#writing it on the night shift

[batty-pham]

Danny working in retail.

Dead end job.

He always ends up at the nightshift.

Everyone thinks the bags under his eyes are because he can't sleep.

He gets told all the time that he "looks like death" and he always just replies "thanks"

He just sorta stands in the dark corner and customers don't notice him, but they sorta inherently know he's there and avoid him, but he moves and they about shit their pants.

[cryobabyy]

Cooper Adams x Fem!Reader

Part (1/5)

oops my hand slipped and now I'm writing unhinged fanfiction for an M. Night Shyamalan movie.

He was peculiarly clean— too clean to be at a hardware store past midnight. No dirt on his jeans, or janitor's name patch, or construction vest. He smelt like most men— Irish spring, sandalwood, musk, bergamot, etc. In daylight hours, you wouldn't have thought anything about his tight and fawning smile, the gallon of industrial cleaning solution, and the seven yards of vinyl tarp he slides across the counter at the end of the month. He always smiles when he pays. You smile back despite your intuition advising against it. Something about the interaction feels cold. God, you sound like your fucking father.

OR

You work the graveyard shift at a hardware store with extended hours to put you through pre-med. You meet a DILF who is definitely not The Butcher.

Part 1/5

Glib (adjective)

1: Marked by ease and fluency in speaking or writing often to the point of being insincere or deceitful; superficial, smooth, slippery.

Working the graveyard shift at an extended-hour hardware store wasn't your first choice, but the pay was decent, and it was the only option that wouldn't clash with your med school classes. It wasn't so bad after pounding 2 iced coffees and a shot of espresso. Customers were few and far between— mostly construction workers, hotel maintenance guys, and the occasional emergency plumber looking for the perfect thingamajig to help undo the 1 am explosion of some poor soul's toilet. It was quiet enough to study; you only had to sit there and ring up the same crowd of blue-collar night owls until 3 am. 

And then there was him.

The odd one out.

A handsome man, 40's, tall, neat looking, dark brown eyes, with a picture of his kids in his wallet. He was friendly. Aggressively friendly. If he was your neighbor, you would tell your friends about the 6'3 Dilf with 90's heartthrob hair next door. The type to smile and wave if you catch him mowing the lawn when you grab the morning mail.

He was peculiarly clean— too clean to be at a hardware store past midnight. No dirt on his jeans, or janitor's name patch, or construction vest. He smelt like most men— Irish spring, sandalwood, musk, bergamot, etc. In daylight hours, you wouldn't have thought anything about his tight and fawning smile, the gallon of industrial cleaning solution, and the seven yards of vinyl tarp he slides across the counter at the end of the month. He always smiles when he pays. You smile back despite your intuition advising against it. Something about the interaction feels cold. God, you sound like your fucking father.

There's a voice in the back of your head that sounds just like him, declaring the stranger to be a 'white picket fence bastard' and a 'smarmy wasp motherfucker’ in his thick Philly accent. If he were still alive, he would tell you to watch out for him– that he was a deep state operative, a gang member, a lizard person, and other paranoid schizophrenic-fueled delusions. Toward the end, when he blocked out the windows with newspaper and craft glue, and covered all the carbon monoxide detectors with tin foil and duct tape, he insisted you should be afraid of everyone. You were only afraid of him. 

Sure, you held your keys between your knuckles when you walked to your car after night classes, and covered your laptop webcam with a sticky note, but you weren't your father.

No one was following you. No one was watching you. No one was preying on you. And the middle-aged man with a picture of his freckle-faced, blonde, blue-eyed children in his wallet was not a serial killer. 

He even told you himself.

"Hell of a lineup, am I right?" He quips, offering a sheepish laugh. "I mean... a staple gun, drain cleaner, and tarp. I won't blame 'ya if you call the cops, but I promise it's not what it looks like."

You look up from the register to find a warm smile and upturned eyebrows– an almost embarrassed expression. An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, the only sound between you two being a 24-hour soft rock radio station crackling through the ancient speakers. The stranger sighs, seemingly aware of his social misstep.

"My wife- I'm building her a Gardening shed. I'm putting up the insulation and drywall this week. And the Drano is for my kitchen sink. Keeps getting clogged. My son is fascinated by the garbage disposal for some odd reason. I don't even want to know what kind of shit he's been pouring down there." He rambles awkwardly. Guilt twists your heartstrings at the mention of the stranger's family. You may have inherited your father's suspicion, but you wouldn't let it control you.

"I've seen weirder." You lie with a smile. The stranger chuckles, broad shoulders relaxing a bit.

"Really? I could always go back and grab some bleach, duct tape, rubber gloves, the works." 

You can't help but laugh at his corny effort to diffuse the tension. It's surprisingly effective.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out, sweetheart. I'm sure you meet some weirdos working a night shift like this."

"Not really. Just you…" You trail off, squinting to read the embroidered name on his windbreaker. You notice the emblem right above it– Ardmore Fire Department. He's a firefighter.

"Cooper Adams. " He holds out a hand for you to shake. Your father's paranoia creeps into your mind. You freeze, meeting his dark brown gaze. Dad's gruff voice echoes in your head.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

He's plotting something.

Smarmy wasp motherfucker.

White picket fence bastard.

You swallow hard, shake his hand, smile back, and tell him your name– but only your first. You're not your father, but you're not a fucking idiot either.

"See? We're not strangers anymore. "  

"I guess not."

Cooper carts out his selection of items and waves goodbye, receipt caught between his two index fingers.

"Nice meeting you, sweetheart. Oh, and tell them to hire another cashier! You shouldn't be by yourself this late. God knows what kind of trouble is lurking around. Stay Safe!" He smiles again, his voice coated with the candor of a concerned neighbor. This time it reaches the glint of his eyes.

AO3

NEXT CHAPTER

[merrill-mcmerlin]

I agree with you that it simply might not have been thought through by the writers, but I think you could construct a watstonian reason. I just thought it might be a neat worldbuilding thought experiment.

The first part is that it used to be a very rare technique that very little people could learn. But two things changed.

1. Iroh developed the technique of rerouting lightning. This would make teaching lightning probably a good chunk saver for bystanders and teachers.

2. Up to this point, people had very little incentive to learn it. For most people learning it would not be worth the great risk until they had a real use for it. For the royal family and other high ranking benders it the prestigewas worth it, but for most people it's not. Now it's a sellable skill.

For the second part, yes you are right that it seems like a incredibly unsafe way to generate energy. But it could also be cheaper than the rest. And a city that just leaves orphans on the street might not be very concerned about worker safety.

Fire benders are possibly cheaper than earth and water benders. Partly because because those two are applicable to more different works that are better paying. And secondly because of discrimination after the 100 year war against fire benders.

For fire benders tending a fire from different fuel, why spend money on fuel when you can just endanger your employees for cheaper.

not to complain about a great and now kinda old show, but in Avatar: The Legend of Korra they have a scene showing lighting bending being used for power generation and like sure that's a very cool thing to see and it really sells that people in A:tLoK have electricity, it's also really really dumb

firstly and probably most importantly, it kinda undercuts the idea in AtLA that lighting bending is a master technique, only really usable by the most accomplished fire-benders

but also like, they clearly understand electricity, they have all sorts of funky tech, but like there has got to be an easier way to generate the stuff, lighting is going to be all sorts of highly variable, couldn't they have just like a standard generator, big spinny thing, big magnets

if you've got to have benders working in the power plant, have earth-benders working in teams actively spinning the turbine, or water-benders using their bending to generate big water currents to do the same

if it really needs to be fire-benders, have them actively managing the fires in a standard usual burn stuff to (heat water and) generate steam to push the turbine kinda generator

[livlaughloveluke]

its been a while but im brewing a luke fic up so be excited

i’m about halfway through but it is indeed super long soooo

little preview!!

comment if u wanna be tagged

EDIT- P.1 OUT NOW!!

[barnesafterglow]

night shift

summary: your growing fame becomes too much for bucky

pairing: actor!bucky barnes x singer!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: fame au, dual pov, unreliable narrators, idk how the grammys work (clearly), angst angst angst, steve is a good friend, bucky is Going Thru It, if you think this is joe + taylor coded you're prob right, directly inspired by night shift by lucy dacus

a/n: yearly fic, dedicated to new lovers

masterlist - i no longer have a tag list but you can follow @theafterglowlibrary to get updates! 🤍

You shoved him off of you, heart racing, breaths coming fast. You had said Bucky’s name, had whispered it in your most intimate moment, and now you needed to leave.

You said nothing else, gathering up your clothes and pulling them on as quickly as you could.

“Wha-”

The door slammed behind you, cold winter winds whipping around you as you realized you’d left your jacket on the hook by the door. It was your favorite, but one you were okay sacrificing as long as you didn’t have to face your embarrassment anymore.

Huffing a breath you could see in front of your face, you called an Uber - at least you had remembered your phone - and paced anxiously a block away from his building, hoping and praying he wouldn’t follow you out.

The entire ride home your mind spiraled until you turned off your phone, terrified this would make headlines already and, let’s be honest, no one would be surprised if it did. You hated that was the life you lived. As if your breakup with Bucky hadn’t already been tabloid fodder for weeks now, the public speculating every detail and warping every comment and photo posted. You had taken to keeping off social media altogether in the time since, trying to disguise your outings as much as possible and take back alleys to recordings and friends’ houses.

Your biggest supporter through all of this, surprisingly, had been Steve - Bucky’s best friend. He hadn’t been your friend first, sure, but he had become like a brother to you nonetheless, and he knew the situation better than anyone. You knew he still talked to Bucky just the same and, while that stung a little, you couldn’t fault him for being there for his childhood best friend too.

Which is how you ended up outside his apartment the very next morning, clad in your typical-as-of-late attire of a hoodie and a hat and sunglasses. It was also how you came face to face with Bucky for the first time since that fateful night.

“I didn’t come to sit here and watch you stare at your feet, James.” You stood from his couch, starting to seethe with pent up anger from your gradually failing relationship, all to end up here. What did he want? To absolve his guilt and shake hands and everything would be fine?

No. You had been the victim of his petty remarks and anxious jealousy for so long. You wouldn’t let him think he deserved your time when he didn’t respect the person you had become. 

Your anger flashed back to the week before, the last time you had been seen out in public together as he was breaking up with you at your favorite coffee shop, where he had paid for your drink and you gave him a hesitant kiss, even though you knew it was inevitably coming. He had led you to a table in the corner and proceeded to tell you that he was sorry but he couldn’t do this anymore, it was too much for him - you were too much for him. Okay. That’s all you said was “okay” before you pushed out of the chair and walked around the city until the sun went down.

By the time you got home that night, the headlines were already speculating your breakup, though neither of you had yet to shed a single tear.

-

Bucky blinked as you shuffled on Steve’s doorstep, eyes wide and contemplating the quickest escape. He didn’t blame you.

He had admittedly not handled your breakup the best; in fact, he regretted it almost immediately at the stricken look on your face, clearly not expecting it. He didn’t blame you for that, either, seeing as it had slipped out in a moment of panic.

You had gained a lot of fame over the course of your relationship, even more than him, and he didn’t quite know how to cope with it. And so the words had poured out, unable to be taken back, and here you were, weeks later, still at odds.

He thought every night of how to make it up to you. Public displays weren’t your thing and you had blocked his number the night of your big fight, so that was out of the question, and he didn’t fancy showing up to your house only to have the door slammed in his face either.

But now, now maybe that you were here on the most neutral ground you could stand on, maybe he could keep his foot out of his mouth and apologize. Words stirred in his hindsight, unable to string together a coherent sentence as your face morphed through the stages of grief in record time. Then, just as he was about to speak, Steve placed a hand on his shoulder and gently guided him back into the house. Relief flooded your face as you drifted out of his sight, and he realized this probably wasn’t going to be as easy to take back as he thought.

“Buck,” Steve said as the two of them turned around the corner. “You need to leave.”

Bucky felt his face do something awful, a mixture of confusion and guilt, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. He simply nodded and kept his head down as he shrugged on his jacket and passed by you in the doorway.

He could hear the soft sound of your sobs as the front door clicked shut.

-

Songwriting could be as easy as breathing and as hard as climbing a mountain. Right now, the words flooded out of you like a tap of water.

And so did the tears, staining your notebook paper and smearing ink, but still in your heart you knew you would never forget these lyrics - these words that so painstakingly came from your soul and laid it bare.

As you finished the last verse, you took a deep breath, sucked up the tears, and called Natasha. 

-

“Steve, I need to talk to her,” Bucky whined over a beer in a rundown bar in Brooklyn.

“No, you don’t.”

“I can fix it, I know I can.”

“I don’t think you can, Buck.” Steve ran a hand through his hair, a deep sigh leaving his lips. “She’s trying to move on. Don’t ruin that for her.”

“But-”

“No.”

Bucky mimicked Steve’s sigh and leaned back in his chair. It had been increasingly hard to justify his decision to end things with you. He didn’t know what he was thinking and he regretted every moment of it since then. 

“Do you think she misses me?” Bucky looked so hopeful, but he could see the sorrow in Steve’s eyes.

“I don’t know.”

-

The Grammys, the fucking Grammys, and you were performing. You were nominated for a couple, and the Academy had asked you to sing - preferably a new song - in honor of that.

Natasha wrapped you in a hug, twirled you around, and announced you were going out to celebrate. You hesitantly said yes, knowing the press would be everywhere and there was always the possibility of seeing Bucky.

But fuck him. This was your moment.

Which is how you ended up at your favorite dive bar in Brooklyn. Your first mistake.

It was your favorite because Bucky had taken you there so many times. But you couldn’t think of another place you would celebrate than the place where so much inspiration and so many lyrics had come from.

You didn’t scan the room as you walked in with your hand clutching Nat’s, the rest of your small circle of friends following close behind. Your second mistake.

Walking straight to the bar, you didn’t notice Bucky in the far corner, watching your every move. It wasn’t until you were a few drinks in, feeling the celebration kick in, that you spotted him.

At first, you intended to ignore him. This was your time, your night, your moment. He didn’t get the spoil that.

That is, until you went to the bathroom and he trailed you into the dimly lit hallway.

“Baby,” he whispered, his voice a harsh rasp of beer and no sleep. “I’ve missed you.”

Your heart stopped beating in your chest.

You weren’t prepared to see him tonight, not that you ever were these days. But tonight of all nights, the one that should have been carefree and fun and a glittery memory for years to come, was smeared with anger and heartbreak as you spun to face him.

“What the fuck,” you snapped as his fingers grazed your bare arm. Immediately you felt bad, seeing the hurt on his face, and your expression softened. “Sorry.”

“I-it’s okay.” The catch in his voice broke your heart, your own watery eyes matching his. For just a moment.

It took you too long to come to your senses - this was the man who had shattered your heart without a second thought - but he was already so close to you. His body only inches from your own, his hot breath fanning your face, and goddamnit you missed him. You missed him so much that your heart broke all over again.

Your mind cycled through a thousand different thoughts all at once: get away, come closer, touch me, keep your hands off. You couldn’t decide what you wanted in the moment.

You were so, so angry, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out to him. His hands settled on your waist as the lights overhead flickered. Your hand pressed gently to his cheek, completely of its own volition. Suddenly, you were tracing the planes of the face you had once known so well. He looked older now, like your time apart had aged him, yet his was still as handsome as the day you had first laid eyes on him.

His eyes locked with yours, and neither of you said a word - not him to ask, not you to stop him - as he leaned in to kiss you.

-

It should have felt like a victory - it did feel like a victory - but there was something else there. Something dark and twisted and Bucky couldn’t figure out if it was coming from you or him.

The kiss could have lasted moments or a lifetime, he didn’t really know. All he knew was one second you were holding him close to you and the next you were shoving him off.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” your voice came out in a whisper, like you didn’t want to draw attention from the steadily growing crowd of the bar. He supposed you didn’t.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” You nodded at his words, your fingers pressed to your lips like you could still feel him there. “I’ll just go.”

You nodded again, your eyes vacant, and he made his way back to the main room of the bar. He looked back in time to see you slump against the wall, and he knew that you were thinking of a way to erase any trace of him on you.

-

The stage lights came on, you strummed your guitar and started to sing.

The first time I tasted somebody else’s spit, I had a coughing fit.

You let the lyrics you poured your heart into spill out across the stage. Still, somehow - in the crowd of hundreds of faces - you spotted Bucky.

This time, it didn’t make your heart clench. Didn’t make you shed a tear or run away.

No. This time, it empowered you. Let him hear the lyrics he inspired. Let him feel that pain of your words and feel the hole in your heart where he had broken it. Where you were now healing.

-

Bucky watched as you sang, and you were mesmerizing. He could feel the echoes of hurt in your words, the hole in your heart he had put there. He knew, despite the last time he saw you, that there was no making up. There was no fixing what was well beyond broken. No chance for him.

In five years I hope the songs feel like covers,

Dedicated to new lovers.

[wra-1-th]

the reason netflix cancelled dead boy detectives is because they're working on a show called alive girl agents btw

[ender1821]

and I’ll never see you again if I can help it

Posted on ao3: read here!

In which Gem tries to sort through the past and the present.

…unfortunately, Pearl is always there.

[thegnomelord]

Hey dudes, what are the chances I'll get a fairy Himbo husband if I step into the circle?

[celestie0]

need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au need to write a hospital au

[bartonbones]

i want to say it louder than in the tags but the way the poison scene is like. yes inej's deepest desire is to be known and to be trusted and to know and to trust and to be disarmed and to disarm someone else and most of all for someone to ask permission and wait for her to grant it, and that she wants that person to be kaz, but she knows it's a dream because she knows kaz isn't ready to do that yet, and even if she's dreaming, even if it's in her own head, she refuses to force him...she'll wait for him, she'll wait for him for longer than she should but she's not going to force him, ever, even in her own dreams, because she knows what that feels like--so she wakes up, she fights it, i love that she's the only one who is able to do that, the only one who has mastered herself enough to recognize when a dream is a dream who has the agency and the strength and desire to live for herself and make her own choices and take her own power even when there is no one there to take it from...

and then for her to know that kaz is going to have to be touched against his will, and to know that she's the one who has to do it, and the fact that it's true, that she's the only one kaz would let pull him out of that--because at the end of the day all this self-mastery and agency and power that kaz brekker forces himself to believe that he has pales in comparison to the woman who has been through unimaginable violations and yet reclaims her own body and her own physicality, even though it has been every bit as hard for her as it had ever been for him, becuase at the end of the day inej is the only person he trusts understands that in himself, that weakness that sits just beneath the surface, and the only person who understands how to protect it, who might, even, one day, understand how to heal it...

the fact that for a few seconds, in-between the past and the present, in-between life and death, kaz brekker feels someone touching him and is relieved when he sees that it's her. for a few seconds that trust and that love and that understanding breaks through the panic and she holds him, just for a second, and for a just second kaz brekker remembers that touch can be a comfort, can be a respite, can be something that reminds you there is something outside of your fear rather than being the epicenter of it...

and then it's gone. it's gone and he panics and it's too much and he stands up and he doesn't look at her and he lies about what he saw, becuase it's always going to be two steps forward one step back with these two, but that moment was there, and it existed, and for maybe the first time he really can connect this idea, that there is a future for him and touch, just like there was a future for inej, and that there could be a future for them both, and does he want that? does he? he wants--he wants-- etc. etc. and so forth i'm going insane

[coworkerjonathan]

You seem fun, best of luck in your daily endeavors, internet stranger

Terrifying message.

[lunalikestowriteanddraw]

Me whenever I’m at work and can’t write at that moment: I must write RIGHT NOW. If I don’t write I will DIE

Me, when I’m at home and can write: what are words

[becca-e-barnes]

heyy!! can you do a dbf bucky caught masturbating? only if u wanna obv~!

No honestly bc the thought of a man masturbating is way too hot, it makes me so weak 🥵

I've probably talked about this before but it's delightful to imagine him staying over in the guest room of your house for a while and when he thinks the house is empty, he's taking some time for ✨self care✨, not knowing that you're still home.

I always imagine he's so vocal too so when he thinks he can be as loud as he wants, he doesn't hold back.

He's surprised at how badly he needs this, taking his time at first with just a few leisurely strokes. He's rock hard in no time, his hand wrapped around his own length, doing everything he can not to think about you.

Fuck, it would be so wrong to think about you. He knows it would. It's wrong to think about kissing up your bare legs or sucking bruises over your collarbones. It's wrong to imagine how you'd look on your knees for him, begging him to finish on your face.

No matter what he does, that's all his brain wants to come back to. He can almost hear how sweet your little moans would be when he rubs your clit.

You'd be such a good girl for him. He knows that and he loves it.

There's no harm in letting himself give in a little. As he gets hornier, precum drips from his tip and he's only focused on imagining how gorgeous you'd look beneath him, lost in pleasure the way he is.

He hadn't even considered that you might still be home. As far as he knew, you were planning to go out with your parents so he was safe to groan your name the way he wanted to.

Heat pools between your legs at the sight of him on the bed in front of you. The guest room door hadn't been pulled shut completely and when curiosity got the better of you, you were beyond surprised to see Bucky laid out on the bed, stroking his own cock and whining your name.

"Such a good fucking girl for me." His voice was loud enough that you could hear every word.

His hand moved faster, soft breathy moans tumbling from his lips and hanging in the air.

Your panties were soaked. Rational thought had all but left you. Pure need buzzed in the pit of your stomach and there was no doubt in your mind that you'd summon this image of Bucky every single time you felt like touching yourself for at least the next 3 months.

The decision seemed to come naturally to you and before you'd really thought about it, you'd pressed the door open and stepped inside, settling on the end of the bed.

Bucky sounded startled. Understandably. His cheeks were flushed, desperately trying to cover himself and make apologies at the same time.

"Bucky, please." You almost sounded timid while you prized the blanket from his grasp. "Can I taste you?"

He swore he had to be dreaming. This couldn't be real. You weren't actually asking that right after he'd spent so long imagining it. Is this how manifesting works?

"Are you sure?" He asked, not missing the way his dick throbbed when you nodded enthusiastically.

Bucky pulled the blanket back, grasping his dick again, stroking slowly. He swore he'd never forget the sight of your tongue pressed to the tip of his cock, looking up at him before you swirled your tongue around the head, gathering as much precum as you could.

"Oh fuck, that's it. Such a good girl for me, holy shit." He's lost in the feeling and he couldn't tear his eyes away from you, even if he wanted to.

Your lips wrap around his tip, sucking gently while he continues to stroke himself and he swears he's going to lose it. You hum your approval at a fresh bead of precum gathering over his tip but it's not there very long before you've licked that up too.

He forces himself not to imagine how pretty you'd look with your tongue or your face painted with his cum because if he does, this is over. He's determined to make that a reality but not just yet.

[jelzorz]

194.

So much of it happens in a blur. Opeli only remembers bits and pieces of how it started to begin with before the softer parts of her brain shut down to let her do what she needed to do. She remembers an explosion, the air filled with fire and smoke, a crumbling tower and Soren beside her, ushering her towards the nearest exit, his words in her ear—stay low, keep going, go, go, go—and then there was light, and screaming, and chaos, and the rest had simply happened, because there was no time to think about it and too many people to save. There were the guards, the civilians, the dragon circling in the air; the order to evacuate and then Soren leaving her in the stairwell with Hat trembling in her palm; more fire, more smoke, a spell? And now—

The magic that protected them from the fires is starting to wear off now. Most people look like themselves again which is a relief, but it gives Opeli a chance to survey the survivors better too. Raids and wars and attacks are brutal and terrifying in the moment, but the aftermath is almost always worse—and this is the worst is has ever been. The injuries look worse on flesh and blood; broken limbs and crushed legs and burns are so much more visceral now that she can see them, now that they're able to set them and bind them and dress them with gauze. Doctors are in short supply out here, so she and the other clerics have been helping with first aid as much as they can. It's not enough. There are still people who will not see the morning. There will be more rites to give before the sun sets again.

This is why she seeks Soren out, she thinks. He's seen it all. He knows how blood looks on his hands. He knows how to handle all this.

She finds him helping to settle a couple of kids. They are fine, thank the Five Sisters, and their parents are fine, just scared and a little hungry, and he is offering them his rations when she gets to him. They hurry away as she approaches, their smiles shy but grateful, but when Soren gets up, he looks just as wary as she.

"That was very kind," she says quietly.

He shrugs. "They need it more than me. Is everything okay?"

"They could be better." Opeli presses her lips together as she studies him, swallowing the emotion that rises when she remembers he is injured too. The gash on his forehead has dried, matting the hair just above his brow, and she almost can't tell if the marks on his face are made of bruises or soot.

She is so tired of blood. So sick of how red it is, how sticky it feels on her fingers. She likes it even less on him.

“You need that looked at,” she says at last, nodding at his forehead.

He waves her off. “It’s just a scratch. The other clerics have their hands full. I’ll be fine.”

Opeli sets her jaw. “My hands are free. I’ll take care of it.”

“Opeli, seriously, it’s okay—”

“I owe you.” It slips out before she means it to. She knows he doesn't want to feel like his bravery has to be repaid. It's his job to protect his people, just as it is hers—but she thinks of the window in the tower, the dragon in the sky, the glow of an inferno and of the heat of dragonfire as it blew the glass inward, right where she would have been standing if he hadn't—

"You don't owe me anything."

"You saved my life," she points out. Twice today, she thinks, when he tackled her out of the way of Sol Regem's attack, and then she was in the crowd by the bridge, trapped by the fires after he left her with Hat to speak to his father. There was a third time too, when Viren crowned himself King and would have branded her and Corvus traitors to the realm. "Let me stitch you up. It's the least I can do."

"Opeli—"

"Soren." She gives him a look, stern, unyielding, the same kind she uses at meetings when someone won't agree to doing something reasonable. "I wouldn't be here to offer if it wasn't for you. Let me help."

He chuckles, then relents. "Fine," he mumbles after a moment. "Let's get it over with."

x

They find a quieter spot, a little away from the crowd but still close enough to keep watch over them in case something else happens. Opeli picks up a first aid kit from one of the younger clerics as they pass, one whose hands are shaking with the shock and exhaustion of treating so many wounded. She is not the only one: Opeli has already ordered two others to go to bed and leave their kits with soldiers or civilian volunteers. One of the guards threw up when Opeli reset someone's dislocated shoulder. Another had her head in her hands and jumped at every sudden noise.

The cracks are starting to show in everyone, and it's not just because of the trauma caused by a dragon attacking the castle. They are all simply exhausted, and the work does not seem to stop. The soldiers keep watch in shifts but then have to assist the civilians with tents, with food, with moving the injured and the dead.

But Soren is steady. His resolve keeps her hands from shaking, even as he winces while she drags thread through his skin. The stitches are not as neat as they would have been this morning, but the gash is clean and closed, and he's not bleeding anymore.

Opeli clicks her tongue at her work, wishing it was better, wishing she could do more, but he catches her hand as she frets over it, the warmth of his fingers like an anchor to this, to now.

"You don't owe me," he says again.

"I owe you three times over," she says. "Three times now, I—"

"You don't," he insists. "It's my job."

"It's your job to keep Ezran safe. Keeping me alive is certainly not—"

"Do not finish that sentence."

"I only—"

"Opeli." His fingers tighten. Opeli's breath catches in her throat. "It's my job to protect my friends," he says. "My family. I've lost enough. Don't act like I can afford to lose more."

There's a pause. Opeli looks away, and then, to her horror, she starts to cry.

Soren stares at her but his grip is firm, even as she hiccoughs and hides her tears in the recesses of her hood. It's all so much. Too much. The smoke and the fire and loss of life; the windows exploding inwards, the wound on his forehead, the castle crumbling to the ground. And now this too? "Thank you," she murmurs.

"Opeli, come on, you don't even owe me that."

"Not for that. For—" Opeli sniffles. "For considering me your friend. I'm honoured."

He almost laughs at her, his fingers tightening that little bit more, a man clinging to what little he has left. "You're pretty well family now," he says quietly. "Don't thank me," he says again. "Just don't die or leave or whatever else. I don't think I can—" He swallows. "Just stick around and we'll call it even. Okay?"

Opeli twitches her lips despite herself. "I can do my best."

[let-me-cry-in-peace-guys]

GOJO SATORU WAS A TEEN FATHER. A F A T H E R. a DAD to megumi and NOTHING you can say will change my mind!!!!

just imagine teen satoru and tiny megumi holding hands, the sun setting behind them, and they're walking HOME. to THEIR home. cause they LIVE together and EAT together and COMFORT each other and i-

AND TSUMIKI!!!! TSUMIKI IS CANON YALL GOJO IS A #GIRLDAD FRFR

and-and i bet he like lets her braid his HAIR and try on his GLASSES and put lil pink STICKERS on his FACE AND UGYCRHBNDPIUJ

[kurithedweeb]

“You have to deal with it eventually.” Travis flipped the knife around and held it out to Laurance, hilt-first. “In my experience, it’s better to take the edge off than let it simmer up until it boils you alive.”

Laurance stared at the knife. He had a strange look on his face, one Travis couldn’t read. It was usually easier to read Laurance than most other people, he was usually a very expressive man, but this expression was a small one. One where all the nuance was bunched in the low angle of his brows and the slight part of his lips. 

His eyes were on the sharp edge of the blade, where it pressed against the bare skin of Travis’s forearm. He did not take the knife. There was a tremble in Laurance’s fingers as they dragged through the sand, closing into a fist.

Travis stabbed the knife into the sand between them. Sunlight bounced off the blade, painting each of their hands in slivers of shining color.

He looked back out over the water. He said, “For when you need it most.”

For a long time, neither of them said a word. Travis watched the water ebb and flow. It splashed against the sole of Laurance’s boot. Warlock Valkrum grinned up at Travis from his reflection, twisting away as the waves receded.

Laurance took the knife with him when he left.