#cute posts

He lifted Crispin with ease as though he was holding a young child. Catering to Crispin's social dislike to unease, he didn’t speak, even as he stiffed in his hold, and instead wordlessly sat him on the couch with the intention to leave him to his own devices. Crispin folded into himself tightly like a little ball, Paul thinking it as stubbornness, maybe unease.

“I can get you whatever you need, too. Do you want water? Or something to eat?”

The mere mention of food unlocked his needs, and Crispin broke and tightened into himself to his stomach gurgling loudly within his small frame.

That didn't make helping him easier, however. Paul considered pickiness or hunger pangs, maybe defiance avoidance stopping him, then decided that it was still Crispin being Crispin. Any food offered to him didn't get far to him as he moved away as if offered a fresh spoonful of cyanide. Ordinarily, Paul could whim up patience from the heavens at this time if struggling. But it was Crispin being Crispin. He didn't need that patience, he needed him to stop being stupid and stubborn and all that sulking and just eat. At the brink of losing his composure completely, as tempting as it was, Paul decided to fight grouchy with petty.

“Crispin, do you hear me?”

Paul capped and shook the bottle up one-handedly, not even glancing up.

“If you don’t start eating, I'm feeding you myself!”

Paul knew Crispin didn’t go down that young, but he was fighting his self-care and actual regression tooth and nail. Maybe a bit of a harder push would get him right to where he needed to be. Probably humble him a little too and keep him from bothering him.

Bottle in hand, Paul circled the kitchen island and leaned back over the couch attempting eye contact with Crispin, foggy-eyed on the t.v. and sliced up apple slices untouched next to him.

“Crispin, do you want to feed yourself at least?"

Crispin didn’t blink with arms folded and mouth in sweater. Paul sighed.

“Fine, then.”

Paul rounded the couch and sat down as Crispin edged further to the corner the closer he got, whereupon Paul leaned in only managing to grab him by the arm and pull him closer as Crispin became a dead-weight and dragged himself along the couch. Trying to put him on his lap was even worse as Crispin proceeded to thrash around like a cat being put in a cage and Paul scrambled to grab and hold him proper before he dropped him. Finding the opening, Crispin slipped his mouth out from his sweater only to bite sharply onto Paul's arm, long enough that he yelped and let go, grabning his own arm and only then did Crispin lay contently against him as though he had to prove a point before giving in. Paul examined the indent of whatever remained in Crispin's rows of jacked-up chompers circled his arms, and he knew was going to bruise. Suppressing the urge to throttle Crispin, Paul looked back, grabbing under his chin and meeting his glossed over unfazed gaze with his own look threatening him to try again.

“Do not bite me again.”

Paul jabbed the bottle at Crispin. “Take it.”

Crispin pulled his sweater back over his mouth and leaned back with arms crossed. Paul gripped the bottle as he pushed the urge to scream at him down, which was strong as this stubborn no-gooder would have pretended it was a compliment, anyway.

“Crispin, please! You need something or you'll keel over. Just eat!”

Paul pushed the bottle into Crispin who pulled back and whined the further Paul drove in, putting his hand against the back of his head as some leverage while Crispin shifted within his grasp.

“I'm doing this because I care about you!”

With a final shove, Crispin was pushed and forced into latching onto the bottle, mumbling he tried to pull off as Paul remained firm until his body gave in, and slumped down in submission as he started suckling. His eyes eye-lidded and his hunger was further cemented as the formula was draining within seconds.

Paul wasn't too surprised, relieved to have something in his system. Even so, Crispin pulled off in under a minute, catching a gulp of air and giving Paul a weak look that asked if he was satisfied.

“Yes, I am. And I can leave you alone- now-?”

Crispin latched onto Paul's shirt in a death grip with his sharp, untrimmed nails, while he stared at him as though silently threatening him he was to stay where he was.

“Oh, sure? Just let me know when you've had enough.”

Assuming he wasn’t to move, Paul laid back having been winded in the struggle, putting his focus on the t.v's grey-scale sitcom. He didn’t mind feeling Crispin pull in further against him. He could still feel him penetrating his shirt, he was in no position to complain lest he get scratched next.

What did surprise Paul was when he finally took the risk of checking back down on him, Crispin had, or was falling asleep on him.

“Hm. Sleepy thing.”

Paul tucked his arms around and under Crispin and pulled him up closer in a near cradle. Paul watched his grip grow weak and rested his chin on top of his head, only mildly greasy with faint notes of some sort of shampoo. At last, Crispin let go as he fell weak. He let out a breath he was apparently holding before proceeding to snore.