#honey for wounds

[stevebabey]

not if it’s you.

word count: 7k summary: After the events at Starcourt Mall, you have a hard time convincing Steve that he’s allowed to be not okay. You want to take care of him. And if you harbour some more-than-friends feelings at the same time? Well, that’s nobody’s business but yours. [angst + hurt/comfort + friends to lovers]

You’re bone-deep tired.

The red and blue lights of the ambulance feel branded onto the inside of your eyelids, there even when your tired eyes slide shut. The cool metal on the ambulance door soothes your forehead and for a moment, head tilted against it, you could honestly just sleep even with all the noise.

It’s been a hell of a night.

You blink. You need to keep yourself awake, you’re not home yet. Gazing blankly across the crowded parking lot, reporters and townspeople milling between the yellow police tape, you can feel your brain begin to try to grapple with all the events of the night.

It’s like some warped horror flick of memories, parts of the film blacked out that you can’t quite recall. The elevator, the Russians, and some god-awful melted monster of people — even in your mind the image makes you shudder.

The longer you think about it, the more it feels like the stress is fusing with your bones, attaching itself to every cell in your body. It makes you shake, a forceful twitch of your head to put all the thoughts to rest.

Process it later. Make sure you can stay stitched together physically tonight. You must look a tad loony from the outside, twitching and shaking, but considering your night it’s more than warranted.

The gash on your arm is the worst of your injuries. A jagged stretch of torn skin that was gifted by one of the Russian soldiers who had hoped it would loosen your tongue. And when that didn’t work, the pliers nearly had — you would’ve told them anything when they took them out and lined it up with one of your fingernails.

But Steve then had done something stupid — kicked to get a guard’s attention since his yelling obviously hadn’t made a difference, let one of them lean down real close, and then headbutted him with all his might.

Relief had shocked your system, some broken cry as you slumped over when the pliers moved away. Fingers saved, if only briefly.

It had all turned to dread when they had lugged him out of his chair, preparing for round two of questioning. You had felt it then, a twisted gurgle of emotion lurched up your throat — violent enough it might have made you sick if you had managed to open your mouth. You hadn’t. There was a chance you would’ve said something worse, some jumble of feelings that wouldn’t have helped.

So, you had bit your tongue. Tasted blood and pretended that closing your eyes meant you couldn’t hear Steve pleading in the room over.

He hasn’t said much since the two of you had been sat in the back of the ambulance, gloved hands of the paramedics roaming over skin to find and treat injuries. There’s just one guy left now, still hovering around Steve with a flashlight and treating him with much less care than you’d like.

Steve looks as tired as you feel and when he can’t focus enough to look ahead, the paramedic prods his cheek unkindly. Steve winces.

“Hey,” you snip, cutting into the interaction. “Are you done? Can we go home?”

The paramedic turns the flashlight on you, blinding you for a moment. It confirms your asshole hypothesis of his character and you cringe at the brightness. It’s gone in the next moment, finally clicked off. He observes you both for another moment before an annoyed drawl comes out.

“Yeah, scram. But first you,” He jabs a finger at Steve who blinks but doesn’t react. “Lots of rest. No big brain work, no alcohol, and don’t run any marathons or anything.”

Steve nods, then grimaces at the pain the movement causes. You can’t help the wrinkle in your brow as you watch - you startle a bit when the paramedic turns his pointed finger on you.

“And you. His pupils are still dilated so keep an eye for seizure symptoms. Wake him every couple of hours and get a CT scan tomorrow.”

Some part of you is perturbed that he’s put you in charge of taking care of Steve. Another part gleans and blushes because you’d accepted the task the moment he’d asked, without question.

“Tomorrow?” You ask hotly, at the same time Steve says, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

The paramedic shakes his head, tsking as if you’re bothersome school-children not patients, and steps back with his hands raised. “Figure it out, I don’t care. I’ve got a dozen other people to check over.”

He winds around the door of the ambulance and leaves the both of you alone. A cool wind skirts through the parking lot, ruffling your hair. A sigh wrestles out your chest, a pathetic attempt to alleviate the tightness in your chest.

You don’t think you’ve ever hated the colours blue and red more than right now. The blazing colours atop police cars that flood the parking lot, the colours of Steve’s Scoops uniform, the colour of blood seeping into your pale blue shirt.

If you squint, you can see your own car parked alongside Steve’s in the distance — it feels like a lifetime ago when you had driven in and parked up. Your keys are lost down, down below you, taken in the interrogation. You stand to shake off that train of thought. 

You turn back and offer your hand out to Steve. After all the blows he’s taken tonight, you desperately want to offer him kindness. Offer him a touch that doesn’t hurt, doesn’t make him flinch or wince. Steve stares at your hand for a long moment, eyes contemplating — and then puts his in yours.

He lets you pull him to his feet.

One of the police cruisers takes you to Loch Nora, Steve and you tucked away in the backseat. His hand is still in yours, barely holding it in his tiredness; when the car rounds a corner though, you can feel his fingers clench tighter so your hand doesn’t slip away.

They detach eventually when the wheels roll up on the curb outside Steve’s house, late in the night. Like the rest of the sleeping houses, the lights are all off. There are no cars in the driveway. The loneliness of it yawns out down the drive, like visible smoke plumes that escape every window.

Steve somehow looks tenser at seeing it; he still forces himself out of the car, bloody sneakers scraping against the gravel. You follow. It aches to move too much, even just shuffling out of the car feels like moving a mountain. The door clips closed quietly behind you. You hear the engine fade back down the road.

Steve is still stuck in place — you have a feeling he’s not looking at the house at all but stuck in thought, looking through the timber and paint and seeing all the horrors of the night. You step up beside him and gingerly reattach your hands.

It seems to surprise him, jumping ever so slightly at the touch and turning to look at you. “I didn’t...”

I didn’t think you’d stay. The sentence dies in his throat, a little embarrassed by how relieved he is that you’ve stayed with him - so much it shows in the quiver in his voice. Steve doesn’t finish it because then you’ll hear the other part of the sentence, even without him saying it. No one stays.

“C’mon,” you urge him to walk with you, beginning to drift up the driveway.

There’s no rush, you’ll wait as long as he needs to before moving, but it’s colder out tonight. Maybe it just feels that way with all your tiredness, the frostiness nipping at your skin. All your energy is focused on staying on your feet, on helping Steve. There’s none left to keep you warm.

He ambles after you like walking is an afterthought and following you is the priority. His sneakers drag, soft scraping noises with every step. You can feel his gaze burning into the back of your head, his fingers squeezing as if he’s checking you’re really still here with him.

The front door is unlocked and it’s only when it snicks shut behind you, do you wonder if you’ve overstepped. It’s awkward, but only a bit. You’ve been in Steve’s house before — though, who hadn’t with all his parties in sophomore year?

But not quite like this. Not just the two of you, and never holding his hand.

The events that had transpired last fall in Hawkins had thrown Steve into your life, along with a dizzying revelation of new dimensions and an unsettling truth about monsters that came right out of your nightmares.

Though, maybe it made more sense to say you were thrown into Steve’s life. You had always known of him - he couldn’t say the same about you.

Like the hoards, freshmen you had not been immune to the boyishly good looks and charismatic nature of Steve Harrington. Once upon a time, before someone called him King Steve and it stuck, there had been a crush.

But like red wine on white linen, with time — and plenty of distance — it had faded.

Not even the adventure that bound you two together, the tunnels that snaked beneath Hawkins and your shaky hands lugging him into the car, had been enough to reignite old affections. Not his insistence on you leaving the tunnels first, not even the way he clutched you when you all made it out. Not unscathed, but alive.

Pitifully, it had been his shoddy attempts at flirting in his ridiculous sailor uniform to kick-start your heart back up.

You had sighed, chin in hand, and leaned into the foolish feelings — because going crazy over a boy felt the most normal thing you could do. And after demodogs and slithering vines kept creeping from the past into your slumbers, normal was all you wanted.

But Steve needed you as a friend, more so considering his fallout with Tommy H and Carol had become permanent. He flirted with customers, every girl you’d recognised from your year, but never you.

It felt a good enough reason to bite your tongue. Keep him close, but never as close as you’d like.

But now you’ve done it again — been pulled along on another adventure that’s brimming with terrors that will take years to forget.

Everything feels worse this time round, a decay that ebbs away your hope. It’s somehow harder to heal from wounds that come from evil, but not the supernatural. It’s all the heavier when the boy who holds your heart made himself a punching bag so you didn’t get hurt. 

The warmth of his hand, squeezing for only a moment, brings you back to the present. To now, still standing in the entryway to Steve’s house. You blink, coming back to yourself, and turn back to him. There’s a crinkle between his brow, and worry washed across his features.

“Are you okay?” He asks it tentatively like he’s afraid to spook you. It sends a rush to your system, a pleasant throb in your chest. You can’t deny you like knowing he worries. That he cares.

“Yeah,” you croak out, nodding as you speak. “Do you— I mean, you don’t mind me staying, do you?” 

Suddenly, the potential embarrassment of inviting yourself in, even with the good intentions of taking care of Steve, is overwhelming. The next words tumble out without thought.

“I just, I don’t want to be alone right now.” It’s a bit hurried, tinged with nervousness. You stammer. “And I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

Something like pure affection blooms in Steve’s chest at your words, the heat of it stealing his breath and pain for just a moment. It’s a different sort of ache in between his ribs, something white-hot and pure.

He hadn’t been able to voice his relief when you’d gotten out of the car and stayed with him — and it fails him now at your admittance.

You don’t want to be alone. You don’t want him to be alone.

Steve doesn’t think he’s deserving of your good will, nor the kindness in every touch. He can’t help how he consumes it greedily, drinks in the touches like he knows it’ll be taken from him soon enough. His eyes stay fixed on you.

There’s something so alluring about your silhouette, the golden street light let in through slits in the door. It halos you, soft amber that softens every curve. You’re enchanting, even when bloodied.

Steve’s not sure his heart has felt like this before — so molten hot, valves working overtime, ribbons of affection tied tight across his chest. He’s sure they’ll leave scorch marks, testimonies to his bleeding heart that pulses with each beat for you, for you, for you.

Because you’re still here and something in his trodden on heart perks up before he remembers to crush it. It’s not that Steve has never thought of you as more — god, the mere thought of you as more to him.

More than a friend, more than this, it’s enough to make his head spin. To make his hands shake and return a nervousness to his system he hasn’t felt since sophomore year when he first laid eyes on Nancy Wheeler.

But you’re not Nancy. In the best way, that makes all the difference,

You were some breath of fresh air, bursting into his life in all the middle of his estranged drawn out break-up with Nancy — brash in all the right ways, kind when he needed, and far too soft to be tangled up in any of this mess.

You’re still too soft for it now, and it shows in the jagged cut torn into the fabric of your skin — it doesn’t matter how it happened, Steve still feels like it’s his fault. It’ll scar, red puckered skin that twists down the expanse of your shoulder. A living reminder of the night burned into you to carry forever.  

It hurts Steve maybe more than he’s warranted to. You’re both just friends.

But when Steve thinks of how he’s accidentally pulled you too close, put you first in the heart, it aches evermore.

He’s not sure when you went from barely a friend to this — you’re a crush, an Achilles heel, the unattainable from the moment he met you, the moment he knew you. Steve feels like he’s been building himself towards you, pushing his growth to aim for anywhere near enough for you. You’ve been too good for him from the start.

It doesn’t stop him from loving you.

Steve realises after a moment that he hasn’t said anything when your fingers start to slip from his. His grip tightens to keep your hand in his.

“No, I— Stay. I...” It’s a struggle to say it, too many years of suppressing any urge to ask for comfort. “I don’t want to be alone, either. Or for you to be. Stay.”

Your lips, chapped and still with a hint of blood, twitch into somewhat a smile. “Okay.”

This time it’s Steve who drags you along, both slowly moving up the stairs. Each step threatens to reopen the scabs that have only just begun to form. It’s like some micro-dose of torture, Steve thinks, hearing your winces behind him.

The fluorescence of the bathroom lights is bright enough to make your eyes fly shut. Steve’s braver, taking only a moment to pause. He ignores how the lights dance, a sickening comparison to his experience with the drugs that had barely left his system. Though it’s the last thing he wants, Steve drops your hand to begin his search.

When your eyes blink open, prepared to face the lights, you’re a bit perplexed to see Steve hunting through the linen cupboard. He produces a towel, white and fluffy.

You cringe internally at the thought of sullying the pale colour with blood but it’s but a blip in tonight’s problems. Besides, the Harrington’s could certainly afford to replace it.

“Here.” Steve murmurs. You both seem to have agreed to keep softly spoken for the night.

He presses the cotton into your hands as he walks, ready to shoulder out and take care of himself. There was an en-suite in his own room — and sure, it would hurt like hell rinsing his wounds but he’d done it last year. Blasted the heat so he was wincing at the burn atop his skin and not the ache underneath it. 

“Steve?” You question, turning and halting his feet. He pauses, confused by the questioning expression on your face. He gestures to the shower, hiding how the movement makes his ribs sting painfully.

“You can shower here and- and the guest room’s all made up.” The words trip a bit on the way out, weakness beginning to weigh on his voice.

Somehow being back home crumbles his walls sooner than he’d like. Tonight has been heavy, a burden that lies thick on his shoulders and creeps down, taking root in his muscles.

But Steve will do what he had done last year; take the punches, burn them off in the heat of the shower — hot enough that he can’t feel any tears — and then deal with it.

“No, s’not that.” You shake your head, a strand of hair coming loose. “I... What about you?”

What about all the blood? The bruises and cuts? You’d seen the scars littered on the skin of his face from Billy, cuts that had healed wrong and left marred skin. Wounds left uncared for, only healed with time.

The question only begs more confusion from Steve. He gestures to somewhere behind him as he says, “There’s another shower, don’t worry.”

He pulls a smile to ease you. It wobbles at the ends of his mouth. Something claws into your heart, a profound heartache at the thought it doesn’t even occur to Steve to take care of himself.

“Steve,” you begin, beginning to get a sense of the wall you’re encountering.

Steve Harrington has some very thick defenses and not without good reason; they’ve got him through some treacherous times. Even now, he uses it like a crutch, a seal to hide away horrid memories. Ignored in favour of temporary strength. 

You don’t need his display of strength — you’re not one of the kids that needs to be shielded from the reality that even Steve has a breaking point — certainly not when his state is far worse than your own.

But you have a feeling he doesn’t know how to switch it off. Steve doesn’t seem to understand what you mean when you say you don’t want him to be alone. 

“Steve, you’re not okay.”

“I’m- I’ve done this before, alright?” He insists, eyes darting between yours, features turning stonier. You can see his defensiveness begin to curl his shoulders in. “I’m alright, I promise.”

“Are you?” You say, not unkind. “Tonight was— Steve, you were tortured.”

The effect of your words is instantaneous. Steve’s face falters, his icy expression dissolving with a shudder he can’t stop. You watch it warp him painfully, jaw clenching and eyes misty; he blinks furiously to clear them. You continue.

“You can’t just- just bounce back from that. Nobody can.” You shake your head as if it proves your point. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve done this before, this— this is a lot for anyone, even—”

“Well then, why are you still here, huh!” His words interrupt your own, tone angrier than you’re expecting. “If this is so much!”

His chest rises and falls quickly, brows draw together like it hurts to breathe so harshly. The words don’t sting, but his tone does. You reel in your hurt and focus past his anger, focus on what it really is.

A final line of defense. A ploy to make you upset or angry, to make you emotional enough to storm out and leave him to lick his wounds alone. Another way to ignore it, compartmentalize what happened instead of facing it head on.

Maybe it’s cruel of you to make him deal with it so soon. But you care, too much to pretend to ignore his pain. 

“Steve.”

“Don’t.” It wobbles, voice weak. His anger has already drained away in a moment.

“You’re not alright,” you insist, voice barely above a whisper. “C’mere.”

You don’t give him a choice, your free hand reaching out to snag his own, which hangs loose at his side.

Steve stumbles forward as you tug him back into the bathroom. Without his anger, he’s pliant and goes without protest. Your gentle fingers on his chest nudge him in the direction of the sink, the cool porcelain pressing through the back of his soiled Scoops top.

“Can you do something for me? Can you...” You bite your already bloody lip, nervousness sketched across your features.

How can you say this without giving too much away? It feels too intimate, like flying too close to the sun, well within the realm of potentially hurting your own feelings. You’ll do it for him gladly. 

“Can you just...let me take care of you?”

It hurts like a sucker punch to the gut. Like a breath has been forced out of his chest, because when was the last time someone has asked him that?

Silence stains the air.

“It won’t be pretty.” He croaks finally, still giving you an easy out. Still prepared to spare you the ugliness of his emotions.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” You respond, lips twitching. You bare your heart and half hope he sees it — sees it and knows he’s loved when you say, “Not if it’s you.”

Another beat of quiet.

“Okay.” Steve breathes, so faintly you barely hear it. Then as if you’ll rescind the offer any moment, he nods fervently.

Your smile is genuine, maybe the first in hours and something in you relaxes. He won’t fight you on this. He may have taken the beating earlier for you but, at the very least, you can do your best to patch him back up — let your hidden feelings translate into a gentleness he so very deserves.

It takes only a quick rummage beneath the sink to find a first-aid kit. It feels wildly underprepared; an afterthought purchase once upon a time that was only ever intended for scraped knees. It hasn’t ever been opened. The tear of the zipper is the only noise in the bathroom, bouncing off the tiles.

As expected, there’s not much in it. It contains a box of plasters in multiple sizes, one roll of gauze, a bottle of antiseptic, and a mixture of other pills and eye drops.

Some loose safety pins rattle around in the bottom as you take inventory. It’s not stellar and you’re no doctor, but it’ll do. It has to do.

When you finally look up, wondering where to begin on his injuries, Steve is regarding you with a look you can’t quite name.

If you were sure of yourself, you might call it awe.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re here, helping him, and it can be awfully easy to mix up feelings when you’re getting stitched up. You don’t let your hopes rise, not even for a moment.

Steve’s blood sings, ears rushing with the sound of it when you step closer. You’re so damn close. Steve can’t ignore the scent that carries with you, his brain involuntarily committing each detail of you that he can get to memory - lest he never gets you this close again.

You want to take care of him; Steve thinks this might be a dream.

Nimble fingers work to gather some cotton with antiseptic and then you’re holding it up, posed, and ready to mend.

“Can you sit up on the counter?” You ask, all sweetness. Steve obliges easily, despite the protests from his sore body that cries out as he shifts up. You smile, then warn, “This might sting.”

It’s overwhelming as you step closer, between his legs, and take the cotton to his face with a gentleness Steve hasn’t felt in years. His eyes close instinctively.

It does sting. The wince leaks out through his clenched teeth, soothed instantly by your soft apologies that pour out like honey.

For a moment, it’s easier this way; with his eyes closed, Steve can pretend this is usual. That when he gets roughed around, there’s someone to tend and clean his wounds — instead of just himself and the harsh rinse of the hot shower.

He tries and fails not to think of last year, his poor attempts to patch himself up. Hands too shaky, touch too rough.

The memory bites. The injuries of tonight somehow feel worse. A tinge of bile taints his mouth and Steve swallows it back down, concentrating on you.

You’re not quite humming but soothing noises, low and soft, come from your throat. Steve’s not even sure you know you’re doing it. His hands clench emptily as his side — the split knuckles make them hurt and when you’re this close, the itch to hold you is near unbearable.

It doesn’t take long for the first cotton pad to turn a violent shade of pink. Steve’s face looks a tad clearer than before but uncovering old blood means finding new wounds.

Your stomach burns pitifully as you take them all in. There are too many to count, a thousand different hues — broken blood vessels that run in all directions, little labyrinths under his skin.

Why does it hurt so much? Even with your bound shoulder that still sends out pain with every motion, it all dulls away when you look at Steve. Lashes fluttering, eyes still closed, marred with wounds you’re begging to ease. You know it hurts so much because you care.

Love is pain, you suppose, with only a twinge of bitterness. It’s swallowed instantly, consumed and disintegrated by the fact you get this. The boy you love, between both palms, trusting you to take care of him.

A year ago, you’d met only the steely exterior he’d put up — and thought it had simply been remnants of King Steve. Maybe Steve Harrington was as much of an asshole as half the town said.

He was all bite, glowers, and clipped answers. With time though, he’d softened like snow melting in the sun; all the parts of him trickling into your life until he was cemented by your side. 

He hadn’t even let you patch him up after the scrap with Billy that had taken him out. You hadn’t felt you could ask.

But this time...your throat grows a bit thicker at the trust that binds the pair of you. Affection rushes your system and forces a sharp inhale from your lungs. You step back.

The space makes it easier to breathe. Dials down the chances of pressing your lips against his skin — if only to give him a mark born of love. Hands searching through the first-aid kit again, you produce some painkillers and locate an arnica pill.

You give yourself one more moment; inhale and withhold the tidal wave of devotion that begs to spill from within you.

“Take these, please.” You say quietly, uncurling one of his fists to press the pills into. He swallows them dry.

You prep more cotton and begin again with the gentle touches, coaxing off dried blood. This time, Steve’s eyes stay open. He watches you, an unreadable emotion in his eyes.

You work away the blood from a cut above his eyebrow and when it’s clean, your thumb follows. You caress along the broken skin as if you could meld it back together with pure will.

Steve’s chest grows tight. Something about you being here, taking care of him makes the night’s memories all too present. Nausea sways in his gut. It’s impossible to shove them to the back, to press them down, when it feels like each cut is being reopened. Cleansed with a douse of love.

You’re altering the history of each wound but to do so, he has to recall how each of them was carved into his skin. It hurts. Why are you still here?

Steve’s head pulls back unexpectedly, eyes shuttering closed in a scrunched expression. You startle a bit.

“Shit, I’m sorry — too harsh?”

He makes a strained noise, effectively gutting you with it. If you weren’t so close — an inch further and you could press your forehead to his — you wouldn’t hear it. Hear the tiny whisper that scratches out the word, “Why?”

“What?” You whisper. You don’t understand.

“Why...Why are you...?” He’s clearly struggling to find the words he wants. His hand reaches up, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose before he drops it again. His chin quivers. It stops your heart for a moment to realise he’s crying.

“I don’t— I don’t understand.” Steve grinds the words out, voice thick. A tear splatters, seeping into the blue of his uniform. He won’t look at you, eyes trained on the loose thread on his shorts.

“Steve?” you murmur, wary and heavy with concern. This is— you don’t know what this is.

“I don’t understand.” He repeats, shaking his head slightly. He seems to choke on the next words. “You’re still here. Why are you...? Everybody...”

He trails off, some whimper of sorts forcing its way out his throat. You’re stuck, absorbing each of his words and putting together the pattern that Steve can’t seem to voice. I don’t understand. You’re still here. Why are you...? Everybody... Everybody leaves. 

Oh.

Rich King Steve who’s got it all. The house, the car, and any girl he fancies, all of them fawning for a look from him at one of his legendary parties.

His lack of parental supervision had been lusted over in high school, furious whispers of envy over the fact he could get away with parties every weekend. That booze went missing and he never seemed to catch any shit for it. It occurs to you now that nobody was around to notice.

The absence in his life is vast and suddenly blindingly obvious — a chasm in his chest that is bleeding all his secrets to you.

Steve Harrington is lonely.

When you surge forward, injuries be damned, and your arms loop around his neck, there’s a moment of stillness. You can feel the tension in his muscles, hear his ragged inhale, and then— he sags into you, finally, finally letting himself lean on someone else.

His arms wind around your middle in a desperate motion, tugging you closer and the fabric of your shirt clenches between his fingers. His face buries in your neck and hot wet tears soak the collar of your shirt. You can hear his raspy noises, soft cries as he clings to you like a lifeline.

“Why did this happen to me?”

It fucking hurts to hear. You don’t know how to tell him there’s no why — that there is no reason that can justify why he’s gone through this much suffering. Just the bitter fact that, sometimes, bad things happen to good people.

“Steve,” you feel like you’re saying his name an awful lot tonight. You say it because you can’t begin to think of how to answer his heartbreaking question. “I—“

“I-I used to think,” The words are muffled into your neck. His grip on you is nearly tight enough to hurt but you don’t dare relent any space. His voice is barely above a whisper, just loud enough to hear. “That- that it was like karma, yanno?”

“Steve, no,” you whisper, horrified. If he hears you, he doesn’t show. 

“B-Because that first time,” He’s stuck on some belittling ramble about himself, continuing between his sniffs. “I definitely deserved it. But then I grew and I changed.”

Something twists painfully in your stomach.

“And then last year, it made sense, yeah? Billy, he was— a real piece of work.” He sniffs again, his voice a little harder at the mention of the deceased.

The tension falls away at the next sentence, voice wobbling through the thickness in his throat. “And I used to be like that, so—“

You pull back instantly, hands shifting back from around his neck. It effectively halts him, and whatever he was saying dies in his throat. Your hands move to cradle his jaw and, as lightly as you can with his injuries, you tug him from his hiding place and stare him in the face.

Steve’s eyes look bigger and browner full of tears. His nose is red, just the tip, and runs messily at the onslaught of tears. Pink splotches bloom underneath his cheeks, patchy and warm, his face etched in complete misery.

It wrecks you to see. More so to think he’s been shouldering all this alone since ‘83.

“People don’t deserve suffering, Steve.” You state it strongly enough that he can’t refute the truth, punctuating with your thumbs on either cheek, pressing light touches.

“You don’t deserve suffering. You never did.” Your voice quivers a bit, some shred of your heart shriveling pathetically at the fact you even need to tell him this. Your hands shake ever-so-slightly. A hot tear streaks down your cheek.

Steve crumbles. You don’t resist when he drops his head down, only move back in— offering a place to hide away again. You let him stay hidden away, a sanctuary in your arms, safe when he’s buried in the curve of your neck.

“And- and just ‘cause,” you say, sniffling a bit now. He holds his breath, a sharp inhale that quietens his whimpering crying. “Just ‘cause no one has stayed before doesn’t mean you don’t deserve this, Steve.”

His fingers press harsher into your back and your feet stumble a bit, pulled off balance. Adjusting your arms, you pull him tighter yet, hoping that the closeness will make all your sentiments seep in. Your shoulder aches terribly; you don’t dare move away.

“You know that, right?” You whisper, unable to stop your fingers from grazing the nape of his neck softly. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

A soft kiss to the side of his head, barely noticeable between his shakes, but it eases the strain on your heart. Time wanes and melts beneath the glow of the bathroom lights, an unending amount of tears that you suspect reach back further than just the memories of tonight.

You stay like this, holding him close. You give him all the time he needs, sweet nothings mumbled until he feels strong enough to face you— to face the world.

Eventually, Steve’s breathing slows, crying turning to trembling gasps. When he finally does retreat, you curse internally because of course, only Steve Harrington can still look devastatingly beautiful after crying.

Tears cling to his lashes, sparkling reflections. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

Silence ebbs. Steve gathers himself, another sniff, and wipes his nose before he lifts his head. You can see in his face the moment he’s about to apologise; the word sorry is about to come tripping out his mouth. You beat him to it.

“I’m sorry to inspire more tears,” Your voice, still quiet, aims for a comforting jest. “But I’m not quite done cleaning you up.”

You twist the cotton between your fingers to show him. Steve blinks, eyes focusing on your hand, perhaps surprised you’re still taking care of him. He forgets about his needless apologies. 

“Though, your tears did a lot of the work.” You say cheekily, a smile teasing at the edges of your lips. It makes him huff a laugh. Steve could nearly cry again; you’re so nice. He thinks about the last time cried, thinks about Tommy’s sneer, his scoffed words that told him toughen up, King Steve.

He lets you wipe them away, clear his face and patch it up as best you can. Any tension from before, the mental barb-wire defenses he had still held up to keep you out, has ebbed away. It’s softer now, easier between you two.

Trust flows from Steve in the form of his allowance, letting you fuss. It flows from you in the form of your touch, which still dances too close for just friends. You let your fingers dot the kisses across his face since you can’t.  

“You’re good at this,” Steve murmurs, breaking the silence. He allows himself the privilege of your touch, his fingers burning where they graze your sides.

Patching people up? Injuries from last year made sure you got decent practice on yourself. You’re decent, you’ll admit.

Maybe he means taking care of him. You’re proving to be very good at that. 

You want to. Somewhere rooted in feelings that sway closer to love, genuine love, is the urge to be the one who does it. The shoulder to cry on, the one who carries his woes when it gets too much — and you want him to do the same for you. Achingly, you want to take care of him; and him, you.

The thought burns so viciously through your chest, you sink your teeth into your bottom lip a bit meanly. It stings.

You don’t notice it, trying to rein in your drifting heart that sings to be closer to him, but Steve does. His fingers twitch; he wants to rescue it, pull it from your harsh grip with his thumb.

He does.

You stop moving.

His thumb is calloused, a bit rough against the supple plumpness of your bottom lip. The blood beneath it tingles, gloriously hot at the attention. Either all the air in the room has been sucked out or you’ve stopped breathing.

You’d hazard a guess it’s the second, given the stillness your body has taken on. Muscles locked, eyes frozen on his face — the only part of you that moves is your heart, thundering pumps going far too fast.

Steve’s gaze stays on his thumb on your lip. You’re desperate to find out what to call the emotion swimming in his eyes.

“Steve?” you say his name yet again, lips moving against his thumb. He blinks like a frog, one eye after the other, and drags his gaze up to your eyes.

His hand shifts, brushing across your mouth to hold the side of your jaw, cupping it sweetly. The cotton falls from your grip as Steve urges you closer with a gentle tug.

Then his eyes are back on your lips and even though it feels like slicing your own heart open to do it, you speak before he can kiss you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, eyes crushing closed.

You want to terribly. The want for his kiss warbles from deep within you, a yawning ache. But it might just finish you off if it’s all heat of the moment — a kiss that is just some twisted thank-you because Steve isn’t used to being taken care of.

You clear your throat, swallowing heavily. “Not— not if it’s just for tonight. Not just because I stayed, please.”

There’s a pause. His shaky exhale breezes across your face. It’s possible your ears might be ringing as if straining to hear the sound of Steve’s heart— dying for a clue to what he’s feeling. You’re not brave enough to open your eyes and read it in his face.

His thumb scrapes across your bottom lip again and then— then, he kisses you, impossibly tender.

The tiny gasp that escapes you is consumed instantly, swallowed up by Steve’s kiss. He kisses gentle, touch so soft that it has you searching for more the moment you’ve got a taste of it.

You barely get a moment to lean into it, to kiss him back before Steve breaks it. He hovers close, close enough that you could steal another taste of his lips if you wanted. You want to— the ferocity of your eagerness sends a shiver along your spine. He speaks before you seize the opportunity.

“I want to.” He says, voice a bit raspy and the words inspire enough bravery to look at him, eyes creasing open. “I- I’ve wanted to for a while.”

You nearly sink in your relief, knees trembling for a moment as your hand comes up to enclose the wrist of the hand that holds your face. Thumb sweeping short strokes, you clutch the tan skin and lean into his caress.

“You mean it?” You whisper, far too excited. Your heart may as well be on your sleeve, cards once played close to your chest now splayed on the table. Your tone reveals all, spilling with hope, even as you ask whether it means the same to him as it does to you.

Yes. The word seems stuck in his throat, suddenly too thick to speak. Because it’s only three letters and that can’t possibly cover what Steve means when he says I’ve wanted to for a while.

That you’d somehow snuck into his life and intertwined among all of his heartstrings, like spun gold mixing until the whole organ felt terribly tangled in a way he’d never want to change.

Nancy had given him the thump of his head.

But you? You were the thump on his heart. Not a push for change, nor for growth — but permission to grant himself a second chance in love.

“I mean it.” He says, emotion coating each word. “Yes, god, I really mean it.”

And you let him tell you over and over again with his mouth pressed to yours, searing kisses that make your head dizzy and pulse speed.

Steve knows he’s not alright — not physically or mentally after what he’s faced tonight, not with the vice grip on his chest that had clung tightly and all the ugly parts of him had all slithered out for you to see.

He also knows that he will be alright, sometime in the far future.

When wounds have healed, when scars are beginning to fade, and the nightmares start being every couple of nights, instead of every night, then he’ll be nearly okay. It’ll take time, lots of it.

But when your gentle hands coax him to bed and you slip beneath the covers beside him, leaving a warm quick kiss upon his shoulder — Steve thinks that, maybe, that future isn’t nearly as far away as it seems.

Your hand finds his under the sheets, twisting your fingers together to act like an anchor in the inkiness of the night.

There are no nightmares that night.

—

tags below! @hawkinsindiana @harringtonbf @spideystevie​ look technically there’s no tags this is just all da bitches i’m always talking to <3

[ride-a-dromedary]

[Tell me something about yourself that I wouldn't even think to ask.]

[dittomoon]

So, I drew this back in October 2021 but only shared it on the BoJack Horseman Reddit - I liked the idea of lining up the diamonds in Bojacks family tree, ending up with Hollyhock breaking away from their family trauma. I only realised after the sketch that Honey doesn’t have a diamond but I still wanted her to be at the top.

[darkshrimpemotions]

I just need a scene that's like that one from Friends with Phoebe where Sam goes off on Dean about judging him for his love life.

Like Dean makes the smallest quip about Ruby and Sam yells "your dating history reads like the Men of Letters bestiary! An amazon? A vampire? The King of literal Hell? That weird vibe you had with Amara? And don't even get me started on whatever the fuck you and Cas have going on!"

And then Dean is just left standing in the kitchen with a kiss the cook apron on and his French toast burning, staring incredulously in the direction Sam departed going "What the hell's wrong with Cas?!"

[anawrites3]

Sea god Slade steals Dick. Bruce stands on the beach yelling at the ocean.

One single wave separates from the rest and comes out to soak him perfectly and leave seaweed in his hair.

This is absolutely perfect kfhskdsjak lemme just-

Bruce was standing a few steps away from Dick when it happened - so close, yet not close enough to be able to do anything and stop his son from being stolen by the sea god. Everything happened so fast. One second they were walking along the shore, chatting and just enjoying each other’s company and the other Dick’s feet dipped into the water and it moved, wrapping around his waist and pulling him into the sea.

He saw the look on Dick’s face when the water started moving, the way his eyes widened in shock more than fear. He looked at Bruce, lips parting to plead for help or maybe just to scream, hand outstretched towards his own. Bruce reached for him without thinking, not knowing what would happen after he caught him - would the lord of the seas take him too, would he drown Bruce for trying to get in the way - but their hands never met. They didn’t even brush, being just a few centimeters apart before Dick got pulled into the ocean.

He had no way of even knowing what happened to his boy; would the sea god simply drown him for his entertainment, would he keep him as his plaything?

There was nothing he could do. Nothing but plead to the god to give him his son back.

“He doesn’t belong with you!” Bruce screamed at the ocean, the hum of waves muffling his words. “Give him back!”

For a moment nothing happened. Everything around seemed to quiet down for a few seconds and Bruce held his breath, awaiting the answer.

One of the waves separated from the rest and came out to soak him completely from head to toes, leaving seaweed in his hair.

From the middle of the ocean, deep deep in the waters, Dick tried not to laugh as he punched his lover in the arm.

[une-sanz-pluis]

An interesting video excerpted from History Hit's documentary on the Battle of Shrewsbury discussing the treatment of the then-Prince Henry's arrow-wound.

[theadorableundead]

UNDEADCUTEGENDER

a gender connected to cutesy aesthetics and undead creatures, like zombies or vampires. could relate to feeling as though you are undead, feeling as though you should be undead, or just otherwise relating an connecting to the undead while also being cute about it.

this flag and identity are f2u, though if you use this in any edits i would like to be linked back to.

if this term has been coined prior, please dm me to let me know!

[adamprrishcycle]

I know it’s not canon on paper, but amongst nickname discourse, you can’t convince me that Ronan hasn’t ever called Adam Matilda.

I mean - a genius and self-sufficient kid, who isn’t an orphan but might as well be, who develops supernatural abilities and learns about the power of found family?

Not to mention Aurora totally read the boys all the Road Dahl books when they were kids. Adam Parrish as Matilda truther here.

I love this parallel 😭 he totally would be like “alright, easy matilda fucking wormwood” and adam would be like who tf is that?

[arolesbianism]

While I may not be allowing myself to post spiraling upwards spoilers, I see no issue with posting art of a bunch of folks who are dead before the story starts and one Conetalon who isn't

[cambria-writes]

yesterday's chapter was way too god damn tiny so you get a second update today!

word count: 2,052 rating: T, each chapter rated individually warnings: description of an anxiety attack, difficulty breathing, secular divination, please let me know if i should tag anything else!

previousnext

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕹𝖎𝖓𝖊: 𝔒𝔩𝔡 𝔊𝔬𝔩𝔡

You are aware that you are dreaming. 

You are also aware that this is not just a dream.

Your level of awareness hangs between "vague" and "nebulous". Dangles somewhere between the stars and your hands. It takes a moment to understand what is happening to you. Your mind is going through images faster than you can understand them. One second, a body writhing in pain. The next, a crackling fire. Then, only the sound of something clattering in what you somehow know is a dumpster. The slideshow of sights and sounds is dizzying. You feel the distinct need to sit down.

Mr Jane's voice comes to you unintelligibly. You do your best to ignore it; not now. There's something here for you to understand. You focus harder, attempt to slow the images, sort through them, filter through them for something that makes sense.

The image of a log cabin comes to you. No, not a log cabin. A comfortable home, an awful shade of yellow. A cliff, carved steps down to a beach. Yes, okay, you know this. This you can understand. You found the home. Mr Jane found it. Whatever; what next? What is the next (il)logical step here?

The sound of a grocery cart rolls through your mind. Heavy, laden with... cans? Bottles? Both, probably, don't know. A homeless person? The smell of damp earth, the sea, and vivid eyes. The colour keeps shifting, Mr Jane's voice insists you get up. Not yet, you're so close to—

Unbidden, a distorted voice, Don't forget to keep that covered.

don't respond don't respond don't respond wake up wake up wake up

Screw your eyes shut like it's a nightmare. Nothing but a bad dream. Your head hurts, your thigh throbs and your lungs burn for air. Stay still, let the rest of the paralysis (was sleep paralysis supposed to happen after someone faints?) drain from your limbs. Gasp and breathe in greedily. Mr Jane holds your head up and speaks. You don't register a thing that he says. From where you are, half-sprawled just inside the front door, you can see through to the back of the house, out the back door. Can see the drop of the cliff. 

But, first. "It's the EMT, it's—you have to—Lisbon, you need to—"

"Woah, hey, calm down there! Try breathing for a bit, just relax." Mr Jane rubs circles on your back as you sit up. You sputter, cough, still try to breathe like you're drowning until you slowly come back down. Calm yourself. Listen to his voice and try to pay attention to nothing else.

Anxiety still grip you, though. You grab at an expensive sleeve and plead. "Please call her. Call Agent Lisbon. Whoever's—the yellow, everything, it's the EMT who patched me up. They have to look into that. Her. Look into her."

Mr Jane stares at you intently again. You can tell he's looking for something. Whatever it is, he doesn't find it before pulling out his (woefully outdated) phone. You don't keep track of the conversation. Instead, cross your legs on the floor, pull out your tarot deck, and get to work. There's something to be figured out here, and you can't manage to put it together to understand it.

You can see Jane eyeing your process from a few feet away. He carefully approaches you, lifts a foot to kick to the front door closed behind you. 

Right. Yeah. If someone walked or drove by that would be awkward.

Shuffle the deck hurriedly and for possibly not nearly as long as you should. You take a deep breath, exhale as slowly as you can manage. Close your eyes. Several ideas cross your mind but, ultimately, you decide to spread the whole deck out onto the worn hardwood floor. Slap your hands on your knees. Focus, Skye. Focus. Swallow past the lump in your throat before reaching for the first card.

You feel like you know what it is before you flip it. The cadaver impaled by ten swords is a clear image for you to understand. That's what happened. Great, excellent. Next, the Tower. An uncomfortable feeling crawls up your back. This is clearly a representation of your life at the moment; upside down, completely toppled over, and not necessarily in a way you can handle.

The next two cards come as a surprise, mostly because you had only reached for one. Justice and the Chariot stare at you determinedly. Justice tells you to make a decision, whether to pursue what is True and Right or if you should turn away and pretend nothing happened. Return to your life. Let the CBI and the Forces That Be take care of the rest.

You already know that your choice has been made. The Chariot tells you that there is no going back from it. You can only go forward from here.

You hesitate in drawing the last card. Vaguely, you retain the notion that Mr Jane has snapped his phone shut. He stands quietly off to your right but says nothing.

You frown. Drum your fingers against the wood floor. Reach your left hand out, but let it fall back down. Nothing calls to you. Nothing demands your attention. There should be one more card. There needs to be. How do you resolve this? What are you supposed to do? Swipe angrily at the cards in front you, startle Mr Jane in the process. You huff, look to your left to where the cards have scattered.

The Hanged Man stares at you with glossy eyes.

Gotye's voice laments his past relationship in your ears and you sigh. Determination dictates that this is a Perfectly Logical Course of Action. Rationality... has, in all likelihood, left you a few miles ago. Mr Jane has never looked more displeased. Your cards are neatly stacked in front of you. You still sit on the worn hardwood floor. Arms crossed, fingers drumming against your arm.

The silence has stretched on for too long. You initially turned to music to calm yourself down. Now... you pull the earbuds out as the last chorus ends and stand. Shove your cards back in your bag and sling it over your shoulder. 

"How likely is it that she's watching me?"

Jane's frown does not lessen. He gives you The Look again. You huff and walk to the sliding back door. Fine. Okay, whatever. You grab whatever courage you have left in both hands and brusquely shove the door open.

Or, you would have. An arm looms above you and keeps you from moving the glass door. Ignore the warmth at your back. Can already feel the muscles in your neck tense with apprehension. If you don't get out soon, you'll completely lose your resolve.

"Kindly remove your appendage from the sliding door, please," you ask through grit teeth. You don't look over your shoulder, stare instead at your feet. Looking at the edge of the cliff will do you no good now.

"This is reckless, Skye." Your spine feels electrified. It's stupid, reacting that way—you're not quite sure what that way is—to someone saying your name. Tense your arms, try and push against the resistance on the door.

"I've taken a bullet for a dog and followed a complete stranger—" Try not to feel victorious at the sharp exhale. "—practically across the state, and this is reckless?" You'd laugh if your lungs could expand enough. Breathing is becoming harder. You've lost your nerve and you know this is stupid. All of this is completely stupid, but whatever other choice do you have? No way back. Throw yourself into the fray.

The door opens far to quickly for you to keep your balance. You topple through the threshold, but Jane remains inside the house. When you regain your footing and look back, he looks... furious. The calm kind of furious that makes children run for cover. Not quite what you were aiming for, but this'll do.

You've absolutely lost your nerve. But, well. There's no going back now. The Hanged Man's blank stare comes to the forefront of your mind. Shake away the image; not now. 

You take a deep breath, turn on your heels, and head for the steps you know are carved into the cliffside.

That, at least, you know is real. 

The phone rings three times before Lisbon picks up.

"What now, Jane?"

"She's going to use herself as bait," Jane blurts out, running a hand through his hair.

The agent stays quiet at the other end. He can practically hear the dawning sense of realization crawl over her.

"Wait... wait. Skye? She's using herself—wait. Jane, where the hell are you?" She knows. Well, this makes it easier.

"I drove her out to Slaughterhouse Gulch, Lis. I though—doesn't matter. You need to get over here. Bring, I don't know, Cho? Rigsby? Both. Bring both." He paces nervously at the back door, staring out at the cliffside until Skye's hair has disappeared under the edge. "Please, don't ask, just get here as soon as you can."

Lisbon's upset rebuttal is cut off when he snaps his phone shut. A minute head start should probably be enough. Right? Not too much? Probably enough.

Jane doesn't take his time following to the cliff's edge.

"Stay calm, breathe, focus. Stay calm, breathe, focus."

You chant to yourself repeatedly with every step. The makeshift stairwell is steeper than anticipated. Thank your stars that it isn't raining. Probably would've slipped and cracked your skull open the very first step you took. The wind pulls at your hair. You can taste the salt in the air. You pause several times during your descent. You don't know what, exactly, you'll find once you're at the bottom.

Part of you hopes for nothing.

Part of you knows it'll be something. 

It takes a solid minute to make it back to relatively firm, flat ground. It isn't just sand, not this far out. But there's not much grass, either. You stare anxiously at the ocean on the horizon. Never liked vast open spaces. The sight that greets you when you turn around does not ease the knot in your gut.

Recessed into the cliff's side, neatly nestled between bushes, is a small wooden door made out of driftwood. Doesn't have a handle, its hinges are mostly twine. It looks older than you thought. But it inspires nausea all the same. 

You stay rooted in place for a while. Fight or flight hasn't kicked in quite yet. You rely on that. You must still be somewhat safe. White-knuckle your bag's strap. Being to wonder if it really is too late to turn back. Breathe in as deeply as you can, and take one step forward.  Nearly jump out of your skin when gravel crumbles down the step. You are, in fact, too shocked to see Patrick Jane doing his best impression of a ninja to feel much of anything. Your heart beats violently against your chest. Not sure if the sound you hear is your thrumming blood or the ocean waves.

You don’t look at Mr Jane for more than a second. Turn tour attention back to the “door”, take a step closer. The more you look at it, the older it seems to be. Wood’s been bleached over the years. There’s a groove in the wood right where someone slipped their hand to pull it open. There’s traces of it haven’t being painted at some point in time, but only chips are left here and there. Green, blue, red, turquoise...

You reach out to touch it.

Feels like a cool breeze comes from behind the door. Barely ruffles your hair. You hear Mr Jane call out from somewhere to your right. The breeze feels like it gets stronger. Steals the air from your lungs as the door swings open toward you. And just like that, it's like everything around you is yellow.

Yellow parka, yellow bandana, yellow grass, yellow sun, yellow sand, yellow hair. It's overwhelming. It smells like salt and a smell you can only identify as "yellow".

Bright green eyes stare at you over a fraying yellow bandana. Blonde hair whips around, and you're violently pulled back. Your hand is still outstretched. Before you're out of reach, the stranger brushes just a finger against yours.

𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

@fucklife-or-me yearningforsappho​

[honeybadger-hibachi]

Brb, accidentally got addicted to chems, time to go back to the doc before I heckin die

[whumpbees]

Whumpees with infected wounds <3

[sac-bestsupplements]

What is real organic New Zealand MANUKA Honey? Why is EVERYONE Talking This? And what is it used for?

Discover the best Manuka Honey: https://super-achiever.com/best-manuka-honey

#manukahoney #newzealandhoney #manuka

Hello, Achiever Fam! 🌟 Today, we're diving into the sweet and sticky world of Manuka Honey – a natural wonder that's creating a buzz for all the right reasons.

If you thought all honey was created equal, think again. Manuka Honey is like regular honey's cooler, more potent cousin. In today’s video, we’ll unfold the wonders of Organic Manuka Honey and find out why it's been called 'honey on steroids.' Make sure you're subscribed to the Super Achievers Club for more sweet revelations! 🍯✨ Origin Story: - Discover the unique source of Manuka Honey, produced exclusively from the Manuka tree in New Zealand. Understand why this specific honey was once considered a nuisance but is now a prized health elixir. 🌳🐝 Beekeeping in New Zealand: - Learn about the historic journey of honeybees to New Zealand and how the first Manuka honey batches changed beekeeping in the region forever. 🐝🌍

The Science of Manuka Honey: - Delve into Dr. Peter Molan's groundbreaking research that uncovered Manuka Honey's extraordinary antibacterial properties. Understand the importance of the Unique Manuka Factor (UMF) and how it measures the honey's potency. 🔬🍯 Healing Powers: - Explore the incredible health benefits of Manuka Honey, from boosting the immune system to healing wounds and soothing sore throats. 🩹🧬 Real Deal or Hype? Join the discussion and share your own experiences with Manuka Honey. Have you noticed its healing effects, or are you skeptical about its touted benefits? Let us know in the comments below! 💬👇 Manuka Honey isn't just a sweet treat; it's a potent health supplement with a rich history and proven benefits. As we continue to uncover the mysteries of this extraordinary honey, we invite you to stay tuned for an in-depth look at all its benefits in our upcoming videos. That’s all for our sweet dive into the world of Manuka Honey today.

Remember, your journey to wellness is just a click away – subscribe for more enlightening content. See you in the next video, Achievers! 📹👋🍯

[bokatan]

did anybody ask for oc drabble with Feelings about ghoulification? no. did it happen anyways? yes

[mirrortouchedsea]

rinniki + 21 or 5 🥺

Oh these are also both so cute but I'll go with 5 methinks

ask game

…where it doesn’t hurt.

---

Shit. Niki let go of the knife and drew his finger up to his mouth. He licked the blood off before assessing the damage. It wasn't deep but he'd have to have a band-aid on it for a few days and Rinne would never let him hear the end of it. That almost hurt more than the cut itself.

Niki walked over to the sink and turned on the water, taking a towel and gently cleaning his the cut. Where did they put the antiseptics again?

He jumped as a pair of arms wrapped around his torso.

"Oi, Niki, whatcha doin'?" Niki dropped the towel.

"Dishes. Leave me alone." He elbowed the man, his boyfriend, and grabbed for the box of band-aids on the counter.

"That doesn't look like dishes to me Niki-kyun~ Didya hurt yourself?" Rinne poked at Niki's shoulder. "Do ya need your Rinne-kun to kiss it all better?"

"Shut up Rinne-kun."

"Aw, don't be like that Niki~ c'mere." Niki had already finished putting the band-aid on when Rinne grabbed his hand and brought it to his lips. "There! All better!"

"You didn't even kiss the band-aid Rinne-kun!"