Capable

🅲🅷🅰🅿🆃🅴🆁🅴🅸🅶🅷🆃

NIALL

Adopting a kid, ain't nothin' like how they make it seem in the films.

Don't misunderstand me, now, it's a beautiful experience, and I'm so proud to be doing it, but this is a whole new rodeo.

Especially given the adoptee is fifteen, unpotty trained, refuses to sleep all the way through the night, and has found a new fetish in Dr. Seuss.

The books, the shows, the films- if it was, in any way, shape or form, even related to Dr. Seuss we were going to have it.

Liam had made some arguments with social services and nearly risked his job, but, eventually, they'd agreed that Harry's mental state was not one that it would be considered ethical to remove him so abruptly from one home, in time to move him right back.

It bordered on cruel, and the woman in charge was hard pressed to disagree once myself and Liam had wrestled Harry all the way there. Given he was clinging to the doorposts and wailing at the idea of even entering the tall brownstone building, the case for Harry's adaption in new atmospheres being poor was closed.

"Louis," I snapped at the Doncaster lad who was supposed to be helping me put together Harry's new bed, but who was presently absorbed in Horton Hears A Who .

"Yea, Ni!" he snapped from his daze, looking frantically about for what he was supposed to be doing, cheeks pinking at being caught watching the babyish film.

"Wrench, please?" I asked, holding my hand out and waiting, choosing not to mention it.

A minute later, the chilled metal was against my calloused palm and I was grasping it tightly to begin twisting the final bolt in place.

One more bolt and I'd be free, no more sharing the bed.

I was okay with everything that keeping Harry entailed.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining.

However, despite Harry being mentally delayed a bit, his physical growth was......not.

He was easily closing in on six feet tall, though his zombie like posture made him appear much shorter. Having anyone that size in your bed during a nightmare, or, just, in general, if they felt restless or squirmy, was terrifying.

The number of nights that I had spent on the floor by only the second week, was nothing to scoff at. I was eager to have my bed back, to say the least. Also, Harry's accidents, though becoming fewer in the daytime now, were frequent visitors in the nighttime.

His newest discovery, or, more likely, something he remembered he could do, was removing the undergarment in the middle of the night and falling back to sleep with his lower half completely nude.

I woke two nights ago to a soaking wet feeling seeping through my blankets, and peered down my chest to find Harry's dick (which again, although, mentally impaired, physically, he's good down there, no one that innocent should possess that) standing like a soldier at attention. The dim light seeping through our curtains had made the silhouette crystal clear.

For about a full minute, I appeared to have a little fountain in my bed. His urine soared through the air in a frighteningly steady stream and landed directly in the middle of my chest, the angle he chose to lay at accommodating the target just fine.

By the time I'd woken e ought to see what was happening and understand it all, it was over. Then, I was throwing the blankets aside and trying to remember that I couldn't shout at him or, even, indicate I was slightly annoyed with the event.