This is my main blog, and it will include: selfshipping, book talk, hockey, kin posts, and any of my other interests
I currently don't tag triggers but am willing to do so. Just shoot me an ask.
You can find more info like my f/o list & kintypes on my carrd, as well as my fable and pintrest
I'm fully comfortable with sharing f/os, though I likely won't interact with your ship content for said f/os
Asks are open, anon is off. if you send me a message from a main blog and don't want it posted with that blog attached, please let me know, and i will answer it anonymously in a separate post.
online interaction can occasionally cause me severe anxiety due to previous encounters. if i'm taking a while to respond to a message or ask, know i will get to it when i can wrangle in my nonsense
i don't have a specific dni. If i don't want you on my blog, i will block you
Sunshine slanted through the blinds, creeping slowly across the floorboards. Somewhere outside in the greyish light of early morning, a rooster crowed, and inside, Denver stirred. For them, consciousness this early was a fleeting, hard to grasp thing. No alarm had gone off, no barking from the hallway or living room to wake them; just the groggy awareness coming out of a deep sleep.
They were aware, faintly, of two things. Even without opening their eyes, they knew, firstly, that this wasn't their bed. The sheets didn't smell of their detergent, and instead of their soft electric blanket, they were wrapped in a thick, warm comforter. Secondly, they were very, very hungover. Their head throbbed, stomach rolling uncomfortably in their abdomen. God, they shouldn't have tried to out drink the hockey twins. Hubris was a helluva thing.
They shifted, and finally something somewhere in their grey matter clicked to life. There was an arm thrown over their waist.
There was an arm. Thrown over their waist.
Denver's eyes snapped open, brain whirling to life past the hangover fog. Whose bed were they in? They stared across the dimly lit room, fighting back a panic attack and mustering the courage to sit up and look. Baby steps, one at a time. They reached down, gently placing their hand over the forearm resting on their stomach. It was definitely a man's arm - a man's arm they recognized.
Oh shit.
They sat up in a flash, blanket thrown nearly to their feet.
Wayne snored softly beside them, and the taste of bile rose sharply in their throat as the memory of their hand fisted in his shirt flashed across their mind's eye, begging him to stay. Their breaths shortened, throat convulsing between the urge to clamp shut and throw up.
They had asked him to stay, and he did.
That had to mean something, alongside the looks and the jokes and the casual touches. It could also mean nothing, and they don't know which option scares them more. They had been so resolute in ignoring their crush, and now they're so sharply aware of the arm laying across their lap that the touch felt like a branding iron.
They're going to throw up, their throat decides.
They're not sure when Katy had joined them, one hand tangled in their hair to keep it out of their face while she brushed her teeth with the other. She leaned over, spit into the sink, and sighed.
“I probably should have warned you.”
Denver groaned, forehead pressed against the cool toilet seat. They felt like shit.
“I gotta feed my dog…” Their voice shook on another dry heave, limbs little more than jelly.
“Dary's already on his way to pick her up. We can put her in the run with Stormy until you can get off the floor.”
“This is why ya'll're my best friends.” Denver reached over to pat her knee.
“Yeah, yeah, I'm sure it is. You want some water?”
“Yes please,” They heaved again, “a new stomach would be great, too.”
“Water is the best I can manage.” Katy rubbed their shoulder as she passed, “Try not to get puke in your hair.”
Denver grumbled something noncommittal, eyes drifting closed as they rested their cheek against the side of the tub. Their mind hadn't stopped racing since they had woken up, cycling through reasons and excuses and scenarios in a constant whirlwind. They're pretty sure it's making their headache worse, the throbbing echoing in their ears -
No, wait. That was a knock, someone was knocking on the door behind them. They lifted their head slightly, turning in the direction of the door. Wayne leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. Denver’s heart plummeted right through their stomach, and it only took a second for it to riot, sending their heart back to where it belonged with another rush of bile. Their neck twinged from how fast they snapped back around, hands tightening on the bowl as they retched again. A warm hand rested between their shoulder blades, rubbing lightly as they groaned and spit.
“How are you now?” Wayne's voice is soft, as gentle as the brush of his fingers through their hair. He gathers it behind their head, and for a second they think they hear the snap of a hair tie. Admittedly, they're too wrapped up in their guilt and nerves to pay much attention to what he's doing.
“Hungover, and you?”
“Not s'bad.” He pulled his hands out of their hair, and the little voice in their mind that goes absolutely feral at his touch finally quiets down long enough for them to notice that their hair hadn't fallen back in their face. They lifted their head, turning to blink at him.
“Did you tie my hair up?”
“Of course I did.”
They're silent for only a moment before Denver sighed, still looking up at him.
“I'm sorry about last night, Wayne.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he paused, pursed his lips, “D’you know you snore?”
Denver laughed, the worry lifting off their shoulders leaving them feeling a little breathless and lightheaded. He wasn't upset, and it probably meant nothing, but a small part of them lights up with the hope that maybe it means something.
