#it has to be doing laundry as i bleed out dry

[overcastjhs]

i love writing stories on ao3 because the titles can never be normal. like it can't just be a one word title, it has to be a song or a sentence or a metaphor that was said once in a piece of media 20 years ago

[sidekick-hero]

Love from the other side

(steddie | rated: M | wc: 6.2k | tags: Vampire Eddie Munson, Nurse Steve Harrington, Mild Gore, Blood Drinking | AO3)

"Steve, we've got a major crash on the Interstate. Multiple vehicles involved. You're on triage duty. Patients will be arriving in five minutes,” Robin, the head nurse in the ER, tells him in a calm voice. She's Steve's best friend, but even he's sometimes surprised at how calm Robin can be in critical situations. He's seen her fret over the prospect of asking out a girl she likes, and her freak-out before her first date with Nancy is now something of a legend between them.

But ask her to handle a crisis and she's cool as a cucumber.

Steve sighs and nods. That means it's going to be a long night. He's already been on for ten hours, two more and he could have gone home to his cat and his warm, soft bed. But they're understaffed as it is, and with so many new patients in unknown condition coming in, he'll be here for at least another five hours. Maybe more.

He makes his way to the triage area of the ER and braces himself for what's to come.

When he finally makes it home, the sun has already risen and he's dead on his feet.

He stumbles through the front door of his apartment and is greeted by Garfield, his tabby cat, who continues to weave through his legs as he takes off his shoes, almost tripping him. He meows pitifully at Steve.

"Yeah, yeah, you poor thing. You'r treated worse here than in a shelter. Warm and cozy and dry with a human to open your tins and feed you."

Garfield meows again, this time more demanding, emphasizing the urgency with which he wants food.

Throwing up his arms, Steve relents. "Fine. Heaven forbid I get to change into something comfortable first."

As soon as he places Garfield's bowl in front of him, Steve is all but forgotten as the cat digs in. "You're welcome," he says to his beloved little freeloader, not expecting a response. He's talking to a cat, after all, but it still helps make the apartment feel less empty.

And there's no one to judge him for it. Not since Robin moved in with Nancy and he had to find a one-bedroom apartment that he could actually afford on his own.

It's not that he begrudges them their happiness, far from it. But coming home to an empty apartment and talking to his cat instead of another human being got old pretty quickly. Worse than that.

It has become lonely.

"Pull yourself together, Steve, and stop whining," he chides himself, still talking out loud.

Steve sighs. He can see himself ending up a hermit with twenty cats who never leaves the house. Deciding it's best to just go to sleep before his thoughts turn any more self-pitying, he bends down to scratch Garfield's head and tells him, "I'm going to bed."

Garfield continues to ignore him as he sips the milk Steve has placed in front of him.

Steve is off for the next two days and spends the time mostly sleeping, doing laundry, and stocking up on food after realizing he didn't even have a slice of toast for breakfast.

He also goes over to Robin and Nance's for dinner, since he's not a hopeless hermit yet. Between the three of them, they go through three bottles of wine and end up swapping stories and inside jokes until his stomach hurts from laughing so hard.

It doesn't make coming back to an empty apartment any easier.

His next shift is another night shift, and it's surprisingly quiet for a Friday night. So far, the worst he has had to deal with is a nasty cut on a drunk frat boy's forehead after the guy fell through a glass door. Steve's still surprised he didn't hurt himself worse. Head wounds bleed like crazy, though, so he looked like he had been attacked by a serial killer when his equally drunk buddies carried him to the emergency room. Seeing that only one deep cut needed stitches, while the other, shallower cuts on his arms and face would be fine on their own, had put Steve in a surprisingly good mood.

So good, in fact, that he carelessly remarked to Carol, the other nurse on duty with him, "Looks like a quiet night for once."

You could have heard a needle drop in the silence that followed his statement, and Carol looked ready to murder him. He had just violated the most important rule in any hospital.

Never, under any circumstances, say the "Q" word.

"Fuck. Oh God, I didn't mean..."

"Too fucking late, Harrington." Carol huffed before stalking off, probably to complain about him to her boyfriend, who was also the hospital director's son.

Less than twenty minutes later, all hell broke loose.

A dance floor at a local club had collapsed, resulting in several dozen serious casualties, all arriving on stretchers, crowding the triage area as Steve worked on autopilot. Assess, prioritize, assist.

In the midst of the chaos, another ambulance arrives and he goes over to talk to the paramedics about taking the patient to St. John's instead because they are at capacity, which really means they were past capacity an hour ago.

One look at the patient tells him there is no time for that,

The man on the gurney was only a few years older than Steve and had a gaping wound on his neck. He was white as a sheet and there was too little blood around a wound that looks like it hit a major artery.

"What the fuck?" He can't help but ask and the paramedic shrugs with a puzzled look on his face.

"I don't know, man. Found him like this and whoever called it in left before we got there."

Rolling their new patient in with hurried steps, Steve wonders if there was anything they could do. The wound needed surgery, and they needed to get blood and other fluids into the man as quickly as possible. Judging by the slow and shallow breathing and the sluggish pulse, his system has already started to shut down.

They lost him before they even got to the operating room. Steve doesn't even hear about it until hours later, when everyone who had been on the dance floor has finally been taken care of and a bone-deep exhaustion replaces the adrenaline-fueled energy in his body. He's not proud of it, but he's too tired to spare the news more than a brief burst of sadness.

Over the next weeks, seven more patients with gaping neck wounds come into the ER while Steve’s on shift, all drained of too much blood to make it past the first ten minutes under their care.

Whispers about a killer roaming the streets of Hawkins have started circulating as the number of victims rises steadily and Steve has started to sleep with a baseball bat under his bed. Just in case.

It’s early Tuesday night, four hours into his twelve hours shift, when another one comes in, this time a young girl around Steve’s age with long strawberry blonde hair and a pretty face. On her neck Steve can make out a gaping wound, just like the others had shown.

But this one is bleeding, profusely.

And the girl is awake, looking up at Steve with wide, terrified eyes.

“Hey, you’re safe, it’s gonna be okay, we’re going to take care of you,” he reassures her over and over as they make their way inside, ushering her to get surgery immediately. When he gives her his warmest reassuring smile she even tries her best to smile back.

Steve hopes she makes it.

She does. Against all odds, considering that the last two dozen victims with similar injuries have all died, she makes it.

Her name is Chrissy Cunningham, and when Steve reads the name on her file, he remembers her. She was a year behind him, a cheerleader. They never really talked much, but he remembers that she was kind and talked to him after everyone else on the team and the cheerleading squad had stopped doing so.

He's glad that she survived, and he promises himself that he will check in on her as soon as his shift is over.

If it hadn't been Chrissy, if it hadn't been someone he knew, he probably never would have met Eddie.

At the end of one of those weird in-between shifts at four in the morning, Steve changes into a pair of sweatpants and his favorite hoodie before heading over to the observatory area where they had to put Chrissy for now because a whole wing of the building is under construction due to some asbestos in the walls. She's already in stable condition, only needing fluids and antibiotics because they have no idea what bit her, so they're letting her sleep it off for now and hopefully find a room to put her in the next day.

The halls of the hospital are quiet at this time of night, especially outside the ER, and it's almost eerie. It feels like no one is here but Steve and the thought makes him shiver. All this serial killer talk is really getting to him, he thinks.

Reaching the area separated only by screens, he sees a figure standing by her bed. He can't make out much, but it appears to be a man, judging by his height, and he's leaning over the bed, talking softly to Chrissy. The man, if it is one, but the deep timber of his voice makes Steve think it is, is not wearing scrubs, but jeans and a hoodie, and Steve is pretty sure he's not hospital staff.

Suddenly, he remembers that something - or someone - must have inflicted the injury on Chrissy's neck.

"Hey, who are you, and what are you doing here?" he shouts as he runs over to the bed, and the figure turns to face him.

It is a man, with wide, dark eyes in a pale face framed by equally dark, messy curls.

"Shit, shit, shit," the man curses and bolts, moving faster than should be humanly possible. One moment he's staring at Steve like a deer in the headlights with his big bambi eyes, the next his shoulder slams into Steve, knocking him to the ground as the mysterious figure disappears from view.

He pushes himself upright and rises from the ground with a determined effort, because even though the guy doesn't look like it, it feels like he's been hit by a brick wall. When he regains his footing, he shakes off the impact and makes his way over to Chrissy to check on her.

She's awake, but too weak to sit up, though she tries.

"Shh, hey, don't strain yourself Chrissy, it's all right, he's gone. You're safe," he reassures her, a hand on her shoulder to keep her from moving too much and aggravating her wound.

"No," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, shaking her head slightly. Just when he wants to reiterate that yes, he's really gone, she continues. "He's safe. He saved me."

"What?" Steve asks, taken aback by her statement. He can tell that even the few words she has spoken have taken a toll on her, draining what little strength she has regained, but he can't help it, he needs to know what she means.

"He...saved me. Pulled him...off. Off me. Would have...killed..." she trails off, her eyelids fluttering shut and Steve lets her be.

Pulling up a chair, he sits down next to her to keep watch, just in case her savior decides to come back.

The next day Chrissy is more lucid. She's also in her own room and has already given a statement to the police when Steve comes in for his shift.

It doesn't matter though, he still has to ask her what happened, needs to know who the strange man was who continued to haunt Steve's dreams after he came home sometime in the early morning.

"I don't know who he is, Steve. He just showed up while Jason...while he," she is visibly shaken by having to remember the events of last night and Steve thinks he should tell her that it's okay, she doesn't have to tell him. But he doesn't. It feels like she needs to say it as much as he needs to hear it.

Steeling herself and taking a deep breath, Chrissy continues, "While Jason was biting me. Mauled me, really. I think he would have torn my throat out if this man had not shown up. He slammed into Jason, ripped him off of me, and they both went down. There was a struggle, I could hear it, but everything hurt so much I couldn't move my head. It went on for a while, I don't know how long. Time was really weird. And then the guy was looking down at me, telling me to stay still, that he was going to call an ambulance, and that I just had to hang in there. He pressed something against my neck and it hurt so much, but the pain kept me there, y'know? So I wouldn't float away and never come back. He told me to stay with him and I did. Until we heard the ambulance. Then he told me he was sorry, but he had to go. And then he was gone and the paramedics took me away."

Chrissy looks very pale after telling her story, the dark rings under her eyes more pronounced than when he first entered the room. But before he can let her rest, he has one more question.

"What was he doing here?"

To Steve's surprise, the question makes Chrissy smile. "An apology, because this is no way for a lady to be left in the lurch."

Steve has no idea what to do with this information, so he just takes Chrissy's hand and squeezes it gently.

"You'll be out of here in no time, Chrissy. We will take good care of you, I promise."

"I know. Thanks, Steve."

He turns and walks away, leaving her to get back to sleep, knowing that it will be a long time before he will be able to do the same.

What the fuck is going on?

They find Jason Carver, or what is left of him, the next day. It's all over the news. No one knows why he attacked his girlfriend or who killed him. The reports leave out a lot of the gruesome details, just saying that he was torn to pieces when they found him.

Steve, of course, can't let that be all. He has to know what happened, so after his shift he sneaks down to the morgue to take a look at what is left of Jason, a guy he only knew in passing, since Steve had already left the school when Jason became captain of the basketball team, taking Steve's old position.

What he finds is a body that is badly mangled, just like the news said. There are deep wounds, chunks of flesh missing, his right arm torn from his shoulder. Though it's hard to swallow, it's not the first time Steve has seen a body destroyed almost beyond recognition. What makes him recoil from the dead man in front of him is the fact that Jason Carver's body is already decomposing as if he'd been dead for several days, maybe weeks, instead of not even 48 hours.

Steve leaves the morgue even more confused - and frightened - and heads home with the image of Jason's tattered, rotting body burned into his eyelids.

Over the next three weeks Steve sees four more victims with the same torn throats and bloodless bodies. None of them can be saved like they saved Chrissy.

He doesn’t see the mysterious man again.

It's late June when Steve's life changes forever.

The sun has only set an hour ago and the air is still warm as he walks home from his shift. Robin and Nance's car broke down the day before, and they live on the outskirts of town, so Steve gave them his car until theirs is fixed in a few days. The weather is nice and he doesn't mind walking the three miles to his apartment.

He's almost home, maybe ten minutes away, when he hears someone whistle.

There's a man standing at the entrance to an alley a few feet ahead of him, and since he's the only one around, Steve assumes it must be him whistling at Steve. The guy is hot, there is no way around it, about Steve's height with an athletic build and a haircut that reminds him of the 80's, his blond hair styled into a mullet.

"What's a pretty guy like you doing out here all alone?" The man asks as he gives Steve a slow look. It's supposed to be seductive, Steve thinks, but it just comes off as sleazy. Which is a shame, because the guy has a pretty face, long lashes, full lips, delicate features. Steve's also going through a bit of a dry spell lately, but he's not desperate enough to hook up with a slimy sleazeball like that.

"None of your business, really," he replies, walking a little faster than before. Something doesn't feel right, he thinks, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

"Aww, don't be like that, sweet thing. I just wanna talk, I swear." Steve is almost past the guy when their eyes meet and he feels himself freeze. "Why don't you come closer so I can smell you better?"

Even as he thinks, "What the hell is wrong with this guy?" he feels his body turn toward him and his feet propel him forward. He feels himself panic, but it's a distant thing, like an itch under his skin that he can't reach no matter how hard he scratches.

When he's in front of the stranger, so close that their chests almost touch, the man leans in and sniffs Steve's neck like a dog at a slab of meat. He hums deep in his chest and Steve feels the wet touch of his tongue against his skin. It's enough of a shock that he can get his body to react, to fight back, but it's no use. The moment he moves, the man growls menacingly at him.

With his feet still rooted to the ground, Steve feels like he's underwater, his senses dulled and his limbs heavy, weighed down by the tons of water around him. He fights it with all his strength and it takes all he's got to put his hands on the man's chest and push him away.

It's not even close to a hard push, but the man clearly didn't expect Steve to fight back at all, so he stumbles back a bit anyway. Unfortunately for Steve, it only makes him angrier.

"Looks like you got some fight in you after all. Too bad I don't like my food to fight back," he snarls, and before Steve knows what's happening he feels his back slam into the wall behind him, darkness surrounding them on all sides.

He struggles against the hands holding him down, but it's no use, their grip steely and unyielding.

The once pretty face has turned into something twisted and ugly, a grotesque imitation of a human face, and when the thing in front of him opens its mouth, all Steve sees are teeth. Long, sharp teeth.

Steve screams, but not a sound comes out of its mouth.

As those teeth sink into his neck, the face of the man who saved Chrissy's life pops unbidden into his mind. Steve has seen it in his dreams more than once, and it's strangely comforting to think of it now, in what Steve is sure will be his last minutes alive. As if this is all a fucked up dream and Chrissy's mysterious savior will come for him, too.

White hot pain races through his body from where the thing that looked like a man sunk its teeth into him and it's only that pain that makes him believe what he sees next.

One moment he's in mind-numbing agony, almost wishing for death to come and end his suffering, and the next the oppressive weight of that thing is gone, its teeth no longer in Steve. With nothing holding him up, he crumples to the ground, his head dazed and his body shaking like a leaf.

To his right he hears the sounds of a viscous battle. Growls and snarls, flesh hitting flesh, flesh hitting brick, the sound of bones snapping. He's too weak to even turn his head, and part of him is glad for that.

The fight seems to go on forever and Steve feels himself slipping in and out of consciousness. His heart has stopped pounding and his pulse has slowed to about 60 beats per minute, which is good. Not too slow, his system is still going strong. It was cardiac arrest after immense blood loss that had killed the other victims, but so far that doesn't seem to be Steve's fate.

At least not if the wound on his neck that is still slowly bleeding is taken care of soon.

He doesn't dare press his undoubtedly dirty palm against it yet. Hell, he's not even sure if he can lift his hand that far. But something has to be done about the bleeding, sooner rather than later.

As if his savior had heard his thoughts, there is a final, stomach-churning sound of flesh and bone ripping, followed by silence, the fight finally over.

And then there he is, as if his mind had conjured him, the man who saved Chrissy. The man with the big brown doe eyes and the pale skin and the messy curls. There's blood on his face now, and... other things Steve doesn't want to think about.

Steve is safe now, he feels it deep in his soul. He doesn't know how he can know that, how he can trust a complete stranger to keep him safe, but he does. His eyelids flutter shut, the tension finally draining from him completely.

A cool hand on his cheek and a warm, deep voice, tinged with what sounds like fear, pull him back.

"Hey, no, no, no. Steve, you need to stay here with me, okay? Stay with me, sweetheart."

"You know my name," Steve mumbles, fighting the heavy rocks that weigh down his eyelids as he looks at the pretty face in front of him. His eyes dip lower and there's more blood on the man, his clothes torn and his skin exposed. "You're hurt."

"You're very observant, Stevie. Come on, we gotta get you to the hospital. You'll be as good as new in no time." He smiles at Steve and Steve is helpless not to smile back. There's the tease of a dimple forming in his cheek and Steve lifts his hand with Herculean effort to touch it. When the man notices the gesture, the dimple forms fully, deep and alluring. A cold hand catches his before it reaches its target and Steve whines in protest.

The man chuckles fondly. "Here, lemme help you," he says, bringing Steve's hand to his face, the dimple still waiting for Steve to touch it. The skin is soft under his hands and cold too, like it's a winter night and not the end of June.

"I'm gonna pick you up now, Stevie. It's faster than waiting for an ambulance. Just close your eyes and we'll be there before you know it."

Steve feels himself lifted from the ground into strong arms and instinctively turns his head into the man's chest, enjoying the vibration of his soft laughter at the gesture against his cheek.

Then they're moving, and fast. One second he wonders how someone covered in blood and other unspeakable things can smell so good, and the next the lights of the hospital burn bright and painful in his blurry eyes.

"He needs help, now," he hears the man say to someone, his voice firm and demanding. It makes Steve shiver in his arms. And then he's placed on a gurney and his savior leaves with the whisper of cold lips on Steve's forehead.

It's only much later, when he's recovered enough to form coherent thoughts, that Steve realizes two things.

He doesn't even know the name of the man who saved him.

He never heard a heartbeat as his head was pressed against the man's chest.

Steve is released two days later and Robin insists that he stay with her and Nancy for a while. There's really no arguing with his best friend when she's got something on her mind, so he doesn't even try. He's too tired anyway.

His sleep is shit, plagued by nightmares of sharp teeth and blood and bodies being torn to pieces.

He also dreams of the mysterious man, and while these dreams aren't nightmares, they're still confusing, even unsettling, because they leave him feeling hollow. Like he has lost something. Which is ridiculous, the man was never his, he doesn't even know his name.

As he spends the next week at Robin and Nancy's, being pampered and doted on, he has no idea how close he is to learning the name of his savior. That and much more.

After finally convincing his best friend that he can manage on his own, that he needs to go home, that Garfield misses him even with Robin or Nancy stopping by to feed him, it is both daunting and a relief to see Robin's car drive away from where he stands in front of his apartment building.

The nightmares haven't stopped, and he admits that the prospect of being alone in his apartment scares him, but he can't live on his best friend's couch forever. Besides, even there, the nightmares would wake him up shaking and panting, waking Robin and Nancy more than once in the middle of the night. Alone in his apartment, he won't wake anyone with his whimpering and screaming.

Garfield is already waiting for him when he comes through the door, weaving through his legs and meowing at him. Surprised at how much he missed the tabby menace, Steve leans down and takes him in his arms, burying his face in the soft fur.

"Hey baby, sorry for leaving you alone for so long. But Aunt Robbie told me that she and Nancy took good care of you, playing with you and petting you. Probably spoiled you rotten, huh?"

Garfield meows again and pushes his head under Steve's chin, rubbing against him and purring like crazy. Steve smiles into his fur, thinking that he's glad to be home, even if it's still empty except for the purring cat in his arms.

He puts Garfield back down and makes him something to eat before heading to his bathroom to take a long, hot shower and change into something more comfortable. When he pushes open the door and steps inside, he is too stunned by the sight that greets him for any real reaction other than a sharp intake of breath.

On the floor is the man who has taken over most of Steve's dreams and many of his waking thoughts as well.

The man lies still and Steve can see dark stains on his clothes and he just knows it's blood. It could be someone else's, but somehow Steve is sure it's the man's own. Within seconds, he's on his knees next to the unconscious (please just be unconscious) figure, his knees smarting from the way he just fell onto them on the hard and cold tiles.

The man is on his stomach, his face turned to the side, away from Steve, so he moves to turn the man over. He's surprisingly heavy, a dead weight under his hands (no, no, no, not dead, just unconscious, his mind chants), but Steve is nothing if not persistent, and he finally manages to turn the man onto his back.

"Oh God," Steve groans as he can finally assess the damage. There are wounds all over his body, deep gashes on his thighs, his torso, his arms, even his face. "What happened to you?"

"Ten against one. Not...fair," the man replies, his voice barely audible and his eyes still closed. Steve has to lean in to make out the words, but him talking also means the man is still alive, though Steve isn't sure how much longer.

Taking the man's wrist, Steve looks for a pulse to see how far his system has already shut down, but... there is no pulse to be found.

He remembers not hearing a heartbeat when his cheek was pressed against the man's chest, so he presses his ear to where the man's heart is, waiting for the sound of its faint beat.

Nothing.

Steve leans back and searches the man's eyes, half-open now and clearly alive.

"How... you can't be alive. You don't have a pulse, your heart isn't beating." He is stammering, but it's a lot to take in. It shouldn't be possible. It's not like he wants the guy to be dead, but for all intents and purposes, he should be.

Bloodied lips pull back into a faint smile. "Sweetheart, not even the most beautiful sight like you could make my heart beat again. Although it really tries for you."

Despite everything, the way this guy flirts with him while he lies in his own blood brings a crooked smile to Steve's face.

"There, that smile? If it could, my heart would be beating out of my chest right now." Steve can tell the man is trying for levity, but he's fading and fast.

"As charming as you are, you're also bleeding all over my bathroom floor. With no pulse or heartbeat. And I don't even know your friggin' name! So forgive me for asking, but what the fuck?"

"Sorry for the blood on your floor, I tried to patch myself up, but I must have passed out. Embarrassing, really. Didn't think you'd be back so soon. I'd get out of your hair, but... well, you know. I don't think I can move." The words start to slur halfway through, and those beautiful brown eyes keep disappearing behind heavy eyelids. Steve has to do something, quickly, before his savior dies.

"Eddie," the man croaks, his voice barely audible. Steve wouldn't have heard it if it weren't for the intent way he stares at him.

"What?"

"My name. Eddie."

"Eddie. Okay." Steve nods his head, the hand still wrapped around Eddie's wrist grabbing his hand instead, squeezing it gently. "Eddie, we need to get you to the hospital now."

It looks like Eddie tries to shake his head, but gives up halfway, exhausted. "No. They can't help me."

"But they can! Someone needs to sew up your wounds, and you've lost too much blood, you need a blood transfusion and fluids and - why are you laughing?"

"You're right, I need blood, but not the way you think."

The image of sharp teeth flickers behind his eyelids, a gnarled face snarling at him. The feeling of those teeth buried in his neck, white-hot pain shooting through his veins.

"What... Eddie, I don't..."

Eddie's face turns toward him, his nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath, as if smelling the air.

"Come closer so I can smell you better."

Two different voices growling and snarling, not just one.

Strong arms lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing, carrying him nearly three miles. "It's faster than waiting for an ambulance."

"You're not human." Steve whispers. It's not a question.

Eddie answers it anyway. "No, I'm not."

"You're... You're a..." He can't say it, can't even think it.

"A vampire, yes." Eddie says it for him and everything falls into place. The neck wounds, the drained victims, the sharp teeth and the inhuman strength and speed.

"You want my blood." Steve has no idea why he's stating the obvious instead of running as fast as he can, but something tells him he's still safe with Eddie.

"So observant." Eddie chuckles, but it sounds wet and weak. "Yeah. But I won't take it, don't worry, Stevie."

In his mind Steve goes over the things he knows.

Eddie is a vampire. A vampire who killed another vampire to save Steve’s life. To save Chrissy’s life.

Eddie is dying. He may already be dead, but it looks like vampires can die again. Permanently.

Eddie wants his blood.

"Would it help you? My blood, I mean." That's the only thing he's not sure about. The most important thing, at least.

It looks like an inhuman - invampire, Steve thinks - effort, but Eddie manages to shake his head firmly.

"Steve, no."

"Would. It. Help?" Steve insists.

Eddie, the stubborn asshole, presses his lips together and refuses to look at him. That's answer enough for him.

Still holding Eddie's hand in his, he lifts his other hand to Eddie's mouth and presses the inside of his wrist against the closed mouth.

"Come on, Eddie. Drink." Another shake of the man's head only strengthens Steve's resolve. "Eddie, please. You saved my life. Let me do the same."

The stubborn ass continues to refuse, so Steve does the only logical thing. He stands, grabs his razor, and slides the blade across his wrist, just deep enough to draw blood from the otherwise shallow wound.

He presses the wrist back against Eddie's lips and this time he feels the man tremble.

"Please drink. I want you to. Let me help you." Moving his wrist and smearing his blood over Eddie's full lips, Steve pleads again, his voice breaking. "Please, Eddie."

It's the last please that does it, and the next thing Steve feels is the white-hot pain of teeth sinking into his wrist. Still smiling through the pain, he squeezes Eddie's hand. "That's it, you're doing so good. Take what you need."

And Eddie does. He drinks and drinks and drinks until the world goes fuzzy and black spots start dancing in front of Steve's eyes.

"Eddie," Steve slurs before everything goes dark.

When Steve comes to, he's in his bed.

His wrist is wrapped tightly in a pristine-looking white bandage, and he's wearing his pajamas. He has no idea how he got here or what happened, everything is kind of blurry. Steve tries to sit up, but almost immediately the world starts spinning and he groans in protest.

That's when the door to his bedroom opens and his mysterious savior walks into the room with a bowl in his hand.

Eddie, his mind supplies. His name is Eddie and he was dying the last time Steve saw him.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks him, his voice full of worry and he gets a sad smile in return.

"Stevie, I'm the one who should be asking you that." Eddie sits down next to him on the bed but doesn't touch him. He looks tense and Steve wonders why. Though most of what happened is a blur, he remembers holding Eddie's hand and Eddie calling him beautiful.

"I'm fine. A little dizzy, but fine. You were the one bleeding all over my bathroom floor. What happened, how are you even standing, how long was I out?"

Eddie reaches out and takes Steve's cheek in his hand. "You saved my life, Stevie. That's what happened. And you almost got yourself killed, you self-sacrificing idiot. So even though it saved my life, I have to ask you, beg you if I have to, to never do anything so stupid again."

Steve puts his own hand on top of Eddie's hand on his face and looks him in the eye as he tells him, "You saved my life first and risked your own as well. So I guess the pot is calling the kettle black here."

He's rewarded with a dimpled smile. "Fair point. Now that we're even, can you promise me you'll never do anything like this again?"

"I dunno. Can you promise not to try to save me again if I'm in danger?" He knows it's a low blow, but if it helps him get his point across, he's not above playing dirty. Besides, part of him really wants to know. The needy part, the scared part.

"You know the answer to that," Eddie says, brushing his thumb across Steve's cheekbone.

"Isn't that a little unfair?"

"Yeah," Eddie whispers, and Steve realizes he's so much closer than before. "But I don't care if it keeps you safe."

Steve feels his heart thunder in his chest, his eyes darting from Eddie's to the other man's lips and back again. Licking his own lips, Steve asks, "And why is that?"

Eddie's lips are only a breath away from his own, and he tastes his answer as much as he hears it.

"You know that answer as well."

Before Steve can say anything else, Eddie's cool, smooth lips seal over his and every thought in his mind is forgotten. There's only Eddie.

Later he'll ask about the other vampires. About all the dead people in the emergency room. He'll ask who Eddie is, why he's running around town saving people, and who hurt him so badly.

But all that can wait, at least until Steve is done drinking down the delicious sounds falling from Eddie's mouth.

This is a little birthday gift for my dear friend @yournowheregirl. Alice, I know you love vampires so I tried my best to give you some. Time ran out on me but I still hope you like it 💜

I hope you had the best birthday ever because you deserve nothing but happiness.

Edit: I forgot while posting to say that this is heavily inspired by a wonderful podcast I highly recommend, Not quite dead. Give it a listen folks!

[static-radio-ao3]

@jegulus-microfic // march 18 // prompt: instrument // words: 758 // part two + part three

“What do you play?” James asks, voice muffled as he is digging through his laundry basket.

“Huh?”

“Instrument, I mean.” James turns to face him. His glasses are halfway down his nose and Regulus’ fingers twitch with the need to adjust them. James is annoyingly handsome. Even in the middle of the night when his hair is tousled and his glasses are smudged and he has baby formula on his ratty college shirt, tan skin glowing under the fluorescent lights of the basement laundry room.

“What do you play? We’ve been talking every night but I don’t even know what instrument you play. I hear you sometimes when I get home.”

“Shit, I'm sorry, I can try to keep it down.”

“No, please, I like it!” Another second of rummaging before James shuts the door to the machine, twists the dial and presses the start button. “It sounds nice. Harry likes it too.”

James checks the volume on the baby monitor again, making sure it is still turned all the way up. When he is sure it didn’t magically turn off in the minute since he checked last, he places it gingerly on the bench in the middle of the room, sitting down next to Regulus.

Their shoulders brush. His arm feels warm where it is pressed against James’, despite the frigid air in the basement.

“Ah, thank you. It's uh— violin. I'm at the conservatory for classical music.”

“You must be really hard-working, then.”

This pleases Regulus, satisfaction burrowing its way into his chest, making him preen a little. People always think he is talented.

Secretly, Regulus hates that word. He has never been talented. No particular skill that stood out — and his parents made sure he knew it.

So yes, Regulus is hard-working. Passionate. Stays up until 3 A.M. to practice, tucked away in the laundry room so he doesn’t wake Sirius in their tiny two-bedroom apartment.

That’s how this whole thing started. Regulus, resident insomniac, slipping out of bed with his violin tucked under his arm. James, still adjusting to the fact that his son is now sleeping through the night, doing chores on the wrong side of midnight.

“I have to be, if I want to be the best,” Regulus says.

“I’ll have to come see you play sometime, then.” James makes it sound like a give. Like it is something he is willing to make time for. Regulus’ heart flutters. Traitor, he whispers at it.

“Do you now?” His teeth tug at the dry skin on his lips, picking at it until he bleeds. Sirius always tells him off for it but it is a nervous habit he has yet to beat.

“Absolutely. If you’ll have me that is.”

A hurried yes almost bursts from him, but he traps it behind his teeth before he can actually say it. He tries to play it cool despite the heat in his face, a teasing tone as he says, “Maybe. Gotta see if you’re worth keeping around first.”

James laughs at that. Regulus thinks it sounds sweeter than his violin ever has.

“I’ll be such a good audience, I swear. I can make a career-switch. Go from sports reporting to music reporting.” Because James works for the local newspaper. Writes sports columns. Takes his son with him to football games, a tiny infant strapped to his chest. The mental image of James at a recital with baby Harry on his hip makes Regulus’ heart flutter again. “Would that be enough proof of my dedication?”

More fluttering. Traitor, traitor, traitor. Regulus pretends to ponder on it for a moment.

“It’ll do. For now.”

James scoffs. Rolls his eyes. “For now, he says.”

It sounds fond.

Neither of them says anything else but Regulus doesn’t mind it. His eyes are trained on the laundry machine with his clothes in it. He watches it spin and spin and spin. Lets himself get hypnotized by the repetitive motion, the quiet humming, James’ even breaths. It’s peaceful.

“Same time tomorrow?” Regulus asks when he has gathered all his laundry, the basket propped against his hip. He doesn’t miss the way James’ eyes droop with his nod. He chuckles softly at the sight. “Get some sleep, James.”

A mumbled, “Sweet dreams” follows him out of the room.

For once, Regulus is eager to fall asleep, only so he can see James again tomorrow.

It is only in the silent halls of the apartment building that he lets himself think that there is no sweeter dream than those moments they share.

[bamsara]

"Don't bleed on my carpet" I can see YN maybe getting a booboo and Sun and or Moon freaking out

Moon-Centric | Wordcount: 1,648 | AO3 Version

Contains some spoilers for ARC 3 (Post-Fire) of Solar Lunacy, so please consider this a crumb! Notes: Contains blood mention, obv, and character exibihiting some subtle signs of PTSD.

Nosebleeds sucked. Unpredicatable most of the time, and inconvienent. You don't even feel it happening until droplets of blood splatter on your phone screen as your looking down. So you sigh, stand up from the table and attempt to hold your nose back as you fumble your way to the bathroom.

The Daycare Attendant isn't here at the moment, downstairs helping Gramps with something, so it's a bit of a fummble to the bathroom without blood dripping everywhere by yourself.

The flow was heavy. You inwardly cringe as you hear a few droplets hit the floor, and holding your head back, you hold out a hand to feel against the wall to guide you, and scold yourself when you realize you just probably smeared blood on the wall as well.

You make it to the bathroom, don't even bother turning on the main lights, flicking on only the nightlight that you keep in the outlet under the mirror. Your friend doesn't like it when some rooms are dark, and others are brightly lit. Could cause rapid changes, or a possible Eclipse. You find the toliet paper and bunch it up easy enough with what illumination you have.

Winter was such a pain sometimes. You were prone to nosebleeds when the air was so dry like this. You should look into getting a humidifier or something.

A few scrunched up balls of toliet paper shoved up your nose later, the blood isn't showing any sign of stopping, and a pile of bloody tissue is collecting into a pile by the sink. You sigh, head light. That's gonna be annoying to clean up, as well as the rest of the stains. You also made the mistake of wiping your phone onto your shirt without thinking about it before. THAT was going to be one nasty stain to get rid of, if you can even salvage it.

On the sixth tissue ball, you hear the front door open. You'd call out if it wasn't for the sneeze you felt rising, and for the sake of now spewing blood and snot all over your bathroom mirror, you put your effort into holding it back.

The door shuts, clicks and locks. A few padded footsteps for some paces, then stop. There's a quiet pause as the sneeze subsides, and then the sudden sound of hurried movement through the house, walking quickly over your own path-

The door to the bathroom that was cracked open is swung completly outwards, an ridged animatronic grips the doorhandle with a tightens that almost cracks it.

Moon's smile is strained, eyes as wide as the times nightmares only bring forth, and shrunken pupils scan before they find you.

A heartbeat passes (and you probably look stupid, tissued-up and stuffy nosed) as the robot blinks, the tension in his form lessens, and gaze softens.

You talk stuffy and dry. "What? What's wrong?"

Pupils, no longer small, fall down to where blood drips off your chin and onto the bathroom mat. "Don't bleed on my carpet."

"YOUR carpet?" You scoff, and it comes out a bit choked. The last thing you wanted was blood traveling down your sinuses and down your throat. "Excuse you! My house! My Carpet!"

"Laundry mess." He talks low again, and it sounds like teasing. Whatever strain that was in his fave prior has melted away, and the robot leaves the door open as he steps forwards. A hand comes to you without permission, fingers gripping your jaw and positioning your head towards him for a better look.

Moon doesn't tut at you, but his expression spells the idea. "You're doing it wrong."

You've half a mind to sneeze on HIM just to get your space back, and to be annoying on purpose, but the hand on your jaw slides against your skin to the back of your neck, and you feel fingers wrap around there, a few running up into your hair. Your head is promptly pushed to face downwards, another tissue is brought to your nose as you feel the blood rush.

"Look down. Not up." Moon speaks. Whatever argument you have is muffled by tissue and trying to breathe now that you've been flipped a bit. He presses the tissue to your nostirils, blood soaking through to his fingertips. "Drain it. Breathe through your mouth."

"Yeah, okay, Doc." You talk, a bit breathy because yeah maybe he had a point there. It's a gross feeling, and it feels awkward, but the blood flow starts to lessen after a minute, and it's nice not having to keep trying from swallowing anything in the sinuses. "Did you have fun with Gramps?"

Moon makes a small sound of aknowledgment. He does not move his hands from your face or the back of your head.

You talk to fill the silence. "Whattya guys do, anyway?" Raising your hands, you try to replace his own. "I can do this part myself, by the way."

He does not let you, that is, until the tissue needs replacing and has no choice but to pull away the old one. "Magic tricks."

"Magic tricks?"

"He wanted to learn." A quick hand replaces the space of your own with a new tissue. You give up, letting your arms fall to your side. Moon is attentive when it comes to your face, and low-lidded as he wipes the blood stain on your upper lip. "Be still."

You stick out your tongue. He pushes it back in with his thumb. "I said, be still."

"Whatever." It's a bit demeaning, this act. It also feels nice to be cared for in such a gentle manner. Maybe it's his programming, but you know it's just what they like to do. Still, he's slow in movements, and you glance back to the mess you've made on the sink. "Does the blood not bother you anymore?"

Maybe not the best thing to say, and you realize that instantly after it leaves your mouth. Moon's movements pause, if only for a moment. "No."

"I can clean up the blood."

"It's okay."

"And the mess in the living room."

"It's fine."

"I can do this part too, you know, if you're still-"

A tighter grip around your face, Moon's smile thins into annoyance. "Stop. Moving."

Fine, sure. You raise your hands up into the air as a mockery of surrender as he runs a rag underneath the sink water and dabs it in places where blood traveled and you did not see. Your faces is scrubbed clean (ratherly harshly, and probably thanks to your commentary) along with your neck and collarbone. He doesn't bother with the stains on your shirt or shirt collar and you take that as inward confirmation that this shirt was done for.

So you stand in the process, eyes closed and thinking about what to make for dinner as the animatronic does his work. Finally after a good five minutes of silence, he lets you go. Opening your eyes, Moon steps back, looking you over once more. The blooded rag is tossed into the garbage bin instead of the laundry basket, and he turns from you to gather the tissue paper on the sink and dump those in the trash as well. "Shirt."

"Yeah, yeah I know, I know." You're pulling the shirt off before he even finished the sentence, running a thick part, unstained part under the water before exiting the bathroom. Might as well use it to clean up the rest if you can't salvage the clothing.

Luckily for you, the stains on the floor and wall come off with some hard scrubbing and some cleaner you keep under the kitchen sink. You've tossed the ruined shirt into the trash as Moon exits the bathroom, presummably finished cleaning in there, and make eye contact in the hallway.

He looks normal, almost default as red eyes and white pupils look over your rather disheviled, shirtless form. But your gaze glances down to his hands, twitchy, stuffed inside of the sweatpants you scored for them at a thrift store, and you know better.

You sniff with a clear sinus this time. "I'm all better now."

Moon's faceplate turns to an sharp angle.

"How do you feel?" You test the waters. The dark of the hallway feels warm, the glow of his unwavering gaze feels warmer. "Moon-?"

"Fine." He cuts you off. The animatronic walks up to you, a hand raised, it comes to your face, his own unchanging. A warm palm presses against your cheek, to your neck, against your pulse.

Double checking. It's all it is. Double checking.

"Fine." He repeats, and his palm drops. "Go sit."

You wish you could read his expression. Sometimes you can't. The animatronic turns his back and you do the same to the living room, finding your phone on the coffee table where you've left it. You're screen is still-mid spot where the mobile game left you, so you save your place.

A moment later, a shirt is thrown over your head, and crinckly package tossed in your lap. Lifting up the frabic, some basic crackers are in front of you. The weight on the sofa shifts as Moon plops down as you're pulling on the shirt, his own form criss-crossing.

It is better not to push. Not unless you wanted to trigger an unwanted, stressful change. "Wanna see this game I'm playing? You take care of digital little cats."

His head tilts again, this time more of curisoity than something else. You crawl into the lap waiting for you, pulling up the game and positioning the screen so he could watch. No words are said, but comfortability is had, and the two of you settle. Silence is broken only by the sound of the buttons clicking and game music playing.

Moon chuckles, though, when you capture a cat and that's half-black and white and name is after him.

[reikunrei]

feeling incredibly averse to posting this but i'm just gonna drop my kofi link here in case anyone wants to help me get out of my increasingly shitty situation living with my parents

more info below ig

after having given my parents nearly $100k over the last four years, i'd love to be able to actually leave. my future job situation is still up in the air (i've submitted for about a dozen positions and the only one i've heard back from and interviewed for hasn't gotten back to me yet), and i haven't been able to build up any savings because, again, i was (and still am) helping my family afford rent and bills, and probably the taxes my parents are behind on, but if i think about that, i'll get too angry. no joke, i've given my family, at the bare minimum, 85% of my income over the last 4 years. the rest of it has gone toward medical stuff and, now, my car

at this point, with the combo of my mom refusing to lower her standards and my dad's seeming refusal to hunt for a new full time job, i don't see how they won't continue to bleed me dry. my dad even has a bad habit of taking money out of my old savings account that he's a joint owner on or whatever from when i got it set up when i was 16, even when i stopped actively putting money in it, so now any time it gets its automated $1 transfer from my checking account, he'll just take that $1 without consulting me. i'm not exaggerating, even if it has $1-2 in it, it'll be gone within a week

i've even put off starting on testosterone because of this. i wanted to start it like 3 years ago, but kept putting it off because of money issues and wanting to save as much as possible. i got really close to actually starting it this year, but because of how messy everything is, i put it off again bc having one more thing on my plate, especially when my parents are already weird about me being trans, was not something i wanted to deal with

not to mention, we're still currently not living under a lease in our house that we're, as far as i'm aware, still tens of thousands of dollars behind in rent on (again, my dad refuses to disclose our financial position honestly with any of us) and it's developed many, many issues bc the landlord, even before we were behind on rent, is shit and refuses to actually fix anything. and my dad loves to just ignore things unless we beg him to do something

i'd love to be on my own (in the, much more affordable, midwest) by the end of summer. i by no means want to rely on donations and i have other avenues i'm working with to make money (i still have my current full time job, but i'm going through my old belongings and selling a lot online), but i'll take any help i can get atp because i'm truly at my wits end. i'd start doing art commissions again if i could, but doing that from 2020-2022, partially on top of my full time job, absolutely wrecked my right hand and i'm still in enough pain that i can't make it a regular activity

idk how much else there is to say. there's more i could say but... i don't really wanna air all my dirty laundry here. i'm miserable in so many ways and it's just become increasingly clear that my dad expects me to constantly cover his ass. my younger brother gives money too, but he manages to go on big cross-country and overseas trips with friends, so i think i've been stuck with the burden of giving the most money. there's so many more things going on in the world rn and everyone is stretched thin so i don't expect much, or anything, but. idk. might as well throw it out there, right?

i’ve also since taken down the gfm i set up last year when we got our first eviction notice bc, while we still need the money, i don’t feel right keeping it up for multiple reasons, including “i don’t want to give any of that money to my family” and it feels too… serious to keep it up when i could just throw out my kofi instead

i just want to make sure i have some sort of safety net to catch me if i move before anything job-wise is finalized. i need to be able to afford a place to live for at least a month so i can job-search while physically being in the area i wanna move to, which would ultimately make it easier for me to find a job at all. i'm working on being more firm with giving less money so i can actually have the means to move and be safe and comfortable, but... that never lasts long in this house

anyway. that's it, i guess. thanks for reading

[sacredsnape]

Could you do a one shot for Remus please, after a full moon he doesn’t come back home immediately and reader is just worried and when he does come back he snaps at her because he’s tired, she gets hurt, gives him silent treatment but still tend to his wounds then cries and he hears her

I love this request, it has me in my feels 🥲

Genre: angst/fluff

Warnings: mentions of injuries and blood

Masterlist

Remus wasn't home yet.

He usually returned home the morning after the full moon, but now it was nearing noon, and you were worried sick.

"Remus?" you called every time you stepped outside, hoping to see him. You and him lived in a cottage near the woods he'd run into to transform, so it only made sense that he'd appear there.

You eventually just sat outside on the front porch to wait, your leg bouncing with nerves. You felt hot tears well up in your eyes and trickle down your cheeks, falling onto your shirt.

Suddenly, the bushes lining the woods rustled. You quickly stood up, grabbing your wand just in case before crying out in relief when Remus stumbled out of the bushes.

"Remus!" you cried, running over to your boyfriend. He was in bad shape; he was more scratched up than usual and had a nasty gash on his arm that was still bleeding heavily.

"Oh, Remus," you sobbed softly as you reached him, opening your arms to hug him, "I thought I'd lost you-"

"Don't fucking touch me," Remus snapped. Your heart dropped. You stood back, staring at him in shock. "Leave me alone, Y/N."

Remus brushed past you, limping towards your cottage. You didn't move, your heart hammering as an icy shock coursed through you.

What did you do wrong? You greeted him the same way you did every time he came home, so why did he snap at you?

More tears filled your eyes, but they weren't tears of relief anymore. You struggled to swallow the lump in your throat as you entered the cottage, following Remus's trail of blood to the bathroom.

You found him already submerged in the bathtub, the water up to his chin. He didn't look at you as you walked in, his eyes trained on the water surrounding him, which had turned dark red.

"Remus," you tried again, a little desperate this time. "Why are you-"

"Stop it," he cut in, his voice gruff as he dragged the sponge across his muddy, bloodstained arms. "Just stop it, okay?"

Remus couldn't bring himself to look at you. He knew that you were crying, judging by your shuddering breaths and sharp inhales, and he felt extremely guilty. He had been in a terrible fight with another werewolf and was far too exhausted to talk to you right now.

Despite your anger and hurt, you huffed, sitting down on the edge of the tub and snatching the sponge from Remus. He still didn't look at you, causing your heart to break even more.

You reached for the bottle of body wash and squirted more of it onto the sponge. You began to wash Remus, being careful with the deep wound on his arm. The two of you sat in stony silence that was only interrupted by the gentle splashing of water and your sniffling.

After the bath, you helped Remus dry off and dress. You cleaned and dried his wounds, bandaging them with care. You then drained the water in the tub and threw the dirty towels into the laundry. Finally, you gave Remus his healing potions. He didn't thank you, simply drinking them and then handing you back the empty vials.

Remus went to bed. You went to the living room and cried your eyes out into the cushions on the sofa. You felt miserable, your mind racing as you wondered what, if anything, you had done wrong.

Maybe he was cheating on you. You'd seen the way other women looked at him whenever you two went out together. You couldn't blame them; Remus was indeed very handsome, but he was yours, unless all that attention from other women was starting to peak his interest.

The cushion you had your face buried in smelled like Remus. Chocolate, coffee, and cinnamon. You let out an angry sob and hurled the pillow across the living room, watching through teary eyes as it knocked down a photo of you and him from the mantelpiece.

The glass frame shattered on the hardwood floor. You winced at the unpleasant noise, standing on wobbly legs to investigate what you had done. The photo was of you and Remus on your first date exactly a year ago today. It sat lopsided in the shards of glass, and you cautiously bent down to pick it up, gasping when a sharp corner nicked your finger.

Cradling your bleeding finger, you looked at the photo. You were sitting on Remus's lap, his big arms secured around your waist. The photo moved, showing you laughing at some corny joke you'd heard, while Remus smiled at you with so much kindness and warmth on his face. You two had been at a friend's party, you having ended up on his lap after a dare made by said friend. You remembered how flustered you had felt in that moment, especially after feeling your now boyfriend's bulge brushing against your bare skin in your skirt.

Remus was your lover. He always had been and always will be, even if you were pissed at him, and he was ignoring you.

You had to fix this. With more sobs leaving you, you impulsively gathered up the broken glass in the air with your wand. They levitated before you, and you were halfway to the kitchen to put the frame back together, when your wand slipped from your trembling hand and the glass fell, shattering further.

Some of it cut you mid-fall, and you gave up, slumping onto the kitchen counter with your face buried in your arms as you wept, your cries echoing around the small kitchen.

You screamed in surprise when you suddenly felt large, warm hands pulling you up. The hands turned you to face their owner, and you saw Remus standing before you, his face and voice etched with genuine concern.

"Sweetheart, what are you doing? There's glass all over the floor. Your hands are all cut up too," Remus spoke softly, cradling your tear-stained face in his bandaged hands.

You struggled to catch your breath, your words slurring slightly as you tearfully asked, "Who is it, Remus? Who are you cheating on me with? Is it Madam Rosmerta?!"

Remus stared at you for a moment before laughing, shaking his head. "Madam Rosmerta? Dove, what are you talking about? I'm not cheating on you with anybody. You're my only love."

"Then why have you been ignoring me ever since you got home?" you sobbed, burying your face in his chest out of habit. The soft fabric of his cardigan nuzzled your cheek, and you whimpered and held onto him tightly.

"Love, I'm so sorry," Remus sighed as he rubbed soothing circles into your back, embracing you. "I'm just tired. I got into a bad fight with another werewolf. I shouldn't have snapped at you or ignored you, though. There's no excuse for my behavior. I'm so very sorry, my baby."

You whimpered again. Remus gently kissed the top of your head, looking around at the glass all over the floor. He noticed the photo and put two and two together, squeezing you.

"How did the photo break?" Remus softly asked you, continuing to rub your back. You shook your head, refusing to answer in fear that he'd get mad at you.

Remus squeezed you again. "It's okay if you broke it," he promised.

You sighed and finally looked up at him, your heart swelling with love. You loved Remus no matter what and he seemed to feel the same, as he kissed you deeply and held you closer.

"It's okay, darling. You're okay. Let me take care of you," Remus soothed. He pulled away to grab bandages from a cabinet, keeping his hand on your hip. You giggled as he cleaned and bandaged the cuts on your hands, his lips grazing your forehead.

"There we go. We're both going to end up looking like mummies with all these bandages if we get any more injuries," Remus chuckled quietly, kissing your cheek.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, hooking your arms around the back of his neck.

"For what?" Remus mumbled as his lips wandered down to your neck, kissing you there.

"I don't know."

Remus laughed against your neck, the vibration of his voice slightly ticklish. "Then don't say sorry if you don't know what to be sorry for," Remus said lightly. "In fact, you have no reason to be sorry. I'm the only one who should be sorry."

"But I forgive you," you answered meekly, wiping your eyes. "I'm not mad at you anymore."

Remus leaned up to kiss your lips, his lips soft and warm against yours. "That doesn't mean I've forgiven myself. I feel terrible for making my girl cry."

"I'm okay now," you insisted, despite tears continuing to leak from your eyes. Remus wiped your tears away with his thumbs, humming lowly.

"What can I do to make it up to you?" he asked, resting his chin on your shoulder as he hugged you flush to his body.

You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling him smile against your neck.

"Just talk to me next time," you sighed, pecking the side of his head. "You know I'm always here to listen to you and take care of you."

You felt his smile grow. "That I can do, my love," Remus said. "I promise."

[haleyhunwritess]

hiiii if requests are open can u write one where she has bad period cramps and its seb or bucky taking care of her with like lots of fluff and maybe he teases her for crying at a commercial because shes feeling hormonal cuz of her period but it just ends with a lot of fluff💕

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐝

pairing: bucky x reader

warning: period cramps, FLUFFFF

a/n: i woke up with the worst cramps possible and all i wanted was to cuddle with someone but i'm on campus now trying to get some work done :( i wanna post some more period comfort fics, maybe today or tomorrow! i have an old period comfort fic request from @chrisevansdaughter that i'm working on that i can hopefully post soon 💗

"Do you think it's bleeding? It feels like it's bleeding." Bucky groaned, rubbing the back of his head.

"Oh please, you're fine." You mumbled from the couch, clutching your lower abdomen while holding your breath as your cramps started to get worse.

This morning you'd woken up to the most painful cramps you've ever experienced. You assumed that they were pre-period cramps, and tried to go back to sleep. However, a few minutes later, you felt Bucky's hand on your shoulder gently shaking you awake. You mumbled five more minutes, before trying to go back to sleep.

"Love, wake up," he whispered, glancing down at the dark stain on the bed, "You're bleeding, doll."

Suddenly awake, you quickly opened your eyes and turned to look down at the crimson stain on the bed. Groaning loudly, you put your head in your hands. You normally got your period on time, though sometimes it could be a day or two late. It was rarely ever early. You weren't supposed to get your period for another 4 days, and yet here it was. You felt embarrassed, but fortunately that feeling didn't last long as your body started to cramp up again. You whimpered loudly, while clutching your stomach and struggling to breathe.

You struggled to sit up, as the cramps were somehow starting to get even worse. Bucky quickly put one arm behind your back, and held your hand in his, to help you sit up. You quietly thanked him before turning your gaze back down to the stain, and cursing silently, "I'm so sorry, bubba, I wasn't supposed to get my period yet. I didn't mean to ruin your sheets."

"Love, I'm not mad at you. You have nothing to be sorry about, it's okay. I'm sorry I had to wake you up but we've gotta get you cleaned up." Bucky kissed your forehead, before getting up and leaving the room.

He came back a few minutes later with some towels, a water bottle, and some ibuprofen. He handed you the ibuprofen first, which you gladly took before washing it down with some water. Then he helped you get up carefully, holding you gently in his arms as he lead you over to the bathroom. He put the towels down on the counter, then walked over to the shower to turn on the hot water.

"Alright, doll. You take as long as you need in there, okay? If you need anything, just shout and I'll come running. I'm just gonna go clean up in the room, okay?" Before you could even protest, he left the bathroom to take the sheets to the laundry.

You stepped out of the shower after a while, already starting to feel a bit better. You noticed Bucky had left a pair of his sweatpants and his favourite hoodie on the counter next to the towels. There was also a bag of supplies on the ground, with different feminine hygiene products, a heating pad, some painkillers you were definitely going to need later, and some other essentials. After drying yourself off with the towel, you got dressed quickly and decided to go check on Bucky.

You found him downstairs in the kitchen, pouring hot water into a cup. Walking over to him, you noticed a familiar sweet smell coming from the kitchen. That's when you noticed a fresh batch of his painfully-delicious pancakes sitting on the counter. You put your arms around his waist, pulling him closer to you. He turned around, and pulled you into his arms gently, being careful not to hug you too tight in case you still have cramps.

You helped him carry the pancakes and the tea over to the living room. You sat down in front of the TV and started flipping through the channels. Bucky picked up your fork, and started feeding you small bites as you settled on what show to watch. Eventually, breakfast was over and you were cuddled up on the couch watching titanic. You've only seen the movie once and you found the ending sad, but you never cry at the ending. Until today. It seemed like your body was determined to make you miserable today as you wiped the tears that were streaming down your face at a fast pace. You hoped Bucky wouldn't notice that you were crying, especially just because of a movie. You glanced over at him and noticed he was straight at you, and trying to stifle a laugh. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't contain his laughter anymore. He got up from the couch, still laughing, as you glared him.

"Screw you, Barnes, it's not funny!" You picked up a pillow from the couch and threw it at him, but it only made him laugh harder.

"I'm sorry, love, I couldn't help it!" He chuckled as he picked up the pillow and threw it back on the couch next to you. "I didn't think you were one to cry at movies like that. It wasn't like one glistening tear either, doll, you were nearly sobbing. Don't get me wrong though, it was adorable!"

"You jerk!" You picked up the pillow again and threw it at him but it missed him once again. As he bent over to pick the pillow back up, you picked up the remote this time, and launched it at him. Unfortunately, this time it actually hit him.

"Ow, what the-" He got up, rubbing the back of his head, "That actually hurt, doll, what was that?"

"The remote" You mumbled, trying not to laugh.

He glared at you before bending down to pick up the pillow and throw it back at you. Although he didn't mean to, he threw it pretty hard and it hit your stomach, right as the cramps decided to make a comeback. He quickly apologized and walked over to you to make sure you weren't hurt too bad.

"Just go get me the pain-killers, doofus." You mumbled, laying down sideways, clutching your lower abdomen.

He got up and made his way to the kitchen, still rubbing the spot at the back of his head, the one where you threw the remote at.

"Do you think it's bleeding? It feels like it's bleeding." Bucky groaned, as he continued to rub the back of his head, checking for any blood.

"Oh please, you're fine." You mumbled from the couch, clutching your lower abdomen while holding your breath as your cramps started to get worse.

taglist/moots: @chrisevansdaughter @cherryflavoredchapsticck @livvinitt @marvel1984 @mustacherrylover @babyhatesreality @timidpumpkin @matchat3a @pono-pura-vida @sonalokibarnes @alex-ackerman-11  @ailathealternate @lollabear @buckysugar

[artfullheart]

Laundry Tips

I've been meaning to make an extensive list of tips as someone who worked in a laundromat. Some basics and a few things I noticed not many people know. This is also coming from someone who learned to take care of my clothes early on to save money cause we're all broke here, so these tips also save you money:

•If you're not sure how to separate colors, have 2 piles, lights and darks/brights. Obviously black clothes and bright colors like red or yellow should be separate from whites. But when you get any color clothing that's not a light color, or if you're not sure if it counts as "light", take a corner of the item and run it under warm water, then squeeze the water out and check if the water comes out with dye. If it does there's a high chance it will bleed dye on your clothes, so wash it with the darks.

•You do not need brand laundry detergent. Any laundry detergent will do. I experimented with a few brands and all brands cleaned just fine. Just know, if you use powder detergent, check the instructions because most have to be used with warm or hot water.

•Don't use that much soap. You're using too much. More soap doesn't mean more clean, the measurements on the container are made to be the exact amount you need. More soap means the machine has to work harder to rinse it out and you get soap residue more than likely, which can make you itchy or make allergies worse.

•You don't really need to wash anything in hot water regularly. Cold water is fine for most things, and makes your clothes last longer. You only really need hot water for things you clean less frequently or things that need disinfecting, like pillows, bath rugs, and comforters.

•With things that need disinfecting like bath rugs, pet blankets, reusable period pads/undies, and soiled sheets, use half a cup of hydrogen peroxide in the bleach tray. It's a color safe bleach so you can add it to any color item. For items that stink, like pet items or workout gear, add half a cup of vinegar instead of softener. It works better than the expensive "sport" detergent. Even on urine smells. I got this tip from a nurse that works in a hospice.

•To be honest, softener is unnecessary. You can soften clothes with half a cup of vinegar in the softener tray. You won't smell it once it's washed, in case you're worried about that. Softener is terrible for clothes, it actually ads a coating to fabric so if an item is supposed to pull sweat from your body, like workout gear, towels, or summer clothing, it looses the ability with just a couple washes with softener. And fire resistant clothing like baby clothes will lose the ability if washed with softener.

•If it's the smell you want, I recommend wool dryer balls. They help dry your clothes better anyway. But for scented clothes, add like 5 drops of any essential oil to a couple of them, or dip them in a hydrosol like rose water for a bit and then toss them in the dryer. I've heard people do this with perfume too, but I've never tried it.

•Treating stains is easier if you do it as soon as it happens. Or as soon as you get home. If you can't wash it right away, put a couple drops of laundry soap on the stain and dab it into the stain with a damp cloth, or use a stain spray if you have one. If the stain is cooking oil, hair products, or any type of grease, put a couple drops of Dawn dish soap on it. There's a reason they use it for oil spills. Just don't add any to your washing machine, it can cause the machine to suds up too much and break it. When you wash the item, check if the stain came out. If not, air dry it. Heat sets in stains so drying it in a machine will make the stain impossible to remove.

•If you have the space please air dry your clothes in the sun. Please. It's so good. It makes your clothes smell great, makes them last longer, helps remove stains, and brightens whites like bleach never could. I live in an apartment but I hang clothes next to the window in the spring/summer and its so good.

-Clothing labels lie. Here's a breakdown of what needs special care and what doesn't:

•Wool and silk are cold wash only. Hand wash if you can, but if you must machine wash, use cold ONLY. Use a delicate setting if your washer has one. It should be air dried. Get a drying rack. If you absolutely cannot air dry, dry wool clothing on cold/delicate for 10 minutes at a time until it's barely damp, then leave it open on your bed/couch or over a chair. Do not dry silk. It's expensive, why would you ruin it. Hang it on a hanger and hook it over your door if you have nowhere else to hang it. It dries quickly.

•Cotton can be washed any temp, but everything lasts longer in cold wash. Dry on normal, only dry on high if the item needs disinfecting or if the item is thick, like a pillow, bath rug, or comforter.

•Linen is indestructible. Linen is stonewashed to soften it, which means people put the fabric in large washing machines filled with rocks to beat it so it softens. Wash on high and dry on high to soften it more if the item is stiff, but a cold wash and normal dry is fine otherwise.

•Synthetics like polyester, acrylic, nylon, etc. are best washed cold and dried on normal/warm. More delicate items like thin blouses, stockings, and anything with lace is best air dried, but can be dried on cold/delicate if necessary. Synthetic clothes are more prone to staining so treat stains as soon as they happen.

•SOME dry clean only clothing is fine in the washer, but I'd say dry clean it if you're not sure. If it's an item with no lining it's usually fine, but always air dry these. Dresses, blouses or skirts with stiff linings will lose their shape in the washer. Easiest way to tell, if you turn a dry clean item inside out and there's a white paper like fabric lining certain areas it can't be machine washed. That's a stabilizer/interfacing and it will get ruined. Always dry clean suit jackets, coats, and anything labeled dry clean that's filled with feathers. Some suit pants can be machine washed, but make sure it doesn't have any interfacing. If a dry clean item has lots of colors on it, like a multicolored shirt, or a black dress with a white collar, dry clean it. It will get ruined otherwise.

__________________

I think that's everything, but if anyone has any questions, especially for doing laundry with a disability/low spoons, ask on this post or in the tags. My inbox seems to swallow messages but I'll keep checking this post.

[bullet-prooflove]

Botany: Angel Reyes x Reader

Tagging: @witches-unruly-heart @annetje @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @the-wandering-lunatic @anime-weeb-4-life @vannabanana1995 @multifandomloversworld @camelia35 @harperdoodle @queeniesdiary @laylasbunbunny @est1887 @briefpersonenemy @lilvampirina @creativitybeware @genius2050 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @oureternalbond  @rubes2323

Angel always washes his sheets when he knows you’re coming over, there’s something about being surrounded by the scent of fresh laundry and you that completely ruins him. He finds he sleeps better in clean linen, and it becomes a weekly thing instead of fortnightly, even when the two of you haven’t made plans.

He drinks less these days, his fridge actually full of food instead of orange juice and beer because he likes to make you breakfast in the aftermath, sometimes you like to cook when you come over. He enjoys having you around, he looks forward to the nights where you’re his and only his.

There’s a domesticity to the relationship, one that he’s never allowed himself to have before. The women he’s been with since Luisa are fast and fleeting, a place to drown himself when the world becomes too much to bear, and he needs to lose himself.

It’s when he comes home to you, wrist deep in dirt, pulling weeds from the flower beds that line the front of his house that he realises how serious shit has got between the two of you.

“Sorry.” You tell him, using the back of your hand to brush a strand of your hair away from your face. “It’s been bothering me for a while.”

“Yea, no it’s fine.” He tells you, kneeling down and taking up residence next to you. He looks at you wearing one of his shirts thrown over a strap top and those Levi’s that fit you just right. You’re completely in your element, your face streaked with soil, hair tied back as you work. His lover, the kush farmer, the gardener, the botanist.

“We need to prep the soil.” You tell him, letting the gritty, dry earth slip through your fingers. “All of this is devoid of nutrients, I’ll get some compost from the farm, maybe some manure from the horses up by Riz’s place, dig it out and liven it up a bit. Is that ok with you?”

“What will you grow?” His voice rough as he speaks because he’s never had someone so invested. He thinks it means that you’re here to stay because you know, he sure as shit has no fucking idea how to keep something other than himself alive.

“I was thinking we could choose something together.” You say, nudging your shoulder with his. “Play into your vibe, probably some succulents and cacti. I don’t think you’re a lilacs kinda guy, although they are a great pollinator, you’d probably end up with some butterflies and bees. They’re pretty good at smothering weeds too and the smell when summer hits…” You trail off, your cheeks colouring as you tilt your head to meet his gaze. “Sorry I’m getting ahead of myself. Your garden, your rules.”

Fuck you’re captivating to watch. He doesn’t know anything about this horticulture shit but for you it’s a passion, you light up when you talk about it, you’re in your element with your fingers in the earth. He doesn’t know what the hell he did to deserve you.

“I love you.” He blurts out suddenly and he expects you to be taken aback, to reel away from the force of the words that leave his mouth.

“I know,” You tell him, a smile gracing your features as you take in his surprised expression. “You think I don’t see it?”

He’s got nothing to say to that, he really hasn’t. He knows he’s not the most forthcoming of men, he plays his cards close to his chest when it comes to his feelings because he’s been burned before. However, he is impulsive, emotion driven, he feels deeply. He’s not surprised that it bleeds into his physical actions.

“The shit you do for me, it means the world. Making sure I eat in the morning, when you know I’m about to spend a day in the fields, giving me a ride home when I’m too tired to function, running a bath when you know I’m sore. I’ve never been with someone so attuned to me. So, yea, I love you too, and this…” you point at the flowerbed. “is my way of showing it. I’m just really shit at expressing myself, hence why I’m letting you pick the plants instead of just throwing myself into it.”

He laughs because what you don’t realise is that all of these things you’ve listed reflect the shit you do for him. The nights you hold him close in the darkness after he’s had a nightmare, hands soothing over his back as you whisper in his ear, the fact you know he always needs physical reassurance when the two of you are together. You never judge him for it, you never make him feel needy or clingy.

“C’mere.” He mutters, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and drawing you close. You smell like fresh earth, musky and rich, he buries his face in your hair, the contours of your body fitting perfectly against him.  “I love you and you can plant whatever the fuck you want.”

Love Angel? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Prompt request: nesta breaks her washing machine and Cassian is the hot maintenance guy who comes to fix it 😏😏😏

Nesta using her sharp wits to purposefully break various home appliances totally counts for Day Two: Sharp of @nestaarcheronweek, right? Let's all just squint and pretend it does! Anyways! Thanks to the besties for helping me plot this (and for enabling me, let's be honest.... y'all know what you did), for sending this ask to remind me of, and of course, thanks to everyone who reads. I hope you enjoy :)

Read on AO3

Water.

There’s water, pools of it, covering the floor around her washing machine.

Nesta lets out a string of curses, quickly rushing to grab towels from the linen closet. She drops the towels to the ground, trying desperately to soak up as much of the water as she can before it starts to seep through the floor and into the apartment below her.

This is the last thing she needs this week, but of course, that’s just her luck. She supposes this is what she gets for putting off doing her laundry as long as she did. She hates having to do it, hates having to stop whatever she’s doing to switch loads, else she’ll be waiting for dry sheets until late into the night, hates having to fold everything afterwards. And now that she’s held it off until she’s down to her last pairs of clean underwear, her washing machine has decided to break.

With towels covering her floor and hopefully helping keep the water damage to a minimum, Nesta grabs her phone, searching for handymen near her. She clicks the first place that Google spits out, Illyria Handymen Services. Thankfully, when she calls, they say they can send someone out for a consultation today. She lets out a breath of relief and hangs up, trudging back to her laundry unit and beginning the painstaking task of cleaning up the remaining water as best she can.

She’s not sure how much time has passed when there’s a knock at her apartment door. She clambers up to her feet to answer it, and when she pulls open her front door, she realizes that the Mother, the Cauldron, and every other deity are most definitely laughing at her. Her hair is thrown up in a messy bun atop her head, strands already breaking free from her effort to clean up the water, she’s wearing an old, oversized tee that now has various water patches bleeding through the fabric, and there standing in front of her is probably the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen.

He’s tall, almost a whole head taller than her, and large, all broad shoulders and muscle under the blue work jumpsuit he’s currently sporting. Dark curls fall down to his shoulders, perfectly framing a strong cut jawline and bright hazel eyes. For a moment, Nesta is distracted by the scar cutting through his right eyebrow, but then the man smiles in greeting, a small dimple popping in his left cheek, and she swears her knees almost buckle.

“Hey, there,” the man says easily, glancing down at the clipboard in his hands… his large hands. “I’m Cassian with Illyria Handymen Services. You called about a washing machine?”

“Yeah,” Nesta answers, the breathless quality to her voice finally jarring her back to the present. She clears her throat and steps back, allowing Cassian to enter. “It’s this way.”

With a nod, Cassian steps inside her apartment, quietly closing the door behind him. He follows Nesta to where her laundry unit is, eying the array of towels still placed all around the washer. He steps closer and pulls a flashlight from his belt, shining it down into the washer to look.

“I was running a load, and when I came back to check if it was almost done, there was just water everywhere,” Nesta explains, trying and failing not to trace her eyes along the expanse of Cassian’s back, to follow the line of his spine down to his ass, while he leans over her washing machine. “I’m not really sure where it came from or what happened.”

“And was there any standing water in the washer?” Cassian asks, stepping back and crouching down in front of the machine.

“No. All my clothes were fine. It was like it had run the cycle as normal.”

Cassian hums in understanding, as he continues to examine the space around the washing machine. “There’s a lot of lint and dust back here.”

Nesta can feel a flush of embarrassment at the comment threatening to creep up her neck, and she crosses her arms in indignation even though Cassian can’t see her with his back turned. “Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to clean back there with the way the unit’s built in.”

Cassian chuckles softly, and Nesta hates the way that small, simple sound has goosebumps skittering up her arms. She hates how warm and welcoming it is, quickly filling the space around them and wrapping around her limbs. She hates that she wants to hear it again, wants to hear him laugh for real.

“It’s a good thing actually,” Cassian explains, standing back to his full height. “If it was an issue with the washer’s drainage, you’d have standing water in the washer. An issue with the plumbing, with the water coming back up, that would have washed away all the lint and dust.”

“So then what’s the issue?”

“Could be the machine itself… is the dryer acting up too?” Cassian pulls open the dryer door to check, and Nesta winces as her clothes start to tumble out the opening. “Oh. Sorry.” Cassian quickly shoves her clothes back and closes the door again. “Was all that in the washer?”

“Yeah, I… I sort of put off doing laundry too long.”

“Well there’s your problem, sweetheart,” Cassian tells her, switching off his flashlight and turning around to face her again. “You can’t overstuff the washer. Otherwise, the water has nowhere to go and it can leak out the top, dripping down and flooding your floor.”

“Oh.”

“The good news is, your machine is fine, so you don’t need to repair or replace it.”

“That’s definitely good news.”

Cassian slides his flashlight back into his belt and pulls out his phone, offering her a sheepish smile. “It is still $45 for the consultation though. Sorry.”

Nesta waves him off with a hand, more than happy to just pay the consultation fee rather than needing to buy a whole new washing machine. She goes to grab her purse and digs out her credit card, handing it over for Cassian to slide through the card reader on his phone. She signs what needs to be signed on his clipboard, accepting her copy of the paperwork, and then she’s leading Cassian back to her front door.

“Thanks again for your help and the quick turnaround,” Nesta tells him, pulling the door open.

“No problem at all. And maybe next time, consider smaller loads.”

“Maybe I like large loads,” Nesta dares to remark, biting her lip suggestively and staring up at him.

The way the hazel of his eyes spark, a smirk tugging up the left side of his lips, has Nesta’s heart flipping over itself in her chest. “Then I guess you better make sure you keep plenty of towels on hand.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta can’t stop thinking about Cassian for the rest of the week. She tries to focus on her work, even goes out for drinks with Emerie and Gwyn Friday night, but every guy in the bar is too short, too small, too blonde, too lacking of hazel eyes and a cheeky grin and that damned dimple. The way he seems to haunt her is both infuriating and intoxicating.

By the time the next week rolls around, Nesta finds herself standing in her kitchen, tapping one of the screwdrivers from the simple toolkit Feyre gifted her when she moved in against her lips. She eyes the different appliances before settling on the microwave. She opens the door and looks inside, noticing the two screws near the door. She gets to work loosening them, and when she tries to close the door again, it doesn’t quite lock correctly. She steps as far back as she can, using her screwdriver to press the start button on the microwave and braces for the worst. It lights up for barely half a second before everything shuts off.

Perfect.

“We meet again,” Cassian greets when Nesta pulls open her door a few hours later. “I hope you’re not overstuffing your washing machine again.”

“Actually, it’s my microwave that’s acting up this time.”

Cassian hums and steps inside her apartment. His eyes sweep over her frame, and Nesta practically preens under the intensity of his gaze. She made sure she was presentable this time. Her hair is braided back and pinned in a crown around her head, two curls pulled free in the front and framing her face. She put on her tight, blue sweater, the v cut of the neckline just teasing enough and the color the perfect shade to bring out her eyes.

“So, where’s the problem then?” Cassian asks, his voice gruffer than she’s heard it and sending a shiver up her spine.

“This way,” Nesta offers, turning and leading him toward the kitchen.

She leans back against her counter while Cassian looks at her microwave. She can’t quite take her eyes off the way his fingers curl around his flashlight, of the peek of tattoos she gets when he pushes the sleeves of his work jumpsuit up to his elbows, of the veins and muscles of his forearms now on full display. And she especially can’t take her eyes off the way his lips curl into a smirk like he can feel her gaze on him.

“It looks like you just have some loose screws,” Cassian says, gesturing toward the screws like Nesta doesn’t know exactly which ones are loose. “When the door can’t close properly, the microwave shuts itself off as a fail safe, so I can just tighten these for you, and you’ll be good to go.”

“Oh, okay. That sounds good.”

“It was probably just wear and tear that caused them to loosen,” Cassian continues, pulling a screwdriver from his belt and turning back to tighten the screws. “Do you use your microwave a lot?”

“Yeah, I use it for most of my dinners unless I’m ordering takeaway. I was actually making dinner when it stopped working.” It’s a half truth at least.

“Didn’t feel like cooking?”

“Oh, I can’t cook.”

Cassian pauses, turning his head toward Nesta again. “At all? I mean everyone can at least make pasta. Boil some water, pour the box pasta in. Can even get those jar sauces.”

“Trust me, I’d burn a boiling pot of water.”

Cassian laughs, that same light and warm sound, and finishes the last screw, sliding his screwdriver back into place along his belt before leaning his hip against the counter and facing Nesta fully. “Well, if you ever want some pointers, not to brag, but I’ve been told I’m a pretty good cook myself.”

“Is that so?” Nesta asks, daring to move closer. “And what’s your specialty dish then?”

“Chili actually. I have my own recipe that I’ve perfected.”

“Perfect? Maybe you should enter it into the annual chili competition that the firehouse sponsors.”

“I’ve already placed every year, sweetheart,” Cassian shoots back, his smirk wide and his eyes turning almost molten with the way they glint under her kitchen lights. “Of course, you have to be able to handle the heat.”

“Don’t worry. I can handle the heat,” Nesta assures him, not even bothering to bite back the sultry, suggestive undertones to her voice, smirking herself.

“Good to know.”

~ * * * ~

It becomes a push and pull between them. Different appliances around Nesta’s apartment surreptitiously have issues or need repair, and each time, she calls Illyria Handymen Services. Her dishwasher not draining has Cassian finding bits of paper towel blocking the filter and drain at the bottom. Her toilet not flushing leads to Cassian rehooking the chain that somehow came loose.

Whenever he’s in her apartment, Cassian smiles and laughs and makes suggestive comments. Nesta gives as good as she gets, and she finds she looks forward to each repair, each interaction she gets with him. She looks forward to seeing those hazel eyes and that dimple. She looks forward to their teasing back and forth. She looks forward to the way his grin grows with each of her barbs, to the way her heart always stutters around him.

But despite their flirting, despite the way Nesta is sure that Cassian is as interested in her as she is in him, he’s yet to make a move any further. They got close with the last repair. Cassian had encouraged Nesta closer so he could show her exactly where the chain was meant to be in the toilet tank. She had to press closer in order to see, which had resulted in her getting a strong whiff of the woodsy, pine scent of him, had resulted in their faces being barely a breaths apart when they turned to make eye contact, had resulted in Cassian’s gaze dropping to Nesta’s lips for a moment.

And yet…

Nesta knows that she might need to up the game. Perhaps if the next repair is in her bedroom, Cassian will finally get the hint. She stands in her bedroom doorway and assesses her options. She doesn’t have much in the way of appliances that she can break. Her eyes land on her bed, tilting her head consideringly. Is it too on the nose? Probably. But sometimes, a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.

Nesta makes sure that her screwdriver is well stashed away before the knock to her apartment door comes. When she pulls it open, Cassian is leaning against the door jamb, a smile pulling slowly across his face.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Nes,” Cassian greets, the twinkle in his eyes betraying the teasing nature of the words.

“Are you going to do the repairs or am I going to have to call another handymen service?”

“Just show me where the problem is, sweetheart.”

Nesta leads Cassian down the hallway and into her bedroom, gesturing toward her broken bed frame. Cassian hesitates in the doorway, his eyes dancing around the space, taking in the overflowing bookshelf, the polaroids on the wall, the navy bed sheets. He clears his throat and finally strides inside, kneeling down in front of the bed to examine the damage. Just that sight alone has Nesta biting her lip, and she knows it will fuel plenty of fantasies to come.

“It looks like there’s some screws missing here,” Cassian explains, gesturing toward the frame. “I have some spares that should fit no problem, so it’ll be an easy fix and your bed will be good as new.”

“That’s good. It’s important to have a fully functioning bed.”

Nesta can just spot his smirk as Cassian pulls out fresh screws and gets to work, knowing her suggestive comment hit its mark. “I have to admit this is the first bed I’ve ever had to repair. How exactly did you break it?”

Nesta is glad that Cassian can’t see her face, can’t see the heat that floods into her cheeks. A lump starts to form in her throat, the words drying up on her tongue. It’s the first time he’s directly asked about her many broken appliances and items around the apartment. What is she meant to say? I broke it myself because you’re hot and I wanted an excuse to get you in my bedroom?

“Well, how else does one break a bed?” Nesta shoots back, hoping her voice sounds sufficiently sultry and not at all panicked.

She expects Cassian to make a suggestive remark right back, hopes that maybe this time the back and forth and flirting will finally lead to them tumbling right onto the newly fixed bed. Maybe, even, they can break it for real. She would definitely not complain about that turn of events. But instead, Cassian’s hands pause where he was working on the new screws, his shoulders tensing.

A moment passes. And then two.

Then, Cassian merely clears his throat and goes back to the task at hand. The silence that settles in the bedroom is uncomfortable, stifling, and Nesta wonders if she should say something more, but she can see the frown Cassian now wears as he finishes up fixing her bed frame in record time.

“All finished,” Cassian declares, sliding his screwdriver back into his belt and standing up. He won’t quite meet Nesta’s eyes as he digs his phone from his pocket, jaw clenched. “It’s $100 for the repair.”

It’s Nesta’s turn to frown. For all her previous repairs, Cassian had only charged the consultation fee. She swallows hard and goes to grab her wallet, replaying the past few minutes over and over in her mind. She tries to figure out what’s changed, what’s gone wrong. It’s as if a switch has been flipped. Gone is the smiling, laughing man that flirted with her, and in his place is this man who looks almost annoyed, some emotion Nesta can’t quite place swimming in his hazel eyes.

“Here,” Nesta offers quietly, holding out her card for him.

Cassian is quick to swipe it through the card reader on his phone and hand it and her copy of the paperwork back. “Have a good day.”

Without a glance backwards, Cassian walks out of her bedroom and her apartment. The snick of the front door closing behind him echoes with finality all the way down to Nesta’s bones, leaving her standing there in her bedroom and still reeling from what just happened.

She lasts all of two days before she’s standing in her kitchen again, anger and determination steeling her spine. She eyes the different appliances before settling on her refrigerator. She tugs it away from the wall enough that she can shine the flashlight of her phone behind it. She spots a line of some kind going from her refrigerator to the wall, so she reaches and unscrews it from the wall. With a satisfied nod at her work, she focuses on her phone again, dialing an all too familiar number.

And now she waits…

Nesta all but sprints to her front door when the knock sounds. She yanks it open, but it’s a different pair of hazel eyes that greet her, a head of short dark hair rather than long, a thinner though still athletic build rather than the large, wide one she was expecting. The disappointment that settles in her gut feels like a stone weighing her down.

“Hello. I’m Azriel with Illyria Handymen Services. You called about a repair?”

“Where’s Cassian?” Nesta asks before she can stop herself.

Azriel starts to smirk, an almost knowing look passing across his face, before he schools his expression again. “On another job. Sorry. But I’m sure I can fix whatever the problem seems to be.”

“Fine,” Nesta clips, turning on her heel and leading the way to the kitchen. “It’s my refrigerator.”

Azriel nods and pulls the refrigerator out from the wall, shining his flashlight behind to examine it. “Your water line came unscrewed from the wall it looks like. I wonder how that could have happened.”

“Yeah, I wonder,” Nesta grumbles, crossing her arms. She can’t believe her plan didn’t work, can’t believe she has to deal with this man instead of Cassian. Annoyance is red hot where it sears through her veins. Now she’ll have to figure out another appliance she can break. Cassian already fixed her washing machine. Maybe she can try for the dryer tomorrow.

“Maybe the mysterious man that lives with you broke it,” Azriel continues, reattaching the water line to the wall.

“Mysterious man…?”

“The one who broke your bed.”

“I broke my bed,” Nesta corrects with a roll of her eyes before she thinks better of it.

Azriel lets out an amused snort, standing up and readjusting her refrigerator back to its original position. “My mistake then. I guess it was two men. Perhaps named Black and Decker?”

“How much for the repair?” Nesta scowls, narrowing her eyes at the blatant smirk Azriel is now shamelessly sporting.

“No charge,” Azriel explains, clicking his pen and scribbling on his clipboard. “We actually have a new deal going. Four fake repairs, get the fifth free.”

Nesta knows that he’s teasing her now, so she snatches the clipboard when he holds it out to her, quickly signing her name and handing it back. She expects him to leave now, but after tearing off her copy of the paperwork, he takes a moment to continue scribbling on the page. Finally, he folds the page in half and hands it over, offering Nesta a final smirk, a knowing glint to his hazel eyes, and heads for her front door.

When the door finally closes behind him, Nesta rolls her eyes at the whole exchange. She goes to crumble up her paperwork of the repair, ready to forget this ever happened, when writing in the bottom corner catches her eyes. Slowly, her heart beginning to stutter in her chest, Nesta unfolds the paper, taking in the ten digits scrawled there.

Next time, put down the screwdriver and just call the idiot personally

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog​ @lifeisntafantasy​ @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl​ @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld​ @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust​ @a-trifling-matter​ @blueunoias​ @kookskoocie​ @cassiansbigwingspan​ @unlikelypersonalknight1​ @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard

[jupiterjames]

So I did, in fact, win at both parenting and divorce. You can fight me on this, but I already won and they don't overturn these gold medals.

I go over to hoot and holler with my kid and teach her some teenage things since she's starting to get into makeup and got her ears pierced and all that. And we are just making ALL the noise. Her dad is too quiet so I have to go over a couple times a month to just destroy their peace and quiet into dust for several hours.

Professer Ex is being a fine NPC, just doing whatever he's doing around the house. Then he walks by the bathroom where me and the Weeblet are making and entire scene about me trimming the split ends out of her hair (she's not Nerdler anymore because anime and manga are her new passion). And Professor Ex has got a load of laundry and he passes by and sighs like a man who knows his troubles and says to me, "she is JUST like you, fuck." And keeps going.

Gold medal.

Then later I'm showing her how to care for her ear piercings by demonstrating on my new nose piercing and Professor Ex goes, "why did you get that?" And for a moment my righteous indignation flares and I answer, "we've been divorced nine years. What makes you think you can even ask that?" And he says, "no, no, I mean, your allergies are so bad, why did you want THREE holes to sneeze out of?"

Fair point. I make note to get back at him.

So Weeblet and I get done with all our loud and crazy and I leave. Professor Ex texts me like HOURS later. And he has made a discovery. "DID YOU TAKE ALL THE HOTEL SHAMPOOS AND CONDITIONERS FROM MY BUSINESS TRIP?!"

By the way, that is A Thing with me. I will bleed a housekeeping cart dry. He knows this.

I answer, "your hair is cut short enough to almost not be there. Why do you need so many soaps?"

And he texts back later and says, "OH MY GOD I AM ALSO JUST LIKE YOU I NEVER TOOK THEM BEFORE I MET YOU!"

He then proceeds to stop mentioning me robbing him.

Y'all. I'm just the best okay.

[sezja]

Housewarming

"It could be a good deal worse," Esmena says cheerily, opening the shutters, letting out almost ten years' worth of stale air. Thaffe looks around the small house, with a good deal more trepidation than excitement - his parents' house, almost untouched since the fever had claimed them years ago.

His house, now.

This had always been the plan, he reminds himself, feeling strange in his own skin as he helps Jeryk's mother clean: he had always intended to move out as soon as he'd seen sixteen summers, was working a steady job (as steady as any in Twine these days, at any rate), and could stand on his own two feet. His parents had left him the house on their deathbeds - the only thing halfway safe left to leave him. Most of their belongings had been burned, in case they still carried whatever illness had swept through Twine.

Maybe that's what's got him feeling strange. The house doesn't look the way it does in all his memories of the place: the furniture's gone, repurposed elsewhere in town; the little decorative touches - framed sketches, little knickknacks - his mother had favored are long since gone. Weathered away by the passage of time or sold for enough coin to keep food on the table, Thaffe supposes; there's little room for sentimentality with all the life bleeding out of the dying mining town.

Which is part, of course, of why he has to move out of Esmena and Ardin's home. He's got a year's worth of work in the mines under his belt now; he can put food on his own table.

...Though it's thanks to them he even has a table to put any food on.

"Thanks again for the furniture, Ma," he says, for what must be the third time.

Esmena steps back from the last of the windows, dusting off her hands - a bit prematurely, Thaffe thinks; there's still ten years' worth of dust built up everywhere - and smiling. "Oh no, love, thank you; Ardin wants a new workshop, and with how few visitors we're seeing..."

The furniture, of course, comes from one of the unused rooms at their family's inn; since the Stoneworks' departure, Twine no longer plays host to visiting engineers and officials from far-away Kholusia. The occasional stray traveler or historian interested in the nearby ruins isn't enough to require every room in the inn to be kept well-furnished.

And it'll make less waste for them when the time comes to leave it all behind, Thaffe thinks, with the familiar twist in his gut.

He shoves it aside, listening instead for Jeryk - he and Ardin, his father, are doing some repair work around the exterior of the house, patching up the scars of a decade of neglect. Sure enough, with the windows open, Thaffe can hear his best friend chattering away, with the occasional half-interested hum from his father in response.

"That's enough smiling, you," Esmena teasingly scolds, holding out her much-used broom. "The dust has dust in here; let's see to it before we start trying to haul in linens."

He accepts it with a grin. "That's life in a desert for you."

"Where I'm from," she says, setting to the task of cleaning off the countertops, windowpanes, and walls, "there would be mold, and we'd be tearing up the floorboards to be rid of it. The air's altogether too dry here, but I suppose it's good for something, hm?"

Thaffe bends himself to the task of sweeping, gathering up dust and cobwebs, trying to listen with half an ear for just what in the world Jeryk's going on about. From the sound of things, he's explaining the history of trolleys in Nabaath - with some creative liberties most charitably described as speculation - to his long-suffering father, who knows the history at least as well as any man born and raised in Twine.

Esmena sings quietly to herself as she works, just as she always does when she's doing chores - be it her own or the locals' laundry - and Thaffe listens with half an ear to her, as well.

It's going to be very quiet, living on his own.

You may as well get used to it.

He grits his teeth, shoves the thought aside, and focuses on sweeping. There's a lot of work to be done, after all.

They work through the morning, cleaning away a decade's worth of abandonment; once Esmena is satisfied that the inside of the house is clean, she summons Ardin - and Jeryk - inside to perform a few small repairs. A creaky shutter here, a broken cupboard there. They begin hauling in the furniture: not much, but the stuff of a small life. Table, chair, dresser. A new bed. Little by little, the little two-room house begins to resemble a livable home.

"Linens," Esmena sighs, exhausted, wiping an arm across her brow and brushing her sweat-drenched blonde hair out of her face. "After lunch. Wash up, boys!"

Back home, then - back to their home, anyhow. Thaffe's few meager possessions are already packed for the trip next door: the room he's shared with Jeryk for years already looks emptier.

"I don't suppose I'll know what to do with all the extra space," Jeryk says, joining him in the doorway. There's something strained beneath his friend's usual cheer, like something caught in his throat - and he won't quite meet Thaffe's gaze, even more than usual.

"Make it a workshop," Thaffe suggests, with more levity than he feels. "Like your dad's doing with the free inn room. You're taking on more of his jobs, after all; like as not you'll need somewhere to work."

Jeryk makes an noncommittal sound, brushing past him into the room and sitting heavily on the bed - their beds, long since pushed together, yielding to his younger friend's tendency to climb into his bed with him to spend the night chatting. Jeryk's bed now, Thaffe supposes, now that he's getting one of the - substantially larger - beds from the inn. Thaffe tries not to think about what it'll be like to sleep alone for the first time since he was a child, choosing instead to sit next to Jeryk on the bed.

Like they have a thousand times. Like they might never again.

They've not talked about it, not really, not exactly. It's always been the plan. Thaffe's talked about it since they were small - moving into his parents' old place, once he was old enough.

It's just that the actual day of it came up a lot faster than he thought.

"This is ridiculous," he hears himself say, rubbing his stinging eyes; no tears have fallen yet, thank the gods. "I'm moving next door. We'll see each other every day. Ma insists I visit for dinner at least once a week or she'll hound me-"

"Like she'll hound us if we don't hurry to lunch," Jeryk cuts in, with a wobbly smile. His eyes look too bright. "You know how she gets!"

So they wash up and hasten their way back for lunch; Thaffe thinks he's made a decent recovery of it, but Esmena's green eyes linger on him a touch too long - a little too worried, a little too knowing. And Jeryk's quiet. Jeryk's never quiet.

But she doesn't pry.

After lunch, linens. Esmena sets Ardin and Jeryk to the task of hanging curtains - curtains she'd stitched herself, no less - while she helps Thaffe put the sheets on his new bed. They're old, but not quite threadbare... and they smell like home, the scent of the soaps Esmena uses in the laundry waft from the fabric as they work. It smells like a thousand hot afternoons spent helping Esmena and Jeryk scrub laundry and hang it up to dry.

His throat feels tight.

They'll be right next door, he scolds himself.

But a quieter voice wonders, For how much longer?

Jeryk's still quiet as he helps hang the curtains; quiet and pensive. Thaffe wonders what's going through his mind - if he recognizes that his parents will have to move away soon. The inn's not making enough money; they both know Esmena and Ardin have been skipping meals so their boys might eat. Even with Thaffe scraping in his own meager income, things are tight. Soon, they'll have to do as so many other families have done, and...

Well. Just as well he's going to be getting used to living alone, right?

"This is what you want, isn't it, love?"

Esmena's voice startles him out of his woolgathering. "Yes," he replies, too quickly. "Yes, of course."

She glances up from putting his clothes in the new dresser, gauging his expression with maternal skepticism. "If you're sure. You're always welcome back home - you know that, of course? Jeryk's going to be lost without you."

I'm going to be lost without him. "He'll do alright," he says, glancing toward the other room, where Jeryk balances carefully on a chair, hanging the last of the curtains. He's learned a great deal from his father all these years - no matter where Jeryk and Ardin wind up, they'll find work. There's always a need for steady hands and a knack for fixing what's broken.

It's not the work Jeryk wants to be doing, but the days of Twine's trolleys are long over.

"He'll be fine," he says, a bit more firmly. "Like I told him: I'll still see him every day."

She nods, closing a drawer. "I worry you're only doing this for us, Thaffe - that you're leaving the nest a bit too early."

He feels his face heat. "I'm old enough to support myself, Ma. I don't want-"

"You were born in this very room, did you know? I was one of the first people who got to hold you." There are tears glittering in Esmena's eyes, and she turns away to conceal them, smoothing out the bedsheets - but not so quickly that Thaffe didn't see them. "And then your poor mother... we swore, she and I, that if anything happened to one of us, the other would always, always look after our children."

"I'm not a child-"

She turns again, composed, and reaches up a hand to touch his cheek. It occurs to him, again, how strange it is to look down on her - just as it has every day since his growth spurt, years ago. "You'll always be a little bit my child," she says, quietly. "And it's always going to be a little bit my responsibility to look after you. You're not a burden, Thaffe."

He feels six years old again, sobbing into her skirts as his parents are buried. She'd rested a hand on the back of his head, offering soft, quiet words of comfort, telling him how much his parents had loved him; how much they were going to love him now: that he was family, that he was wanted, that he was safe.

And if it were all as simple as that-

He takes a deep breath. Swallows. "It's really just time I had my own place, Ma. My parents wanted that, too; that's why they left me this place."

She lowers her hand, smiling wistfully. "I suppose they did, didn't they? You'd make your mother proud, shadows rest her soul. Gods know you make me proud."

"That's the last of the curtains!" Jeryk bounces into the room, his mood evidently thoroughly recovered; if he notices the sentimental tension he's interrupting, he gives no sign of it. "What's next?"

Esmena sighs. "Next, we leave, and let Thaffe get settled in," she says, winding an arm around Jeryk's shoulders and steering him back out of the bedroom. "Say good night, love; you'll see Thaffe after he gets home from the mines tomorrow, as always."

Jeryk squirms. "But-"

Thaffe, too, feels a stab of alarm at the idea of being left alone... but that's childish; isn't this what he wanted? This very thing? He can't get used to living alone if he's never properly alone.

So he makes himself smile as he walks Jeryk and Esmena to the door, where Ardin is already waiting.

Esmena tugs him down to kiss his cheek as she bids him goodnight; Ardin shakes his hand and quietly congratulates him on the new house (with an assurance that if any repair work still needs doing, Thaffe's to ask for it without a moment's hesitation), and the two of them slip away, leaving the boys alone. Thaffe doesn't doubt that if Jeryk lingers too long, Esmena will return to usher him out of Thaffe's hair.

Even if it's the last thing Thaffe wants.

"So," he says, awkward.

Jeryk takes a deep breath. Then, "What if..."

Thaffe waits.

Nothing.

"What if?" he prompts... but Jeryk shakes his head.

"Nothing," Jeryk says, smiling. "Nothing, never mind."

Obeying a sudden impulse, Thaffe simply pulls his friend into his arms, giving him the tightest hug he can manage, until Jeryk squeaks in not-quite-protest, getting his own arms around Thaffe in the process. They haven't held onto each other like this since... since a year or more ago, when for a heart-wrenching few minutes, Thaffe had been certain Jeryk had been killed by sin eaters - or worse.

Then, as now, Thaffe had wondered just how in the world he was meant to carry on without Jeryk.

"I'll be right here," he says, reminding himself for what seems like the thousandth time that Jeryk's going to be right next door, at least for the immediate future - he can worry about the eventuality of his family leaving town later. It's going to be hard enough to make it through the night alone.

Jeryk pulls away, blinking hard; teardrops cling to his long eyelashes. "Right," he says, with none of his usual enthusiasm. "Right, of course. Thaffe..."

He puts his hands on Jeryk's shoulders and leans down, resting their foreheads together. "You can visit any time," he says, around the lump in his throat. "Any time, any reason. Alright?" He waits until Jeryk nods, then gives the boy a little shake. "Right. Best you go on home, then, before Ma starts wondering if I mean to keep you."

And with one last see you tomorrow, off Jeryk goes, closing the door reluctantly behind him.

Alone.

Thaffe stands alone for the first time beneath his own roof, in his own home. The old floor creaks under his feet as he drifts from one window to the next, closing the shutters for the night against the blinding Light outside. He lingers for a moment, watching as Esmena, Ardin, and Jeryk walk home; Jeryk's dragging his feet, fiddling with the old scarf he always wears - something he always does when he's anxious, as well he might be now, facing his first night alone in years...

Thaffe closes the shutter, closing out the sight. He sighs, resting his head against the window, wishing his chest didn't ache; wishing... what? That he'd find some miracle ore down in the mines, or something; anything that might sell for enough to keep Jeryk and his family here? That the trolleys might run again, that the Stoneworks might come back?

That somehow, somehow, the inevitable future won't catch up to them?

Jeryk...

He takes a deep breath and hauls himself away from the window, making his way through the darkened house to the bedroom. The bedroom, where the bedsheets still smell like home. Thaffe strips off his clothes for bed, leaving them on the floor - Esmena would scorch his ears for it, but she won't see it - and heaves himself into bed.

There, with no one around to see it, he buries his face in his pillow and lets the first of the tears flow. Homesickness, heartsickness. Loneliness.

The pillow smells like Jeryk; it's from the bed they'd shared for years.

There's comfort in that. Some, anyway.

He tries to sleep. The hours creep by - after a year in the mines, he's already got a decent sense for the passage of time, but it seems to him these hours must be a lifetime each. Bouts of fitful melancholy set in: he sheds more miserable tears, rises to pace around the room. Tries talking to himself. A thin ray of Light slices through the room from a crack in one shutter - need to get that fixed; maybe that's what's keeping him-

A knock at the door.

"Who'd be visiting in the middle of the night," he wonders aloud, grumbling as he manages to tug his trousers back on... though a part of him knows.

Specifically, his heart, which had leapt at the sound of the knock, and it's pounding now.

It's Jeryk, of course.

His friend stands grinning on his doorstep, still dressed for bed - looking, in fact, as though he'd rolled directly out of bed: from his frizzy, tousled blond hair all the way down to his bare feet. If he's slept at all, it doesn't show; his bright green eyes are red-rimmed and weary, though his smile is cheerful as ever.

"Jeryk," Thaffe says, fighting the urge to smile.

"Hello, neighbor!" Jeryk offers a little wave. "I was wondering: are you all settled in yet?"

He feels his lips twitching. "Settled enough to have company over for the night, maybe?"

Jeryk's smile fades, ever-so-slightly. "I'll go right back home if you want, I swear it," he promises. "I just... couldn't-"

"Couldn't sleep."

"-Couldn't sleep," Jeryk finishes, only a little sheepish.

He's never going to get used to living without Jeryk at this rate, Thaffe thinks, but he steps aside anyway, letting Jeryk in. He tells himself it'll be easier if he... weans himself off; lets himself get used to it little by little - that's why he lets Jeryk lead the way through the dark house to Thaffe's new room, as though he lives there. Jeryk doesn't even wait for a further invitation; he just hops right into Thaffe's bed, settling in.

"I think this might be bigger than our bed back home," Jeryk says, already drowsy, as Thaffe strips back down and climbs back into bed.

"By a sliver, maybe." The inn's beds had to be big enough to hold Ronso, after all; they're a more than fair fit for two humes. The bed doesn't seem half so large with Jeryk in it - and the night doesn't feel half so long with Jeryk's voice chattering to him in the quiet.

The ray of Light still slices through the room, enough to illuminate Jeryk's hopeful smile. "Can I come over every night?"

"Do I have any hope of stopping you?" Thaffe teases, rolling over to face his friend. "Who else is going to talk me to sleep about trolleys?"

It makes Jeryk laugh, ending in quiet giggles. "Well, now that you mention it-"

"I suppose I asked for this, didn't I."

"-I've been looking at some of the old manuals from the Stoneworks, and I reckon I can work out how to start mending some of the old tracks, if we can get some decent steel..."

Thaffe closes his eyes, and lets sleep claim him, still smiling.

It's good to be home.

[nyanashima]

The Brothers with an MC who has OCD

INCREDIBLY self-indulgent as I haven't seen many OCD MC posts, and I needed some blorbo comfort.

Since OCD is often misrepresented in media, feel free to write in with other obsessions/etc if you feel so inclined. I'll try my best to write about them in another post :)

Content warnings: contamination triggers, symmetry/perfection obsessions, self-destructive compulsions. Stay safe y'all <3

Please let me know if I missed any triggers in the tags!

Lucifer

He already knows.

Lucifer read up on you before you came. He knows what you struggle with and how it affects you, at least to some degree. He has to do Diavolo proud, and that includes staying on top of the exchange student’s wellbeing.

It's through living with you that really helps Lucifer get a better understanding of your triggers. After all, you can only get so much from reading the DSM-5

He sees you erase and rewrite your notes in class, over and over, until you’re completely behind on the lecture. He hovers silently in the doorway to the kitchen, watching you arrange the dishes symmetrically in the cupboard

He notices your hands, dry and cracked and sometimes bleeding from washing and sanitizing. He sees your midnight laundry runs after Mammon makes himself at home in your room, and how the bleach wipes disappear much faster than they did before. Lucifer watches your breathing quicken for all the wrong reasons when Asmo hangs off your arm.

He feels bad. It’s not like he can comfort you, with him being emotionally constipated and all. So he does the next best thing: problem solve.

Lucifer calls you to his study one night. You poke your head in, anticipating some sort of punishment— instead, he invites you to sit down for an honest conversation.

He doesn’t pry. As a private person, he understands keeping your emotions guarded. He does, however, make it clear he sees the toll they're taking on you.

He offers treatment— if you’re unmedicated, would you like to see someone for the anxiety? Would you benefit from therapy? He’d be happy to accompany you to the human world for your appointments, if that’s what you need.

Of course, lecturing his brothers about their behaviour is always on the table.

If none of those sound right, he finds himself staring at his gloves. He offers to update your wardrobe to something that better suits your needs— your jacket buttoning in the middle rather than off to one side, gloves to avoid direct touch, you name it. It’s yours.

“I want to help you, MC. Not out of pity, I simply don’t want to see a loved one in pain. Tell me what you need, and you’ll get it— you have my word.”

Mammon

Hoo boy.

Yeah, you’re gonna have to tell him, or ask Lucifer to tell him for you.

He’s a tactile guy. He’s always dragging you by the arm, yanking your jacket, ruffling your hair, and Devil knows what else.

Once you tell him, you’re probably gonna have to explain it a bit. It’s been a while since he’s paid attention to human emotions lol.

After that, he’s fantastic– well, he tries. Old habits die hard.

He recoils like he just touched a hot stove the second his fingers brush your skin. He always follows it up with a “Shit– sorry.”

If you’re particular about how you keep your room, again, he tries not to touch anything impulse control strikes again.

He will get it eventually, but for the first little while it’s probably best to hang out in his room.

If you don’t want the others to know, he’ll be even more protective than before when they get touchy. It’s hard to bite his tongue, but he’ll play it off like his usual possessiveness. He’s surprisingly good at keeping it a secret.

If you’re fine with them knowing, he will NOT hesitate to give them an earful. You’re his human, and nobody touches you unless you say it’s okay!

Doesn’t really understand the symmetry or perfection stuff, but hey, everyone’s different. He’ll wait for you if you have to bump your other shoulder against the doorframe until it’s even.

Overall very supportive. A little confused, but he’s got the spirit.

“…Huh. Well, as yer first, it’s still my job to take care of ya. That means this, too– so don’t think The Great Mammon’s gonna let it bother ya again, y’hear?”

Leviathan

Picks up on it a little, but doesn’t quite connect the dots

Not super familiar with human mental illnesses… He’d notice some of your unusual behaviours, but assume they’re just quirks.

Somehow fails to realize some of his quirks are because he’s neurodivergent too (it’s okay buddy we’ve all been there)

TOTALLY understands when you tell him. Well, kind of. At first he thinks you just don’t want him touching you, but after you explain it he’ll rant with you for hours. It’s not the same as the existential dread that comes from lending someone a pencil, but he gets being particular and nervous about your stuff.

He’ll get a special blanket for you to sit on while gaming in his room, only for your ass and therefore your germs. Will get you your own controller for the same reason (and maybe a matching one for himself teehee). No one else is allowed to touch your stuff, not even him— he’ll pick them up with gloves or a Kleenex if he needs to move them, even when you’re not around.

I don’t really have much more to say about him? Just tell him what you need him to do and he’ll do it without hesitation. Super respectful and understanding.

“Y’know… You don’t have to feel bad about it, okay? You’ll always be my Henry, so as long as we can still play games and stuff, I’m happy. And even if we can’t! I’ll do what I can to make you more comfortable, so you can always hide out in here if outside becomes too much… AARAARRUGHGHHUG DSJVNALVBSLKJN WHAT AM I SAYING that was so cringe forget I said anything ok bye”

Satan

Surprisingly, he doesn’t diagnose you the second you fall through the portal.

Instead, he watches you go about your day, and notices something’s off. Then he researches.

And then he does tests.

Not exactly the most empathetic guy, considering the fact that he, y’know, tortured people. So at first he’s not opposed to giving you a spit wash. He wants to see how you’ll react, and how much you can take.

Once you get closer, he catches on and starts acting according to what he thinks you need.

He’ll set cutlery aside for you when he does the dishes, he’ll leave your laundry alone when you forget it in the dryer (but nag you to come get it so he can swap out his clothes), et cetera.

If you open up to him about it, his curious nature takes hold. Hope you’re ready for an interrogation interview, because he’s got LOTS of questions.

Lets you vent to him and will bitch in return. He’s neurodivergent as fuck so likelihood is he gets irked by the same stuff

“MC, I’ve lived with my brothers for millennia. If you think some odd habits are going to bother me, you’re sorely mistaken. All that matters is that you’re happy. If you ever need anything, please come to me first. I’ll do everything in my power to help.”

Asmodeus

Doesn’t really get it, but he’ll go along and be respectful.

He’ll have a hard time not getting touchy at first, but like Mammon, he jerks away and apologizes once he catches himself.

Kicks himself every time because consent is suuuuper important to him (same with the other bros but. Y’know). Learns to keep his hands to himself pretty quick

Gives you tons of lotions, salves, and moisturizers to keep your hands in good shape if they get dry from washing

Will modify your spa days to make them more comfortable for you

Interrogates you about your clothing needs.

What textures work best for you?

Are there any patterns or cuts you can’t wear, or any you prefer?

Tell him everything. He’ll keep it in mind when dressing you up

Will not hesitate to tear someone to shreds if they say anything rude to you. He can pinpoint someone’s biggest insecurities in two seconds flat, and he will.

He might not understand, but that doesn’t stop him from loving and protecting you fiercely and unconditionally.

“Oh, hon, why didn’t you say so before! I’ll try to keep my hands to myself from now on. It’ll be hard, though, considering just how cute you are~!”

Beelzebub

This boy…

He loves his family. We know this.

Beel’s devoted quite a bit of time to learning about how his brothers’ brains work. He’s probably one of the most prepared and mindful of the bunch.

When you tell him, he accepts it without question.

He’ll prod for more information, if you’re willing to share, but gets it if you don’t wanna talk about it. If you do, he’ll listen for hours.

Loves to learn about you, period. OCD can be such a complex and significant piece of someone’s feelings and behaviour, so while he doesn’t like the parts that upset you, he’ll take in any information you give. He remembers every single word and puts it all to use. Just wants you to feel more at ease

Examples of things I think he’d do:

Put the dishes away symmetrically when it’s his turn to wash them, and push them into place if he notices they’ve shifted

Put takeout onto a clean plate for you so you don’t have to touch the container

If he sees any of your things laying about the house, he’ll use the dog poop maneuver to pick it up with a plastic bag and stick it in your room so no one else touches it

He’s just. Really thoughtful. And he loves you so much

“Alright, I think I get it. That must be hard. I’m here if you need to talk, okay?”

Belphegor

Doesn’t really notice lol. Unless you’re recoiling every time he goes to touch you, he’s clueless

Familiar with human mental illness, but may need a refresher. It’s been a while since he’s seen a human, or, y’know, been allowed outside

Will IMMEDIATELY stop touching you as soon as you set your boundaries. Belphie is very good at breaking habits and doesn’t really rely on one specific way of showing affection, so it is what it is

He’s bummed if you can’t nap with him, of course. It doesn’t take him long to find a workaround, though— he gives you two stuffed animals. You cuddle one until it smells like you, then give it to him and take the other one. He snuggles the first until it loses its “MC smell,” washes it, and gives it back to you. You give him the second one, and the cycle continues

Can’t really empathize, but he can offer a shoulder to cry on and a “that sucks” when you need it. Great listener until he falls asleep lmao

Belphie isn’t considerate in the way Beel is, but he’s still considerate. The difference is energy, really— he can’t really put in much effort, but he does remember what your triggers are and to be respectful. So while he won’t reorganize any shelves for you, he’ll remind his brothers of little things to make your life easier.

“Damn that’s crazy. Anyway”

“Oh, okay. That kind of makes sense. Is there… anything you want me to do?”

[scrambled-meat]

and being a good person fucks you in the ass generally, having a genuine sense of empathy always fucks you in the ass.

like not even 20 mins ago i was across the street 2 dry my clothes n buy cat food--we "have" laundry facilities on the apartment property, but none of the fucking dryers work despite how fucking Ridiculously out the ass we pay for basic monthly rent (welcome to colorado that isn't rural, racist, and homophobic!!!) so i have 2 wash my clothes here n walk the heavy ass water-logged clothes in a basket 2 the closest laundromat* in order 2 actually dry them, n there's a walmart on the same strip so i went there 2 buy a box of cat food as well.

i spent basically the entire rest of my money on that box of cat food. when i left the walmart i had literally two fucking dollars to my name.

and most of that was going to go to go to drying my shit at the laundromat so i don't get fucking fired from my job for smelling bad.

on the walk from walmart to the laundromat, being the only person walking past, i hear "sir! sir!"

i keep walking because i don't initially know she's talking to me (despite nearly nine years on t i still get "ma'am'ed") but i eventually turn around after "SIR! PLEASE!" and it's this old white lady sitting in a running car, smoking a cigarette, with fully did nails.

"do you have a couple dollars you can possibly spare?? i am an old lady, you know,"

i quite literally have a couple dollars to my name.

and it seemed so fucking fake. there are many genuinely homeless and/or struggling people around these parts, but this LEGITIMATELY seemed like a ploy. there was no fucking way.

but unfortunately i have a sense of empathy. i may be very fucking jaded and bitter, but i have a sense of empathy.

call me fucking spineless and weak, but in the back of my mind, all i could think was, "what if she's actually struggling? maybe she only came upon hard times recently, which is why she still has a running car, fancy nails, and access to cigarettes. sure, even though i can't afford nicotine even with a roof over my head (that i can barely fucking afford lol), i've basically been homeless myself before. i don't want anyone to suffer that same fate. even if she is completely pulling this shit out of her ass, i don't wanna take that chance if she actually isn't. i wanna help."

so i forked over half of the money i had left to my name, knowing damn well that most of that last dollar was going solely 2 the laundromat, and when i went home i'd have 25 cents left to my name until the next time i get paid. but at least the laundry would be dry and i wouldn't get talked to a second time, let alone fired from the only job i have, for smelling bad because i don't wash my clothes enough.

i told her this is one of the only two dollars i have left after washing my clothes and buying cat food, but it's the least i could do.

and right after handing her that dollar, one of the only two dollars i have, the pleading "sir! sir!" switched to this evil fucking smile and a biting-back-laughing, "thanks, lady."

not all homeless people are like this. she probably wasn't even fucking homeless at all. just desperate for nicotine/booze money knowing she could exploit the "i'm just an old lady!!!" thing.

all because of my poor bleeding heart.

poor people are obligated to pay other poor people, but people with several million if not billion dollars can't be fucked to do shit.

i'm tired of this fucking shit man. i am so fucking tired of this shit.

[a-mere-dream]

hey, I loved your response to my martial god yqy ideas... I've been thinking about this poor loser a lot, happy to talk to a fellow yqy stan!!! I have a theory, narratively speaking, (& mb we can talk abt this elsewhere? email? idek, just tumblr asks are a bit weird & I don't log in here a lot), LBH, YQY and Airplane-bro are like some kinda triangle - when LBH pulls the blankie onto himself, the other two are usually helpless. when LBH gets 'healthy', YQY usually gets to be the idiot ex 1/2

2/2 or worse, a creep. SO imagine YQY touches Shen Yuan for the first time and System is like DING, a failed protagonist halo detected! would you like to switch to an alt power source??? by touch I mean the first scene! not sexual touch! so A-Yuan is stuck looking for the lost original goods soul w a budding protag yqy which makes white lotus binghe's halo power off as the story goes on. also turns out YQY and SJ were supposed to be in a whole OTHER story anyway (like Spicy Chicken and co in Magister, who got cut out and inserted later) I hope this is making sense

(When I tell you I scrambled to get this down as soon as possible --)

Shen Yuan doesn't remember a lot from High School. This is, in his humble opinion, a goddamn blessing. Being a teenager is horrible already, but high school? There has never been a more embarrassing time in his life, even while counting that one time his mom came to visit out of nowhere and saw the drying cover of his Luo Binghe body pillow hanging on his laundry line.

So he has repressed most memories, and is perfectly fine with that. Most knowledge wasn't useful anyway.

Looking at the blue screen of the System flickering in and out of view, Shen Yuan wished he had paid a little more in Chinese class.

“What do you mean Yue Qingyuan is a Protagonist?” Shen Yuan hissed under his breath, fighting the urge to slap the System with his fan. “He can't be a Protagonist! There's Binghe already!” And it couldn't be that Binghe didn't have his Halo, why else would the System break that ceiling beam one time with the Skinner Demon?

[Actually, having multiple Protagonists is a time-honoured choice.] The System tries to inform him. [A Dual Protagonist Narrative is when two characters with different goals have their own unique transformation. The characters might not be in direct conflict with one another --]

“I don't care!” Shen Yuan said. “Look at me, not caring in the least.” He was silent for a moment. “Why Yue Qingyuan? He dies in, like, chapter six hundred.”

[Character: 'Yue Qingyuan' dies in chapter 603 of Book: 'Proud Immortal Demon Way.'] The System says. [Character: 'Yue Qingyuan' dies in chapter 3904 of Book: 'The Last Hope of The Mud-Stained Phoenix'.]

At Shen Yuan's disbelieving silence, it adds, almost reticently, [You're the protagonist of your own life. His story doesn't start and end with Character: 'Luo Binghe'.]

“No, it just ends with him,” Shen Yuan says reflexively. “And don't you quote Mob Psycho 100 at me.”

He fidgets with his fan. “Is this — Is this bad? It doesn't hurt him, does it? Not having enough energy? He looked healthy.”

[In Universe-subsets, in lack of a character designated 'Villain' or 'Antagonist', creators latch on to Character: 'Yue Qingyuan'. It is…] A thin balk blinks in and out, like the words are being typed before his eyes, [… Convenient.]

“And the only endings for those are either one of death, physical pain, or of being so pathetic that everyone is content with their current suffering,” Shen Yuan fills in. He tilts his head and frowns. “That sucks.”

He likes Yue Qingyuan. This bleeding heart of a character; Shen Yuan has always taken him to be no-one to be afraid of. How could Shen Yuan not grow fond of him, when he suffered so much and had done so little to deserve it? Tricked by his awful shidi into protecting him, even dying for him while none of that care was recruited…

“What do you expect me to do about it, though?”

[User 002's actions could result in more of the Protagonist Halo being diverted to Character: 'Yue Qingyuan'.]

“Only by being stolen from Binghe.” That didn't sit right with Shen Yuan.

[… If User 002 diverts enough strength from Character: 'Luo Binghe', there might not be enough weight on the narrative to require him to enter Location: 'The Abyss'.]

Shen Yuan lets out a deep breath. “Well, why didn't you say that sooner,” he scolds. Now he had to do it, if only to save Binghe from ever going through that! As long as he made sure Binghe kept enough power to survive any attempts on his life, then surely there would be no harm in this?

* * *

And then he goes on a whole quest to give Yue Qingyuan a satisfying ending, making his story more enjoyable to read so he can attract more fans and through that, more weight on his position as Protagonist. He doesn't know why that has to involve resurrecting Shen Jiu (maybe the story needs a villain? Did Yue Qingyuan secretly resent him? Is that it??) but whoops, now there's necromancy.

I didn't even manage to get into Airplane during all this, sheesh. But holy shit, what a great concept. Luo Binghe hogging the Magical Blanket Of Protagonism.

(And yeah, sure! DM me for my email or Discord, we can take turns screaming over Yue Qingyuan :D)

[warpedlegacy]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for the tag @a11sha11fade! I’ve been making a great deal of progress on my post-Trespasser fic and having a ball figuring out the characters of Cullen’s siblings. Mia was the first to become fleshed out, so here is a little bit from the end of my most recent chapter from While Time Remains: 

“The Inquisition is over,” he confesses flatly. “Disbanded by official decree. Tess is no longer Inquisitor, and I am no longer the Commander of her army.” 

“Maker’s breath…” Mia raises a hand to her mouth as she contemplates all this could mean. “Start at the beginning.” 

He does. The full story takes most of the night to tell, and for once Cullen leaves nothing out. Not even the worst of it. Not even Kinloch Hold or the disasters of Kirkwall. Though it tears old wounds open afresh and leaves his heart bleeding on the table between them, he tells her. He owes Mia this much, for all her years of patient impatience. He’s finished dodging, finished running. He shares burdens heretofore only ever confessed to Tess, in the darkest recesses of their private sanctuaries of Skyhold. 

When at last he has finished, they’ve gone through most of the kettle of tea and a second bowl of stew each. Cullen waits quietly for Mia to collect her thoughts, and the house creaks around them. He feels wrung out, like day-old laundry. Turned inside out and left to dry. He wipes unshed tears away and takes in deep, steadying breaths. It smells of rosemary and root vegetables and lavender in the kitchen, and pine wafts in through the open windows. 

She’s shaken and pale by what he has told her, but where he’d feared pity or anger, he sees only love. Sadness too, yes, but mostly love. 

“I knew it was bad, the way you always dodged my questions, but…” She cuts herself off, leaning back to stare out the window. Crickets chirp and the house creaks. This has been home for her ever since their flight out of Honnleath, he recalls. That’s over a decade ago now. And all that time, what homes Cullen had managed to scrape out of his circumstances have been stripped away, one after the other. 

It will be good to feel settled again. Or… for the first time. 

“So what happens now?” she asks finally. 

He rubs his hands over his face, through his hair, then tilts his head up to the ceiling. “I wish I knew.” 

“Well, I hope it goes without saying, but you can both take your ease here for as long as you need.” 

“Thank you.” It means so much to him, this easy hospitality, and he wonders at how foreign a concept it’s become since first leaving home. 

But something has Theresa quietly terrified, he can tell. And he strongly suspects it has to do with the reason she's lost the Anchor. And the person behind it. He swallows the name like a bitter drink, before its taint can poison this moment. But it echoes through his mind anyway. The same question that’s been plaguing him since Halamshiral. 

Solas… What have you done to her?

Tagging @dreadfutures and @kantrips, but as always no pressure! <3