gently, leaving them tingling.

"More than you could ever know," He said, painfully earnest.

"Mmm, I think I have some idea."

Notes:

The smut chapter took me ages to write for some reason, so if it sucks... uh. No it doesn't (if u see any spelling errors pls let me know tho)

Thanks for reading! Please leave me a comment, or request something, or just come chat with me!

[saszor]

Hey! You're tutorial on drawing burn scars was really helpful. I've been trying to draw burns for a while and I could just never find a tutorial for drawing them, especially not one that showcased burns on multiple skin colors.

I have a question though, and I'm not entirely sure if you'll be able to answer it or point me at a good resource, but I figured I'd ask anyways.

In the guide you have some different types of burn scars listed (hypertrophic, keloid, and contracture). Do you know what causes each type to scar differently? Is it the severity of the burn? Or something else.

Again, thank you so much for the work you've done. No pressure to answer if you can't, that's totally fine. Have a good day/night!

Hi! Fair question!

As for the severity: 1st degree burns very rarely leave anything behind after they heal and if they do it's usually mild skin discoloration. 2nd degree sometimes leaves some scarring but it usually fades away after some time since it's partial thickness, but deeper 2nd degree burns can cause permanent scarring that'll generally be less severe than those caused by higher degrees and mostly be hypertrophic. Third degree basically always leaves scars of all kinds. There might be tissue loss, so parts like ears or nose can be gone. Fourth degree is defined as going all the way to the bone, so the place with the burn will often be amputated because well it's just bone left. In this way it doesn't really leave scars I guess? But the area that's left will usually have severe scarring of basically any type.

For location: Hypertrophic scars happen wherever but are more common in places where skin is tight rather than loose. Pressure garments are used to prevent the hypertrophy so if for example your character wore compression sleeves as prescribed on their arms but nothing on their chest, the scars would probably be much more visible (more thick, discolored, and probably more painful as well) on their chest.

Keloids tend to form on the shoulders, cheeks, chest, and most commonly ears, but there is not much room to get a keloid there when it comes to burns - often if there is enough damage for them to scar, there will be tissue loss first. Keloids also happen more often in people with darker skin because their formation has something to do with melanocytes. Some people are also just more susceptible to getting keloids and if you have one you have a higher chance of getting another. Because of this keloids are rarely removed because they tend to just come back.

Contracture scars tend to happen where regular contractions do - where things move around a lot. So joints, facial and neck muscles, and especially digits. Contractures get less visible with physical therapy, wearing things like splints, or surgeries (like z-plasty or just skin grafts/flaps) that loosen them up and/or allow for more range of movement.

Ofc this is more of a rough guideline than anything else, every scar can potentially form anywhere and from anything (I'm just mentioning what's the Most Typical) and it depends on what resources someone has available to them. I have scars on my torso that according to this theory would have a high chance of being keloids (none of them are) and two on my hand that shouldn't have turned into scars at all (but they did) and they're hypertrophic for some reason. So I'd keep it in mind but don't stress about it 👍

[deadpresidents]

I’m curious about the friendship between Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter (and presidential friendships in general,) I’d like to know what that looked like for them. Would they go and do things together or was it just a few phone calls a year?

Their relationship is really interesting because during the 1976 campaign and in the years right afterward, Ford and Carter genuinely did not like each other. It wasn't a normal, opponent vs. opponent rivalry, either. They straight-up disliked one another, and that was extremely unusual for Gerald Ford, who got along with practically everybody he met throughout his life, rarely had bad things to say about other people, and was almost physically incapable of being unkind to others, no matter what side of the political spectrum they belonged to.

What changed was when President Reagan sent all the living former Presidents -- Nixon, Ford, and Carter -- to Cairo in 1981 to attend Anwar Sadat's funeral following Sadat's assassination. The three former Presidents all flew together on one of the planes normally used as Air Force One, and there was some tension at the beginning, but the person who broke the ice, oddly enough, ended up being Richard Nixon. Ford then suggested that the former Presidents should drop all formalities and just refer to one another as Dick, Jerry, and Jimmy. As Ford remembered, "I guess we figured we were gonna be in a plane together forty hours, more or less, and in order to be pleasant, it was a good idea to just wipe the slate clean, which we did." Ford and Carter eventually started bonding, partly over the fact that Ronald Reagan was a major reason why each of them ultimately lost their respective bids for re-election.

At the time, Carter was having trouble building his Presidential Library, and he asked Ford for some advice since Ford had just recently opened his library. When Carter mentioned he was having some issues raising money for the library, Ford offered to come down and appear at fundraisers for him, and asked Carter to return the favor and visit the Ford Library for an event.

As Thomas M. DeFrank writes in his 2007 book, Write It When I'm Gone: Remarkable Off-the-Record Conversations With Gerald R. Ford (BOOK | KINDLE | AUDIO):

"Carter accepted, triggering a Jimmy-Jerry tag team match extending over several years. These back-scratching appearances didn't convert them into friends, but the relationship was notably friendlier. They began staying in regular contact, talking on the phone, and exchanging birthday greetings. Their contacts were sufficiently public that some of Ford's closest political allies grumbled that he was spending altogether too much time with Carter -- not unlike similar complaints from [George H.W.] Bush 41 partisans today that he hangs around Bill Clinton too much. Ford brushed off the complaints. Beyond their shared practical interests in Presidential Libraries, another unifying bond was at play. Both ex-Presidents had strong reasons not to like Ronald Reagan, which helped cement their ties even though neither one would ever admit it publicly. To one old Ford friend, the calculation was simple: 'Once you did something for his library or museum, you were a friend for life.'"

As they got older, Ford and Carter would sometimes make joint appearances at Presidential Libraries or universities, or events for important causes, and they even wrote a joint op-ed during the Monica Lewinsky scandal urging Congress to censure President Clinton instead of impeaching him. They felt it was a bad precedent (which it has clearly turned out to be) and would be bad for the country. Unlike Ford, Jimmy Carter wasn't very easy-going or personable, so there were times when their friendship would get a little frayed. Ford once told a friend, "Well, you know Jimmy. He can be a real pain in the ass, but we get along."

Eventually, they promised one another that they would deliver the eulogy if the other former President died first. President Ford died first, on December 26, 2006, and Carter attended every event during the several days of ceremonies, from Ford's lying in state at the U.S. Capitol, to the national funeral service at the Washington National Cathedral, and traveled with Ford's family and the former President's remains to Ford's hometown of Grand Rapids, Michigan. At the church service in Grand Rapids, Carter delivered his eulogy, and also attended the private interment service when Ford was buried as at his Presidential Library. In his eulogy, Carter repeated the gracious first words he had said when delivering his Inaugural Address on the day he took over the White House from Ford in 1977, "For myself and for my nation, I want to thank my predecessor for all he has done to heal our land." It was a remarkable relationship between two former Presidents who, again, genuinely disliked one another for quite some time.

[fmab]

anyway Elsie Bray 🫶 while i was looking at refs of her last night, i noticed how weird her elbow joints are compared to other (and what i assume are "standard") exo joints.

They are completely different. Elsie's elbow joints are noticeably more robotic in nature; They seem to be simple rotational joints whereas the other joints we see on exo bodies seem more advanced and probably have a more complex structure that parallels the human body beneath the surface.

There could be a number of reasons for this: Differences in art direction at the time both models were conceptualized and made for the game, maybe its because she is an earlier/older model of exo and thus less finished, or years of wear and tear have damaged the plating & artificial skin to the point of removal, etc.

But thinking about that made me consider the possibility that maybe it looks different because they are replacements or prosthetics! Of course nothing like that has been mentioned in canon so this is entirely me having fun with this headcanon but I think there's no reason why it couldn't be the case!

Exo bodies are built to last, extremely durable with highly advanced technology, but there is bound to be situations where too much damage necessitates a removal and replacement of a part. Given that exo bodies are just as complex as the human body, it's probably not as easy as "plug in a spare arm from the factory and you are good to go!" Even if you went that route, I imagine its a difficult surgery and there's still some loss of sensation (as my good friend Link said it is probably comparable to regrowing severed nerves; it doesn't get to the point it was before). So what alternatives are there? Well, given that they do have the advantage of being robots, I think it would be pretty feasible to make a robotic replacement limb that functions very well with accurate movement even if there wasn't the same range of sensation. (I kind of picture how automail is in fullmetal alchemist works; very advanced but still has limitations and drawbacks, the installation process could even be painful and its not a 1:1 replacement to the original arm).

In Elsie's case in particular she is a scientist and engineer herself, not to mention if she was damaged during the Glassway breach and Battle of Europa she would have been around other scientists/engineers who would be able to assist with constructing replacement(s). All this to say I think it would be fun and cool if her arms (one or both of them) were prosthetics that she had custom made herself to fit her own needs. Yay ❤️

[gouraminnow]

Galley on 4th

Pt. 1 (Modern AU- Yandere Thatch x gender neutral reader)

On Ao3 | Pt. 2

Raising your kid sister all by yourself is hard enough on it's own. But add classes, poverty, and several jobs to juggle and the pressure builds awfully fast. Most employers will drop you on a whim and it's all you can do to stay afloat... So when you somehow manage to land a well-paying position at The Galley on 4th Avenue, a famous, high-end place run by some well renowned Chef- You're desperate to hold things down. Good thing your new Boss is so friendly and understanding, huh?

Warnings: General yandere sketchiness. Pretty light this chapter but Thatch is a liiitle creepy. Panic attacks, reader injury, very brief mention of an overdose(not reader) and THE LENGTH OF THIS DAMN THING.

Thank you @hannahbarberra162 for beta reading this monstrosity and helping me iron out some bits!

Biking uphill is such a pain. 

It’s cold today, a soft gray drizzle gradually soaking through your clothes. The cold brings a slow, tired ache to your joints too, not at all aided by the deadweight of the backpack pulling the meat of your shoulders down and back. Your chest is almost painfully tight, the fog of your labored breath released in short, steady puffs as your left foot occasionally catches awkwardly on its respective pedal. Even through the thick soles of your work boots, you could feel the wad of duct tape you had hastily wrapped it in when you found a jagged crack down the center, “hamburger style” your little sister had said. 

At least the view was pretty. You were high up enough to see over downtown, a sliver of the beach and boardwalk, and the darkened water beyond it. Rays of light pierced through the cloud cover, illuminating sheets of rain as they fell like gauzy curtains onto the dreary cityscape below. The air smelled crisp, and if it weren’t for the chill, you might prefer to stay outside and find somewhere to relax. But your shift starts in twenty minutes. Thankfully, you’re making good time despite your exertion.

Once you hit the top of this hill, The Galley on 4th Avenue would be three blocks away. It’s your second job, and far nicer than the little diner you worked some of your mornings at. Not that the bar was all that high, of course. You hadn’t known it when you went in for the interview, but apparently the owner was somewhat famous, which explained why the place was fancier than you expected. Thatch Newgate, part of some hotshot rich family, or something like that. You had more important things to care about. At least he was nice. Hopefully this would translate into higher wages- lord knows the diner owed you one after single-handedly reorganizing and repackaging everything in storage to avoid food safety violations- but you weren’t gonna get your hopes up. At least the starting pay here was higher and the place was clean before you got there. Your sister would get mopey if you refused to bring her anything from this restaurant job, too.

Speaking of, what should you bring back for the little Grub? You didn’t get food from work often- it was a treat you save for the end of the week or special occasions. Employee discounts don’t do much, especially with how much nicer this job is. You’ve admittedly been spoiling her- you’ve only been a server at The Galley for roughly a month, and your proximity to quality food is just too tempting. There was a new soup you haven’t tried- a fragrant stew with tender lamb and little pearl onions. You could get a couple servings to take back, and some of the buttery rolls you both like. Maybe you could finally spring for one of those cartoonish roasts with the bone still sticking out, that would leave you both with leftovers. Or, you could forego a hearty main course and bring her one of those fancy desserts, instead. She hasn’t tried creme brulee before and you’re sure she’d love it-

There’s a sharp jolt, and your train of thought is utterly derailed when your front tire catches on a pothole concealed by a shallow puddle. “Ugh! Shit!” You scramble, feet struggling to steady yourself against the ground, but you’ve already lost control, awkwardly tumbling to the left and onto the wet asphalt. You catch yourself with your hand, the cold sting of rocks and pebbles digging into the meat of your palm as the sharp jolt of the impact shoots from your wrist up to your elbow. “Fuck!” You hiss, hauling your bike up onto the curb. Ugh, the water’s in your shoes. Your socks are utterly soaked. You swing your old backpack off, an old canvas thing you’d found second hand after the one you’d had since you were 12 finally gave up on this world and fell apart at the seams. Checking it over, it thankfully wasn’t soaked. You had your work uniform and a nicer pair of shoes wrapped in plastic grocery bags, but your textbooks had nothing. It was the wild west for them. Maybe you should wrap them up… following that, you properly turn your attention to your hand. A sizable scrape accompanied by a few small pebbles embedded into your skin, specks of grit littering the surface. You wince as you try to gently pry them out, wiping your hands on the front of your sweater. A small jolt of pain shoots up your arm again at the motion. Shit. Did you sprain it? Oh, god damn it!

You sigh. Well, your job is less than a block away. Grumbling, you stand your bike up, deciding to walk it for what remains of your route. You gently rotate your injured wrist as you go, trying to gauge how bad it is. It’s not quite a sprain, you think, though the adrenaline could be dulling some of the pain. You sigh, guiding your bike to cut across the parking lot and behind the building. You always lock it up there, in the nice little patio area the back door opens up into. There were a couple tables with four chairs each, and wooden benches facing inward whose backs formed a sort of fence along the perimeter. The whole thing is topped with soft string lights hung from the pale-brown awning sheltering the concrete brickwork of the patio floor. The little rest area was nice enough that occasionally some… “difficult” customers claimed to mistake it for a smaller outdoor seating area. Maybe you’d believe them, if it weren’t for both the signs saying otherwise and it being very clearly separate from where they were actually meant to sit- the much larger and better furnished patio on the right side of the building that also happens to be lacking in nearby dumpsters.

You lean your bike up against the back of the bench, securing it with an old corded lock looped through the wooden slats, and make your way inside. Pushing open the door, you sigh when the rush of warm air envelops you. You take a moment to just stand there and enjoy it, before heading to the breakroom. This was the nicest rest area you’d seen at any of your jobs, let alone a restaurant. At the diner, you’d just sit in one of the booths, but The Galley practically had a lounge in comparison. One large red couch pushed against the back wall, accompanied by a coffee table and a small, squeaky arm chair. There was a kitchenette on the other side of the room, but you’d seen your coworkers use the main kitchen on their breaks if things weren’t busy. It made you nervous, but you weren’t a snitch. In the adjacent corner to the kitchenette rests a larger table, a sturdy wooden piece a few shades lighter than the dark oak flooring. There were a number of differently colored tablecloths that could be swapped out- right now, it was a red and white checkered pattern, like a picnic blanket. 

You set your backpack down on the armchair, the bite of the old canvas straps fading into a dull ache, and roll your now unburdened shoulders with a satisfied hum. You go to fetch the first aid kit from under the sink- one of several on the premises, of course. You crouch down to open the blue laminate doors- leaning forward to grab the bright red box and-

BANG

The doors to the kitchens slam open and you jump, banging your head on the ceiling of the little cupboard. “FUCK! UGH!” You yell before you can help yourself, whirling around to see the shocked faces of… Millie, a younger coworker with promising culinary talent, and your boss, Thatch. The man is mid-wince, with a light lopsided grimace on his face as he sucks some air in through his teeth. Millie has her hands raised in front of her mouth, wide eyes framed by her messy brown hair and the big circular glasses she wears. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” She starts, rushing towards you as you rub your head, wincing at the jolt that runs through your wrist. Right. Bad arm. Your good one has the kit. Well, if there’s a good time to be injured, you guess it would be now. “I didn’t mean to slam the door like that, I just- I’m sorry for surprising you!” She continues, sinking to the floor beside you. Poor kid can be just as nervous as she is talented. It rarely fails to activate your “Big Sibling” mode, which is funny since your own sister isn’t anxious like that at all.

“I-it’s fine, kid, don’t worry-” You start, but Millie keeps going.

“Were you getting the- here, let me help! I know you’re the med student but I can take a look at your head-” She reaches for your face and you instinctively jerk away.

“Millie!” She stops, shoulders tensing, hands held against her chest. “Millie, I’m serious, it’s really not that big of a deal,” you try to assure her, but judging by the looks on their faces, your smile is just as strained as it feels. Millie’s lips are pressed into a thin line, wobbling slightly. You try again. “Sorry, sorry for yelling. I didn’t mean to freak you out.” You reach for her shaking hands, gently clasping them between your own. “This isn’t something to get worked up over. I was more surprised than hurt, honestly. And even if I was, it was an accident. You can chill.” Millie exhales slowly, slowly relaxing a little bit. That’s good. Your eyes slide over to Thatch and his… impressive hairdo. He’s watching quietly now, arms crossed with a soft smile. “My only worry is getting in trouble for ‘unprofessional language’ at the moment.”

That earns a good-natured snort from your boss, who waves a hand dismissively. “Oh please, if I had an issue with that, I’d have to fire every line cook we’ve got. And you always get here early, so there are a couple things I’m willing to overlook. If anything, you’ve earned the profanity.” You quirk an eyebrow, releasing Millie’s hands to gather the kit and stand up.

“Kinda sounds like you’re keeping track. Is it measured? Do I earn swear words based on how many times I get here before my shift, or is it based on the number of minutes left before it starts?”

“Hmm. We can workshop it,” he says jovially, and when you hear Millie giggle, the strained smile you’d plastered onto yourself relaxes into something more genuine. “So, what were you getting that out for, anyway?” he asks, gesturing to the kit you’d risked life and cranium for. “Does it have to do with how drenched you are? It isn’t raining that hard.”

You chuckle nervously, opening your mouth to assure him it’s really no big deal, to  just let you take care of it, when your thoughts are interrupted by Millie exclaiming “Oh!” You both turn to look at the girl, who is looking at her hands with that same wide-eyed anxious look. “Y-you, um, you bled on me? You’re bleeding?” She says, holding out her right hand to show the little bit of blood you’d accidentally smeared onto the back when you tried to comfort her.

“Ah! That’s- oh my god, that’s so gross, I’m sorry kid,” you start rambling. Now it’s your turn to be flustered. You look down at your hand, and sure enough the blood is still oozing out. “I just fell on my way here. I wasn’t thinking about it when I touched you, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay! M-maybe I could look at it?” Millie starts, but Thatch gently puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Nah. Why don’t you go wash your hands, and head back to the kitchen to tell the others about that appetizer idea you had? I’ll take care of our friend here. Don’t worry about it.” Your eye twitches a little bit at that. He’s not your friend- he’s your boss, and you have boundaries regarding superiors getting buddy-buddy, thank you very much. But it’s not worth mentioning, at this point. It’s small, he’s saying it to comfort Millie, and he’s already doing you a favor. He’s never actually crossed the line, you’re just… a bit jaded, maybe?

“Are… are you sure?” Millie asks, glancing between you and the blood smeared over the backs of her knuckles. 

You smile gently. “Yep. It’s all fine. Go tell everyone about the thing. And let me know too, if you find a minute once I’m up and running.” You assure.

Millie flushes, tilting her head and looking off to the side bashfully. “It’s nothing that special…” she mumbles, shuffling past you to use the sink. “We just have a lot of cauliflower and only two menu items that call for it…”

You giggle at the comment but nearly jump out of your skin when your boss lays a hand on your right arm. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, hands raised flat in front of him. “Would you hand me that? Let me see your hand.” His voice is soft, and he’s looking at you with that warm look again- the one that really accentuates the crinkles around the older man’s eyes.

You aren’t sure how to feel.

Your boss is pretty friendly, to say the least. It really threw you for a loop when you first started working- you’d been preparing yourself for the predatory bloodsuckers you were used to, the ones who’d wring as many hours as possible while looking for any excuse to dock your pay. Practiced smiles and an ego stroked by exacting power over impoverished retail and fast-food employees. Any friendliness out of these people came with an agenda, and you’d always found it endlessly infuriating how someone so pathetic held so much sway over whether or not you’d get to eat. The Galley was probably the nicest place you’d ever worked- so you expected the attitude to be similar. You went in with your guard up, but the friendliness you’ve been met with thus far seemed genuine. The way that man effortlessly pulled you in despite your reservations was… unnerving. You barely even register that you’ve handed him the bright red box until he’s already holding it. 

You blink, then mentally shake yourself off, choosing to finally shuck off your sweater. At least it’s wool, so you aren’t all that cold despite being soaked. The sink shuts off, and Millie rushes past both of you with a quick “See ya!” You smile softly again. She’s a good kid. 

“Could I take a look at that now?” Your boss speaks up gently. You look back up at him, at the concerned crease in his brow, the dark eyes scanning over your wrist.

“It’s really not that big of a deal, sir, I can t-take care of it myself,” you try to assure, tensing when he frowns.

“I’m sure you can, but you don’t have to. Hmm… it’s swelling,” he says, moving a warm palm gently resting against your forearm, slowly lifting it. Now that you get a better look at it, you wince. Shit, it’s probably a sprain after all. He clicks his tongue, eyes sliding from your wrist to your face. You don’t meet his gaze. “What happened?”

“I fell on the way here, like I said. Dumb accident,” you mumble. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at you. You start to sweat a little. Thatch knew you biked here- but even so, transportation was something you preferred to be vague about. Even if he knew you didn’t have a car, you didn’t want to draw attention to it. Incidents like this could be used against you, potentially creating the argument that you didn’t qualify for the position due to a ‘lack of reliable transportation.’ It was bullshit, but it didn’t mean they couldn’t do it. “It’s not a big deal, I promise. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time,” you insist, and he sighs.

“Do you want to take a night off? We both know this doesn’t look good…” he speaks tentatively and gently, but you still jolt, finally looking him in the eye.

“Wh-? No! No no no, it’s fine, I can still work!” You cringe inwardly for sounding so frantic. You’re reminded of a time where Grub had gone home with a school friend without telling you, sending you into hysterics when she hadn't gotten off the bus. You shake yourself off- you aren’t anywhere near that freaked out at the moment, but it was a memory that always encouraged you to calm down. “I can still… I’ll just carry less plates at one time, or something. I promise it’s fine,” you say, calmer this time, but he doesn’t seem convinced.

“C’mon, I know you’re pre-med,” he says softly, lowering your arm. 

“Yeah, so I’ve got a decent idea of how bad it is, and what my limits are,” you huff impatiently. The sooner you can go change, the sooner you get this shift over with.

“So you know that it’s probably a sprain.”

Your eye twitches. “Yes, and I know how to wrap and tape it. There’s an elastic bandage in the kit.” Goddamnit, drop it. You need this shift, you promised Grub something good to eat, and you need to get her some decent winter boots.

He tries again. “You should see an actual doctor.”

“Not bad enough to be worth it with my budget.”

“Carrying dishes out to customers could make it even worse-”

“I’ve done harder jobs in worse condition.” Your voice raises slightly.

His brows furrow. “You shouldn’t-”

“I have to!” You spit, cutting him off before you can stop yourself. “I need the fucking hours, don’t patroni-” you cut yourself off abruptly.

There’s a beat of stunned silence. The blood rushing in your ears far outweighs the clatter of dishes and pleasant chatter of coworkers drifting in from the kitchens- people whose names you haven’t even memorized yet. You tuck your chin against your chest and stare down at the floor. You… can’t talk like that. Your body goes rigid, stomach clenching. You absolutely cannot talk like that. This is the best job you’ve had. “Sorry, m’sorry, sir.” It’s a whisper, and the sentiment feels laughably hollow. Your tongue feels heavy and numb in your mouth, like a big useless hunk of lead. You’ve been fired for less. How could you be so stupid? So utterly, laughably stupid? Damn it, damn him- you’d never argued like that with other employers, you knew better. His grating, incessant friendliness, despite your caution, despite knowing from the start that it could lure you into a false sense of security, must have gotten the better of you. You got too comfortable somehow- there’s no other explanation for how you hadn’t even spared a second thought to the idea of arguing with your damn boss. Should you plead your case? Apologize again? No, it’s over. It has to be. “I’ll…” there’s a painful lump in your throat. Getting the words out feels like dragging boulders up and out of your own big, stupid gullet. “I can just go. I don’t… k-keep anything here, anyway. Nothing to… clear out…” 

There’s a movement, a flash in the corner of your eye- the shadow of a familiar raised hand is pulled from the depths of your brain and you jerk backwards, eyes blown wide, reflexively guarding your face- 

Both of you are frozen for a moment. You can feel him staring at you, hear your name being called coaxingly.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Just… Come sit down and let me wrap that up for you, okay?”

“...Right.”

You don’t really make any conscious decision to sit down so much as you just find yourself at the table in a chair turned sideways, facing your boss with your arm outstretched. His hair blocks out one of the lights from where you’re sitting, and it almost makes you crack a smile, but you don’t. You’re wordless as he gently dabs your palm with a disinfectant pad, eyes searching your blank face for something. His brows furrow a little. Does he want something? Are you being too quiet? There’s a soft inhale. “You…” He pauses, sighs, broad shoulders slumping as he leans forward- you instinctively move back, and he stops. “Sorry.” He’s quiet for a moment, maybe waiting for you to say something. When you don’t, he continues. “You don’t need to be so nervous, alright? I try to take care of my people here,” he speaks softly, laying a light square of gauze over the angry red flesh of your scraped palm. There’s another small jolt of indignation. Again with the familiarity. You aren’t his anything.

… But you really can’t risk another little outburst.

“You don’t need to work tonight,” he says, warm murmur grounding you as he starts to wrap your arm. “But I won’t make you leave, either, if you’re… Really sure about this.” Your brows furrow. You don’t understand why he’s being so… Nice. You’d had a dishwashing job before this- it was mostly fine, until Grub came down with the flu. You had to take five days off to take care of her, and once you’d come back, they started cutting your hours. Shorter shifts, to losing days, to finally being “laid off.” All because you missed five days of scrubbing plates. If you’d argued with your manager there, you’re sure he would’ve smashed a glass over your head.

You sniffle, rubbing your eyes with your good arm. “I-I don’t get it,” you mutter. It still hurts to try and speak. It’s all so embarrassing.

He chuckles, a gentle rumble resonating in his chest as he applies the little bandage fasteners. He gently turns your wrist, examining the bandaging job, before gingerly laying your arm back down on the table. “Please. You think you’re the first struggling employee I’ve had?” He asks. You can tell he’s looking at your face, but you don’t feel ready to meet his eyes. He continues, seemingly unbothered. “I try to be decent, that’s all.” You nod slowly, and he hums. “You’ve still got some time before your shift. I’m gonna go check in with the fine folk in our kitchens, and you take some time to calm down. Let me know what you decide once I get back, alright?”

You blink. That was it? You aren’t even being reprimanded? You… probably should be, at least a little bit. “A-alright,” you parrot, voice faint.

He pats your shoulder before rising to his feet. Good god, he’s tall. “Great. Think about what I said, alright?” And then he’s off.

That’s it.

You don’t move, at first. It takes you a minute of just sitting in that chair, listening to the sounds of the kitchen. Then something finally clicks and you own your body again, springing to your feet and grabbing your backpack as you scramble to the staff bathroom to change- something you manage without incident, surprisingly, considering your night so far. And when you’re done, you amble your way back to the armchair, dropping backwards onto the worn leather. You should… try to clear your head. You need to be able to act like you have yourself together when Thatch gets back.

You still aren’t sure what to make of everything. He’s so painfully nice, but you still can’t help but think you’ve really, really fucked up somehow. But one thing is certain- you have another chance, and you really don’t want to ruin it.

When Thatch finally comes back, you don’t miss the way his face falls once he sees you in uniform. “... I see you’ve made up your mind, then.” You shift under his gaze, clumsy fingers fumbling with the thick seams of the right armrest. He talks nice, and plays the part of a concerned party very well, but you still can’t help but see it all as a possible ploy to get rid of you. You needed to prove yourself, so you could stay. You had to. So you just nod.

“Yes, sir.”

- 

You have practice putting on your customer service voice. The empty smile, deliberately flexing your cheeks just enough that it looks like it reaches your eyes. The friendly voice you put on too, gratingly chipper to your own ears. The shift isn’t that bad. There are a couple tables that express concern, asking about your bandaged wrist, but you’re able to laugh it off and give a vague answer. Taking orders isn’t much of a problem. Holding the little notepad does send twinges of pain through your wrist, but it’s manageable. One table praises you for being oh-so careful with their food, and it’s all you can do not to roll your eyes. They end up tipping very well, anyway. Multiple tables do, actually. Maybe you should wear a bandage more often.

It’s not until you’re two hours in that something eventful happens. You’re on your way to deliver an order to the kitchen staff when you see her. Millie is loitering just next to the doors to the dining area, chewing her lip with a platter of appetizers in hand- a bread basket, shrimp tartlets, some of those fancy cheeses and a portion of breaded calamari, it looks like. Millie is just staring down at them, buckling at the knees in a pigeon-toed stance. “Mills?” You call softly, and her head snaps up to you. “Millie, are you okay..? What’s wrong?”

“Ah, i-it’s nothing,” she stammers, but the way her voice is trembling says otherwise. “I o-only need a moment, a-and I’ll be just fine! It’s just fine!” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she visibly cringes, the rattle of lightly jostled silverware filling the brief silence.

“... Millie,” you start gently, crossing your arms as you automatically slip into your concerned-big-sibling mode. “It’s obviously not fine. What’s the problem? What has you so shaken up?”

Her lips wobble. “It’s dumb,” she mumbles. “Not even that bad…”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “You’re a nervous kid, but not without reason. Tell me what’s up, okay?” You say, adding a touch of firmness to your tone.

She sighs, shifting on her feet, looking anywhere but you. “I-it’s just… there’s this table of business-man types, and um… a-at first they were just kinda looking at me weird, but…” Your body goes rigid. “I came back to take their orders, and one of them says I’ve got pretty hair, a-and he wants to brush it out for me? Which is j-just weird, I guess, but it made me uncomfortable, and then another one says our uniform supplier sh-should bring the skirt length up by a couple inches and everyone laughed… and another said to lower the necklines too, while they’re at it. So um… I just…” You put a hand up.

“Millie, you don’t need to say anything else. That’s fucking gross and you’re not stupid, okay?” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, before looking back up with a stern expression. “Alright, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna handle that table. You’re getting an early break- go take a little bit to calm down, okay? I’m taking over as server for those creeps.”

Millie splutters, but you’re already taking the platter. “W-wait, no! I can do it, it’s fine!” She reaches out to take it back from you, but you shoot the poor girl a stern look.

“If anything happens, if anyone asks- throw me under the bus. You have my permission. I’m not gonna let you deal with that shit if I can help it, okay?” You say, maintaining eye-contact with the wide-eyed girl. “Tell me you understand.” She just nods, hugging herself now that her hands are free. Your face softens. “Great. Now go take that break, okay? It’s just fine.” You want to pat her shoulder, but your hands are full. She just nods, mumbles out the table number and a thank-you, then scurries away. You take a deep breath, before pushing the door open with your back, and spinning around to face the public dining area.

You don’t bother putting the customer service smile back on. You walk up to that table with the blankest, most unimpressed expression you can muster. They’re in a corner booth, three men in suits. Two seem about middle aged, one with dark hair and the other gray. The third is a younger brunette- he has his coat draped over the back of the booth. One raises a brow as you approach, but you don’t react. Wordlessly, you set the carrying platter down, before removing each appetizer. “Shrimp tartlets, bread basket, tempura, cheese platter,” you say flatly, retrieving the platter with your good hand, before saying the dreaded next lines. “The main courses will be out shortly. Is there anything else you need.” The men look at eachother, scoffing, one shaking his head and another doing a breathy sort of laugh.

“You’re not the girl we had before. What happened to her?” One of the older two asks.

Your eyes narrow, ever so slightly. “She’s busy,” busy taking some time to herself, hopefully. “-So I delivered your food. Now, is there anything else you would like to order?”

“How about a smile?” The younger one says, leaning towards you. 

You’re unable to keep the sharp glare off your face. “That is not a menu item. My coworkers and I are here to serve food, and nothing else. Now, is that all?” You ask, holding the brunette’s gaze. You don’t flinch, you don’t falter, not even when you jostle your injured wrist. You can tell they feel awkward, glancing around at each other. Nobody says anything for a good few seconds, until you speak up again. “Right. We’ll have the rest right out for you soon, sirs,” before turning and swiftly retreating. Could be better, could be worse. As anxious as you were about job security, you were far more pissed with men like that. You couldn’t deny you were jittery though- your nerves wrung tight with everything that had happened thus far, and the simmering anger at the idea of anyone upsetting Millie.

You just keep going, denying the exhaustion creeping through your body. Fake smile bright, voice chipper, laughing off your injury even when it sent jolts of pain all the way up your arm. You don’t pay the few comments much mind, save for the one-armed regular who frequents the bar with his friends cracking a good-natured joke about taking better care of yourself, lest you end up matching him. You snort, letting the facade slip a bit. The smile you give him is tired, and doesn’t show any teeth- but it’s genuine. “I dunno, man… I think I could pull off the facial scars pretty well,” you quip back. You almost worry that you could cross a line with that, but your worries are quickly assuaged by drunken laughter.

Thankfully, you don’t have to serve those men again. Neither does Millie. By the time your break rolls around, another coworker greets you- the tall, scruffy line cook with patchy facial hair who’s always chewing on a toothpick, what was his name again? He usually looks like he’s bored out of his mind. He informs you that the poor kid is in the kitchens again. She’d had an emotional conversation with Thatch, but he hadn’t heard the details, so you fill him in on the creeps she’d been serving. He smirks. “Ohoh. Well, those three won’t be back now that she’s told him, I can promise you that. Thanks for covering for her, by the way.” His eyes narrow. “Hey, what happened to your arm?”

You blink, barely swallowing a yawn. “Oh, th- it’s just a sprain. Fell on the way here.”

“And the boss didn’t give you the night off? No offense, but you look trashed.”

You wince, glancing at the little mirror above the bathroom sink. You guess you do look pretty tired, your eyebags are very prominent. “He, uh. Tried too? I need the hours.”

He’s still for a second, before the bored expression morphs into a pitying look, clapping a hand on your shoulder and leaving it there. “Listen, I know how lots of places are, but the boss ain’t one to screw you out of PTO,” he drawls, toothpick waggling as he speaks. “If he offers something, he means it, alright?” He says, looking you right in the eyes.

“Oh,” you mumble rather dumbly in response. He gives your shoulder a squeeze.

“Just… try taking him up on it, the next time he offers you something, alright?” He says, retrieving his hand and sauntering off. He moves with a hunched, somewhat bow-legged stance. Right before he opens the door to the kitchens, he turns to call back to you. “If it doesn’t go well, I’ll saw my own foot off! Like in that one movie with the guys in the bathroom… aw damn, what’s it called?” 

“... Saw?” you offer tentatively.

He snaps his fingers, giving you a grin. “Yeah, that’s it! I’ll saw my foot off, just like that movie Saw!”

A nervous little chortle bubbles its way out of you. “I, um, don’t want you to do that, though?”

“Well that’s good, cuz I won’t have to!” He says, flashing a grin and a peace-sign before the doors swing shut behind him. 

Huh.

He’s a nice guy. You should really get his name…

You roll your shoulders back, exhaling. You’ve got the break room to yourself, for right now. You fetch your backpack, lugging it one-handed to the table. Gingerly unzipping it, you grunt as you clumsily slide the hefty nursing textbook out of your bag. You can probably manage about half an hour of cramming before you’re back out on the dining floor. The book is dropped onto the table with a loud THUNK! Before you pull up a chair and crack it open. You ought to pat yourself on the back, you think. You’re getting a lot of shit done, despite everything that has happened tonight. You squint, staring down at your book. Ugh. Your eyes are scanning over the words, but you’re not really taking anything in. Okay. Well, you’ll get up and fix yourself some tea with the little stove. Sighing, you stand back up, trudging your way over. Wow, your limbs feel heavy, huh? You need to reset your brain. Just take a second to get your bearings. The tea will help with that, you think.

You manage to set the kettle to boil with one arm, having had to awkwardly brace it against your chest to pour the water in. You pick one of the options kept in the cabinet, until finding one that seems appealing and leaving it in a pre-prepped mug. The piercing whistle of the kettle sounds, so you turn off the little stove and pour the water. There. Time to grab your beverage and get back to it. You walk back over, sit yourself back down, and look at the page. Elbows on the table, head resting on your hands. There isn’t much left to read. Just a couple chapters, maybe? You’re allowed to annotate. Highlight text, write notes and shit. God, the text really is bleeding together though… you want to pull your hair out. You take a sip of tea, instead, letting the warmth spread through your mouth. Rubbing the heels of your palms against your eyes, you sigh. You can rest your eyes for a second. You cross your arms over the open textbook, laying your head down. Only for a second. Just for a second.

-

This doesn’t feel right.

You huff, brows furrowing at the dryness of your mouth. Ugh. You have your tea though, you think, fingers digging into the cushions of- you stop. Cushions? Wait. You’re at the table- no, you aren’t. You aren’t sitting anymore, you’re lying down-

You shoot up, hands flying to rub your eyes fiercely- wrenching a strangled yelp out of you when the taut sting of pain returns to your injured wrist. A white shape slides off your body with the soft rustling of fabric. You blink the sleep out of your eyes- it’s quieter now. You look around- you’ve moved to the couch. You fucking fell asleep. Why didn’t anyone wake you? And did you lay yourself down? You don’t remember that. Your tea, now cold, sits on the coffee table on a branded coaster, your textbook closed next to it with a bookmark slipped between the pages. And beside them, three… generously sized to-go bags. Your body goes numb. You feel like you’re gonna throw up.

Did you… pack up more food then you’ve ever taken before and then just go pass out? You wouldn’t have, right? Your hands are trembling, it feels hard to breathe- you wouldn’t. You know that. If you did, it would definitely be over. Back to stints in retail and fast food and lord knows they don’t pay as well. If you’ve blown this, there goes any chance at saving up money. You stifle a sob, pushing the ache in your throat back down into your chest. You sniffle, furiously wiping away the tears beading up in your eyes. Why didn’t anyone wake you up? It was busy! Little hiccups crawl their way out of you, feeling so much louder in this quiet, empty room. Your good hand slaps over your mouth, trying to stifle the pathetic sounds. Come on, get your shit together. You didn’t do this. You know that you would be too afraid to. It clicks into place when your eyes fall to the white fabric puddled on the floor by your feet. A chef’s coat- one a couple sizes too big to fit any of your peers.

Your boss’s coat draped over your sleeping form, the food you never would’ve had the balls to order for yourself, his aggravatingly friendly demeanor- you feel the heat rising to your face, resting in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. The familiar burn of the twin-flames, shame and embarrassment. Thatch moved you. Picked you up and laid you onto the couch himself. Who else? Millie couldn’t, and the coat was too big to fit… the Saw Guy. You bend down, gingerly picking up the white coat. You rub the fabric between your fingers for a few seconds, staring down at the garment now bunched up in your lap. Another sniffle, another rub of the eyes- and you drape it over the back of the couch with a shaky breath. 

The food smells… really good, but you can’t bring yourself to examine it properly. You sit there in silence for a long moment, staring down at your hands. You feel… far away. This is all so weird. What does your boss get out of this? Your coworkers all seem to adore him, yes, but you just…

You don’t want to get your hopes up. 

The doors to the kitchen swing open, but you don’t look. You feel a bead of sweat roll down your neck, the sensation sending a shiver through you. The familiar voice of your boss calls out to you, but you say nothing. You hear his footfalls echoing through the empty room, coming to stop on the other side of the table. You can see his figure in your peripherals. “Hey,” he calls softly.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “... Why didn’t you wake me up?” You choke out.

“... I suppose I felt bad,” he confesses. His voice is soft but… almost tight. “I have some bad news.” You immediately tense, the fingers of your good hand digging into your leg. “Well hang on, it’s not like that!” He says hurriedly, already knowing what you thought. Now you look up at him, searching his weathered face. He’s got a plain black shirt on- yep, the coat’s his for sure. He rubs the back of his neck, and there’s no hint of a smile. Despite his assurances, you feel like a fist is squeezing your heart, a thick anxious weight in your throat. “Millie came to talk to me earlier. I appreciate that you helped out, of course, it’s just…” He sighs, screwing his eyes shut for a moment. When he opens them again, he looks you in the eyes, and your gaze dips before you can stop yourself. “She went out onto the back patio to calm down like you said, and… someone had stolen your bike.”

It takes a moment to hit you. “Th-that old thing?” You breathe incredulously, eye twitching just barely. “Why the fuck… that old p-piece of..?” You stare at him. Is he fucking with you? But the way his mouth is pulled unevenly, brows drawn tight, the slight scrunch of his upper nose bridge… and his eyes are awfully soft.

“I’m afraid so,” he says softly. Your throat falls into your chest and your heart falls into your stomach. Of course. Of course! Is fucking everything happening today? You’re caught somewhere between the urge to laugh or burst into tears- you just lean forward with a choked wheeze, anxious hands pulling at your hair. Don’t- don’t break down in front of this man-

You already can’t afford a car or proper daycare a neighbor is watching your sister for fuck’s sake

Your good hand slides down to your mouth, roughly clamping over your lips in a desperate attempt to stifle the lurching wail of frustration you know is trapped in your chest. A strangled whine leaks past your rigid fingers anyway.

She needs winter boots a new coat too but the bike the fucking bike you can’t earn money without it everything is over

The couch cushions dip, and a warm hand rubs your upper back. You jolt. When had he moved? “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Let me give you a ride? I already do it for Millie, when her dad… can’t.” You look up at him, peeking between your splayed fingers.

“A ride,” you repeat dryly, voice hoarse. “Don’t suppose you’ll be driving me to work, as well?”

“... If that’s what you need, I can make it work. It’s not like biking is a good idea with your wrist like that, anyway.” You’re quiet for a long moment. He does have a point, as much as you hate to admit it. You change the subject for now, gesturing to the bags on the table.

“And the, uh… pity rations?” You ask. Thatch snorts, leaning back and crossing his legs. 

“Millie felt pretty horrible about the bike situation, especially after the favor you did her-”

“Wh- that’s not her fault!” You interrupt before you can stop yourself. He gives you another look you don’t like, a strange warmth with a glint you can’t place.

“No, of course not,” he says, reaching over your shoulders to pick up his coat where you’d laid it out. “But you know how she is- the poor kid was broken up about it all the same. Didn’t know how to tell you, so I said I would. She made most of that for you- Genkei invited himself to help her, when he found her still sniffling over a pot of chowder.” Ah, Genkei… you remember now. Saw-guy’s actual name.

“Oh god, kid…” you mumble to yourself, shaking your head. “She’s… gone already, then? I can’t thank her?”

Thatch nods, smiling at you softly. “I wouldn’t worry about it- you can do that next time you come in. Neither of you are leaving this job anytime soon- not by my hand, anyway.”

You look to your boss, then back at the packaged food. It all still feels too good to be true, but… what option do you have, really? Even if you did still have your bike, Thatch was completely right. Biking with a busted wrist wouldn’t work out. “I just…” you start, then pause. This… puts you in a strange spot, though. You’ll… owe him after this, won’t you? Is all this gonna be hung over your head? Genkei didn’t seem worried about anything, but… but…

“What do I need to do to convince you that you aren’t in any trouble?” Thatch asks, warmth slightly cut with exasperation. You cringe.

“I don’t… I don’t know? I just…” You struggle to find the words. “... Sorry?” You offer.You aren’t looking at him, but you can feel him staring at you.

“None of that, now,” he says, waving you off. “How’s this to start? Let me help carry your things to the car.”

Well… you can’t do it yourself, you think. “Okay,” you relent, nodding. “... Thank you.”

 It turns out that when Thatch said “Let me help carry your things” he’d actually intended on carrying all of it. He had your backpack and two of the take-out bags looped around his arm, while you were left with the smallest of the three. He whistles a tune while you follow him out to the darkened staff parking area- street and building lights casting strips of ruddy yellow-orange over the lot. You trail behind him, watching as he goes from a silhouette, to being outlined in amber light, to a silhouette again- staring at his bobbing pompadour as he leads you to an old, brown ford bronco with tan paneling. You blink. The paint is chipped and worn away in places- this is an old beater car. Nice when it was in its prime, likely still efficient. You’d expected something fancier from some sort of… well, you weren’t sure if celebrity is the right term, but he was a big deal in culinary circles and he came from a rich family.

He leads you to the passenger side door. With one hand, he fishes his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the vehicle and opening the door with a smile. You blink, taken aback for a moment before you thank him, sliding in and placing the one bag you were allowed to carry at your feet. Leave it to him to make being down a limb look so effortless. You exhale, trying to relax against the cracked leather seat, cradling your wrist in your lap when Thatch slides into the driver’s seat. He turns the key, then turns to you. “How’s it feel?”

You glance at him, half his face shadowed, then back to the bandaging on your wrist. “It’s… fine when I don’t move it,” you admit. That was mostly true. You suppose there was a dull ache but you were good at tuning that out. “I’ve got painkillers back home, that should help a little…” you muse, earning a hum in response.

He starts the car, asks your address, and the two of you are off. It’s mostly quiet, just the hum of the engine and the passing streetlights. What are you going to do about the bike? You don’t have work for two days, but you can’t get a new bike in that time. You glance at your boss through the corner of your eye. You… really don’t want to rely on him for this. Calling your boss for a ride to work feels wrong. Maybe you should’ve asked Saw g- er, Genkei… no, you barely know that guy, either. Ugh.

“Uh… thanks again,” you force out, when the two of you are stopped at a red light. “Grub’s gonna be really happy about the food…”

“Grub?” He asks, and you can imagine the quirked brow even if you can’t currently see it.

“Yeah, my baby sister.”

“Ah, right,” he says, looking to you then back up at the light. “Guess I never heard you mention her name.”

“You haven’t..?” You mumble to yourself. “Well, it’s… not her legal name. I called her that once to tease her, but it completely backfired and now she refuses to go by anything else,” you explain, feeling a smile start to pull at the corners of your mouth.

He chuckles softly. The stoplight switches. “She sounds like a funny kid,” he says, accelerating forward.

“She really is.”

“You take care of her on your own, then? No parents?” There’s a sharp jolt in your chest.

“... No parents,” you confirm after a long moment. The tightness in your voice is clear. You’re worried he’ll press you for more- you can feel him look at you again.

“... I see,” is all he says, voice quiet and sympathetic. You’re grateful for it. He drives in silence for a little while, making a turn. “Got lotsa siblings myself,” he muses after a while. “All of us adopted.”

You blink, glancing back over at him- but his eyes are focused ahead again. “Oh. That’s…” you aren’t sure what to say. “I-I’m sorry,” you settle on.

He huffs good naturedly. “Nah, don’t be. Oyaji’s great. I wouldn’t have things any other way.” Another pause, another strange pitying glance. “I’m sorry. This sort of thing… none of this is easy to do on your own.” You blink- finding yourself fighting back sudden tears. His voice was so much softer when he said that, so… earnest.

Why did it hurt? Why did it feel so good to hear, at the same time? He hasn’t said anything revolutionary. Of course it was fucking hard. Is it because he’s your boss, that the acknowledgement hits you so sharply? The novelty of it all that knocks you off-kilter?

You focus on swallowing that lump in your throat again. “Thanks,” you force the word out, unsure if you actually mean it. 

-

Thatch regarded you with pity. You were far from the first employee who’d had it rough when he took them under his wing- hell, Genkei got the job a week after surviving an overdose. The ambulance ride alone put the poor bastard in debt, not to mention the actual treatment. Not that he disclosed that, but he had looked like hell during his interview and it wasn’t difficult to find out when one of your brothers has connections in every local hospital. No, Thatch was no stranger to what others would call charity cases (Though he preferred to regard them as “investments”). But matters of family never failed to tug on the Chef’s heartstrings.

He didn’t know exactly what your story was, beyond the poverty and custody over your sister. You tried to keep to yourself, bottling everything up until it was impossible to keep it in. But he could infer some things- your parents were probably either dead, or… unfit to care for children. Not unlike Millie’s parents, in his opinion- if Thatch’s father could somehow balance the amount of kids he had, Millie’s had absolutely no excuse for blatantly favoring her brothers.

… Could be worse, though… at least she had a proper roof over her head, but the apartment lot he had just pulled into left quite a bit to be desired. This complex was notorious- barely maintained structures, leased to those unlucky enough to be without alternatives. He can see you curling in on yourself the closer he gets, staring down at your fidgeting hands. 

Poor thing.

Though your reservations weren’t without merit, and he had found your earlier outburst endearing- like a sad, wet puppy snapping at him before recoiling shamefully, he wished you were more receptive to being cared for. This was a step in the right direction, he supposed, as he pulled into a parking spot in front of building eight. Your apartment was on the second floor, so he’d be lucky enough to assist you in bringing your things inside as well. Even if you were embarrassed, he needed to know what type of situation he was dealing with.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say softly, hugging yourself. 

“Well, of course. Wouldn’t do to strand you at my restaurant, now would it?” He keeps his voice soft for you. He unbuckles, opening the door, and you look back up at him in confusion.

“Wait, what are you-?”

He stops, turning to face you and raising a brow. “I’m helping you carry everything up, of course.”

He softens at the look you give him next, eyes widened and head shaking. “N-no, that’s okay, sir! You can just drop me off, you d-don’t need to-”

He tuts in disapproval, a little pearl of guilt welling up when you flinch. He knows you’re afraid of letting him see the conditions of this place, of the judgment you were no doubt used to receiving. But he wanted to see- it made helping easier. “I wouldn’t have let you carry your things to the car, so I’m definitely not letting you do it up a flight of stairs. That textbook of yours is awfully heavy, you know.”

You sputter as he exits the vehicle, and by the time you're done fumbling with your seatbelt, he’s already opening the door for you again. You breath shakily, looking up at him all flustered. “You don’t h-have to…” you try to insist, but he just chuckles, shaking his head.

“I want to,” he asserts, giving you a warm smile. You look like you’re going to say something else, but decide against it, closing your mouth and looking down with a huff. You timidly shuffle out of the car with your one bag. That one has mostly appetizers and desserts, so it’s the lightest. He closes the car door behind you, going to fetch the other bags. Your backpack, the other generously packed bags- one with Millie’s clam chowder, a seafood gumbo, and a hearty chili, while the other had two steaks with a portion of roasted vegetables and potatoes. He also portioned some of that roast he’d seen you eyeing- cut up so it could fit in the container easier, of course. He didn’t pack much seafood outside of the soup- he knew it wouldn’t keep or reheat as well.

He follows you, this time- glancing over your shoulder at him, your sweet face contorted in anxiousness. He idly whistles as he goes, slowing his pace so as not to overtake you. You’re fumbling with your own keys, standing in front of apartment number 404- when the door swings open, and a blurry form shoots forward to throw her arms around your legs. You stumble, instinctively reaching to pat her head with your injured hand- wincing empathetically when you inevitably jolt. The kid looks up with a big, gap-toothed smile, sparkling eyes peeking out from behind her bangs. “MISS HOWELL! EARWIG IS FINALLY HOME!” she shouts, earning an exasperated groan from you.

“Earwig babies are called nymphs, kiddo.” You correct teasingly. “At least pick a bug that actually has grubs, huh?” She pouts, sticking her tongue out and blowing a raspberry at you, before finally noticing Thatch. He smiles, giving the little girl a small wave. The sleeves of her sweater are a couple inches too short- the same as her pants, with mismatched patches sewn over both knees.

“Hey, who are you?” She asks, unwrapping her arms from around you and pointing at him- or rather, up at his hair. “You look like bread.” She states plainly.

“G-grub!” you exclaim, voice rising with your nerves, but Thatch busts up laughing before you can really admonish her- a hearty jovial sound. Children are children, it would take far more than that to upset him. His own family had said much worse.

“My name’s Thatch, kiddo,” he says, crouching down and extending his free hand to her. She narrows her eyes, glaring at his hand for a moment, and then his face. “You must be Grub, yes?” She nods, reaching out to shake his hand. She grips as hard as her little hands can, yanking up and down with a fervor that has him laughing again.

As she does so, an elderly woman appears in the doorway as well- dressed in loose, flowing clothes with her graying hair tied up in a bun. “Thank you for looking after Grub, miss Howell,” you speak softly- a tired, but genuine smile on your face. It’s a sweet look on you, he notes, before turning his attention back to the glaring child. She’s let go of his hand now, opting to cross her arms and attempt a staring contest.

“Oh hush,” chides the old woman. “You know I adore that girl, really- oh dear, what happened to your arm?” She asks, reaching out towards your bandaged wrist before clearly thinking better of it. At these words, Grub’s little brows furrow and she spins around, Thatch all but forgotten.

“What?! Something happened?!” She exclaims, before she sees your wrist and gasps. “Something DID happen!”

“I-it was an accident! N-not a big deal! That’s why Thatch is here- he h-helped me get home!” You sputter, gesturing to where he stands behind Grub.

“Oh, he did, hmm?” This Miss Howell turns to face him, hazy eyes regarding him with warmth. “Well, it’s much appreciated,” she says, shuffling forward to pat him on the arm, smiling widely when he gives her a nod before moving past him. “But this old woman is up past her bedtime, so I’ll be taking my leave.” 

“What! But you’re OLD!” Grub cries, earning a panicked look from you. “You don’t NEED a bedtime!”

The woman laughs, raising a hand to cover her mouth. “I just don’t have the energy that I used to, little one. Appreciate it while you have it, hmm?” Reaching the door just across from yours- 405- she glances over her shoulder and winks. “You lot know where to find me, should you need anything,” she says with a grin, earning an adorable giggle from Grub who waves energetically despite the lack of distance.

“G’night, miss Howell! See you tomorrow for tea and cocoa!” She calls, grinning brightly. As soon as the door closes, it’s like a switch flips and she’s right back to side-eyeing Thatch. You chuckle nervously.

“Sweetie, th-this is my boss at The Galley. He drove me home, and packed us some extra food to bring home. Isn’t that nice?” You prompt through grit teeth, shoulders tensed. Please, he wasn’t so pathetic as to punish you over a little kid running her mouth. That’s what they do, after all!

She glances to you, then back up at Thatch with a suspicious look. “... He’s the food guy? The good food guy?”

“Um, yeah, pretty much!” You confirm, going to rub the back of your neck but wincing at the contact. “So, say thank you, and help bring the bags in, okay?”

Oh no you don’t. Thatch would be seeing your apartment, he would not be loitering at the door with nothing but a glimpse. “Oh, I wouldn’t trouble the little lady with that,” he deflects warmly. “Let me carry the backpack at least- I won’t have you do it and it’s too big for her. Easier to just make one trip, yes?”

You sputter a little bit, brows creased in worry, but as he suspects you don’t want to make a scene out of this. He’s not unsympathetic- your nerves do twist something inside him. But he can’t help you without pushing you out of your comfort zone. “O-okay,” you nod, relenting with a shaky sigh. Grub watches the exchange with a harsh stare. He would… need to find some way to assuage the kid’s fears.

“So what even happened?” The kid asks, throwing an accusatory glance back at Thatch as he follows the two of you inside. But before either he or you can explain, you stop in your tracks. Thatch, who is so tall he had to duck to get through the doorway, can see over your head at the… organized mess that overtakes the living room. 

“Grub… what is all this..?” There’s a small tv across from a threadbare couch, behind which sits a table with four mismatched chairs, as if they’d all been picked out separately. Probably for free on some street corner, he thought. There’s one wall-mounted shelf above the tv, but other than that the only wall decorations are Grub’s artwork- unless you count the plain gray curtains. But none of that is what had caught your attention. Between the couch and the tv, various cardboard packages have been stood upright, organized in neat rows. A little to the left, beneath a cracked windowsill, the same has been done with several old cans. As he walks further, following you to set things down on your table, he sees a similar cluster of jars creeping out from underneath that, too. Some old newspaper has at least been laid underneath each collection.

Grub crosses her little arms. “Boxtown, Cantown and Jartown. Miss Howell helped me make ‘em. But don’t change the subject!” The kid says. You raise both now-free hands in a placating gesture, but roll your eyes. He snorts, setting each to-go bag down at the table, before shucking the thin but sturdy plastic down to pool around the packages inside. He sets your backpack down on a chair, and busies himself with setting out the options while listening to the two of you.

“Okay, okay,” you huff. “Biked through a puddle that hid a nasty pothole. Completely wiped out,” you confess. Ah, so that was it? You were deliberately vague with him. “... Then, uh… the bike got stolen. So even if my wrist wasn’t messed up, I couldn’t have gotten home.” Ah, now you’ll admit it, he thinks, inviting himself into the kitchen to fetch silverware and dishes. And snoop, of course. You shoot him a worried glance when he moves across the cheap linoleum flooring, but it quickly settles into acceptance when he opens up a cupboard.

“The bike? Really? That thing was old and ugly, though,” Grub blurts, earning a snort in response. Thatch smiles to himself, glancing your way, but it falls slightly once he properly takes in the contents. Three ceramic plates, three glass bowls, and a number of pilfered paper and plastic dishes- both from his restaurant, and others you’d no doubt worked at. Not that he was upset with you- it was just yet another thing that hammered home how tough you had it.

“Yeah, that’s basically what I said too,” you say, voice heavy with exasperation. “Anyway. What’s with all this?” You ask, and he looks up even though he knows what you’ll be gesturing to. “Boxtown is looking kinda sad,” you tease, and you’re right- the cardboard is a bit more scuffed than anything else, with wrinkles and torn edges abound. Not shocking- it was the least durable of the three options. Thatch passively takes note of the brands on the cluttered containers within view- generic or knock-off brands, several of those bright, eye-catching clearance stickers.

“Um, they’re having a fine- a fininal- a f-” Grub struggles for a moment. “The economy is really bad there,” she eventually settles on as he fetches a bowl and a plate for each of you. As much as he’d like to sit down and share a meal, he wants as much of this going to your mouths as possible, rather than his own. He has no need for any of it.

You huff with a shake of your head, and he notes that you don’t give him another frightened face when he returns to the kitchen for silverware. “Okay, fair enough,” you say, before crouching down to examine the jars lined up under the table. He opens a drawer, noting the way it sticks as it slides out. The silverware is just as limited, three or four of everything supplemented with plastic utensils and paper-sleeved chopsticks. “What’s going on here, though, Grub?” You call out. “This jar still has tomato sauce left in it!”

“That’s Jartown’s famous murder house! Tourists love it!” She calls jubilantly as Thatch approaches the table once more, bounding over with a big grin. The split second her eyes meet Thatch’s again, she forces the cool, stern glare back onto her little face. He laughs softly, setting out the utensils. This isn’t gonna push him away, the kid is absolutely adorable. It warms his heart to see her so suspicious on your behalf. He’d pinch her cheeks, if he thought he could get away with it.

You stand up from where you were squatting, stretching your back. Your shirt rides up, exposing a strip of your stomach, and it’s harder than he’d like to admit to not look directly. Settling with a deep breath, you fix your sister with a sly smile. “Jartown’s famous murder house should’ve been condemned ages ago, kiddo,” you tease. “Clean it up or we’re gonna get ants again.”

The kid groans, slouching exaggeratedly and lurching forward with her arms dangling limply. “Fiiiiiiiiiiine, but only because the ants suck,” she grumbles, dropping to her knees to fetch the offending container, and scurrying past him once she’s got it. 

“Well, look on the bright side,” Thatch finally speaks up again. “There’s plenty of food waiting for you when you get back, hmm? Some might think it’s a bit late to eat, but I say there’s no such thing. Want me to tell you your options, or leave it as a surprise?” The returning Grub actually stops, seeming to think on it- examining all the opaque white containers while her fingers idly fumble with the pilling on her sweater. You’ve turned your attention to her as well, no doubt waiting for her to choose.

“I think…” She pauses for a moment, holding her chin between her thumb and pointer finger. “I… I want a surprise. I wanna find out when I see it.”

“Your house, your rules, kiddo!” He exclaims, and she speeds toward the table, clambering on top of a wobbly chair. She looks at her options. One bag with three tall, plastic containers of soup, one with three sizable white boxes stacked on top of each other, and the final bag with several small boxes containing appetizers. She leans forward, palms firmly planted against the table, before picking the top box from the second bag. Ah- the roast that had you so enamored. Not a bad choice, if he thought so himself. Her little hands struggle with the cardboard clasp for a moment, before finally maneuvering the flimsy hook out of place. The box pops open- the scent of a well-marinated cut flooding the air.

Grub’s eyes go wide as saucers behind the curtain of her bangs. She looks at the tender slices of meat, and then up at Thatch in dumbfounded silence- the previous glares and exaggerated disdain completely absent. Now she looks at him like he’s just given her the cornucopia. His heart clenches at the sight. It hadn’t even taken a day to win the poor kid over, huh?

Then a mischievous little grin curls across her face, and she points up at his hair again. “Do we get that, too?”

“GRUB!” You shout, but he’s already cracking up. The rascal is a delight, and so are you.

[someverygaymoth]

I think I heard this mentioned before while scrolling your blog, so, add on with my own headcanons.

The hate from Killer's eyes gets between his joints. It doesn't necessarily affect him, mostly just annoying, and sometimes if he doesn't move for long periods of time, it builds up and he gets stiff, but he doesn't like it and wears turtlenecks and gloves to hide it.

I think more people need to write magic turning into disabilities in UT and UTMV. People's magic who sparks and burns them, healers who get very tired if they heal people, or the opposite and get sick due to magic buildup if they don't.

Silly.

I hardcore agree! I'm thrice physically disabled (I just really won the lottery guys idk /sarc) so I looove to project that onto my sillies.

I love writing things like Dust's overactive magic from his LV being disabling, causing migranes, causing burns when he doesn't find a way to vent it properly.

Killer's hate blinding him and gunking up his voice and his cervicals, maybe making him lose mobility in his neck and jaw, and his soul making him more susceptible to illness.

Horror's previous malnutrition making his joints very damaged, or his bones more brittle. His head injury causing fine motor skills problems, brain fog, and migranes. He drops stuff all the time, his hands just won't cooperate with him, It's so frustrating for him... SOMEBODY KISS HIM ABOUT IT!!!

XC's determination causing Cross to melt and little sometimes when he's stressed, or causing soul pain or migranes.

Nightmare's corruption holding him together but also leaving his true body unable to heal, putting him in a constant state of severe chronic pain! Love NM using mobility aids.

Error's glitching causing chronic pain and amnesia, his strings causing vision problems.

Geno's general state just being chronic pain and causing him to be extra susceptible to illness, maybe chronically low magic too since he's stuck in a state where he was bleeding it all out.

They're just so silly!!!!