#I sleep so little and all my bones hurt and my tendons and muscles too and my brain is on vacation sorry i'm going to keep making text post

[handern]

nobody told me about needle threaders and I'm going to cry what the fuck

[staycalmandhugaclone]

If you're new, this all starts with Touch Starved - Echo! You can read this little chunk as a standalone, or head back to the beginning for the full experience!

This takes place after the Muzzled series and references Flinching and Touch Starved part 5.

Febuwhump Day 1.5 Part 2

Touch-Starved – Crosshair - Nothing's easy with Crosshair, but after a joke goes too far, he and Doc manage to find a deeper trust in each other.

Warnings: More cursing, panic attack

WC: 4,1117

The heavy padding of the crash seat restraints was deceptively comfortable. I could hear the indecipherable words of Tech and Echo murmuring from the cockpit, unhurried voices a gentle hum atop the Marauder’s engines. Hunter, if his body was feeling kind, was resting in the bunk room. I wasn’t sure where the other two were, but the gentle quiet of the ship was a rare treasure that I found myself too happy to merely exist in.

My eyes had just started to close when something shifted nearby, attention reluctantly glancing to my right. Crosshair sat in the seat to my right, hand stretched toward me though his attention remained pointedly locked on the door to the kitchenette.

I stared groggily at his open palm for a moment, brows furrowed before hesitantly reaching for him. Studying him with a confused weariness, I slowly let my fingers slip through his. His eyes darted down to our hands in a split second of confusion before wrenching away from me with a scowl.

“I’m not asking to hold your kriffing hand.” He snarled, and I felt my eyes close in a slow blink as I drew in a deep, mediated breath, mind still freeing itself from the fringes of sleep.

“Kay, so, what are…” My jaw fell open with a silent ‘oh’, head falling heavily back against the seat. “Words. Crosshair. We use them for a reason.” There was just a faint hint of impatience in my groan, but I was already pushing the harness of dense foam away from my chest. “Sit.” I mumbled before he’d risen more than in inch from his seat, hand quickly reaching out to settle atop his forearm.

For a moment, I thought he’d been so affronted between my initial misunderstanding and subsequent frustration that he’d refuse, but, lips bunched, yielded beneath my touch, and the beginnings of a smile warmed my face as I pulled his arm toward me, gently easing the glove and vambrace free.

There was something captivating about his hands; the play of powerful tendons dancing below thick veins that stretched up the dense muscle of his forearm, the long, dexterous fingers tipped in neatly kept nails and coarse calluses; the way he melted as soon as I dragged my thumb along the center of his palm. He resisted for a moment, but I could see the tension slip from those narrowed eyes, brows abandoning that signature furrow before, finally, he let himself sink back into the chair, head resting contently against the worn padding.

My chest swelled at the sight of his eyes slipping shut, shoulders just beginning to slouch as he let out a deep breath. It had been months since he first let me touch him like this when his wrist was caught in that vine, and he’d seemed even more keen to avoid me after he’d been captured; after I’d had to subject him to that painful treatment because he’d hidden the severity of his injuries; after he’d said those hurtful words that still made my heart clench every time I thought of them.

Now, however, I granted myself permission to treasure this moment: he’d come to me. Without prompt or pain, he’d come to me for the simple pleasure of my touch. I noted the way his breath stilled against the threat of some small grunt or moan as I deftly worked over each finger in turn; the flush of gooseflesh as I meticulously isolated and manipulated the complex network of bone and tendon in his wrist; the way his jaw slackened ever so slightly as I kneaded the wiry muscles of his forearm; the softness in his eyes when he stole that brief glance at me as I finished with slow, sweeping movements up to his elbow and down to the his fingertips.

Carefully setting that limp hand atop his knee, I quietly stood and moved to the seat at his other side, lips still lifted into a gentle smile.

“Would you like me to do this one, too?” I asked, already holding my palm up in invitation. Without a word, he merely nodded and set his other hand in mine, watching in silence as I freed that limb of armor as well.

This time, a tiny grunt did manage to escape him at that first flush of relief from my thumbs dragging firmly along the length of his palm. I heard the click of his jaw slamming shut, but refused to let myself react even enough to glance toward him in hopes of catching sight of a flush creeping up his neck. For any other reason, I’d have gleaned no end of humor from causing the reserved man to blush, but not now; not for this. As I repeated the unhurried worship of his hand, I wanted him comfortable. I wanted him to know that, as long as he trusted me in this way, he was completely safe from any judgement or ridicule, that he was free to enjoy this – that I wanted him to enjoy it as shamelessly and candidly as he could.

“You know,” I murmured quietly as my hands finally stilled around him, letting that final touch linger for just a moment longer, “I don’t just give hand massages. Holding that rifle up all day can’t be comfortable. Are you ever going to let me touch your back again?” I knew I was pushing him, but hoped the gentle cadence of my words and the deep calm still evident in the laxed set of his face might be enough to rid those final whispers of reluctance.

His gaze fell to where my thumb continued shifting absently atop his palm, attention briefly captivated by the gentle touch, before drawing movement back into his own hand, fingers leisurely stretching out and then closing just enough to curl lightly atop my skin. Without a word, he pulled the limb away from me, retrieved his gear, and, with easy, unrushed strides, retreated to the cockpit.

I let out a slow sigh. While his refusal wasn’t surprising enough to even warrant any real disappointment, I still felt the smallest note of failure. He didn’t trust me enough yet, but there was hope.

-

“That was the problem,” Echo groaned, hand dragging over his face, “Captain Rex knew he’d snuck her into the barracks, that’s why Heavy wasn’t able to distract him with the whole ‘existential crisis’ diversion!”

“So, you was jus’ as confused as she was?!” Wrecker snorted.

“I had no idea what was happening!” He burst with a note of helpless that only fueled mine and Wrecker’s mirth. I’d found myself nestled on my back atop the foot of Hunter’s cot, legs stretched up for my feet to press absently against the bottom of Crosshair’s bunk despite the snarl I knew I’d get if he walked in to see me like that as Wrecker and I listening to the arc recount some of the misadventures his brother roped him into. I couldn’t dismiss the worry that Wrecker might find inspiration in his retellings, but still found myself giggling right alongside the man.

“Fives just said he was calling in a favor – a favor I didn’t owe him, and shoved her in my boot-locker because everyone else’s was too cluttered for her to fit! And then the Captain came in almost the second he closed the lid.”

“And so-so Rex just…” I stammered.

“He was there for hours! I thought the poor girl was going to suffocate! Then he just walks right up to me, kicks my locker, and asks her if she wants to come out yet. I’ve never seen Fives look so defeated!” I let my head tilt back over the edge of Hunter’s bed, body shaking with howls of laughter.

“Having fun?” Face still distorted in a beaming grin, I turned to see Hunter staring pointedly at me, arms looped across his chest, and quickly caught my lips between my teeth.

“Just keeping it warm for you, Serg.” I replied coyly. His eyebrow hitched, but gave no further reply as he watched me quickly roll to my feet. Stretching my arms lavishly over my head, I met his deadpan stare with a look of mock innocence. He relented with a small smirk before nodding toward the back of the ship.

“Tech’s sending our inventory list out when we change hyperlanes. Anything else you need to add?” There was a fondness in his voice that softened the routine question and drew my lips into a small smile.

“Everything should be up to date, but I’ll do another count just to be sure.” I answered warmly knowing that, while I was meticulous in recording what supplies I used, the occasional tube of bacta or roll of bandages still went missing now and then when they elected not to ‘bother’ me with ‘smaller injuries’. He gave an approving nod as I shot Wrecker and Echo a farewell glance before making my way through the ship.

I already had the inventory pulled up on my datapad as I walked through the medbay doors, scrolling through to quickly note what we should be fully stocked with as an easy place to start. I’d made it halfway across the room before my body reacted in a flurry of panic. There was no conscious acknowledgement of the figure leaning in the corner just beside the door, no thought before my arm snapped out to launch the datapad at him with every ounce of force the muscles could manage, no difference in that fleeting moment of terror between the elegant form of the sniper and the memory of that wretched mercenary as my throat closed around a strangled gasp, legs tangling beneath me in a desperate rush to throw myself away from him, to steal even a whisper of distance more between us before crashing back against the cot.

He caught the datapad effortlessly, brows raising in a mocking look that should have brought a flush of embarrassment to my cheeks, but I couldn’t begin to focus on that, heart fluttering painfully against my chest in a ceaseless race to flood my veins with adrenaline.

“Dank Farrik! Crosshair!” The curse erupted from me in a shout I gave no effort in restraining, “Enough with the lurking about in my karking medbay! You want to give someone a heart attack, choose someone who’s not in charge of saving your ungrateful hide every time you lot come up with some suicidal plan!” The tiny smirk he had just enough sense to at least try to bite back only fueled my rage. One hand clutched to my chest as though it might somehow prevent my heart from bursting through my sternum, body rocking beneath violently panting breaths, I dragged my other hand through my hair, fingers clawing against my scalp.

“What do you want?” I could hear the strain in my voice as I struggled to force back some of that unrelenting panic, wide eyes locked on his, and I watched that initial humor slowly fade from the sharp features of his face, brows just drawing together as he studied me with something bordering surprise; concern.

“Thought I’d take you up on your offer.” It took a moment for my mind to make sense of those suddenly hesitant words. My offer… Had it really just been earlier that day that he’d finally come back to me to work the tension from his hands; when I’d voiced that gentle invitation to treat his back with the same healing touch? Mouth hanging open slightly, I let my gaze fall away from him, jaw shifting in a vain attempt to loosen the taut muscles.

A massage… He’d been waiting in here for a massage. I wanted to be thrilled. I wanted to feel the exhilaration of a relief I knew should have accompanied this gesture of confidence and faith, but I felt only that awful cold; the chill of fear surging down my arms and legs, robbing sensation from my fingertips and prickling atop my scalp with that nauseating urge to run. I tried to focus on a slow, controlled breath, fighting the way the air shuttered through slightly pursed lips.

“Yeah,” I sighed, nearly cringing at the initial weakness in the word before starting again, “Yeah, of course…” My throat shifted awkwardly in an attempt to swallow back the lingering stiffness, a hum catching on my next exhale as I tried to force my mind into some semblance of stability. “Your- go ahead and take your armor off. You can… just stack it over on the counter.” My hand motioned vaguely across the room before I turned to retrieve my oils.

He was still for a moment, and my hair bristled at the sensation of his attentive gaze following me, but I refused to acknowledge it. I couldn’t waste this chance. If I turned him away now, he may never let himself reach out again. I just needed to convince my heart to slow, to remember that as long as I was aboard this ship surrounded by these men, I didn’t need to be afraid.

As I listened to Crosshair finally begin to walk toward the far wall, however; as I quickly chose an oil and began warming it to a soothing temperature, I couldn’t force the tremble from my breath, couldn’t slip free of that violent need to scan every corner of the room; to lock the door and bar it with everything I could physically move. My teeth ground beneath that crippling frustration, mind screaming in rage at this pointless panic, glare burring into the violent tremors still seizing through my hands, and I wanted to sob at that sharp hurt of defeat.

“Crosshair,” My voice sounded so small as I reluctantly called his name, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at him as he immediately stopped moving. “I-” The word caught in my throat, every fiber of my body rebelling against the wretched truth clawing up my throat, “I can’t.” I finally forced it out on a barely audible whisper, chest lurching with a sharp inhale immediately after in a rushed attempt to explain, to somehow prevent this from pushing him away, “Um, I just… just give me a minute, okay?” It sounded like I was begging him, and that almost made it worse, but I couldn’t force that plea from my words, fingers digging into the edges of the countertop, “I’ll come find you in a bit… just… just give me a…” My teeth ground against the way my lungs tried to shutter around the words, chin ducking against my chest, eyes clenching shut in that futile attempt to focus on steadying my breath.

Once more, I heard him go still, felt the intensity of his gaze burning into me, felt my stomach churn amidst that suffocating silence that rent the air around me to sludge. When he retrieved his armor and quietly saw himself from the room, I finally let my legs fold beneath that crushing weight, knees crashing to the hard floor as my torso seized around desperate, gasping breaths, arms locking fast about my chest. I barely noticed my feet scrambling beneath me until the corner of the room pressed against my shoulders, body yielding beneath that fear as my gaze tore around me for any sign of a threat before darting to the sleek durasteel of the door.

I couldn’t bring myself to move for a long while, trapped in the certainty that that panel would slide open at any second. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to shout at myself for the uselessness of this panic. I wanted to mourn the potential damage done to that delicate wisp of trust I’d so nearly gained, but, for those long, agonizing minutes or hours or seconds, I could only cower, hidden pressed into the corner, and wait.

When my limbs finally back to unlock, when exhaustion slowly won out over that fear and I felt the first whispers of clarity reluctantly returning to my thoughts, I let myself sink beneath the wretched  understanding of what had happened, of what it could have cost me. I allowed myself a moment longer to breathe before trying to stand.

Groggily, I forced my legs to straighten, shaking them slightly to urge some feeling back into the limbs even as I scowled at the eminent sting of static prickling through newly awakened nerves. What emotion had filled those piercing eyes in the final seconds before he’d left? Disdain? Annoyance? Indifference?

I watched my fingers tap absently atop the chilled counter, no longer plagued by that uncontrollable tremble. The weariness dragging against my movements was an annoyance, but one I could overlook. We’d surely be falling out of hyperspace soon, and I still owed Hunter an updated inventory. Resolving to grant myself only that menial task as some justifiable delay before forcing myself from the room, I tried to use those few minutes to let my mind fall into a thoughtless quiet. There was no point in fretting over the potential of damage done, and blaming myself for it was a pointless misery.

-

“Cross?” His attention snapped toward me from where he’d been absently dragging a cloth over the visor of his helmet, legs curled tightly beneath him atop the thin mattress of his cot, but he offered no further response at those frightfully insightful eyes locked onto me. I didn’t shy from his gaze, standing quietly just beyond the doorway of the bunkroom. Without a word, I nodded subtly over my shoulder before turning and starting back toward the medbay, ears straining to catch any hint of sound to confirm he was following, and the relief that burst through my chest at the near silent thud of his feet hitting the floor drew a quick sigh from my lips.

I’d already sent the updated list to Tech, confirming there had been a mysterious discrepancy between my records and our physical inventory, and, in an act of either hope of denial, had begun warming my oils before leaving to find the intimidating sniper.

“Let me know if there’s a particular spot that’s bothering you. Otherwise, I’ll just start with your back and shoulders, and go from there.” I told him lightly as though nothing at all had happened earlier. “You can either lay down on your stomach or just sit if that’s more comfortable for you.” Granting him some hint of privacy, I kept my back to him as he slowly began freeing himself of that heavy armor once more, but, when those sounds quieted, I turned to find him still covered in his blacks.

“I didn’t peg you as being self-conscious.” I teased gently. “You’re not going to take your shirt off?”

“Last time I did that, you stabbed me.” The look of unabashed disbelief that quickly stole over me was almost enough to completely rid even the memory of my earlier episode, mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

“You were losing sensation in your hands.” I reminded him pointedly with a scoff, “My deepest apologies for thinking that was something you might prefer to avoid.” His lips twitched in something between a smirk and a scowl, but he let his fingers slip under the hem of his shit and drag it smoothly up his torso. I pointedly turned my attention to my supplies. Unlike Wrecker, I didn’t doubt the man before me would not only notice the flash of appreciation warming my cheeks, but also make absolutely certain that I knew he’d noticed.

Flask of oil in hand, I turned to find him settling comfortably atop the cot, arms folded up to rest his forehead on. Maker, the man was a wealth of immaculately defined muscle; the rich caramel of his skin, though slightly lighter than his brothers, still granted a stunning display of warmth as it danced with the unhurried ebb and flow of his breath.

Steps purposefully quieted, I made my way toward him, pouring a dollop of oil onto my palm before setting the container down carefully at my feet. In sure, gentle motions, I let my hands trail atop the ridge of muscle sweeping up his shoulders to the base of his neck before stretching down the length of his spine, and I couldn’t help but note the threat of tension he was purposefully fighting back.

“Normally, I’d lead you through a breathing exercise,” I murmured warmly, “though, given your specialty, I have a sneaking suspicion it might be a bit rudimentary for you.” He responded with a dismissive grunt, but offered nothing more; so I merely turned my attention back to the elaborate interplay of sculpted muscle before me, subtly beginning to add weight to the long, sweeping strokes in hopes of easing that tension from him so I could really begin.

“I’m sorry.” My body froze at the quiet words, so taken aback for a moment, that even the air stilled in my lungs. “For earlier.” He added as though there was any need to elaborate, and I had to let out a carefully slowed breath before pulling some hint of movement back to my limbs, fingers absently flaring out atop the broad expanse of his shoulders.

“Thank you.” I whispered almost silently, caught for a moment longer in that stillness before drawing my attention back to a gentle rhythm of motion, and my touch shifted slightly to begin targeting that troublesome spot between his shoulder blade and spine. “But I don’t want you to think that was entirely your fault.” I pressed, voice still lowered into a gentle murmur, “You had no way of knowing I’d react like that – I didn’t know I’d react like that.” The leisurely dance of his breath stilled, and I could practically hear the grind of his teeth beneath taut muscles.

“It’s alright, Crosshair.” I promised, heart threatening to burst at the guilt stealing over him. “Just proves that I need to pay more attention to corners.” At that, his head shifted just enough to glance up at me from the corner of his eye, and I didn’t have to force the warm smile that crept over my lips. He hesitated a moment longer before letting himself sink back to the mattress.

Only then, did he finally begin to relax beneath my touch, back occasionally shifting ever so slightly into me as I found dense knots of tangled tissue. Each subtle breath of relief that swept through him as I meticulous worked over every muscle was its own priceless reward, and I found myself all too eager to let my hands move on to continue down the length of each arm in turn before repeating my earlier ministrations to his hands, if only because I knew how the man seemed to favor that touch. I dragged my thumbs along the dense cords of muscle lining his neck until his head rested perfectly limp, and I was thrilled to see him match his breathing to the barely whispered count automatically sighing from my lips.

Finally, I let my hands rest quietly against him, and the stillness that followed was a gentle presence neither of us seemed willing to break for a long while. When he dragged his hands beneath him to push himself up, I merely let my touch slip away in the wake of his motion as he pulled himself to sit on the edge of the bed. He didn’t look at me as he rolled his shoulders, absently testing them in a subtle dance that I couldn’t help but marvel at.

“Better?” I asked, not trying to hide the smile from my voice. His jaw shifted forward, teeth absently catching at the flesh of his inner cheek before giving an almost reluctant nod. “Good.” The depth of my own elation beamed through that single word, and he seemed to quiet further beneath it.

“You know, you’re the first one so far to stay awake.” Lips pulling further into a cheeky grin, I knelt to retrieve my oil. He responded with a dismissive hum, attention following his own arm as he continued aimlessly exploring what was surely an odd weightlessness from the newly loosened limb. “Maybe next time.” I teased. That finally drew his gaze back to me, eyes narrowing into an unamused stare that drew a quiet chuckle from me.

“Thanks.” He nearly mumbled the quiet word as he began dragging his shirt back over that stunning display of elegant muscle.

“Anytime.” I answered, forcefully dragging my attention away from the final glimpse of golden skin, and my heart dropped at the subtle hitch of his brow as those damn eyes stared pointedly at mine. Kriff.

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[echo-of-sounds]

hands

Small headcanons about the hands of Aizawa, Toshi, Hizashi, Fatgum, Gang Orca, and Hound Dog.

Hands have always been one of my favorite body parts. I used to love anatomy and wanted to be a surgeon. But once I saw a video of a surgery, I lost all interest.

Warnings: it’s nothing in any detail but some of these mention injuries/blood

Aizawa Shouta

Shouta has big palms. Hair and veins are noticeable on both sides. On the dorsal side, dark hair from his arms brushes along the outside. There’s a light dusting on his proximal phalanges. Prominent veins line the dorsal side as well. You can trace them up along his wrist and forearm.

On the palmar side, blue and purple veins lay close to his pale skin’s surface. They’re seen remarkably far up his arm and down into his fingers. A few light scars mark his palm. And warmth radiates from his palm. It’s excellent on chilly nights. While cuddling, his hands slide under your shirt, keeping your stomach warm. 

His fists are one of his main weapons (on his body). Consequently, his knuckles have taken a beating. Even with the proper posture and punching technique, his fingers will eventually feel the damage of socking skull bones over and over, even more so since he doesn’t wrap them. His metacarpophalangeal joints (MCP) are a little distorted. His pinky’s shifted, his middle is much higher than the others, and his ring’s have receded. They don’t affect his hand movements, but he does feel pain and gets twitches every now and then.

His cuticles and skin around the nails are dry, flaky, and peeling. Most of the skin on his hands is rough and dry, but he never uses lotion. If you want to help, just sit beside him one evening as he’s watching TV and massage thick layers all over his hands and fingers. And keep his hands in yours. He’ll completely forget and rub/wash it off.

Yagi Toshinori

Toshi’s long fingers easily wrap around your thigh. They rub and squeeze and, despite the roughness, feels pleasing on yours because of their weight. However, they are prone to shaking and weakness. His physical health may be the source, but his anxiety also causes trembling. Days when sleep is little and anxiety is high, it’s the worst. If you happen to notice it, don’t comment, just hold his hand for comfort.

His hands are just so big and beautiful. When he had his powers, his hands were rougher and dryer. He has calluses below the proximal interphalangeal joints (PIP). His index, middle, and ring finger are the worst ones. Dry, cracked skin surrounds them, stretching around and between each finger. Thick skin covers his upper palm.

Now that he isn’t working as a Hero, his hands aren’t constantly being beaten and cracked and torn, and have (somewhat) healed. He started using heavy-duty reparative lotion and the improvement is clear. His skin isn’t as cracked and rough.

The tendons in his hands and wrists are very prominent, especially on his dorsal side. The extensor pollicis brevis and longus are noticeable even when his thumb is resting. He also has a palmaris longus tendon that you can feel quite a ways down his forearm.

Toshi loves when you play with his hands- move his fingers, trace his tendons, kiss his knuckles, massage his palm, anything. Though his fingers are often cold. When he first reaches for your hand, it’ll jump you a little. At night, he’ll tuck his hands in your shirt or wrap you tightly in his arms to warm them up. On the plus side, he always wants to cuddle!

Yamada Hizashi

Hizashi’s palms aren't that big. It's made up for with his beautifully long, nimble, and agile fingers. His proximal and middle phalanges are elongated. They’re steady and dexterous, letting him handle tasks that require care and precision. And since his fighting style doesn’t call for his hands in any way, they aren’t all roughed up and dry.

He always takes care of his fingernails. They’re trimmed, the skin around them is perfect, they’re sometimes painted black or dark purple, and he likes wearing clean-cut, masculine rings. 

They’re fairly warm. His gloves help. If you’re ever stuck outside on a chilly night, he’ll take your hands and tuck them in his pockets with his hands. They’re so smooth and fluid as they rub yours. And at home, they give glorious massages, caressing and stroking everywhere.

From playing instruments, there are a few guitar calluses on his fingertips. They’re nowhere near as bad as the other guys' though. Along the same lines, aches and joint stiffness bothers him if he’s on a marathon playing piano and bass. You’ll have to step in and tell him to stop because he won’t want to, possibly hurting himself in the process.

Taishiro Toyomitsu

Big. Really big. Seriously, his palms are huge. Tai will pat your head and it'll feel like a book is being knocked against you. And, god, his fingers. They’re thick and solid and oh so delicate as he picks up tiny cupcakes. 

His flexion lines are deeper than average and there are a few calluses on his upper palms. It’s being cracked and dry he needs to worry about though. It doesn’t help that he’s always washing his hands because he goes from fighting to eating to fighting to eating multiple times a day. He could use lotion more often than he does.

Tai’s MCP joints are like Aizawa's, but his are a little more misshapen and damaged. His pinky’s warped outwards, pulling the skin tighter in that area. His middle finger’s bumps high and is sensitive to touch. Sometimes when his hand is overworked, his fingers won’t glide up and down naturally. It’s almost like they snap up and down instead. His metacarpals and muscles are often sore as well.

They definitely deserve pampering. Ice his wrists for fifteen minutes, then carefully massage his palms and knead his fingers. The popping and cracking don’t hurt him. It actually feels nice as the tension releases. A groan or two might slip out. After, he’ll want to repay you… using his fingers.

Gang Orca

They feel different because Kugo’s skin isn’t human, but it’s not a bad difference. He enjoys running his palm over your skin and it’s surprisingly soft considering his job. Seeing his huge hand on your stomach fuels something deep within him.

His fingers are long, his palms are big, and his joints are robust. His hands are just sturdy powerhouses. Finger pull-ups are no problem for him. Yet they’re still gentle in everything they do. 

Tendons on his dorsal side may not be able to be seen, but they definitely can be felt. Move his fingers around while stroking the back of his hand, and they’ll pull and constrict under your thumb. They’re just as strong as the rest of him.

Because of his mutation, he doesn’t have nails. His fingertips are pointer than an average human's, and he’s always been careful with them. As a kid, he scratched things a lot. Now, after years of training and bodily awareness, it rarely happens. But he’s still scared of scratching someone, specifically you and children.

Kugo’s skin doesn’t crack and peel. Although they do dry out and it’s painful. Lather his hands in body butter then put plastic gloves on him to keep the moisture close.

Hound Dog

Rough, calloused, thick, and firm- that’s not just Ryo’s personality but his hands too. His palms are calloused. His fingers are thick and firm and do damn near everything roughly. Papers crinkle when he picks them up. Pen and pencils break in half when he uses them. A few laptops and tablets have been busted from him grabbing them so hard. He could take a few pointers from Kugo on how to be gentle.

Under his PIP joints, there are rather severe calluses. They break open and bleed and regularly cause itchiness/pricking. Band-aids don’t last. Bandages get torn. One day you’re just going to have to wrap his fingers together and duct tape it closed to let his skin heal. He’ll bite the tape to get it off. Distract him with food or movies.

Hair comes from his arm up to the back of his hand with some dusting the tops of his fingers. His extensor digitorum tendons are handsomely raised with veins vining around them. They’re perfect for when you’re in the car and your thigh is begging to be squeezed, highlighting their size and strength even more. 

Even though Ryo’s nails aren’t actually pointy, they’re tough and durable, and if they hit you at just the right angle, they could easily puncture your skin, maybe take a tiny chunk out. He trims his nails to prevent them from hurting anyone. The second they’re five millimeters over, they’re clipped and filed down.

[buckstaposition]

also...if you're taking prompts...how would you feel about writing even a little about marcus pike giving reader a massage and just generally being caring because you know how much I want you to write him and you also know how much I need that rn

okay, two days of ruminating and here’s what came of it. hope it lives up to expectation 🙏🥺:

Marcus Pike x (f!)xreader (f for mentions of wearing a bra, but that’s it), indulgent fluff, massage, cuddles, established relationship, Marcus Pike has husband material written all over him...hmm, what else? reference to not being a sprightly twenty-something anymore, but if you are presently a sprightly twenty-something you can still read this of course. in preparation for your future decrepitness or so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

words: 1101

“Uuuuuuuugh.” 

Marcus poked his head out of the kitchen, brows raised in a sympathetic frown as he took in your brow-beaten form.

“You alright, honey?” Dammit, he looked too cute in his apron over rolled-up shirt sleeves. You were in no condition to truly appreciate the sight of your gorgeous boyfriend in all his domestic glory. You threw your keys in the dish by the coat rack and dropped your bag to the ground, managing an unconvincing thumbs-up with your other hand in lieu of words.

“That bad, huh?” You just nodded, wordlessly kicking off your shoes, then dragging your tired feet over to him and collapsing against his chest with another pained groan. You took a deep, fortifying breath from where you’d tucked your face into his neck.

“You smell nice.”

“Thanks.” He awkwardly wrapped his arms around you, being mindful of not getting any of the food on his hands onto your clothes.

“You always smell so nice.” A kiss pressed to your head elicits the first true smile of the day from you. “And you’re so good to me. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

You feel the low rumble of his little laugh more than hear it. You don’t want to move, because moving hurts. Some days you really hate not being twenty anymore. Mostly days like these when you come home tired and cranky, with the dull throb of a latent pressure headache between your temples, and small dumb things like moving your head wrong or sleeping funny result in your neck muscles locking up tighter than an activated safe room. You’d hoped it would dissipate over the course of the day, you even did some stretches, but to no avail.

“I gotta finish up dinner, my love. Why don’t you take a hot shower? It might make you feel a bit better.” He started swaying a bit on the spot with you, but you can tell he’s cautiously looking over his shoulder, probably making sure that whatever he has on the stove or in the oven isn’t starting to burn or boil over or anything. You make a displeased little sound, and then a pained one when you try to lift your arms to wind then around his waist.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Marcus started bodily shuffling the two of you along the hallway until you reached the bathroom door. He made to disentangle himself and you whined, burrowing closer. “Honey…”

You whined again and he sighed fondly. “Okay then. D’you just wanna sit while I finish up dinner?”

You nodded wordlessly. Marcus turned you both around and shuffled back towards the dining nook, settling you so you had a good view of the kitchen. You were miserable with pain and fatigue, but you appreciated that he never made you feel pathetic. With a kiss to the crown of your head, he left you to attend to dinner again.

You must have zoned out for a bit, because one moment you were watching Marcus cook – chopping, breading, stirring, frying, sautéing and so on – and the next a beautifully arranged plate was placed in front of you.

“Oh my god!” You exclaim. “Marcus this smells delicious!” Your answer is that pleased yet bashful little smile as he sits and motions for you to dig in, which you gladly do. How anyone could ever let this man go is beyond you.

Dinner enlivens you a bit. Admittedly a day of run-on meetings with only small breaks in between had left you ravenous. You can almost forget your aching back and tense muscles. Even go so far as to try and help Marcus with clearing the table afterwards.

“Honey, no.” He waved you off, but it’s mostly the intense pain when you try to lift your arms that makes you sink back into your chair. Not without a frown though.

“You already cooked!” You protested.

“Honey, it’s okay, really. You can clear out the dishwasher tomorrow if it makes you feel better.” Still pouting, you acquiesce. Marcus clears the table in record time and within minutes, you’re on your large, plush sofa, leaning back against Marcus who is warm and solid and comforting behind you.

You’re just about to doze off to the Golden Girls rerun on the TV when Marcus’ hands brush against your tender neck and you hiss.

“Christ, sweetheart, you’re tense enough to snap!”

“I almost did snap at Karen from accounting.”

“Very funny. Come sit up a bit yeah? Can you take your shirt off?”

“Oh, I’m suffering and you’re trying to get some action?” You sense his playful eyeroll even if you don’t see it. Nonetheless your hands start on the small buttons of your shirt. He helped you slide it off your arms, taking care to tuck the throw blanket up higher around you then moving to unclasp your bra. Once that too is discarded, he starts slowly, smoothing his warm fingers over the indentations left behind.

“Oooooh, I feel better already.” You sigh, only half in jest, and again he huffs out a short warm laugh, then presses a small kiss behind your ear. Your bliss lasts for about another half minute; when Marcus starts to dig his thumbs into the rigid tendons at the base of your neck you nearly sob. Marcus shushes you sweetly, humming a low ‘I know sweetheart, I’m sorry’ into the shell of your ear. To his credit, he is as gentle as he can be, but your muscles are so tight and coiled he does really have to dig in. But when he follows every forceful press with a soothing pass of his broad, warm hand over your skin, you can’t really object. Nor to the undeniable effect this treatment has. Already the tension lessens both in your muscles and your head, and with every minute you slip deeper into relaxation. Your eyes fall closed and the low noise of the TV faded into a mere background hum. You think you could fall sleep like this.

“Feeling better, my love?” Marcus passed one hand around to nudge gently against your collar bones, encouraging you to lean back against his chest. The small buttons of his dress shirt poke into your bare skin, but it’s a nuisance at best and you’re so woozy with relaxation now the sensation barely registers.

“Much.” You say. “Thank you, Marcus.”

You bend your head back against his shoulder, which you can now again do effortlessly, and kiss the corner of his smiling mouth while he tucks the throw blanket around your shoulders and wraps his arms around your middle.

- - - - -

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[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Caged.

Word Count: 2.0k

Written for an anonymous commissioner.

Synopsis: Yaoyorozu’s always loved your wings. She takes care of them, grooms them, keeps snow-white feathers clean and undamaged and just perfect... You just wish she took care of the rest of you, too. 

TW: Graphic Violence, Broken Bones, Kidnapping, Captivity, Dehumanization, and Delusional Mindsets. 

She’d said it hadn’t been because of your wings.

That was all she said for the first few weeks of your captivity, really. Momo was many things, but she wasn’t subtle, nor did she make an effort to watch her tongue around the civilian chained down and (more often than not) unable to respond to her one-sided conversations. She said everything a kidnapper could have to say about their hostage. She claimed that she fell in love with your personality, that she’d spent months dutifully noting down your interests and your hobbies and every piece of information that could be gleaned from careful surveillance. She told you that your wings were just a bonus, that they didn’t really matter, but they just made her precious, darling songbird a little easier to find.

But, for every second she spent singing your praises, she spent two gritting her teeth or crossing her arms or making it clear that she’d love you more if you were obedient, if you were affectionate, if you were different. Your hobbies faded into the background, considering how few opportunities she gave you to indulge them, and unless she was bringing home a gift to make up for the night you’d spent trying to cry yourself to sleep, she didn’t seem to pay your interests any mind. But, she gave your wings the utmost attention, keeping your snowy-white feathers pristine and taking far too much time to prune and pluck anything she didn’t deem ‘befitting’ of you. She adored your wings, she loved your wings, and she never hesitated to tell you that.

As much as she claimed they weren’t her motivation, she cared for your wings. She couldn’t deny that. 

That was more than she could say for the rest of you.

You supposed it wasn’t so bad, having her focus on one part of you so heavily, she tended to overlook most of your minor shows of rebellion. You were allowed to drag your knees into your chest and cling to the idea of safety as she looked over your wings, the appendages outstretched to their full length as Momo hummed and pulled at anything loose, anything bent, anything that wasn’t perfect. While she was perched on the edge of her bed, you were left to settle on the cold, barren floor and fight the chill your thin clothes did little to keep out. The basement - your bedroom, as she called it - was sizable, but the space was lost on you, considering how Momo chose to use it. After your last escape attempt, she’d declared furniture a ‘distraction’, something that took your attention away from her. You had a cot, just enough blankets to sleep, and whatever Momo thought was necessary for your basic survival. She’d said that you’d be able to earn things back, but that’d been weeks ago, and she seemed to like the way you were forced to look forward to her daily visits. She liked knowing she was the only thing on your mind.  

She liked making sure her pet had nothing better to do than beg for her attention.

“What’d you get yourself into?” She asked, drawing you out of your thoughts. The question was more for her than for you, posed under her breath, and yet, you couldn’t help but feel like you had to answer when every other word was accompanied by another tug, another feather at her feet. “It’s worse than usual, today.”

A dozen excuses played on your tongue. Last month, you’d told her it was molting season, and you’d managed to quell her worries by saying that this kind of damage was normal for avians in new environments before that, a trick that worked for longer than either of you would like to admit. You doubted she’d forget so quickly, so you settled on something simple. “It’s just the stress,” You explained, the statement only half untrue. “It makes maintenance harder than it has to be, but it looks worse than it is.”

That earned a pause, a more careless jerk to one of your primary feathers. “You’re stressed?” Now, she was talking to you, expecting an answer. Paying attention to the way your hands twitched at your sides every time her fingertips brushed a tender spot of lean, thin muscle. A hint of something playful traced the edges of her tone as she continued, and you weren’t sure whether to relax or reinforce your barriers. “Don’t say it’s because of me, angel.”

A pet name. Pet names were good. Pet names meant she didn’t see you as human, right now, making you another one of her infallible, unblamable creatures. It didn’t mean you could be honest, but you wouldn’t have to lie, either, not really. Not as much as you’d have to, otherwise. “It just happens,” You admitted, giving a noncommittal shrug. “Animal-based quirks are complicated, like that. When I’m inside for too long, or… like, when the room I’m in is too small, my wings tend to notice before I can.” You allowed yourself a breathy laugh, loosening your hold on your legs. “When I moved into my first apartment, my roommate had to start complaining before I--”

“You think I’m not taking care of you.”

If her words hadn’t been enough to silence you, the feeling of her fist closing around a handful of something downy and sensitive did the trick. Reflexively, you went rigid, stretching your wings out to their full length and bowing your head, but Momo’s threats were never hollow. With one strong, steady pull, a patch of your left wing was on fire, bare and blazing and burning as you slapped your palm over your mouth and tried to stifle the shriek that threatened to escape. You kept it there, for a moment, attempting to suppress the tears building up in the corners of your eyes, but Momo took your silence as resistance, a low growl reverberating through her grit teeth as she took hold of the base of your wing, the length of exposed bone between skin and feather. She didn’t squeeze, didn’t shatter, but the idea of the pain was worse than the eventuality, forcing your breath to hitch in your throat, your whole body to go stiff. Forcing her to hold you tighter, her irritation more than apparent in the sternness of her grip alone.

"It’s such a shame,” She started, a patronizing lilt weighing down the simple sentiment. You couldn’t see her, not when you were abruptly incapable of even turning your head, but you didn’t have to. You could practically hear her shaking her head, her expression somewhere between a frown and a pout as she lamented over whatever mistake her poor, stubborn little captive made, this time. “I really do try to be patient with you. There’s such a nice nest waiting for you upstairs, but it feels like I can’t let you out of your cage without having to worry about my baby bird trying to fly away.” There was a click of her tongue, a tap of her manicured nails against your shoulder blade. You felt her eyes prying into your skin, flitting across all the places your wings rooted themselves in place, as if she’d be able to tear them out with her gaze alone. For a moment, you wondered if she could. “Maybe if you stopped trying to get yourself into so much trouble, you’d wouldn’t have to be locked up. You’d be able to accept all the wonderful things I have to give you, and I wouldn’t have to watch you throw your tantrums and pretend I wouldn’t do anything to make you happy.”

“That’s not what I meant,” You managed, curling your nails into your palm as you willed yourself not to raise your voice. Yelling at Momo was never a good idea, and playing dumb would only make her more determined to remind you of your offenses, even if you couldn’t name the incident she seemed so focused on, today. “Please, Yaoyorozu, please, I didn’t mean to--”

“This is why I have to be so strict with you,” She sighed, her free hand falling to the arch of your wing, spreading the appendage to its full span. No longer giving you the chance to refuse. “You’re so quick to lie, and so slow to regret it. You don’t even know what you did wrong.”

You flinched, your lips parting, but your mind going blank as soon as you processed the accusation. Your stupor couldn’t have lasted for more than a few seconds, but a few seconds were more than enough for Momo to come to a resolution.

It wasn’t that she was stronger than she looked. She was, technically, but it wasn’t just that, it couldn’t have been. She’d done her research, she’d prepared, she’d practice, and you could only be thankful her new skill had been refined, polished into an undeniable talent, albeit a grisly one. There was a minute of pressure - crushing, awful pressure - and a snap, and then the pain.

Always the pain.

It was a clean break, halfway between the base of your wind and the bend, shock provided little comfort, adrenaline flowing in-time with the throbbing, the tight ache now coursing through your left wing, joints loosening in their sockets and tendons contracting in an effort just to keep something so broken where it should be. Resistance wasn’t an option. It was an animalistic  instinct that had nothing to do with your avian features, you were struggling before you could think to hold yourself back, willing your injured wing to fold against your back as you flailed, kicked, clawed, doing everything you could do to get away from the predator that was so content to watch you writhe in agony. Fighting was pointless, though. Momo didn’t try to restrain you, didn’t try to hold you back. Why would she? All the doors were locked, the windows nonexistent, and it wasn’t like you could actually hurt her.

There was nowhere for you to run, nothing for you to do.

In the end, there was nowhere to go but up.

It was difficult to get off the ground at the best of times, but you were desperate. As soon as you were on your feet, you were in the air, struggling to gain elevation without momentum, without an upward draft, without a single factor in your favor. It was hard, but it wasn’t impossible, even if every muscle in your back strained at the effort, your lungs burning and your uninjured wing taking up a frenzied speed just to get you a handful of meters off the floor. It must’ve looked pathetic, one wing struggling to keep you aloft and another, crooked and weak, twitching in an attempt to keep up with the pace its twin set, and it hurt so, so much, but you didn’t care. For a few seconds, Momo couldn’t reach you. For a few seconds, she couldn’t touch you and pull at your feathers and hurt you and…

And then, you hit the ceiling, and went plummeting back to the cold, unforgiving floor, as if you’d never left it at all.

Your shoulder took the brunt of your fall. It wasn’t far, but something in your arm still cracked as you collided with the solid cement, pulling a ragged sob from your chest that came out as broken as it was pitiful. You weren’t sure when you’d started crying, but suddenly, it was all you could do to curl into the tightest, smallest ball possible and hide your face, if only because you doubted you’d have the strength to wipe away the tears now blurring your vision. Momo didn’t seem to mind, though. She hadn’t taken a step since you’d gotten away from her, but that only meant she was still calm and collected and so, so composed as she kneeled at your side, barely nothing to brush your hair away from your face before her hands trailed back to your wings, always so eager to make sure her favorite parts of you weren’t more damaged than they had to be.

To make sure her favorite toy wasn’t beyond repair, after she’s had her fun.

“I hope you got some of your energy out,” She said, her tone sweet, but her voice devoid of all warmth. You’d say devoid of all love, too, but you were beginning to think Momo never had any to lose, in the first place. Not when it came to you.

“It’s going to take me hours to take care of all this damage. The least you could do is sit still, especially when I take such good care of you.”

[remmushound]

Damage part 3: Phantom Pain

@brightlotusmoon @errorfreak88

Leonardo’s day hadn’t started off well at all. He didn’t manage to get comfortable enough to sleep until long past midnight, and when he finally was welcomed by the darkness, his sleep was light and fitful. Tossing and turning as he drifted through dreams and a state of half-wake, clinging where his hand used to be. He could still feel it! And when his dreams took over he could see it too, and then he’d wake up in tears not understanding why he couldn’t touch it until—

He remembered. And once he remembered, he couldn’t go back to sleep. He’d closed his eyes to try, but then tears would overflow and escape as he saw the scene playing over and over. Helpless as he watched Raphael be torn to shreds. Leonardo was frozen in place— watching it happen, and he couldn’t force himself to move to stop it. He felt like he was made of stone.

It had been Splinter who tore the Shredder from Raphael. Their father. The rat had jumped savagely against the ancient beast and tried to find some weak spot to dig his claws or teeth— some flesh or weakened metal to latch onto. But the empty armor had neither. A sharp strike against Splinter’s back. There was blood and fur everywhere and the solid sound Splinter had made upon colliding with the wall…

Only when Shredder loomed above had Leonardo and Michelangelo made an attempt to run. Leonardo was faster, he was always faster, and he was pulling Michelangelo along with him to try to get away. Leonardo had grabbed his sword and drove it into the open mouth of the monster beating down on them, but it ate through the mystic metal almost as easy as it ate through—

Leonardo cried out into the darkness as he held the dismembered wrist. He could still feel it there— he could feel his tendons being ripped clean through and— and eaten! He could wiggle his fingers and feel his bones crushing! It was still there but it wasn’t. On his back, in the agony of it all, he hadn’t even recognized Shredders claws slashing across his plastron, from the left-side bridge of his chest all the way down his stomach. Michelangelo’s scream was like a distant memory. Flashing, vague. Michelangelo had come out of his shell trying to help, but Shredder had stepped on the box turtle’s leg in the fury of tearing into Leonardo. The snap still echoed in Leonardo’s mind. Then Shredder had turned his attention to the youngest brother. Pressing his full weight slowly down onto Michelangelo’s plastron. A sound not unlike the cracking of glass…

Leonardo needed air. He needed something to distract him from the pain. The rest of the lair was still asleep but he couldn’t be. He had been told countless times by Donatello and Raphael not to lift the weights by himself anymore, that he could damage hilarious even further, but he didn't care. He put enough weight on the barbell to replace the hurt of his mind with an ache in the muscles he strained. He needed to get stronger, and he needed to push himself past normal means. He didn't care if it hurt him.

“Leo Leo Leo Leo!”

Leonardo almost dropped the barbell on himself, but Michelangelo was quick to catch it and heft it back into its holders.

“Leo Leo Leo Leo—“

“Woah woah woah, where’s the fire?” Leonardo laughed.

Michelangelo sucked in a deep breath and let it out loudly. “First off: Donnie said no barbell anymore without a spotter. Two: I need your help with something!”

Leonardo sat up and patted the cushion beside him, to which Michelangelo gladly took a seat while explaining quickly what he had just witnessed with Raphael.

Leonardo whistled and shook his head. “Poor guy. So what, you think we should get him a… a new stuffy or something? He has like, two hundred of them so we have to make sure we don’t get a double.”

“What? No no no no no!” Mikey shook his head and waved his hands, “He needs something waaaay better!”

Leonardo blinked. “You mean like two stuffies?”

Michelangelo grinned evilly and rubbed his hands together. “No, that’s good enough. But I know what is~”

“Care to share with the class?”

Michelangelo didn't say a word past his evil laughter, taking Leonardo by the forearm and yanking the slider toward Michelangelo’s room.

“Come on come on come on come on come on!”

“I’m ‘come on’ing!” Leonardo laughed, letting himself be dragged inside and tossed on the bed. “Okay: We’re alone! What’s your idea?”

Michelangelo tossed his cane to the side carelessly and collapsed to start rooting through various drawers and cabinets.

“Care to let me in on the secret?” Leonardo asked, waving his arms.

“You remember when we were little turtle tots and Donnie couldn’t train with us cause he was too soft so you and me and Raph made him the pillow-armor thing?”

“Yeah— Donnie still has that old thing in his lab…”

Leonardo’s eyes followed Michelangelo as the box turtle ran between different boxes collecting different things— wire, glue, foam, pieces of cloth. His mind started to piece together his baby brother’s intention.

“What you thinking, Mike?”

Michelangelo dropped his supplies in a pile and rolled over his whiteboard, grabbing his favorite orange marker and starting to scribble out a colorful diagram. A diagram of a prosthetic shell...

“We— we can use the cloth to make it all soft and bright and colorful and fill the cloth with the foam to make it thicker and— and we can hold it together with wire and glue, and make some spikes out of the foam too! You think we can pull it off?” Michelangelo turned back to Leonardo hopefully.

Leonardo smiled. “You kidding? With my planning and your mad skills, we can make this in a snap! But why don’t we include Donnie too?”

“Well… you know he’s not feeling good…” Michelangelo tapped his fingers together anxiously.

“Listen, Miguel: If Don finds out we did something like this without him, he’ll go muy loco!” Leonardo waved his hand dramatically, “We gotta include Donnie! At least ask him!”

“But… his doors locked all the time now…”

“Oh ho ho ho, dear brother!” Leonardo stood to wrap his handless arm around Michelangelo, “Where we’re going, we won’t need doors.”

[lovelikedestiny]

Hold me when I shatter

With cold brutality and fierce determination, the scalpel cuts through his skin, severing muscles and tendons, digging mercilessly into his flesh until it hits bones and Joe wants to scream, but no sound comes out of his mouth. Out of his mouth, which opens in an excruciating, silent cry that no one can hear. Burning fire flows through his veins, setting his body in all-consuming flames that cannot be extinguished by any water in the world.

Blood splatters, hot and red, the metallic smell impregnates the air and lets Joe suffocate, suffocate, suffocate. He cannot move, is trapped in his own body, which is now his grave: doomed for all eternity to die and come back to life to more horrific research...torture methods, never being able to find longed for peace. Nicky...Nicolo...Where's Nicolo? This question splits his mind like a scorching lightning bolt, sends electric shocks through his limbs and Joe is filled with panic that rises over him like a wave and crashes down on him with full force. He is whirled around by disgusting noises as the faceless doctor operates a bone saw. The electrical hum is replaced by the splintering sound of breaking ribs and the pain becomes overwhelming. Joe doesn't know what kind of noise is coming from his mouth, but he doesn't recognize his own voice in the suffering howl, the whimpering. It feels wrong, everything is wrong and artificial and dead. Dead like rotten wood, rotting meat that is being decomposed by maggots, rotten and withered. Nothing is immune to time, but now it is turning against them. How long must they endure this torment? Is there an escape from this cruel cycle of never-ending life? Where's Nicolo? P-Please. Despite the pain that showers down on him like caustic rain, eating its way through each of his cells and leaving behind chaos, which his body wants to repair, but cannot, because the saw cuts, cuts, cuts, his whole being is focused on Nicky. Where is his moon? The light that guides him? His safe haven? He doesn't know and that's even worse than the sight of his open rib cage, which he catches for seconds before black dots dance in his field of vision and pull him down. Lower and lower until nothing exists but darkness and his fear, his pain, his agony. Blood fills his lungs steadily like a rushing brook and finally Joe can scream, expressing the unspeakable pain as he gurgles and drowns in his own blood. Will this be their future? Doomed to drown like Quynh in her iron cage in the ocean,  to taste their own blood instead of the salty water until they get used to breathing liquid metal and living red salt. “Yusuf,” the faceless doctor says, standing threatening over him, the saw in her hand still for a tiny moment. His full name is like a whiplash, snatches the little bit of himself from him that is left to him and he wants to lash out and roar how she knows his name. That she can't use his name. "Yusuf!" His blood is dripping from the saw and the doctor is faceless and cold, for her he is just an object and that for a long time. "-suf! Yusuf, habibi, wake up!” A choked scream breaks out of his narrow throat and at first, he wants to defend himself against the hands that reach for him, but his body is faster than his mind, recognizes the familiar touch and gives up any resistance while Joe still has to find his way back to reality. He has a metallic taste in his mouth, frantically feels his upper body with trembling hands, looking for wounds that have long been healed, for cuts by scalpels and needles, saws and other instruments, each more cruel than the other. Though immortal, his body has a memory too, echoes of excruciating pain make him tense, Nicky's painful screams in his ear. His eyes sting, streams of hot tears pour down his cheeks. “Joe, you are safe. You are fine, we are fine. I have you, tesoro. I've got you.” The gentle words slowly penetrate him, the Italian accent wraps itself around his heart like soothing balm and Joe suddenly loses all strength. He collapses in himself, finds comfort in the warmth of the chest at which he is pressed. A sobbing whimper cuts through the surrounding darkness like a knife and Joe only notices that the noise is coming from his throat when Nicky begins to rock him gently in his arms and hums an old melody that Joe still likes to hear. “Nobody will hurt you here, Yusuf. I promise." Like a drowning man for whom Nicky's arms are a saving wooden plank, he clings to his lover so tightly that marks would have appeared on his fair skin if immortality hadn't washed away all injuries. He continues to hear the horrific noises of the cutting saw, the dripping of blood that doesn't stop, but he trusts Nicky with his life and more, so his mind is gradually breaking away from the nightmare. "We're in Malta, Joe," Nicky continues, as if he wanted to calm a frightened child or animal and when Joe thinks that they were nothing more than guinea pigs for the doctor in the lab, his breath catches in his throat. Nicky feels his tension and holds him tighter, holds Joe together as he threatens to fall apart and does not allow the nightmare to pull him back into a world full of pain and agony. “We are in Malta and we ate apricots and pomegranates and dates and figs yesterday. You took my hand and laughed at how sticky it was and when we kissed, I could taste the sweet juice of the fruit, the sun and the salt of the sea on your lips.” Malta. Their place of retreat, their shelter, when everything around them threatens to be washed away in the rain. A few years ago, Joe painted the railing of their little terrace blue in an attempt to capture Nicky's eye color, but he can never get Nicky on canvas the way he deserves. He remembers that Nicky then painted yellow flowers on the blue, his tongue tucked concentrated between his teeth, and the beaming smile when Nicky turned to him after finishing his task. Nicky's open smile is what Joe now clings to because that smile is only meant for him. "You had charcoal on your cheek from sketching yesterday and I removed it with my thumb." Nicky presses his lips to Joe's forehead; his arms wrap around him securely and strong. The faded fabric of Nicky's sleep shirt under Joe's cheek is wonderfully soft and he buries his nose in it, inhales the warm, familiar smell of Nicky, but doesn't dare let go of him. “I made chicken with orange sauce while you read me the Iliad. After dinner we danced in the kitchen and you said you'd bring the stars and the moon out of the sky if you could, so that my eyes would be the only thing that would light up the night.” From Joe's position he cannot see Nicky's face, but he hears the slight amusement in his voice, as well as the overwhelming affection. "And I said that it would be pretty cruel for the rest of the world because my eyes shine only for you." Joe's panicked gasp turns into frantic breathing as last night takes shape in his head: Nicky's wiry, slender figure in his arms, the irrepressible warmth in his heart as the gaze of the bright eyes was fixed on him, a kiss sweet and mild as the orange sauce that became intense and endless and moved Joe to the depths of his bones. "Are you with me?" Nicky asks in a whisper, but makes no move to release Joe from his arms, although his grip is loose and not crushing. And Joe is so immensely grateful to him that he lets Joe decide for himself whether he wants to break away from Nicky or stay pressed against him. It takes a few long seconds before Joe is sure he can answer and all he gets out of his mouth is a gasping, barely audible: "Always." Nicky makes a soft sound as a sign that he heard him. "Should I turn on the light, my heart?" "No!" Joe rasps out, wanting to stay well hidden in the dark, hidden from the cold, unnatural light of the laboratory. "No! No light! No...no light." Nicky doesn't ask him what he's been dreaming about because he knows. He waits with the greatest patience for Joe to act of his own accord or to speak while he caresses his back, presses his nose into Joe's dark curls and Joe notices how the traces of the nightmare evaporate. Only when Joe no longer has the feeling of shattering into a thousand pieces when he lets go of his only anchor does he break away from Nicky. He seeks his gaze, despite the fact that his face must look terrible from crying and his hands, which reach for Nicky, are still shaking. Nicky's fingers, slender and sinewy, perfectly made for bows and sniper rifles, wrap tightly and securely around his, exerting a comfortable, grounding pressure. The Italian's eyes seem to glow, bright and warm, in the silvery moonlight falling through a gap between the curtains, although one could expect the color of his eyes would make his gaze feel cold. "I ..." He starts, suddenly not knowing what he wants to say. The words are too heavy for his tongue and he fears that he will suffocate on them. "Nicky, I...it...” "Don't," Nicky interrupts whispering the sentence, which Joe doesn't even know how to end. “Don't apologize for healing, Joe. Never for it and not for less." He lifts Joe's right hand, turns it and kisses the bared palm, then every fingertip. The touch of his lips is just gossamer like the flap of a butterfly's wings and Joe wants, needs more.

Continue reading on AO3 ;)

[nrth-wind-a]

“i know this hurts, but you have to stay awake.”

Okay so in my defense, this ficlet grew its own legs and then cross-country sprinted before I could stop it; I am so sorry it’s so long lol-- I hope it is enjoyable nonetheless! It’s about 1300 words of these two arcane idiots being dramatic and gay, and honestly, who am I to tell them not to be? --

Skrael gives a pained chuckle, “Is that so? I do not recall when you received an apothecary title; unless you’ve been holding out on me.”

The tease does not land; it is punctuated with an airy wheeze.

It is not the time for humor, Skrael knows, but if he does not say something, he will think about how appealing sleep sounds at that moment, and for Bellroc’s sake, he cannot give into that particular temptation.

Bellroc, who purses their lips at his words, before finally responding, voice flat. “You only need to stay awake for a little bit—Just long enough to see if there are any… complications.”

Everything hurts. Absolutely everything—in nerves he didn’t even know he had. Is that not complicated enough? He does not wish to tempt fate by wondering how this could feel worse, though. He is just barely of present enough mind to know that it could, and it is not something he wishes to dwell on—there is much that he does not wish to dwell on at that moment, in fact.

His head is murky—he thinks distantly that it is irritating that wearing a helmet made from thick bone does not, in fact, make him impervious to head wounds—and there are at least two more blindfolds looking down on him than he thought there’d been originally. Three Bellrocs… what an absurd thought—one which makes him giggle to himself.

Evidently, this is a poor reaction to have, because he thinks he can see Bellroc’s shoulders flinch in what he is sure must be alarm. It must be… right? Because he can remember that something is wrong—he can remember that much.

There is something severely wrong, and he can tell because he can hear his heart in his skull, and that isn’t usually something that he can do.

He listens to it quietly for a bit, as the rhythmic pounding becomes something soothing, something which makes him want to lie still in the warmth that has wrapped itself around his shoulders, that clings to his robes— which feel…. A bit more tattered than he remembers them being that morning. Mending them will be a chore, and the thought makes him sleepy again. His eyelids feel weighted, and all he can bring himself to think of is gratitude—he has finally found that respite that he’s been seeking.

But then there is something bright filling his vision—a flash—and he is groaning, halfway to whining at whomever is making the light—it’s impossible to sleep like this…

Gradually, groggily, Skrael connects the flame to Bellroc’s fingers. Even in the right frame of mind, he’s never been one to refrain from staring at their hands when he thinks they can’t see him doing so—especially when they are casting— so despite the fog in his brain, his eyes track the flame as it dances, weaving through their knuckles expertly. He smiles wearily.

“’S’a good one, Red… so bright…” He mumbles, though heavy eyes. “Like star—like the st—the stars in your smile… how did you do that, by the by…? You captured the universe on your lips… ‘S’not fair… makes me look at them all the time…a great big distraction, you are, you know… You’ll have t’ tell me how you did it. Could be useful someday…”

Bellroc swears quietly and shakes their head. “I wish it were more useful now…” They huff, wooden eyes quaking in small, tight movements, as they inspect every inch of the already blooming bruise on Skrael’s head—blessedly, the bleeding part has stopped already, and not for nothing, but they are intensely grateful for at least that much.

“You idiot…” They whisper, before they can stop themself. “That was stupid, and reckless; it was unlike you. What in all the realms were you thinking? I was already moving, and we cannot afford to be another member down—”

Skrael shakes his head, and grimaces as a sharp pain rockets through the space between his eyes. “You’re right. We can’t. But you weren’t gonna make that leap in time; I could tell. It sca— I had t’do something. …Not gonna let you get hit ever again…” he sighs, before he can hold back the statement.

Bellroc freezes, and Skrael tries to pretend like he hasn’t just felt a keen swoop in his stomach—in tandem with his head, it makes him feel dizzier.

It is a lofty promise to make, to be sure. It is one he cannot viably uphold— not with the growing frequency of the combative encounters with their opponents as of late— but the specter of one particular memory from nearly a millennium ago is enough to make him want to try, no matter how foolhardy the endeavor may be, no matter how much he knows he shouldn’t say things like what he’s saying to them now.

His mouth is spilling over, dumping things that he’d never dare say otherwise. The muscles in his body are aching in too many differing ways, and—he cannot resist the impulses which twitch in them, slipping through his tendons, as he longs to—so he—

Bellroc is helpless against the whisper of the pads of Skrael’s fingers brushing gently across their jaw, the tenderest of caresses from Wind himself.

The only thing that stops them from leaning into the touch is that Skrael’s hand is not nearly as cold as it should be. Their shiver is not caused by the temperature of his wake; the gooseflesh on their skin is from anything but the usual ice on his fingertips. It drives panic into their chest, their lungs, as stark as a firecracker, and just as loud between their ears.

Bellroc huffs out a shaky breath, lips parted, as they murmur Skrael’s name, tone equal parts concerned and devastated.

“Apologies…” Skrael’s voice is quiet, as he retracts his hand, only—

Bellroc grasps it with their own, the flame they’d previously been holding burning itself out, as the gold on their palm fades, and though it is uncomfortable, they force as much heat as they can withstand to lose from their fingers to elsewhere across their skin, anywhere where it will not touch Skrael. Their hand buzzes with the loss, but they ignore it.

Skrael raises both of his eyebrows, but the action shoots soreness to the crown of his head. “Is—something—is there something on my hand?”

Bellroc shakes their head, and under normal circumstances, they’d laugh, but the chuckle sticks, halfway formed, to their sternum, abandoned in their worries.

“No; just—” excuses skim their tongue, but instead, they settle for changing the subject. Anything to avoid confronting their impulse. “I only wished to inform you that you can sleep, now, Skrael. Though, not for long. I will wake you in an hour to check your responsiveness.”

Skrael nods, immediately slipping toward the hazy pull of sleep—their permission was all he’d needed to hear—but not before he gets out a soft, “May I sleep here?” It is an indulgence he should not have asked for, but he’s said it, and cannot take it back now.

It hangs in the air between them, as Bellroc swallows, considering, for so long a moment, they fear he is not awake to hear their answer, when they finally, carefully—delicately—rearrange their position to be cross-legged, as they lean their back against a nearby pillar.

“That is… acceptable.” Their tone is deliberately casual. “Get some rest, now. The danger has passed.”

Skrael’s voice is so soft that they very nearly miss it. “Thank you, my heart. I will see you in… an hour.”

Bellroc’s voice cracks on their words, “Un—until then, Skrael. Rest easy.”

“Only if you do, too.” Skrael manages a tired grin, before finally allowing himself to slide into a dark, heavy sleep, enveloped by warmth and the smell of firewood.

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.17

Feels like Flying (Light and Dizzying)

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)   x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 3850

Summary: ‘Nat’ sorta meets two more people – one of them personally, the other only by voice. You can guess which encounter is more pleasant.

Warnings: mentions of violence,amnesia and death, nightmares, swearing, light angst

Story masterlist

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You snapped your eyes open to the softly illuminated room, the remnants of a terrible dream of fire and wicked smiles causing your hands to twitch, a muffled groan escaping your throat. You should have never watched the video of your death. You liked the previous images better, a soft voice of your supposed soulmate had been so much more pleasant to dream of--

You heart stopped when more memories of yesterday’s events rushed back and your body froze on spot – the spot being a comfy bed, your legs tangled in cushions you didn’t remember laying into.

Of course you didn’t remember it; it didn’t happen. You oh so brilliantly nestled yourself basically in Steve’s lap instead. And everything was pointing the direction of… you actually falling asleep there. Oh God.

Your groan was more distinct this time, the sound followed by a rustling shift of a mass on your right; you nearly jumped out of your skin, your heart hammering against your chest, air caught in your throat in fright. You dreaded what you might find when looking the direction.

Maybe you were still dreaming. There was no way there was a crumpled form of a sleeping man in the chair at your bedside, right? Because that could mean it wasn’t your bedside at all – then again, you didn’t own any bed, let’s be real here –, but it was actually his and since it already had an occupant, he aimed for the chair.

Shame instantly filled every cell of your body for being the cause of his future back-cramp; not that the chair didn’t look comfortable. It sure did. But not for sleeping.

A second later, you wondered why Steve wouldn’t opt for the couch instead, where he could be at least lying down. You didn’t question why it wasn’t you on the couch – of course a man like Steve Rogers wouldn’t let a woman sleep on a couch when there was a perfectly fit bed; the short time you remembered spending with him was enough to tell you as much.

You feasted your sleepy eyes on him, your lips unwittingly curling into a small smile.

He looked almost peaceful – almost. Upon inspecting Steve’s handsome features, you noticed little things that lighted up a flicker of concern in your chest. His sharp jaw was too tense for him to have any kind of a pleasant dream, his eyebrows knitted, the right corner of his plush lips twitching nervously. Following the lines of his shoulders and arms with your gaze, you stopped at his hands balled in fists, tendons on his forearms prominent.

Nope, he didn’t seem to have a pleasant dream whatsoever.

You only argued with yourself for a short moment before sitting up on the bed – still dressed in the plaid and jeans, but shoes removed (by Steve most likely, which wasn’t awkward, like at all) – and reaching out to him. You stopped an inch from his hand, a realization of just how badly a touch could end dawning to you. Touching a man with enhanced strength having a nightmare did not sound like a good idea.

So instead, you worried your teeth over your lower lip, looking for a better option. For a brief moment you considered finding a stick around here to poke him, but that seemed pretty rude.

“…Steve?” you called out silently in the end, only causing his lips twitch again and not in a smile-like manner. Nope. You gulped and tried your normal speaking volume. “Steve? You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

Nope. Nothing. Except a jerk of his head further to the side. You grimaced, feeling completely useless.

Well, you guessed physical contact it was. You just hoped your bones would still be still in place when he fully woke up.

Cautiously, ready to jump away if he flipped out, your fingers brushed his knuckles with another call of his name.

The sound of distress leaving his lips had your insides clench uncomfortably. This time you laid your whole palm over the back of his hand.

“Steve. Come on. Wake up,” you coaxed, squeezing his hand lightly.

That did it.

His eyes snapped open and with a movement too fast for you to register, he suddenly stood on his feet two steps from the bed, face perplexed, and the chair he had been sitting on hit the ground with a thud that made you jump backwards.

Thank god Steve had a big bed otherwise you would have been on the floor.

“What-“ he rasped, the look in his eyes almost haunted as he stared at you, pupils dilated and skin pale as if—oh. Oh.

As if he saw a ghost.

“Steve? Are you okay? You looked like you had a pretty bad dream,” you said slowly, observing his reactions.

He blinked rapidly and you noticed his feet shuffling backwards a fraction. His expression shifted to one of disbelief.

“Bad dream?” he parroted incredulously. His eyes searched the room and you tried to follow his line of gaze; until it fell on a small sports bag by the door, your whole property, a gift from Sam and Dean.

At that, he swiftly returned his attention to you, his shoulders slumping, his fingers going up to pinch the bridge of his nose.  You waited patiently for him to reassess the reality, using the momentary lack of his inspection of you to at least smooth out your hair a little, which was probably a vain effort.

Oh so slowly, his hand fell down to his side, his face apologetic. The fact his eyes turned glassy didn’t escape you – but he wasn’t crying. He even fixed a smile for you, one that couldn’t even hope to reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

You only shook your head, returning the smile and hoping to erase the shadow of pain in his brilliant irises.

“I… didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked softly and your heart wept for him.

He was just thrown into reality and his first concern was for you, about him causing you harm. Because he had already caused enough of that, your mind whispered hauntingly and you shushed it harshly. Then again, it was probably Steve’s train of thought too.

You really, really didn’t want him to feel guilty for having nightmares. It was ridiculous.

So you climbed from the bed, not exactly gracefully, while his gaze remained fixed on you, watching your every move – as if he was actually checking if there was any damage.

Oh Steve…

Feeling bold, you crossed the short distance between you, standing face to face, chest to chest with him, only two inches of space between your bodies, and you gently wrapped your fingers around his right hand.

The change in his stance was instant, tension leaving, features softening as much as his eyes; the blue and green was much more inviting now.

“No, Steve, you didn’t hurt me. Even in my state of mind I know better than to approach a guy caught in a nightmare. Let alone a supersoldier-“ His face fell again than and he went to take a step back; you quickly gave him a firm squeeze before he could do so as you realized your error.

“Not that I’m afraid of you! I’d be cautious with anyone! I just said that, didn’t I —ugh, why am I so bad at speaking… Steve. It’s fine. Thanks for moving me to bed. I’m sorry to… eh, fall asleep on you. I swear I was listening-- I guess it was just really comfy and--- not that your body is soft or anything, you’re more like super-ripped, okay, what I mean was that---- that I… I felt really good. With… with you. I mean. I-- I felt safe, so... I guess I was more tired than I realized…“

An honest smile was gradually forming on his lips as you continued your nonsensical babble that in fact held an important and serious message, which was clearly received, because Steve definitely was one step from beaming now.

His thumb ran over the back of your hand, the fingers of his other hand tenderly running through your no doubt messy hair. The gesture almost turned your brain into utter mush, leaving sparkles in their wake, brilliant eyes boring into yours with an emotion you couldn’t quite describe.

“I’m glad. How do you feel about breakfast?”  

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Steve left you some privacy to make yourself more presentable and you nearly cried at the soothing spray of warm water with a perfect pressure against your skin and for some reason still weary muscles. You thought back to the moment you said yes to Rowena stealing some of the soulmate energy or whatever, not knowing for how long it would affect you, and you wanted to curse – the thing was though, she had brought you here. To Steve. And so far, things seemed… nice. Really, really nice.

However, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. When you told Steve you wanted to call the Winchesters to catch up before eating, there was this… unreadable expression on his face. You understood very soon though. No, it wasn’t jealousy. It was hurt.  

You had noticed it yesterday as well; moments in which he seemed to slip from his carefully guarded role of a man delighted at your presence. You didn’t doubt Steve was happy to have you back, but you were too perceptive to ignore that he was holding something back. If you could take a guess, it was caused by the state you had been found in; an amnesiac. A shadow was always casted over his face, the light in his eyes dimming just a fraction. And you hated it.

When Dean asked you how it had been, you didn’t mention it though; it wasn’t their problem to deal with, they had already done enough.

“Good. Really good,” you assured them instead, wavering only for a moment. “I think? I mean… it’s a lot to process you know? But Steve’s being very kind to me. More than I-“

“I swear that if you say ‘deserve’, I’m busting into the Tower and kicking your ass,” the older hunter threatened and to your surprise, Sam supported him in that.

“It’s just… I know, okay? What I wanted to say was that you don’t need to worry about me. I feel like I’m in good hands.”

Still, the Winchesters, while already finding a new case, insisted they would be leaving in the evening only and any given time before or after that, you could call them and they would beat their way through the Avengers themselves to rescue the Fire Princess from the Tower.

The urge to punch Dean for the last remark was about as strong as the need to hug him. Soon after that, you ended the call.

You patted your way to the communal kitchen then, led by the Jarvis, aka the strange voice from the ceiling, an artificial intelligence. The world was a crazy place for sure.

“What the hell?!” a man cried out at the end of the hall just before you could enter and made you jump few feet above the ground.

Your head snapped to the sandy-haired male individual in a violet bathrobe, his face pale as a sheet of paper, his eyes bulging so intensely you saw it even when he was several feet away.

“Uhm… hi?” you offered a cautious and awkward greeting followed by even more awkward wave and the man’s hand rose on autopilot to return the gesture, but then he stopped himself as if he was weirded out by his own reaction.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, murmuring something than sounded a lot like ‘coffee’ while he walked to you.

You shifted your weight from one foot to another, wavering at the door, arguing whether you should introduce yourself or not. Or did he know you? From before? He looked kinda spooked if you were being honest, so you should probably explain… and ask about his wellbeing, because you were getting concerned as he retreated his hands and seemed shocked to still see you standing there.

“Are you okay?” you asked hesitantly and he squinted at you, gulping.

“Am I going crazy?” he whispered, sounding seriously on edge and no, you were certain it wasn’t because his voice was still rough with sleep.

“I don’t think so, sir. I’m-”

“-getting breakfast!” Steve rushed to your side from the kitchen, only to cause the other man’s expression turn absolutely baffled.

“Steve? What the hell is going on? Are you seeing her too? Is… what is this? Who is this?”

Yeah, now you were sure; no one had shared the delightful news with him. You had risen from the dead. Yay! Except you didn’t remember who he was. Or who Steve was. Or you, for that matter.

Steve cleared his throat. “Clint. This, uhm… is really complicated. She doesn’t remember you. Or me. Or anyone.”

The shadow of hurt was there again and you mentally kicked yourself – but there was nothing more you could do.

So you intelligently stuck your hand out for the man to shake. He examined it as if it was a bomb about to detonate, eyeing Steve warily.

“Don’t ask. She’s back. That’s all that matters,” Steve pleaded him with his gaze just not to ask any questions and Clint, as it seemed, went along with it, so the introductions could be made.

“Hi. Nice to meet you, Clint. Sorry for not remembering you.”

He observed you with a funny expression on his face you couldn’t quite read. “Right. Nice to meet you too.”

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Clint clearly wanted to please Steve – or was too freaked out by your presence to stay -, because he entered he kitchen right at your heels, only to grab a pot of coffee black as night and a mug and walk away the same path he had arrived.

Guilt gnawed at you for making him feel like he couldn’t stay where he probably usually had his breakfast, but before you could voice your thoughts, a plate with a pancake landed in front of you.

You thanked Steve politely and couldn’t but examine him as he stood by the stove, flipping another pancake. What you said to Dean and Sam was true – Steve truly was very kind to you, sweet even and you felt a strange tugging at your stomach when you realized you couldn’t quite give him the same. You promised yourself for the millionth time that you would try your best; starting with complimenting his cooking.

“I forgot to tell you in the morning…” he mumbled after he thanked you for the praise, still turned to the stove. You glimpsed the tips of his ears turning pink and you tilted your head to side while chewing, intrigued. “Tony had you set up a room. He… uhm, he also moved some of the clothes you had here—before, I mean, so—I don’t mean it like you have to change, just that there’s the option. And of course, you deserve your own space, your own bed, as much as I am okay with sharing mine-- giving up mine, I mean.”

You swallowed before speaking, finding his embarrassment about the topic equally endearing and heart-breaking.

Bet we didn’t have to worry about that before…

“Thank you. That’s very kind of him,” you replied, unsure what else to say.

Was there even anything else to say? You weren’t sure how you felt about your old things existing – about Steve not getting rid of them, at least not yet. You didn���t want to examine the dull ache it left around your heart, wrapping it in a fluffy blanket at the same time.

The other thing was that you… kinda didn’t want to move from Steve’s room. But hey, he sure as hell needed his own privacy as well. Plus, there might be a teeny-tiny part of you that would welcome it too, because while you wanted to make him happy, you… yeah, you felt like there was too much pressure, things happening too fast despite Steve attempting not to push you; you recognized as much. This gesture must have been rather hard for him too.

“And of you,” you added then and he casted a brief smile over his shoulder before turning to you fully, spotting your empty plate and tossing his freshest creation there. “Thanks. They’re really amazing.”

“Steve, if I may…” the voice of the ceiling interrupted your peculiar conversation and Steve only hummed, continuing showing off his skills in the kitchen. “Director Fury would like to speak with you.”

The change in his posture was instant – he tensed, as you did upon hearing a name that sounded important – and he appeared to be struggling; his hands moved rather frantically as if not knowing whether they should stop their action or not.

“Well, send him to hell,” he requested of the AI nonchalantly in the end. “I’m busy.”

“I’m afraid he’s insisting on a meeting. The revelation of Director Pierce being HYDRA along with several other members of SHIELD struck quite a blow and even after weeks it’s still being dealt with.”

That… sounded like something you weren’t supposed to hear and you were already opening your mouth to tell Steve it was fine and that you were going to wait… somewhere else, but he was faster.

“I’m aware. But as Tony would say, grow a spine, Jarvis, please. I have my priorities straight and he’s not on the top of my list at the moment.”

Oh. Oh. That was… brave. And kind of him. And pretty cheeky? Maybe a bit reckless?

Or was he being patronizing? Didn’t trust you to keep yourself occupied while he was busy with something else? Or was he afraid? Damn, mind-reading would have come handy. Why couldn’t you return from the death with such ability at least? It would be so much easier.

Or would it? You might not like what was on Steve’s mind. You were not who he used to know. You were a woman without memory, without personality almost. You were a burden. And you were staring to question whether you weren’t weighting his shoulders more than being the world’s first superhero ever could.

“Steve, I’m-“ you started, but he only turned off the stove and faced you with a swift smile, shaking his head.

“It’s alright. If he really needs to talk to me, Jarvis, let him make it over the phone. Final offer.”

“Oh, I’ll just-“

“Stay. It’s okay. There’s nothing I need or want to hide from you,” he assured you in earnest and you bit your lower lip; that felt like a bit of an overkill.

Or maybe your insecurities were getting to you and Steve was still being the sweetest human being you had ever met and you were turning into a cranky cynical bitch.

God only knew.

“Very well. He’s on the line, Steve,” the Jarvis announced and you eyed Steve once more. He squeezed your shoulder reassuringly in return and the ease he touched you with effectively shut you up.

“Rogers,” sounded roughly from the speakers and Steve sighed before replying – it nearly made you jump, because you had never heard his voice so firm and even. Not in this life anyway.

“Nick.”

Silence fell on the room and you wondered if the man on the other end – a director, Steve’s boss you assumed – recognized something was wrong. You opened your mouth to soundlessly offer your leave again, but Steve put his index finger over his lips and shook his head again. You swallowed loudly and looked away, but didn’t move otherwise.

“You’re a hard man to reach these days.”

“And I’m not planning on changing that. What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait for a while? I have other things to do.”

“… I’m aware? I think. I guess?” the strictly sounding man muttered, clearly bewildered. “What crawled up your backside, Rogers? You sound… different.”

And here it came. You bit your cheek to stop yourself from saying ‘I happened’.

“Don’t worry about it, Nick,” Steve bit back, a hint of cheekiness creeping into his voice.

“It’s not like you to decline so many meetings and going on a mission only when you feel like it, Cap.”

You bit your cheek harder – Steve was changing his routine for you. Steve was neglecting his duties no doubt. That wasn’t right. Was it? You had figured he had, but this sounded rather… serious, grim even.

“People change.”

“I only recall one moment you preferred other things to your job, Cap, and I’m sure I don’t need to point out which one.” Why did you feel this man was the one who held the meeting Steve felt to take you to a date? The one with the dancing he had told you about yesterday? “I get it, things went to shit. But now it’s more than that, I’m not stupid. What’s going on?”

Oh, he was onto you. Shit. That couldn’t be good. It was strange how Steve kept his cool, sounding annoyed even. You wouldn’t be able to tell that if it wasn’t for him crossing his arms on his chest; you tried to ignore the little voice in the back of your mind that whispered praises about what it did to the broadness of his shoulders plus the size of his arms and what it did to you.

“Nick, if you have something to tell me, you have about a minute. We’re not talking about me.”

“Fine,” the director growled. “I’ll manage on my own, call Romanoff in. You… do whatever you think you need to do.”

“Yes, Sir. That was my plan.”

Your eyebrows shot up in shock and Steve had the nerve to wink at you. Your heart racing with worries jumped a bit at that for a completely different reason.

“You’re sassy. Again. I like it.”

“Bye, Nick.” He was almost smiling now, as if he was bantering with an old friend.

“Rogers. Good luck.”

The moment the line went silent, you finally opened your mouth.

“He’s onto you, isn’t he? I have no idea what anything of what he said meant, but he sounded really important and… dangerous, Steve. I don’t want to keep you from-”

You didn’t realize you had stood up until he gently pushed you back to bar stool, a relaxed smile on his lips.

“Don’t worry about it. He’s just cranky. I wasn’t at his disposal lately.”

I was too busy mourning my soulmate, you heard unspoken and winced. Oh. Oh god, could this get any worse?

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not on you,” he shook his head gingerly, his thumbs caressing your shoulders over the plaid shirt. He beckoned to the pan then. “Another pancake?”

When you shook your head incredulously, still unsure this wasn’t going to blow up into your faces later, he shrugged and cut the pancake in half – one went to your plate, one to another for him.

He winked at you again and you suspected Dean might have blabbered out on you that you refused to eat properly. Honest to God, right now you were just too full, no ulterior motives, but seeing the spark in Steve’s eyes and wishing for it to stay, you dug in.

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Part 18

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Slow chapter and a bit of a filler maybe. Uh… sorry? Calm before the storm maybe…? ;)

Thank you for reading!

[websfiles]

Helloo😃☀️ So I have this prompt idea, kinda angst, Sirius thinks Remus needs space, but Remus don't need any space and is a bit hurt and confused why hes boyfriend is acting weird, thank you sm if you write this<33

((Thank you for the ask anon! Sorry it took so long love, hope you enjoy!)) Remus was exhausted, utterly and completely drained of any energy left in his body. The full moon was tonight and it felt as though every little tendon and muscle in his body was being stretched and pulled to the point where he was finding it insufferable to do simple things like walk. He had left transfiguration earlier than usual, his head splitting and unable to focus, all he wanted to do was sleep.

He pulled himself up the last few steps and with all effort he had left pushed the door to the dorm open and collapsed onto his bed, not bothering to change out of his robes or even take his rucksack off his back. On the days leading up to the full moon, Remus’ moods changed drastically, even his sleeping would change. Some days he could sleep anytime, anywhere, or on other days, like today, sleep seemed like an impossible task. He lay there, face down on his bed for what seemed like hours until he could hear 2 voices on the other side of the door to the dorm.

“I’ll go in, you get too hyper around him.” Remus could recognise Peter’s frustrated voice straight away, especially with his heightened senses, honestly they should know he could hear them through the door by now.

“Fuck you! I’m going in Pete, I’ve got the food.” James shot back at Peter’s remark.

Remus didn’t have the energy to waste to tell his friends that he could hear them loud and clear, but it didn’t really matter because seconds later both friends pushed themselves through the door simultaneously, causing both of them to tumble forward, falling flat on their faces.

“Moonyyy! We brought some yummy food to fill up that empty little stomach of yours.” James practically shoved the bowl into Remus’ hands, giving him the ‘If you don’t eat this now I will personally shove it down your throat' look. In all honesty Remus’ mind was elsewhere, not on the moon, the inevitable transformation, but the person missing from the room.

“Where’s Sirius?” He tried to hide the disappointment in his voice, but he wasn’t doing it very well.

“I, um, think he said he had some studying to do in the library.” James didn’t look Remus in the eye the whole time he was speaking, which made Remus suspicious, was he lying? Is Sirius okay? Had Remus done something?

“Oh. Does he need any help? I mean, I could go and-”

“No! I-he won’t want to bother you.” James interrupted him with a weak smile, rubbing the back of his neck. Remus looked over to Peter, but he just shrugged in response.

“Fine.” Remus felt bad for being short with James, but he couldn’t help it, the one person he wanted to see right now wasn’t here, and it definitely wasn’t because he was ‘studying’. He was avoiding Remus, and Remus knew it. But he wasn’t about to sit here and feel sorry for himself, he was going to find out why his boyfriend was avoiding him.

***

Sirius was sat underneath the tree by the black lake, his head resting against the trunk, eyes closed. He felt bad for avoiding Remus, he really did, but Sirius knew he was a needy boyfriend. Always needing touch, affection, love, everything he lacked as a child. Remus was the person that gave all of that to Sirius, all the nights spent in the common rooms, Remus’ finger running through his hair, tickling his scalp. The way Remus’ hand would rest on his thigh under the table in the great hall. He made Sirius feel safe, like nothing could hurt him. But this was exactly the reason Sirius was avoiding him. It’s the night of the full moon for fucks sake, Remus was practically death on legs. He didn’t need his attention deprived boyfriend clinging onto his aching limbs. Sirius knew he could be a lot, but he would do anything for Remus, and if that meant giving him space for the next couple of days, that’s exactly what he was going to do.

Sirius was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice that the sun was beginning to set, and he had maybe a total of fifteen minutes to get to the shack without being seen, “Oh, shit, shitshitshit, buggering fuck!”

Fuck. He was not about to miss this transformation, he was not going to let Remus down.

***

“Where in the everloving fuck of all things that are holy and well is Sirius Black?!” James was pacing across the floor of the shrieking shack, creaks with every movement, clearly panicking about the absence of their friend.

“He should’ve been here ten minutes ago, he’s never late, especially not to a full moon…” Peter was right, Sirius had always been there for every full moon since they learned how to become animagi, and honestly, Remus was worried.

“Go. Both of you, find him, h-he, there might be something wrong.” The moon was approaching quicker and more aggressive, shrieks of pain leaving Remus’ mouth as he felt every muscle and bone in his body stretching, being ripped apart.

“No, Remus- the moon, you need someone. Pete, go find Sirius, i’ll stay her-”

“No James! Both of you, go, you can’t hold the wolf back on your own. Don’t be a fucking twat, I’ll be fine.” Remus did all he could to stop his voice from trembling, but he was weak, and it was clear.

After minutes of silence James spoke up reluctantly, clearly frustrated.

“Fine. But we’re coming back as soon as we can, I promise Moony, we’ll be back.” Before Remus had any time to reply James was already sprinting out the door, dragging Peter along with him.

Remus screamed. It was all he could do,the pain rippling through his bones, his blood, burning his insides, he could feel the long night coming up. He collapsed onto his knees, clenching his gut in pain, throat sore from the shrieks leaving them. He sat there for what felt like hours, wishing the night to be over, not noticing the new presence in the room.

“Hey, hey hey hey, it’s okay, i’ve got you.” Sirius rushed down to his boyfriends side, grasping his shaking hands, wishing he could take away all his pain.

“W-where, have you been? I’ve not seen you all da-” Another burst of fire ran through Remus’ blood, causing him to scream out, gasping for air. “I’m sorry Re, so, so sorry love, I lost track of time and- and I’m here now.” He pressed a light kiss to Remus’ forehead, bringing his eyes down to meet the ones full of tears. “Did I do something, to upset you?” Remus brought his gaze back down to his legs, scared for whatever the answer might be, but he needed to know. Sirius felt the inside of his stomach knot, “What? No, Moons, why would I be upset with you, love?” Sirius brought his hand up to the trembling boy's cheek, rubbing at the tear stained cheeks, “You’ve been avoiding me all day, I didn’t even see you when I woke up this morning. If you needed space you should’ve just told me. I-I understand if this, the moon, is getting t-too much for you.” Remus hated the thought of going through the full moon alone, again, but he couldn’t make Sirius do this anymore, not if he didn’t want to, but before he could say anything more, he felt his head being guided onto Sirius’ shoulder, “No, god no, Jesus Remus. I- I thought I was too much for you, y’know? When I’m around you barely get any rest love, but I want to be here for you, through everything. I’m never going to leave you, leave Moony. I love you Remus, so, so, so fucking much.” Sirius felt his own eyes stinging, running his fingers through his boyfriend’s curls, gently caressing his neck. “Al-all I wanted today, was you. Please, never be a fucking stupid git ever again.” Sirius let out a watery chuckle at Remus’ words, but his face quickly fell as Remus threw his head back with a loud screech of agony just as James and Peter entered the shack.

“We were looking fucking everywhere for you, you twat!” James rushed over to Sirius and gave him a swift but light smack to the back of his head, “Hey! I know, I know, you can beat my arse later, but I’m here now.” Sirius shot back while rubbing the back of his head, they were all brought out of their reunion by the sounds of cries and wailing.

“We’re all here now Moony, you’re safe, we’re here.” Peter crouched down next to Sirius, placing a hand on his back, before Sirius pressed gentle kisses to Remus’ knuckles.

“We’ve got you.”

[lastluvbug]

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR DOING MY REQUEST since love it so much, I'm asking another one! This time it's gonna be full on angst but there will be happy ending so let's get started! =D can you do a request with a mc who had a terrible back story of abuse? She ended up losing her eye when she was four years old because her father threw a wine bottle at her and age blames herself because he killed her late older sibling and mom when she tried to cheer him up by playing a mini harp? Can be with anyone.

Very angsty, I’ll see what I can do!

Warnings: Mentioned/referenced abuse, mentioned self harm, drinking, and langauge. If sensitive, please do not read!

A Sweet Melody

Once upon a time, music had been so precious to Yuu. It had been her world, her rock, her solace when she couldn’t sleep at night.

She’d pull out her harp, and hum a tune in sync with her elegant plucking. She remembered those nights, dreamt of how free and pure the sound was, how calm she felt as the tension was poured into her song.

She remembered how much her mother and sister loved to listen—after a stressful day, before school, a nighttime lullaby.

All of it seemed so distant, like a fragmented dream that only appeared in flashes, gone so quick the only trace left was the bitterly addictive flavor of nostalgia on her tongue.

Music now was nothing more than a hatred whorled spit in her face. Music had been the thing to lead her younger sister and mother into their coffins six feet below ground. Music had driven her father insane.

It started when she was just barely out of her toddler years, when Yuu was first gifted the stringed instrument. While it overjoyed her to have something so beautiful, her father was nearly steaming with rage.

Yuu’s family was the farthest thing from rich. Her parents worked two, three jobs at a time, hardly creating a stable income as her father squandered his opportunities again and again. Over the course of her short life, Yuu often found herself to be at the receiving end of his fury, whether that mean harsh chastisment scented of alcohol on the smallest of mistakes, or a plain backhand across the cheek.

The day before, Yuu’s father had wasted yet another night at the bar, filling himself the disgustingly thin liquid until he couldn’t walk, nor speak.

“You bitch! How did you afford that? You doin’ something behind my back? Is that it?” He bellowed at her mother, Yuu standing in front of her one year old sister defensively as he stood from the rugged couch, stumbling over to the cluttered counter.

“Dear, please. It was just a gift!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me! How did you afford it?!” He grabbed her mother’s arm roughly, twisting it with his superior strength as she bit back a wince too late.

“Daddy! Don’t hurt her! She just wanted to do something nice!” Yuu interjected, latching onto his free hand.

“Get off me, brat. If it weren’t for little money suckers like you, we would’ve been dining like kings!” He slapped Yuu away, the short girl tripping over her feet and landing on her side.

From across the room, her sister began to wail, clutching her hand-me-down stuffed pet and wiping away fat tears. Yuu noticed how her father whipped his head to the child, eyes ablaze with a plan to shut her up. Acting quickly, Yuu rushed to her baby sister, pulling her out of the kitchen and up to her bed, where she tucked her in.

“Don’t get violent! Not on our daughter’s birthday!” Her mother shrieked as Yuu tramped back into the kitchen, freezing as her father slapped her mother.

“Shut up! You don’t understand what you’ve done, woman!” Just as her father raised his hand to strike her mother yet again, Yuu threw herself into him, temporarily knocking him off balance.

“No, Daddy! Leave Mom alone!” She stood in front of her mother, who fell to the ground on her knees, her arm out beside her as she tried to protect her despite only having just turned four.

A black rage darker than Yuu had ever seen laced every muscle and tendon in her father’s face, fear spiking through her heart and crumbling her resolve as the man recovered from his shock, standing to his full height. “So you think you’re better than me now? You think you can stand up to me? You’re father?” His hand trailed across the counter, searching.

“Dad...?” Yuu began trembling.

“I’ll teach you...” he mumbled, towering above his daughter, “I’ll teach you to stand up to me!”

He raised his hand, and in that split moment, his eyes were clearer than Yuu had ever seen before. He moved with such swiftness, it made her wonder why he’d never invested such concise movements into playing with her or her sister, why he sat drinking his life away on the couch instead of helping her mother work.

That was the last thought she had, before her world was sliced in two.

First, it was the immobilizing pain that made her drop to the floor. Her bones groaned in response to being dropped so unceremoniously on the tile, but was little heeded as her head blew up in flame, her scalp stinging like a thousand wasp penetrations as something warm and sticky dripped down her tear streaked cheeks.

She hardly recognized the scream that pierced the air as she looked around, hand wandering to her eye as she realized... it wasn’t working. She could only see out of her right, and the left was pure, black darkness, not even the silhouette of the room appearing in the emptiness. Yuu stared at the floor, at the blood falling from her face and onto the glass shatterer before her, encircling her like a broken cage.

Her ears rung, and she couldn’t process what happened next. Briefly, she recalled being carried, the sound of her irregular heartbeat, and the flooding of throbbing lights as she faded in and out of consciousness.

Yuu had her father’s words left in her head, imprinted in her brain like a branded cow. “Next time, learn to hold your tongue, bitch.”

All her life she carried the reminder of that day, marred upon her skin and forever labeling her as the “Outcast.” She never saw herself as beautiful from that time forward, and after the death of her mother and sister a mere two years later, never spoke unless spoken to.

<————>

Yuu awoke with a start, being shaken by someone rather roughly.

“Yuu? Wake up, class ended.”

The girl looked to the source of the sound, meeting the wide eyed and worried face of her only friend in all of Night Raven. “...My apologies, Epel...” She mumbled, lifting herself from her crossed arms.

“It’s alright, just... what was your dream about?” Epel asked, standing beside her.

“Nothing i-important, why?”

“You’ve been crying.”

“Hm?” She reach up to her cheeks, her fingers wiping something wet streaked down the plains of her face. “Ah... It really was nothing.” She waved off his inquiry, as well as her tears with her sleeve, seeing that Grim had already long since left her behind.

“If you say so... hey! Since it seems yer—ahem, you’re, not busy, did you want to come with me back to Pomefiore? All this time, and you’ve never been, right?” Epel prompted, making Yuu look up at him from her seat.

“Go with you to Pomefiore? A-Are you sure that would be fine? You guys are known for your beauty, I don’t think I would be very welcome...” Yuu shyly said, ghosting over her scarred eye.

“With the way Vil primps himself daily, I doubt anyone would notice you. Not to mention Rook—the guy’s lost one too many of his screws. He’ll probably be kissing up to our marvelous dorm head, so I’ll be off the hook.”

“What would... what would we even do?”

“We could study? I know I’ve been failing pretty terribly in some of my classes. Or... oh! Come with me!” Epel took Yuu’s hand, dragging her fragile figure down the hallways.

“What? What’re we doing?” Yuu asked, jogging to keep up with the boy.

“We’re going to the kitchens!” Epel laughed, sparking the girl’s confusion.

It was a bumpy run, the two weaving between students rather easily thanks to their short statures, and rounding corner after corner until they approached the gran cafeteria. Following their beelines, they pushed through the rows of starving students, barreling into the back kitchens pleasantly smelling of a mix of foods.

Yuu kept her mouth shut, following timidly behind Epel as she subconsciously covered her eye with a hand, glancing around nervously. Only a handful of people looked her way, that she could tell, and either smiled or laughed, both reactions causing her ears to redden.

“Okay, do me a favor, would you?” Epel broke the tension, turning to Yuu.

“S-Sure.” She answered, biting her tongue for stuttering.

“Grab the peeler and a few of the carving knives. I’ll get the stuff from the fridge!” He gestured towards the row of drawers, Yuu simply nodding.

She watched as Epel bounced to the largely oversized refrigerators, refusing conversation but smiling to himself. She’d never say, her voice hushed from years of humiliation, but she loved the way his soft purple locks fell over his shoulders, or the way his powdery blue eyes sparkled every time he laughed.

It took all of her will power to keep herself from tearing up, that light he shone reminding her too much of her forever dimmed sister’s.

Turning back to her own job, she searched through the drawers, pulling out her materials, nicking her finger on the peeler. Staring at the glimmery bead as it snaked its way down her hand, her body briefly remembered the feeling of metal slicing through her skin, long since healed over her wrists, but recorded upon it nevertheless.

Once upon a time, she’d been so broken that the only sort of release she could find was through blades. The one who’d helped her through those seemingly endless hours of struggle was none other than Epel Felmier.

When Yuu first met Epel, she was a stuttering, anxious mess, tripping over her words and avoiding eye contact like it was the plague. Epel was no better himself, holding his tongue and only making the smallest of conversations. If it weren’t for the one day he caught her stained in her own blood and sobbing in a restroom stall, Yuu believed without a doubt that there’d be no one by her side.

“Yuu! Ready to go?” Epel tore the meddling girl from her mind, who wiped the bead on her pants and carefully arranged the blades in her arms.

“Yes, let’s go.” Yuu nodded, supprssing her inner turmoil.

She’d put that behind her, and had long since forgotten her practices of old.

Epel gave her a soft smile, a bag of scarlet apples dangling from his hand as he encouraged her to go forward.

<————>

“Yuu, quick! Hide over there!”

The girl leapt back, disguising herself behind the curtains draped over a window as Epel stood in front of it, feigning ignorance.

“Ah, you runaway fiend! The great trouble you cause dear Vil! He wishes for your presence in the ballroom immediately.” An extravagantly dramatic voice cooed, and from her spot behind the curtain, Yuu could just barely make out the sight of blonde hair covered by a rather stylish hunting hat.

“Rook-san...! Lovely to see you as well. Actually, I can’t join you today, I’ve uh—I’ve come down with a terrible headache. Send Vil my apologies!” Epel not so cleverly lied.

“Is that so? Would those be get-well fruits then?”

“H-huh? Oh these? These are... well, Crowley gave them to me, said they were a gift from my hometown! I figured I’da bring ‘em to my room, y’know, n’ keep ‘em safe!” Yuu cringed to herself, knowing all too well that Epel was not selling his act.

“Oh my, Epel-kun, please. You may return to your quarters, but do something about that distasteful chatter of yours.” Rook croned, tipping his hat and heading off.

“Tch, “distasteful chatter”? Stupid beauty, what do they know anyway?” Epel grumbled, stepping away from the curtain as Rook’s figure faded away. He pried it open, the sudden flush of light causing Yuu to wince. “We’re alone, you can come out now.”

“Why don’t they like your accent, Epel? Aren’t they beauty enthusiasts?” Yuu asked, stepping into the open hall.

“Hell if I know. They only care about your face, not whatever you are on the inside. It reminds me of the poison apple the legends talk about; gorgeous to the eye, death to the soul.” Epel frowned, slinging his sack over his shoulder.

Yuu deflated, taking the words to heart. If that was true, then she was most surely not welcome in a dorm as proper as Pomefiore. “In any case, let’s just hurry to my room. They usually don’t bother me there.” Epel continued, storming down the corridor.

“Right...” Yuu followed, suddenly feeling unbearably self conscious.

Much to her surprise, the dorm looked empty as Ramshackle, not a single person lounging around or even passing by as they walked. “Where is everyone?” She thought, readjusting the dangerous items as Epel kicked a door open, allowing Yuu inside, almost gasping as she stood at the doorway.

The room was wide and quaint, with a large bay window, an intricately designed table, and a four poster bed that instantly made Yuu jealous. “Impressive, right? I honestly think it’s too much, even tried to convince Vil to give me something smaller.”

“I-I can’t believe this is your room... it’s so pretty...” Yuu marveled, setting her instruments on the table.

“Take a seat, we’re going to be here a while.” Epel instructed, laying his bag down and grinning impishly.

<————>

“I’m done! I’m done—I did it! Look Epel, look!” Yuu burst what seemed like hours later, hands flying to her mouth after she realized how loud she’d been.

“It’s a little lopsided, and it’s not symmetrical, but it looks great! Almost subpar for a rookie!” Epel clapped, looking up from his own work.

Yuu squinted, holding up what she thought was her masterpiece. The apples that Epel had brought were used to teach her how to carve delicate pictures and designs into their flawless flesh, some of which were horribly mutilated in the process, but in the end led to the beautiful fruity art before her. “I don’t see anything wrong with it... you’re such a difficult person to impress, Epel.” Yuu whined, comparing her apple to his.

“Ah relax! I’m just messin’ around!” He joked, waving his hand. He laughed at her dumbfounded face, ruffling her hair in an older-sibling like way, and for once, Yuu found herself smirking, if only in the slightest way.

“Epel Felmier! Do my ears deceive me or are you really—pardon?” Both teens froze in place as Epel’s door flew open, welcoming in a tall boy dressed in Pomefiore’s overly pompous uniform, head adorned with the same hat Yuu saw behind the curtain.

She flinched as his gaze settled on her, and she instinctually pressed a hand over her eye, concealing the horror that further proved the loss of her vision. “Rook, get out! Who do you think you are, barging in like that?” Epel complained, rushing over to the senior and attempting to push him away.

He was abrubtly dropped on the floor as Rook swerved around the boy, stalking closer to Yuu like a predator. “What have we here? Who might you be?” He asked, scrutinizing her face.

“Rook, leave her alone!” Epel demanded, pushing himself from the floor.

Too easily, the blonde pried her hand away, observing the story written in scars over the left side of her complexion. “Oh my...” Rook stared and stared, unexpressive and too close for comfort.

Tears started to brim in Yuu’s eyes, and using what little strength she had compared to the taller boy’s, she ripped herself away, running out of the room and down the hall.

Her heart raced in her veins, in her ears, as she flew down the forever twisting and turning passages, this time crowded with people. She could only dodge and weave between them, with their questioning gazes burning holes into her skull as tears dripped onto the flooring.

Yuu couldn’t seem to escape, the walls wanted to enclose around her, stretching and warping as the path swayed beneath her feet. She could do nothing but dizzily run away, mind lost in her own abyss as she leapt into a dark room, only ignited by the light from outside.

Collapsing in a heap on the hardwood floor, she wearily recognized where she was, or at least the type of place she’d ended up. On one wall, a slenderly long window stretched high above her reach, the opposite completely covered by a mirror. It was a dance room.

Sitting on her knees in front of the mirrored wall, Yuu stared at her pitiful self, tears breaking free of the dam they’d been collecting behind for days. Her hair was messy, falling around her shoulders and sticking to the sides of her face, dampened by the salty liquid. Her cheeks were rosy, nose carrying the same color.

And... her eyes.

One of them, the functional one, was puffy and tear clouded, and the other—the other was gorgeously ruined. A jagged, cracked scar trailed from her forehead to mid cheek, splitting her eyebrow and so thick that it spanned the length of her eye. The iris had lost its color and gone a milky white, the tears almost unrecognizable over the glazed sheen that glimmered over the orb.

Laying a hand on the mirror, Yuu stared into the mutilated gateway, seeing a story that had been left untold for far too long. She saw the death of her family, the heartache they bore through, her failure to preserve the things she loved most.

“Sorry—I’m sorry! I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry I look like this... I can’t breathe without hurting someone!” She curled her hand over the mirror, slamming her fist over it as she rested her head on the cool surface, her tears rolling down and leaving streak marks on the pristine aluminum paint.

Much to her surprise, the lights flicked on, though she did a fine job camouflaging it beneath a mask of melancholy. “So my potatoes were telling the truth. There really is a lost little sprite in my ballroom.” A new voice clucked.

Yuu ignored him, turning around and pulling her knees to her chest, burying herself in her arms. She didn’t want to be ridiculed anymore—didn’t want anyone else to resent her simply because they lacked the patience to break down her defenses.

The click of his shoes against the too cold floor reverberated off the walls, piercing her ears as they came closer, eventually stopping right in front of her.

“Look at me.” He commanded, the girl refusing with a shake, “Why not?”

“Because...I’m ugly, and everyone here is jaw droppingly gorgeous. I don’t belong here, I don’t belong anywhere...” she whispered, almost inaudibly.

“Nonsense. Look at me.” He commanded, this time not giving her an option. Tenderly prying her arms open, the mystery boy lifted her face up with the back of his hand.

Reluctantly, Yuu made eye contact with the person who struck fear into her heart like no other, either for his esteemed position in the school, or his famous physical beauty and harsh words. She stared into the amethyst eyes of Vil Schoenheit, who reflected her terrified and crippled visage in the hues of his irises.

Pushing his arms away, Yuu began weeping again, wiping the forsaken water roughly with her hands. “I’m sorry... I’m sorry for intruding. I-I’ll go.” She sniffled, in the midst of standing when Vil placed his hands over hers, plush and soft.

“Stay. Whatever would you have to be sorry for, dear?” He asked, urging her to sit.

“B-Because—Because I...I...!” Yuu’s voice became strained as she struggled to release the words that so desperately clawed at the knot in her throat. And then—

Vil opened his arms. Inviting, warm, unjudgemental.

“V-Vil...!” She dove into them, wrapping her arms around his middle as she did her best to stiffle her cries. Vil stroked her hair, his eyebrows raising in awe at how silky it was. “I-It’s my f-fault... all of it is my fault! I could’ve s-saved them, b-but I was just so scared!” She lamented, spilling the secrets that should’ve long ago been honored.

For once, Vil didn’t spit out any harsh criticisms, he just sat there silently, awaiting the end of Yuu’s bottled up pain brought to life. When it came, the girl released the boy who embodied beauty, trying to hide her swollen and scarred face. “I’m so sorry for using your time, Vil-san...” Yuu apologized, voice cracking.

“The least you could do is look at me when you speak, darling. Please, look here.” Yuu obeyed, eyes widening in confusion as her chin was rather roughly pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

Vil uncapped the top to his specially created lip gloss, “Hold still.” He said, applying the makeup over her thin lips, “There. See? You’re beautiful, we just... need a little concealer, and some contacts, and you’ll be good as new—partially.” Vil gave her a genuine smile, fooling Yuu into believing that maybe, just maybe he wasn’t going to judge her like everyone else.

“Yuu?!! Yuu?”

The two whipped to the doorway, and were greeted by a familiar lilac-haired first year, who skidded to a halt before Yuu and dropped to his knees, holding onto her shoulders. “I looked everywhere for ya, but this place is just so goddamn huge, it was like weavin’ through a maze! Rook had me runnin’ ‘round the halls like a chicken with its head cut off! Ain’t nothin’ hurt, o-or bleedin’, right?” Epel fast-talked, country accent in full affect as he tripped over his words.

“I’m fine, Epel. All good, see?” Yuu held out her arms, displaying her unharmed frame.

“A-ah, now that’s a breath’a fresh air! I see you been talkin’ with—dorm head Vil!” Epel gasped, face blanching as he sweat dropped.

“Epel. Felmier. What a pleasant surprise.” Vil growled through his teeth, bearing a deceiving smile. “Recovered from your headache, mister?”

“W-well, ya see here, I just—“

“Silence, I’ll not be listening to your excuses. And for the love of the Queen, get rid of that horrid native tongue of yours!” Vil demanded, berating Epel.

“...Yes, Vil. My humblest apologies.”

“Much better. Now! Would you like to explain our little visitor, and why she is here unannounced?”

After a long and tedious process of introducing and expounding her life, Yuu and Epel sat in edgy silence as Vil digested the information, going through a myriad of emotions as the air buzzed with electricity.

Yuu had her fingers crossed that she wouldn’t be sent away, as she’d been so used to.

“It’s decided then. Yuu, dear, follow me, and be hasty.” Vil nodded to himself, standing to his proud height enchanced by his heels as he flipped his hair, clicking off.

“I wish you the best of luck, my friend. You’ll most certainly need it.” Epel sniggered behind his hand, Yuu sending him a withering glare from over her shoulder.

“Oh just you watch. I’m about to sparkle like a million fireflies.”

<————>

Sparkle was a disgusting understatement for the transformation Vil put the poor girl through.

Though it was getting late outside, he still gave her a luxury treatment, which ultimately meant minutes upon minutes of face moisturizers, skin creams, scar healing oinments, and anything in between. Her face was stiff from all the rubbing, almost simulating numbness.

Once that had been finished, Vil wasted absolutely no time before pouncing onto makeup, his specialty. Concealers, eye accentuates, lip plumpers, blush, it made Yuu dizzy with the sheer amount of items the world of cosmetics had to offer.

It felt strange to be touched in such gentle ways, to receive the soft stroke of a brush to her eyelids instead of a slap, or to feel the way the concealer was mixed into the darkly scarred skin of her left side instead of the shattered glass tearing through flesh.

By the end of it all, Yuu didn’t sparkle, she emanated the radiance of a thousand suns, and even though she could only see half of her complexion, she knew beyond a doubt that she was more gorgeous than ever.

“There we are, darling.” Vil clapped, spinning her chair so that she could look at herself in the vanity.

Yuu’s jaw dropped to the ground, her breath hitching as she resisted the urge to cry.

Her scar was no longer visible on her face, the ugly line replaced instead by smooth, seemingly unmarked tan. The bags under her eyes were gone, making her seem at least a year younger, and a pretty blush was blended into her rather squishy cheeks, dusting over her nose. A flawless cut crease was executed over her orbs, the shimmery silver gradient backing to her elongated lashes making her eye pop.

But truly, the most spectacular of all what was lay within. Her irises were both... colored. What was once damaged and ruined was semi-fixed, a contact that matched the color of her functional eye creating the appearance that both were natural.

“V-Vil! Y-You... this...!” Yuu folded her hands in her lap, rendered wordless.

“A simple thank you will suffice, dear.” Vil chuckled, but nearly fell over when he was suffocated in a bear hug.

“Thank you! Thank you, thank you so much, Vil!” She bubbled, letting go after said blonde pushed her away.

“You’re welcome—just be careful! You’ll mess up one of our faces!” Vil snapped, rearranging his hair.

Yuu giggled, still staring at herself in the mirror, when a knock broke the calm partial quiet. “Come in!” Vil articulated, welcoming in two people, Rook Hunt and Epel.

“Yuu?!” Epel stood slack jawed, eyes nearly bursting out of his skull with how wide they were. “You’re so different, it’s amazing. You look amazing!”

“Indeed, madmoiselle! Delicate like the petals of a rose, and crystal clear as the water that rains from the sky! You are truly the sight to behold.” Rook added, earning an elbow to his side.

“Thank you, so much. I just—never thought I would look so whole again, especially after what happened to...” she trailed off, twiddling her thumbs.

“Nonsense, don’t let anyone lie to you. Never take criticism from someone you didn’t ask it from, alright?” Vil instructed, taking her by the hand.

“...Of course, Vil-san.” Yuu answered, for the first time in a long, long while settling into a comfortable laugh.

She’d been broken, far too many times to count. Torn down, crushed beneath the foot of life itself.

But, perhaps with the help of the people she used to shake in her shoes merely thinking about, perhaps she could turn that rubble into a cairn of her success. She’d have to fall to reach her peak, sometimes more than once, and sometimes she’d have to hit the bottom.

Right now, she was inching towards grabbing that first stone, that first layer to her cairn.

Soon, she just might reclaim that sweet melody lost to the tomes of time.

This took a little longer than I expected... I had to rewrite it because my first draft would... probably have gotten me flagged.

I want to say that you. Are. Beautiful. It doesn’t matter if you’re giant or mini, scarred or clean, because you. Are. Beautiful.

On that note, thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed!

Stay lovely!

[curly-bangtan]

Drabble game: Member: Jin 6) baby, I’m not going to last if you keep doing that 21) can’t you stop gaming for 1 second and give me attention?

#6: “baby, I’m not going to last if you keep doing that.”

#21: “can’t you stop gaming for one second and give me attention?”

#20: “let me guess, you’re horny again.”

Warnings: oral (M), slight exhibitionism, giving seokjinnie the best suck while he’s gaming and on a call with the boys

A/N: I feel so bad because I really haven’t had much time to write lately because of uni so I haven’t prepared anything special for Jin’s birthday except this. :c But anyway, enjoy~!

.

“Ahh- Aahhh- AAAAHHHHHHH!”

You hear the distinct yells coming from a certain room as you enter the house, a noise so boisterous that it could only belong to none other than your boyfriend.

Which one is it this time, Maple Story or Kart Rider?

Shaking your head in a smitten grin, you walk to the source of the shouts.

To his credit, he at least acknowledges you, “Oh, hey sweetie. Back so early?” To his discredit, he doesn’t even look up from his game, eyes glued to the glaring computer screen, which you don’t doubt have been fixed in place for the entire time you were gone. Kart Rider it is this time.

Tonight was a girls’ night, a few drinks at a nice cocktail bar with your closest female friends (a few meaning maximum three because cocktails are bloody expensive), chin-wagging and updating on each other’s love/sex lives. You always enjoy this type of gatherings.

“Early? Seokjin, it’s one.”

Only a single earphone in, he looks up, but even so, scarcely lest his eyes stray for a second too long from the pixelated road and he crashes again. He’s ranked number 6 right now. Out of seven. Why is he even trying anymore, he’s not going to win. Still, your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, enough for you to feel connected to him again, to trick yourself into thinking that he remotely missed you. Because he definitely didn’t. He didn’t even notice the time, where would his attention find the capacity to remember you while he’s racing his friends on this server?

“Oh shit, now way, it’s one already?” There is a monotone in his voice where disbelief should be. Basically, when Seokjin is gaming, he has two possible moods: over dramatic Ancient Roman gladiator with astounding battle cries, or completely stoic, focused, and most likely won’t realise if you’ve cracked an egg on his head. Both are equally as infuriating.

“Yes, it’s already one.” You sigh, plopping your bag on the floor to the side and striping your winter layers.

It’s shocking, sometimes, to think that your boyfriend is close to reaching his thirties. People compliment him endlessly on his lack of ageing - how doesn’t he have a single wrinkle? he looks the same as he did five years ago, if not better! - but little do they know, not only has he physically not aged, but also has mentally not grown up since the age of sixteen. Sixteen is him on a good day and you being generous.

You wonder if he’s going to stop gaming after this round now that you are back.

You wait.

He ends up coming fourth, which isn’t too shabby considering he had fallen off the course and wound up at the back. Watching as he stretches his board back, you think he’s going to switch his computer off, call it a day and finally come join you on the bed. But then he says into the microphone:

“Guys wait for me, let me change my character.”

You shut your eyes and sigh. Every time.

So you try to mind your own business as you wait for him to finally finish - you don’t mind going to sleep without him, you’re that far into your relationship that you don’t even need to say good night anymore. Practically a married couple at this point.

But then your mind wanders to the conversation you and your girls were having earlier during the night.

On the topic of sex, June brought up how her and her boyfriend has started to switch things up in the bedroom since, as much as she loves him, the same dick gets boring after a year. There was one time where they did policeman roleplay and he dropped the key under the bed and took ages to fish it out, but it was fine because the sex had been a solid 10/10, so apparently it was worth the sore arms. Kerry was surprised that June hadn’t tried to spice it up sooner; she on the other hand has been into moderate BDSM since highschool. Nothing hurts better than the sharp pain of being whipped on the butt by a crop cane, apparently. Just the other day, Namjoon suggested to Eunae that they should have a threesome with another man, the name of whom would not be disclosed, but you considerably suspect that he’s someone you know. Taehyung? Jimin? They seem like the type to be into this shit. But anyway, apparently, it turned Namjoon on a fucking lot to see Eunae get pounded by someone else while sucking his cock. She couldn’t complain at all, except for not being able to walk the next day.

You have such wholesome friends.

When it got to you, you kind of just- sat there poking your fingers. It not that your sex life with Seokjin is vanilla, but that’s exactly what you’re saying. Neither of you are particularly adventurous in nature, especially when it comes to sex. You would say that he has a higher sex drive than you, but only marginally. There are days where you would wake up and before your eyes are fully open, he’d already be inches deep in you. Sometimes, you go a long five days without sex out of tiredness and neither of you have a problem with it. But nevertheless, the sex is, as June described, the same mediocre missionary hammering until he blows his load either too soon or takes too long, with the occasional oral if you’re not feeling lazy.

Yeah, not mind blowing.

It’s not like you minded, but hearing your friends talk about their wild sex life makes you feel like you’re missing out. You and Seokjin are missing some fun, some excitement.

With that in mind, you crawl out of bed and approach your oblivious boyfriend. His shoulders jolt in surprise when he feels your arms snake around his neck from behind. Sparing you a second of his attention, he tilts his head up to meet your gaze, eyes wide in curiosity. You hang over him, cheek pressed on the crown of his head as you watch his game without particular interest.

Then you begin to bury your nose in his thick black hair, trailing tiny pecks all the way down to his face. Your hands start to roam as well, groping his toned chest not at all subtly. Seokjin is naturally well built with his hefty big bones - actual bones as well as, you know, that bone.

His fingers are moving mechanically on the keyboard in astounding reflexes. Hmm, you want those fingers inside… You place a particularly wet kiss on his cheek to try to coax his focus into your possession.

“What’s up, baby?” You count the flicker of his eyes as a small victory, even if you haven’t successfully infringed on his unwavering glare at the screen. Then he speaks into the microphone of his earphones, “Hoseok-ah, I’m catching up, watch out~!”

Ignoring his question as well as his sudden jerking motions to avoid his kart from veering too far, you proceed to kiss down his neck, pressing your warm lips ever so lightly on his skin to create that sensitive sparse contact that will surely make his little hairs rise. Your hands have now travel under his outstretched arms, albeit in an awkward angle due to your position, and are playing with the hem of his shirt. He’s wearing white today, and if there’s one thing you love more than your boyfriend, it’s your boyfriend in white.

When your small fingers reach the band of his joggers, you sense not only his muscles beneath your touch but his entire posture tense. Your wandering mouth feels him gulp.

“Let me guess, you’re horny again?” It’s unusual to hear him speak in such a low voice, a genuine hushed whisper rather than one for dramatic effect. The way he tilted away from the earphone mic does not go unnoticed, trying to to let the boys hear him. How interesting… Why not exploit that?

“Hmm…” You hum, lips still painting his collar now with gentle sucks. Your fingers are feathering his torso, each time daring to dip a bit further under his pants, but never too much. “Can’t you just stop gaming for a second and give me some attention, Seokjinnie?”

He tenses once more.

This is kind of fun. You almost snicker diabolically.

Muffled voices sound from the other end of the call, barely audible from the earphone that has been left dangling by the wire, not plugged into his ear. And you know that if it weren’t for them, Seokjin would be reprimanding you loudly right now.

“After this game, okay sweetie?” The tendons of his fingers strain over his knuckles. Click click click click click. Aggressive keyboard pushing.

“But… I can’t wait…” You put on your babiest voice with a whiny undertone, drawing out each syllable for emphasis. As you use your nails to tickle the skin over his pelvis, one of his knees jerk up and hit the desk.

Cute reflexes, you mirth.

“Shit-” He mutters under his breath. “Please, please, please. You’re distracting me.”

That’s the point.

This time, you reach even further, one hand brushing his thigh, the other returning to his fuzzy navel. “Seokjin…” He tries his best to hold in a sharp inhale at your seductive touch. “Right now, please…”

“Last game, I promise.” He whispers away from the microphone.

“You have two more rounds, you just started a new game, I can’t wait that long.” You nip at the lobe of his free ear.

“Boys, I’m going to bed after this game.” He announces to his friends, shooting you a brief pointed look, and whispers pleadingly, “please.”

Do you feel slightly bad for putting him in such a tortured position? Yes. But do you have every intention of carrying on? Also yes.

“How about this, baby,” you press your mouth against his ear, “you stay quiet while I give you the best blowjob of your life right now, then I’ll be satisfied and leave you be. Or, I go right back to bed right now and probably ignore you for the rest of the week until you do some grovelling for choosing a video game over your girlfriend.”

Seokjin shudders at your warm breath perforating into him and heaves, jaw hanging slightly open as he throws you one long glance. You see the clockwork in his mind turning as he contemplates your offer, clearly torn. Promiscuity is not his thing, so naturally, getting sucked off by his girl while on a gaming call with his friends presents a difficult dilemma.

“Shit, Y/N-ah…” He laments softly, causing a smirk to bloom across your face. He’s going to cave, you know it. Concentration at the game now dispersed, Seokjin wets his lips in hesitation. “Fine.”

So he caves.

Smug, you drop onto your knees and scuttles around his chair until you’re in the shadows of the desk. He rolls his seat back to allow you emerge between his legs. It’s dark down here, yet you know his body inside out. Lifting his rear off, he allows you to tug his joggers down, your hands not missing the chance to skim past the outskirts of his hips. You see him glance down, teeth gritted.

Kissing up the insides of his thighs, you let your tongue dance lucidly, teasing him until his quads can’t tense any further. There’s already a semi-bulge in his boxers, this lewd boy, and when you palm him over the grey cotton material, his lower half buckles.

Oh this is going to be fun.

When you feel more heat rush down to his groin, and his member grows more erect, you stripe the boxers off too. Your boyfriend is still, quiet, and you have to check that he’s still conscious. He is. Very conscious. Of your little shadow casted face in front of his fat aching cock under the desk.

He gulps again. He’s fucked.

Just as he looks back up at the screen so his vehicle doesn’t fall behind, he feels your tingly breath hovering over his shaft, up and down, as if assessing where to devour first. Unluckily for him, it’s his balls. Sucking on the soft delicate skin, one of your hands comes under to cup him. Seokjin lets out a low whimper that sounds vaguely like mmhhah-.

“Jin-hyung, where did you go? Falling behind already?” Jungkook taunts over the call, the other guys snickering after him.

Seokjin can’t even respond. It’s taking all of him to even keep half his attention on the race, how is he supposed to formulate a functional sentence?

You look up at him, grinning devilishly as you fondle his balls in your hand with your tactful tongue. Although his fingers are still clicking away at the keyboard, he is now looking down at you every few seconds. Progress. After a particularly cruel suck that has him curling his toes, you move to his cock.

It is throbbing violently. It tends to do that - Seokjin is a throbber; if you get him aroused but deprive him of the friction, he pulses up in need. You find something about that so cute.

And so, slowly and lubriciously, you drag your tongue up his tongue in a zigzag, curving around his circumference at every turn. “Aish…” He cries, and you know it’s not because of the game. He looks down, for a long couple of seconds this time. His lips are parted, hand pushing the hair out of his face to reveal that glorious forehead that’s powerful enough to topple kingdoms.

Then you swirl around his head, the rough pad of your tongue pressed hard against him, tasting his salty precum.

“Fuck.” He exhales. He knows you know what you’re doing to him and he’s completely under your influence, helpless. You wonder if his friends can hear his soft curses and moans. A part of you wants them to. Exhibitionism? Who would have thought.

You focus on his slit, licking mercilessly at his oozing opening, lapping up the taste of his arousal. His thigh is now trembling. Yet you don’t stop assailing his tip, slowly taking it in your mouth while your tongue performs its magic. Swirling, licking, flicking, sucking.

Abruptly, Seokjin grabs the mic of his earphones, concealing it in his palm to mask his voice when he says, “baby, I’m not going to last if you keep doing that.”

You just look up at him, wide feign-innocent eyes overflowing in amusement. His own eyes lock on yours, head tilting to the side in exasperation at your antics. His incapacity against your relentless technique sends your cunt surging.

Finally, you take his cock in your mouth, swallowing him inch by inch agonisingly slowly until he pokes the back of your throat. He has to bite down on his lip to prevent those whimpers from escaping. When you slurp up, your tongue continues to draw patterns across his length, feeling his pulsing veins beneath you. Playing with his bollocks at the same time, you release his cock from your mouth with a wet pop.

At this point, you can tell he’s given up on the game, especially when his left hand grips onto your hair, his hips buckling again to push himself into your mouth. The keyboard sounds are decelerating, his eyes fixed on you more than the monitor, only occasional glances up at the game so his kart isn’t completely halted.

You gag as you bob up and down his cock, salivating endlessly to create a slippery friction for the walls of your mouth to mould over him. He fits in you so well. Each time, you try to take in more and more of his length until his whole member is engorged in your mouth. His taste grows increasingly salty, tip crying tears of precum.

Yup, he’s definitely not going to last.

Fingers holding onto your locks tightly, as if holding on for dear life, his chest rises and falls shakily, breath getting heavier. “Shut up, Jimin.” He says into his mic. You wonder what the boy had said.

As your pace increases and strokes of your tongue intensifies, his thighs squeeze around you. He’s desperately falling apart. Maintaining eye contact, his head collapses back, his neck exposed. He’s so close, you can tell.

So you go as fast as you can despite the ache in your jaw, riding him with your mouth, face stretching to encompass his girth. Tears spring to your eyes yet you ignore them. He’s pushing your head up and down now, guiding your speed to pursue his orgasm.

Then-

“O- fuck!” He groans out loud, not even bothering to lower his volume anymore. A moment later, you feel the violent twitch of his shaft followed by a spurt of warm liquid into your mouth. You slow your imbibing, considering his utmost sensitivity right now, and tenderly suck around his ejaculating tip. His whole body convulses, eyes rolling back. He is at utter surrender, both hands cradling your face, legs sprawled out.

“Nothing,” his voice is unstable as he exhales into the mic, “I just- um- spilt water all over my desk.”

‘Spilt water’ indeed.

You swallow his load in your mouth after pulling him out, hand lazily milking out his every last drop. Seokjin is panting as he gazes down at you, caressing your cheek gratefully, fiddling with your red swollen lips.

“I’m leaving, boys, good night.” He mindlessly ends the call with a few clicks and shuts his computer, his whole attention now devoted to you. “I can’t fucking believe you did that.”

Smiling proudly, you answer, “That was fun, wasn’t it.”

“I’m sure it was really fucking fun for you.” Seokjin hauls you up gently from the ground, and jeez, your knees are sore.

Without a second to waste, he pulls you in by the neck to meet his lips, your tongue still bitter from his cum. He’s not normally particularly dominant, yet this time, there is a roughness to his kiss, and an eagerness in the way his arm traps your waist. Walking back step by step, you tumble onto the bed, your core heated from the pool of desire you’ve collected for him. And when he flips and pins you under him, you know you’re fucked for the rest of the night.

“You’re going to regret doing that.”

.

04/12/19

© Copyright 2019

[nimmy22]

A Mistake: Chapter 7

A man and a woman, each strapped to a surgical table and naked, screaming for help. Their cries shifted from, "God, please help. Please!" to, "It's your fault, you bitch! You wanted to come to this god-forsaken town. You did this! Why am I here? I didn't want to come here. I did nothing wrong, I swear. It was all her. She kept wanting more money. She kept stealing from everyone, even our daughter."

With a bracelet authorization approval, a door slid open with a beep, revealing two staff members in yellow biohazard suits fitted with oxygen tanks and masks. One wheeled in a metal cart covered by a sterile blue drape. The cart was positioned and locked in place near the medical tables, the blue drape lifted.

The man and woman looked at the sheer size of the needles and the vails of bright purple liquid laid out neatly across the cart. Any day, they would've stolen, cheated, and lied to have the sweet relief of a drug but not like this. The irony was unwelcome.

Their wide eyes stared unblinking, their pleading lips forming incoherent words. The nightmare refused to let them go, no matter how hard they bit their tongues, tasting metal. Reality sunk in harder than the restraints digging into their raw bruised flesh. Soon the woman became delirious before fainting while the man sported a growing wetness between his legs, dripping onto the floor of the unadorned white room. The only colors in the room were the yellow of the suits, the dark brown urine, and the Umbrella logo in the center of the floor.

One of the staff members turned to the camera in the corner of the room before speaking, "Experiment number 9932-Code X, subjects are a 43-year-old female and a 51-year-old male. Treatment with Serum X41 injected intramuscularly at the deltoid site. "

The contents of the syringes were injected into the upper arm of the two test subjects. They didn't so much as blink an eye as the male begged for his life and questioning their humanity.

"Mama... please, I'll be a good boy. Please let me out. Mama..." the 51-year-old man wailed, digging his nails into the leather restraints. They retreated as fast they entered, sealing the door behind them.

"Experiment in progress, do not enter experimentation chamber number 451 due to a biohazard element in containment." The voice of a female AI sounded through the speakers, a warning to all employees on the level.

William's eyes glowed as he watched through the reinforced glass, his thumb repeatedly pressing the ballpoint pen in his hand. He leaned forward, licking his lips as the serum began taking effect. The subjects began convulsing against the restraints, their limbs spasming as their entire genome was remodeled.

With a scream, the bones of the female cracked. Her teeth tumbled out of her bleeding gums, muscles and tendons ruptured. She burst out of the restraints and threw herself against walls, pounding with bloody fists as she screeched. The serum made work of replacing her organs and connective tissue, reforming her into something stronger, faster, and more deadly—an elegant hunter of pure carnage.

William hardly paid attention to the male whose body exploded, spraying the entire room with innards. Nothing remained to identify him as having once been human. Smelling the fresh blood, the female lapped the bloodied walls with an impressively long tongue slithering out of a mouth layered with sharpened teeth. With skinless appendages, she explored the room, climbing the walls and walking on the ceiling. It wasn't long before instinct led her to devour what remained of her husband.

"Excellent! We are making progress. This is the first subject to survive injection with Serum X41 without becoming a pile of liquefied tissue. Increasing the concertation of the base chemical allowed the body to become more receptive to the serum. I can't wait to Annette and Albert know. I'm thinking of calling this project black widow." He babbled to himself, feeling like he deserves a pat on the back. All those nights spent bent over his desk were finally paying off.

Sparing one last glance at the remains of the male, William frowned. "Looks like your mama didn't quite hear you but thank you for offering yourself to science. Your contribution is greatly appreciated." William said as he began recording the experiment's findings into a clipboard adorned with the Umbrella logo. William loved making progress in his research. It flooded his brain with dopamine better than a night of good sex or winning the lottery.

------------------------- It had been three days since the last time she had seen Wesker, but she heard his voice plenty enough, calling her for hourly updates while she was alone with Sherry in his house. He didn't personally pick her up after school. Instead, He sent a very kind elderly driver under the assumption that he was employed by her' parents' to drop her off 'home.' Both were so extremely far from reality. Thankfully, the man seemed busy playing cops and robbers. She was left alone with Sherry, and while she was in a more relaxed mood, she didn't dare go exploring the property belonging to the devil. The less she knew about him and his dealings, the looser the noose around her neck.

Her actual parents were nowhere to be found. Still, she wasn't worried. Aside from the whole situation with Wesker, these were the most peaceful days she'd seen in a long time, in fact… ever. The bruises could finally heal without the addition of new ones. Her parents most likely realized the extent of their financial situation and made a break for it. The loan sharks were not going to wait forever and will soon take more forceful actions. As much as it hurt Cara, she believed they left her behind to distract the collectors. They had done something similar years back in a town not too different from Raccoon, but at least they took her with them. It worked once, and they likely believed it will again. She decided to worry about that later, placing her problems on hold. A break was much needed.

Putting on her nicer pair of sneakers and her least washed-out pair of jeans, Cara regarded herself in the mirror and opted to leave her hair down. Wondering whether she should take the cellphone, Cara spent ten minutes arguing with herself. With a heavy sigh, she stuffed it into her back pocket, hoping to 'accidentally' smash the damn thing while sitting down extra hard. What would Wesker say? You have a big butt? Don't sit down?

Today Cara was hanging out with Rick, a mutual friend. They never hung outside school before, especially on their own, and she was a little nervous about things getting awkward. Due to Cara's 'full-time job' after school, they decided to skip a few classes and go out for a hike in the Arkley mountains. This would be her most needed change of scenery, and she may walk away with a good friend.

For Cara, the past few days have been a routine, wake up, go to school, go to Wesker's home to watch Sherry, and then come home to sleep only to do it all over again the next day. Things have been calm, and so Claire's suspicion turned off its headlights, but she often complained they couldn't hang out as much.

Cara tried inviting Claire to head out with them, but she turned the offer down, smiling from ear to ear. She hinted to Cara that Rick might have caught some feelings for her and that the courage to make a move required they be alone under the right circumstances. Guys and girls alike often confessed in the Arkley mountains. It became an omen of good luck for couples to stay together longer. Of course, that was total bullshit as many of those same couples break up soon after. However, it's nice to have hope in a relationship, something Cara never experienced. She decided that if Rick did indeed liked her that she would at least give things a try.

She was shy about Rick picking her up from the bad side of town and instead promised to meet him by the start of the Arkley trails. By the time she arrived, he was already there, standing by a pickup truck in the trail parking lot. Cara smiled, catching him in the midst of fixing his brown hair and testing the smell of his breath in a cupped hand. Why hadn't she ever noticed him? He seemed like such a pleasant guy.

When he finally noticed her standing behind him in the reflection, he spun around, almost stumbling over his feet. "T-there was something stuck in my hair, I swear," He stuttered, scratching his neck while his ears roasted tomato red.

"Whatever you say, pretty boy," Cara laughed, feeling her heart grow lighter with every minute. She had a good feeling today will be very meaningful.

The two walked along a path marked with bright orange ribbons tied to the trees. They passed dozens of signs warning hikers against straying off the path, many of which were covered with graffiti. All around them, birds chirped, and strangely, a few crows cawed as they hovered over the trees.

Walking around a growth of poison Ivy, they talked about random silly things and the distant future. Cara was glad to find herself closer to another person. Real genuine friends were a shortage in her life. She always had to be to one extending a hand, reaching out first. It was nice for a change that someone else extended their hand.

"You know, Cara, despite all the things I kept hearing about you from everyone, I knew they were wrong. They judged you without knowing shit about you."

"What…kind of stuff. And who is talking about me?" Cara's voice held a hard edge, her feet taking a pause. With furrowed brows, her eyes followed Rick as he walked ahead before noticing she stopped. This was the first time Cara heard of any rumors concerning her. She never made any enemies, keeping herself relatively unnoticed at school. Cara felt betrayed, wondering if Claire heard the rumors too, and if so, why hasn't she said anything? Why does she have to hear it from Rick?

"Oh, don't worry about it. It's nothing important. What matters is that I'm on your side." He spoke quickly, scratching the back of his neck.

"Rick, what are they saying about me," Cara walked closer to him, her eyes piercing through him.

"You'll be upset," His eyes kept avoiding Cara, settling on a hole in his shoe.

"I can take it. I just want to know what was said. Please Rick."

"Ah shit…um… they've said that someone saw you walking on Chandler street where all the…dealers and escorts hang. They said you offered to give blow jobs for five bucks to some older men behind a dumpster. That the bruising on your arm because you inject heroin, that your parents pimp you out to-"

Cara expelled a breath, her eyes misting rapidly. "No! that not true. I didn't do that. Why would anyone say something like that? I'm a fucking babysitter, ok? I'm not this, I'm not…my mom." She turned on her heel, wanting to get out of there. "I'm not like her." She repeated, clenching her fists. They didn't have the right to spin stories about her, turning her into a lunchtime gossip storyline. It wasn't fair. She was wrong. She couldn't handle it. She was always pathetic, always crying.

Rick caught up to Cara, grabbing her shoulder to spin her around to face him. "I'm so sorry Cara, I knew it was going to upset you, and I still told you about it. God, I'm so stupid." He said, wrapping his arms around Cara. She was caught by surprise and tried to push him away. Eventually, she found herself leaning against him, letting out a sigh as he stroked her hair.

"It's ok Rick, I'm glad you told me. They're just stupid rumors. I don't know why I'm over- " He kissed her open mouth midsentence, softly at first but quickly added more pressure. His hands fisted into her shirt, forcing her closer. She felt the bile rise quickly.

Cara's eyes were wide open as she tried pulling back, but he held her tightly. She tried forcefully turning her head, but his hand reached up to hold her chin in a painful vice grip, his tongue demanding entrance against her lips. She whimpered, clenching her teeth shut. Her lack of participation agitated him, and he grabbed her arm with a bruising tightness. Cara cried out in pain, and he took the opportunity to force his tongue into her mouth.

Cara wanted to shout for help, her eyes darting around the forest, encircling them. Still, they were completely alone, save for a couple of crows weeping among the trees. They seemed closer than before, sensing a meal in the making.

Allowing his tongue full entrance, Cara bit down as hard as she could on it, gagging against the metallic taste. Rick shoved her away, groaning in pain as blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Cara spat the blood in her mouth before shouting. Her eyes burned into him as she backed away.

"I believed in you despite everyone else. I told you I was on your side, and you hurt me. Do you know how many times I defended you? How many times I got picked on for simply standing beside you? You led me to think that you felt something, and then you hurt me." He growled, nursing his tongue in his hand.

Cara let out a pained breath, closing her eyes before turning her head away. She replayed what happened in her mind, wondering where things went wrong. She said she will give him a chance but, this was wrong, so very wrong.

"Rick, stop this. I appreciate what you did for me, but you made me uncomfortable. I did not enjoy that, I did not consent to that, but you touched me anyway."

"How much would it take you to fucking notice me? I've tried being Mr. Fucking nice for two years, Two fucking years. But you never look at me differently." Rick snarled, clenching his fists. He unleashed his rage against the nearest tree punching it repeatedly. He did not stop the assault even as his knuckles split, and the blood flowed freely, staining the bark.

"Rick, please stop before you do something you'll regret," Cara whispered softly, reaching for his bloody hand.

"I will make you want me!"

Cara barely had a second to process things before a rock made a disorienting contact with her head. She saw an assortment of colors and shapes on her way to the muddy earth.

Rolling on her stomach, she tried to push herself up, but everything was spinning, or maybe she was spinning. She rested her cheek against the mud, willing the world to stop shifting. Blood trickled down her face, and she had to blink it out of her eyes, unable to wipe it away. Her limbs felt as if weights were tied to them, giving gravity a greater pull.

Cara fought to stay awake, drifting in and out of the dark, faintly aware of being dragged by her foot through rough earth. It scratched her exposed skin, forcing the back of her shirt to ride up.

[wingedquill]

starlight and seasalt, chapter 1

@geraltwhumpweek

Title: Starlight and Seasalt

Ships: Geralt/Jaskier

Prompt: Day 6, Monster

Medium: Netflix

Warnings: Chronic pain for this chapter. For the whole fic, mutilation and manipulation of a child.

Word count: 2642

Summary: Ever since the trials, Geralt's legs have hurt. An ache that never quite leaves him, an ache that flares into a blistering pain on bad days. Ever since the trials, the smell of saltwater has made Geralt want to scream, and sob, and go back home .Ever since the trials, Geralt has felt wrong in a way he can't explain.  (Geralt wasn't quite human, before the trials. He's just been made to forget that.)

Author’s note: This is chapter one of the mer!geralt fic that I’ll be posting over on my AO3. Enjoy!

Geralt can’t really remember a time in his life that he wasn’t in pain. He must have been free of it once, before the trials, when he was still a child playing knights with his mother. But those memories are distant, faded as an old dream, replaced by the crush of his real life and a persistent throbbing in his legs.

Other witchers don’t feel the same kind of pain. He asks Eskel about it, only to be met with a confused and sympathetic smile. He asks Vesemir about it, only to be met with a shuddering sigh and a shaken head.

“Probably a side-effect of the extra mutations,” he says. “I—I’m sorry, Geralt, we can try giving you some herbs for the pain?”

The herbs never really work. The sharp, stabbing pain in his legs accompanies him all through his training, and will continue to accompany him for years yet. Some days it fades down to a dull throb, but other days it feels like he’s on fire, like someone has jabbed a thousand needles into his kneecaps.

He learns to ignore it. He has to. If he dwells on it, if he falters and winces every time it flares up, it could very easily be the end of him. Just one lucky shot from a monster would be enough. Just one second.

***

When he becomes a witcher, his Path meanders closer and closer to the ocean. He’s always wanted to see it after all, has heard plenty of older witchers talk about its endless horizons and glimmering waves and soft, warm beaches. His heart tugs when he hears those stories, an ache building and burning in his chest. A yearning.

And now that he’s free and directionless, he figures he might as well head there. So he takes contracts as he heads towards the sea, easy monsters for a young witcher, ghouls and drowners and the odd wraith. Maybe his first big fight will be against a kraken of some sort, that would be interesting.

He could slay some giant ship-eater, earn a big sack of coin, and travel down the coast. Charter a boat and make his way to the islands. Do whatever he wants.

He nudges his horse into a gallop as soon as the sharp scent of salt fills the air, excitement mounting in his chest as he flies up a hill and towards the faint sound of crashing waves. It sounds like soft thunder rolling through the air after a summer storm. It sounds like destiny.

The hill reaches its peak and he sees the ocean.

It spreads out and out and out in all directions, a wide green blanket broken only by tiny bursts of white seafoam. Gulls scream in the sky overhead, wheeling down towards the water and snatching up fish from the surface. Wind whips against Geralt’s face, peeling his hair away from his sweaty neck.

It’s beautiful. It’s awe-inspiring, it’s everything the older witchers said it would be, and—

And his heart hurts. It aches like someone he loves has died, like something important has been taken from him, like a childhood dream has crumbled into ash. A sob breaks out of his throat and he claps a hand over his mouth. Witchers don’t show their emotions. They can’t show their emotions. Remember that.

But there are no humans around to judge him so he lets himself slide from Roach’s back, hitting the ground with a yelp as his legs flare with pain. He staggers over to a scraggly, twisting tree growing out of the sandy soil and slumps down against it, breathing heavy. Tears burn in his eyes, clog up his nose. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to be.

Why is he so upset—he doesn’t—he doesn’t understand—

He feels like he’s missing something, something important, something that would explain why he’s crying like a child at the mere sight of the ocean. But as soon as he has that thought, as soon as he tries to grab on to it and think, it slips out of his mind, leaving him confused and shuddering as the sobs roll over him like waves.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths in and out. Control yourself.

He picks himself up and stumbles back over to Roach, each step feeling like he’s treading on shattered glass. He doesn’t let himself turn to look at the ocean again, no matter how much it tugs at him. Just swings Roach’s head back around and heads inland again. Riding away from the ache.

***

He doesn’t come back to the sea for another seventy years.

***

He tells Jaskier about the pain a few years into their friendship and a few months into their relationship, when he wakes up one morning and can’t move his legs. Every little shift sends a wave of fire up his body, and he has to bite into the pillow to stop himself from screaming.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, stirring beside him. Even the faint movement of the mattress has  Geralt biting down harder. Jaskier’s voice is thick with sleep but rapidly clearing, worry threading through his words. “Geralt, hey, what’s wrong? ‘S the kikimora bite acting up?”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Legs,” he groans.

“Your legs are hurt?” Jaskier says, and the worry is bleeding through his voice now, infecting every part of his being.

“Mmhmm,” he says, and his lungs are getting tighter and tighter, seizing with the pain.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Jaskier gasps and he’s up with a flash, yanking back the covers from Geralt’s bare legs. He shivers as the air hits his skin. It feels wrong in a way he can’t articulate.

“Did the kikimora land on you funny?” he asks, running his hands down Geralt’s legs as he feels for contusions, broken bones, misaligned tendons. Geralt shudders at the feeling of his too-warm, too rough fingers, burying his head further in the pillow. Normally Jaskier’s touch is soothing in situations like this, but now it just compounds the burning.

“Stop,” he grunts, and Jaskier’s snatches his fingers back instantly.

“Not the kikimora,” he manages to say, dragging the air through his aching lungs. “Just—legs get like this sometimes.”

Jaskier makes a soft sympathetic sound.

“What can I do to help then?” he asks. “Potion, herbs, anything?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Doesn’t work. Just keep the blankets off. Pressure makes it worse.”

“Okay. Alright” The bed shifts as Jaskier crawls back up and settles next to Geralt’s head. His fingers find their way into Geralt’s hair, soft and hesitant, gently stroking over the crown of his head.

“Is this alright?” Jaskier asks and, loathe though Geralt is to admit it, the external stimuli does drag his mind away from the pain, if only a little.

“Mmhmm.”

“Good. Just—focus on me and try and go back to sleep, if you can.”

“M’kay.” Gods, he sounds like a child.

Jaskier starts humming under his breath and Geralt focuses all his attention on him, on the sound of the melody, on the gentle, consistent strokes running through his hair. The pain still burns through him but his legs feel like distant, unimportant parts of himself.

Lovolulu, genevoga.

“Rest, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

***

Jaskier is always ready to help him after that, to take his mind off the pain with gentle words and touches, to let Geralt lean on his shoulders sometimes, when they’re walking back into town after particularly difficult hunts. He even stops protesting when Geralt doesn’t let him take turns on Roach, seemingly understanding that Geralt’s insistence on riding her isn’t born from possessiveness.

Geralt is grateful to him, in an aching, nameless way. No one in his life has taken his pain seriously. Even Vesemir gave up on helping him, when the herbs didn’t work. He was left to stumble through it alone, to gnash his teeth together and keep walking when his knees were full of needles, to sob silently into pillows in shitty inns when the pain kept him from sleeping.

“My sister had a bad arm, growing up,” Jaskier tells Geralt once, as they sit quietly together in an inn, eating their fill after a contract. The pain is building in Geralt’s calves, cramping his muscles and making his skin feel like tightened leather. “Twisted it wrong in a fall and it never quite worked the same again. She always said warm water helped. Didn’t make the pain go away entirely, but it lessened it, somewhat. Loosened up her muscles a bit. Do you think—?”

“I’m willing to try,” Geralt says with a shrug. He’s willing to try practically anything.

They finish their meal and Jaskier slips out of the room, heading downstairs to order a bath. Geralt hobbles over to the bed and sinks into it, staring up at the ceiling and feeling, for a reason that he can’t put his finger on, that it’s wrong somehow. That he shouldn’t be here.

He shakes the feeling away. Too much time camping recently, if he thinks being indoors is wrong.

Jaskier comes in with a few servants, lugging a tub and several buckets of hot water, and Geralt sits up and does his best to look like his legs aren’t on fire. Based on the concerned looks Jaskier keeps shooting him, he doesn’t think he’s succeeding.

The tub is filled and the servants thanked in a matter of minutes, and then Jaskier is offering him an arm.

“Come on,” he says, his brow pinched. “Lean on my shoulder, there you go, dear heart.”

Geralt leans against him and breathes. The air is hot and dry and wrong.They stumble over to the tub, and each step feels like a mile.

“You’re doing so well,” Jaskier says, brushing his fingers over Geralt’s arm. “So good.”

The praise would send a bolt of heat rushing through him in any other context, but right now Jaskier just sounds worried, and the pain building and rolling through him makes it difficult to think of other things.

“Sit down, yeah on the edge of the tub, just like that.”

Jaskier’s hands flutter over him, tugging off Geralt’s shirt, boots. When he starts working at Geralt’s pants, Geralt turns his head away, biting his lip to stop himself from cursing. The feeling of the fabric moving and scraping against him sends jolts of lightning racing up his spine.

“Just a moment, darling,” Jaskier says, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s jaw as he works. “Just a moment, can you lift your hips for me?”

Geralt lifts his hips. Stars explode behind his eyes.

Jaskier pulls his trousers and smalls down, and then rests a hand against Geralt’s heaving back.

“Into the tub now, that’s it, there you go.”

Jaskier guides him down, settles him in the warm water. Geralt closes his eyes. For a moment, the pain recedes, pulling back like a retreating wave. Gods, Jaskier is a genius.

And then.

Like a tidal wave.

The pain slams back into him, worse than he’s ever felt in his life. His legs are on fire, blistering and burning and surely they must be dissolving, had the servants put something in the water? Some kind of potion to melt away his flesh? Surely that’s the only explanation for the agony.

He screams.

Jaskier’s hands are on him, and his voice is in his ear, high and strained, but Geralt can’t pick out the individual words. He doesn’t—he doesn’t speak—

“La mevoga lu!” he hollers, thrashing frantically in the water. “La mevoga lu, la—la zebevoga!”

There are hands on him, hoisting and grabbing and twisting, tearing him in half, tugging his tail apart.

Lovolu looks frantically down at where they’re tugging at him and sees smooth skin and feet and—

He screams again.

***

Everything is floating around him. He’s drifting on his back in a calm bay, watching the stars, flicking his fins back and forth to keep him afloat. This is his first time seeing the surface, and he can hardly breathe for how beautiful the sky is.

***

“Geralt?”

Geralt’s head pounds like he’s been chugging Cat all night, and he buries his head deeper into the pillow, letting out a groan that sounds pathetic even to himself.

“Geralt, love, please wake up.”

Jaskier. His voice is all raspy and watery, like he’s been crying for a long, long time. Geralt’s eyes flick open immediately, and his hands press down on the mattress, trying to heave himself into a seated position. What happened? What’s wrong with Jaskier?

His arms tremble and give out immediately, sending him crashing back down into the mattress. A jolt of pain shoots through him, from his fingers to his toes, and he gasps, trying to curl in on himself.

What’s wrong with him?

“Don’t try to move,” Jaskier says, and he’s still crying, Geralt can tell from the hitch in his voice. He ignores Jaskier’s order to roll onto his side, twisting his neck so that he can see him. He looks dreadful, all red eyes and dark circles, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions.

“Hey,” he croaks. Gods, his throat is as dry as a desert and as prickly as a thornbush.

“Hey,” Jaskier replies with a watery laugh. He reaches down and runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, smoothing it back ever-so-gently. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Hmm we were. Eating. Dinner, right? After that contract for the ghouls?”

Jaskier’s fingers spasm against his skin, but he doesn’t pause in his stroking. A purr rumbles in Geralt’s chest, and a smile cracks over Jaskier’s face when he hears it.

“Yes, we were,” he says. “But then—your legs were flaring up, do you remember that?”

“A bit. Were just a bit achy.”

“Just—” Jaskier rubs at his face. “Right. It—it got worse. Quite a bit worse, you couldn’t really walk all that well. So I suggested putting you in a bath, do you remember that?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Okay. That’s—that’s probably for the best, you—you started seizing, almost as soon as you were in the water. Or—that’s what it looked like at least, you were thrashing around a lot. And screaming.”

That would certainly explain the pain in his throat. But it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t remember a lick of it. Unease creeps over his neck. He doesn’t like the idea of losing time like that.

Jaskier bites his lip.

“You were shouting something,” he says. “In—do you speak another language, Geralt?”

“Bit of Nilfgaardian,” he mumbles, testing out his arms again. This time they hold, and he carefully levers himself into a seated position. “For when I need to take contracts down south.”

But why the fuck would he be screaming in Nilfgaardian?”

“Right, yeah, that makes sense. But um—you weren’t speaking Nilfgaardian. Or Common. Or Elder. I don’t know what it was, but it definitely wasn’t any of those.”

The unease swells into dread.

“I was speaking a language I don’t even know?”

Jaskier nods. He reaches down and takes Geralt’s hand. Geralt squeezes back, as tight as he can with his still trembly muscles.

“I—I’d like to bring you to a mage,” Jaskier says. “See if we can figure out what’s going on, okay? With your memory and—and maybe with your pain as well. Alright?”

He’s never visited a mage, in all these years. Not after being told by the mages at Kaer Morhen that there was nothing that they could do for him.

But speaking an unknown language…that scares him. Losing time scares him.

Scaring Jaskier scares him.

“Alright,” he says. He brings Jaskier’s hand up to his lips, brushing a kiss across the skin. “Alright. We’ll go to a mage.”

[dietraumerei]

Whumptober 2020 - 15. Magical Healing

Aziraphale heals Crowley, with miracles. But what does that mean, and what does he think about as he does so?

Read my other Whumptober fics on AO3 here.

cw: descriptions of anatomy (blood, bone, muscle, etc.), major injury to a main character

The thing about healing someone by miracle is, you cannot simply wave your hand and everything jumps back to the way it was. Nor can you just heal the skin or straighten the limb and hope for the best. This creates a pocket where the wound still is, and it will fester and cause trouble. Or the bone may be set, but needs to heal. There is a breathless kind of pain, too, which must be attended to and soothed. The body remembers; you must remind it of a time before sudden agony too.

Oh, his demon, his love, his Crowley. He's being so brave, just making small, frightened, pained sounds. His arm is a horrific mess. Were he human, and you, he would lose the arm and possibly his life. Of course, he will lose neither, but there is work to be done.

A gentle touch; you have that with him, nothing angelic about it. You love him, and so you put your hand on his brow, and he quiets. Help is here. Someone loves him. Someone will look after him. Breathe, darling. Well, only if you like, it will neither help nor hurt. But be easy. I'm here, and I love you, and I will heal your hurt.

No, you can't just wave your hand. Perhaps Jesus could, God could if She had a hand. But you cannot. You wonder if other angels have it easier, if they can just miracle a limb whole or a wound closed or sidestep the agony of birth. You're not sure, and you never asked them.

Honestly, you'd bet that you might be the only angel to have ever healed a human.

(Jesus is different, he wasn't an angel, no matter that you both came from God.)

Right, enough wittering. Start at the centre, start with bone. The thing that survives; that's why God made the early hominid remains mostly teeth. Still find that a little funny. Bone is easy, actually; an inorganic matrix that is coaxed back together. There are some gooshy parts too, but they flow in, easy as can be. Human bones are mathematics, the osteocytes building a scaffold that holds a body, gives everything something to hold onto. You like doing bones; it's very soothing. And you're good at it, don't even leave a callous as there would be if they healed naturally.

This takes a little time, and you are glad time moves differently here; you can take your ease. You must do things right; for anyone, of course, but this is your own love. This arm has held you and cuddled you, has been flung over your hips as Crowley sleeps. You love this arm, and the being attached to it, like you've never loved anything else. You must take care.

There are shards of bone, an ugly break, but soon it's restored, hard and strong. Good, you have a place to tie into. Next are the deepest veins, and the muscles they're embedded in. This is a little harder; you're rebuilding a lot of things, millimetre by millimetre, embedding nerves and oh definitely do not forget ligaments! Wonderfully useful things, tendons and ligaments. You don't like working with them – it always feels like when you accidentally bite down on one in a piece of chicken, and it goes skrinch between your teeth. But his arm wouldn't work without them, so you attach them tenderly, securely. There, now we can hug, and you can pour a glass of wine and talk with your hands and all kinds of lovely things.

You've stopped the bleeding already, and the impossibly delicate veins and arteries must be renewed, regrown, the paths for blood. At least here they're big and thick, and you can get them done fast.

Fast. You don't stop time, not like he can. But – look. Take a set of twins. (Twins are good; they're always magical.) Put one on Earth, and all her delights. Standing quite still, he will whirl through the cosmos at about 67,000 miles per hour.

Take his twin, and put her on a spaceship. (The twins must always be boy and girl. A simplistic binary, but an old one. Even though you are neither boy nor girl nor man nor woman yourself, you appreciate that this is a dyad that was often easy to make.) A special spaceship; send her into the starry sky, and faster, faster, until she's moving at the speed of light. Bring her home, back to the good green land. Her twin is older than her; he has aged and she has not.

Crowley is on earth, and you are in the spaceship. Sort of. Not at all, actually, but explaining kairos takes longer, and doesn't have a rather sweet story about twins who are and are not twins anymore to go along with it. What is taking you...time, which cannot be measured, is at least going quickly for him, poor love.

You are feeling better, now. Horrific wounds closing. A ruined arm being reborn, the beautiful striations of muscle easing into place. If bones are mathematics, muscles are geometry, the tessellation of lovely long fibres. You love this bicep; it's what gives his hugs a little extra oomph. You weigh more than he does – considerably, actually – but he lifts you up with the force of his hugs and it makes you laugh and hold on. He loves you so much.

There we are – even the tiny blood vessels are coming together, the things that bring warmth to his body. The fascia over the muscle, tough and ghostlike; you always did love fascia. It's a neat little cover over everything. He's going to be fine. You've saved his arm. He's going to be sore, perhaps, the body remembering the trauma, but you can cuddle him. Promise a sling made out of a scarf, perhaps, or simply take him to bed for soft kisses, insist that he rest and lie still while you read to him and stroke his hair. No, lie still you little serpent, your body is learning it is healed, and you must be gentle and easy with yourself.

(To say nothing of – this does take it out of you a bit. You'll both sleep tonight, deep and thick like winter snow.)

Your other favourite part, because it's nearly over. You stitch shreds of skin together, ease it in its layers. Soft and smooth; a little layer of fat, but he's not like you. He's skinny as can be, and you like the contrast. You wouldn't want other than your own comfortable corporation, and you love his. (And it is nice to not have to figure out how the fat lays, you've got to admit. Healing yourself requires an artistic touch. Your hip took a little bit to look its old self again, after that one time, and it did not help that Crowley fluttered about you, anxious and afraid and loving, and you were hardly allowed to walk more than a step or two by yourself for the better part of a week.)

But there – skin might not be your favourite, but you've done it a lot, and this goes fast. Goes sweet. No scars in your work, and you slowly swim back to yourself, to your demon smiling at you from where he's still lying on the floor, flexing and touching his arm, now whole and healed. You wonder what he saw and felt, but you can ask another time. It's nicer to help him sit up – slow, you urge. Don't get lightheaded. Easy. Easy. Oh, I love you too. I love you so much. Yes, come here. Let's just touch, for a long while. Hug me with your two arms, ah, ah, there.

It's magical healing. It's mathematics and anatomy and geometry and art. It's the love that bubbles out of you. It's your favourite miracle, by far.

[lisatelramor]

Be a Better Me

Hi, I’m back with angst fic. >_>

So with COVID19 going on I 1) had more time to write + 2) have had a bit more background anxiety with the world, and stress + time = angstfic for me most of the time. So this got written in about a  month. Instead of any of my WIPs =_=;;;;; Hope other people are up for some angst. Either way I'm being sent back to work next week so I'm glad it chose to finish when it did.

This was 100% inspired by @ickaimp's Robo!Kaito fic and has probably low key kicked around my brain for years since I read it back in like 2011.

Chapter 1

His arm aches. Kaito flexes his hand, blood running down from the bullet graze that feels like fire. The robot that impersonated him is wires and synthetic skin smoking in a pile. He feels sick in his stomach, both from almost dying after a few days trapped in a lab and because he’d just seen something that had run around with his face blow its own head off.

It’s just a robot, but it’d thought it was human. It’d thought it was him, had seen his memories, just hadn’t quite been human enough to understand life, death, or morals. What kind of sick fuck made something like that?

Kaito shudders. His hand flexes again. Bandages. He needs bandages, and maybe stitches, or maybe to just. Go lie down.

His skin doesn’t feel quite right but that’s the shock probably. A lot’s happened in a couple days’ time. Like finding out someone with his face killed someone. A creepy scientist who also kidnapped Kaito, but yeah. How anything that had Kaito’s memories and personality could do that… He shudders again.

Kaito isn’t a megalomaniac in disguise right? He has lines and morals and things he’d never do in a million years, even if some of his morals are grayer than others. He doesn’t hurt people. Not physically permanent. And not any other way if he can help it.

Blood drips from his fingertips.

There’s a laboratory burning down with a corpse of a man who tried to make a man from metal out there and Kaito doesn’t want anything more to do with it.

He turns away. He has a gem to return and a budding reputation to save.

o*O*o

He feels weird for a while after that. It’s the trauma probably. Kaito can’t say his life has ever been normal. His father was a stage magician, both his parents turned out to be thieves, and he puts on a white suit to stir up shadows to try and find out why his father was murdered. That’s hardly the sort of thing a teenager usually goes through, but killer robots and kidnapping were new. His balance a bit off for a day? He spent two days strapped to a table. His arm took a bit to work right? He did get grazed by a bullet. Swimming takes a bit more effort than the last time he did it? Not weird since he generally avoids swimming in the ocean if he can. Aoko’s mop swings seem a little slower? He’s kind of hyper aware of attacks lately, so he’s just paying more attention.

Things are different but not that different so it’s just his head being weird about it all. Life goes on, he stops feeling a bit off and he keeps on going as usual. Bait Aoko, play like a good student, perform magic, and pull of the next heist. Simple.

But then there’s suddenly a magic wielding witch and a detective trying to sniff him out, and life just keeps getting weirder. He doesn’t remember it being this strange before he became Kid, but it must have been at least a little weird. It’s just that practicing magic and acrobatics with Aoko and actual magic and jumping off buildings are very different things. It’s a miracle he’s managed not to break anything. What with the roller coaster, or jumping off buildings, or getting shot at, or ghost(?) pirates, or being attacked by a hoard of hairy rats… Yeah. Life is weird.

So if Kaito’s a little weird in it, well, he fits right in, now doesn’t he?

o*O*o

Kaito’s chest is aching and there’s a nasty bruise forming. He supposes that’s what happens when a gem blocks a bullet. It’s yet another miracle the sapphire didn’t shatter let alone that the bullet hit it instead of him at all. Aoko liked her birthday gift but it had taken all Kaito had to set that up for her and he’s dead on his feet now.

He might have a cracked rib too. He winces, easing off the costume. It has a hole—two really where the bullet deflected—that will need patched and the usual bleach treatments to keep it white. White is the worst color for climbing around rooftops and crawlspaces. He’d change it if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s one of Kid’s signature identifiers at this point. Thanks, Oyaji.

The bruise is worse than he first thought when he gets his shirt off. Mottled purple all along the left side of his chest. Like someone took a wooden mallet to him.

Thankfully there’s an x-ray machine down in Kid’s hideaway. It’s old and definitely not something he’s going to ever use much because, well, radiation, but he’d rather know if he’s managed to break a rib or not so he knows how much acrobatics he can get away with.

It takes a bit to set up and a bit longer to figure out how to get everything to work, but fifteen minutes later he’s got x-ray film developing in a little darkroom off to the side because apparently his dad had a little bit of everything thought out down here. He loves and hates it in equal measures sometimes.

He sighs, feeling the deep breathing ache, and looks at the forming image. And frowns.

He’s not a medical expert, far from it, but he has a general run down of the human body and has seen x-rays before. What Kaito’s looking at? Not what he’d expect to see. There’s ribs, yes, but they’re not quite right, and too dark. Then there’s all the metal. It’s like his nervous system is registering as wires, radiating out like something from one of his textbooks, same with the circulatory system that’s a bit too dark on the film. Should he even be seeing that? Heart, maybe, but branching signs of the rest of his veins and arteries? His lungs aren’t the right shape. The vague shadows of organs aren’t right either. And there’s… there’s the shadow of screws and pins and mechanical bits that shouldn’t be there. There’s wires instead of tendons that shouldn’t be showing and he has to stare.

His chest throbs and he looks down at it. Bruising. At the film. Barely resembling something human. He hurts. Aches. Yet there in front of him is mechanical parts.

Feeling like he’s floating, or maybe sinking, Kaito plucks one of his razor cards from its deck. He slides it along his finger. Skin parts, blood wells up, pain registers dimly.

But is it blood?

It drips, just a few drops, already clotting as he stares. It’s red as any blood he’s seen. The pain is real. And yet. He looks at the film.

Kaito hasn’t thought about the robot in months. Why would he? It’s over and done. He’d read a police report about the lab in the paper. About the body found and the equipment sitting in police evidence for ages as the murder case went cold. They didn’t know to look for a robot. And the robot had been left for scrap. Kaito doesn’t know what had happened to its remains.

There hadn’t been a second body found.

He looks back at his hand and finds it shaking.

The robot’s face had peeled off, but when he tugs at his cheek he just feels pain. Same with his hair. He feels. He eats and shits and sleeps and bleeds. His breath is coming too fast and it hurts.

It’s a mistake, right? He could take another scan and it’d be normal. Human. He could scan his hand and it would be bone and tendons and the ghost of muscle, not wire and metal joints that would make a prosthetic expert weep. Not too-dark veins and tendrils of nerves that shouldn’t be visible.

His lungs were the wrong shape, he couldn’t breathe.

“Shit.”

He’s Kaito, right? Just a normal teenager with an abnormal life. Just a normal, human teenager.

The robot thought it was human.

The robot thought it was Kaito.

Kaito doesn’t remember being taken, he just remembers waking up strapped down. But the robot barely passed as human. But Kaito has wires in his chest.

He looks at the film again. “Well. No cracked rib.” He laughs. It’s not funny at all. He can’t breathe. “What do I do?”

The empty basement hideaway his father left him has no answers at all.

Like usual, it’s just Kaito facing crisis alone.

He’s never felt worse.

o*O*o

Eventually, he picks himself off the floor. Eventually he changes into new clothes. Eventually he slides into bed and sleeps, terribly, but sleeps. He sees his face melting in his dreams, a broken metallic skull leaking fluid and smoke and blank mechanical eyes staring at him. His skin peeling away to show metal bones and wires as everyone he loves stares in horror.

Kaito wakes up feeling like he’s going to throw up, in a cold sweat. He can dream and sweat and feel sickening terror, surely he’s wrong. Surely.

But the x-ray is the same damning image this morning as it was last night.

Kaito’s hands start shaking again.

If he goes into class, Hakuba will take one look at him and know something’s up. Hell, Aoko will notice. He laces his fingers together. Poker face. Poker face. Whatever is going on, he’s still been Kaito for months without noticing anything wrong so. So maybe he’s… a cyborg or something. A robot wouldn’t be having a panic attack about being a robot. Who would want to make a robot capable of having a panic attack in the first place?

He doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but he needs answers before he can do anything else.

Kaito calls in sick, leaves Aoko a message so she doesn’t show up demanding he get ready for school. Eats plain toast without tasting it—how can he taste it?—and slides on his shoes. His chest is a mass of dark bruises just like a human body that had a bullet deflected should be. But nothing under his skin is apparently human.

It’s easy to slip into the police record room with a borrowed face, and a matter of minutes to seek out the mad doctor’s case record. His charred remains are photographed in gristly glory front and center, but his cause of death isn’t fire. Kaito knows his hands don’t have the sort of strength to do what that file describes.

He almost throws up looking at it.

There’s lab equipment listed off, melted computers and bits of paper files to survive the destruction kept in evidence files. Kaito might need to come back and see what he can salvage from them. If he’s… not fully human, he might need some of the doctor’s research no matter how much the thought makes his skin crawl. There’s nothing in the file about the robot, but there is notes about unfinished pieces parts sifted from the wreckage. Police notes only speculate what they thought was going on in the labs.

The file doesn’t mention another body.

Kaito does a quick look into active unidentified male bodies found in the last few months, but none of them are young enough to be him. None of them recognizable. It should be a good thing.

It should be.

Instead it has Kaito’s breathing tight again because what if he died and no one ever found the body? What if he rots somewhere and no one will ever know he’s not. That’s Kaito’s not.

He leaves the police station.

There’s a disconnect between his self and emotions and it’s something he’s done before, but rarely outside of a heist. His poker face, most of the time, is an act. This is different. This is shutting bits of himself away because otherwise he couldn’t function. This is putting off a breakdown knowing it’ll be that much worse later. This is shutting a door knowing it’s going to open later and drown him.

He heads for the lab. It’s the only place he can think to go.

o*O*o

The building is condemned. It’s a burnt husk of a thing and a surprise that it hasn’t been torn down yet. Perhaps the doctor had owned it and it’s in the air what to do with it. Either way, Kaito approaches with detached caution.

He can remember leaving here in a rush, the explosion that followed not long after he made it out. He can remember the sickening glimpse of a body on his way out, trying not to look too hard and knowing it’d haunt his nightmares. Kaito steps inside and pinpoints the twisted metal that was once where he was strapped down, the shattered remains of the memory transfer machines still imbedded into the wall behind it.

The police had removed a lot of things, but they couldn’t remove the scorch marks on the walls and floor or the dark bloodstains in the corner. He shivers.

What is he doing here? The scene was gone over by police. It’s not like he’s going to find something they didn’t, and it’s not like he’s going to know what any of the machine bits left can do beyond the memory transfer one.

It’s damp and drafty inside. It smells like wet ashes and chemicals and he wants to turn around and leave, especially when he sees a metal start of a skeleton still bolted to the back wall. How many had this guy made? How many robot failures before the one that Kaito fought? How many thought they were human? How many other people were kidnapped in the process of building these things?

Things. Robots were things. And Kaito was…

The wall had collapsed along one side, and no one had bothered to clear the rubble. If Kaito was a crazy robot building scientist that kidnapped teenagers, what would he do with them? Ok, he’d been strapped down to the memory machine. But if he built a robot and implanted memories in it, he’d want to compare, right? He’d want to prove that he’d done the transfer right, so he wouldn’t just get rid of the teenager. The robot Kaito faced had transferred memories fine, but the emotional and moral processes hadn’t been right. The doctor had been basing it off Kaito and if Kaito was. If he was then that meant the transfer had worked right on Kaito. Probably. And maybe the scientist had been trying to duplicate whatever happened with Kaito or maybe they’d been two different models for different purposes. Who the hell knew at this point? Certainly not Kaito.

Kaito prods at rubble. If there’s one thing he’s learned about people who have secrets to hide, things aren’t as they appear. This is a lab, but it’s missing living space. It’s missing storage and a metal foundry. The pieces that built the robots are too specialized to not be custom made. The cabinets that had existed had to have been full of wires and polymers and the fine details bits that you’d want a nice open workspace to better work with, but there had to be a place the doctor had done the base work and he’s not seeing any sign of it here. Just the start of the skeleton on the wall that’s missing its head and lower half.

He can’t look at it. It’s somewhere in between the scan Kaito took of his chest and the metal chassis from the robot he fought, its skin peeling back and—

There had to be a basement. Still is a basement probably. But the door is either hidden or buried, and Kaito’s not sure what to do first. Test the shattered remains of cabinet bases? Try scrounging through rubble? See if anything still hooked into the wall shifts and shows a hidden room like his painting at home?

The basement wouldn’t have been legally added or the police would have its existence on file for the building blueprints. But most of this place can’t have been legally built. Not with the amount of equipment secreted away. People would have asked questions. So. Hidden door.

Kaito estimates wall thicknesses versus the interior versus how dangerous it is to get close to places where the ceiling and walls are still crumbling bit by bit.

There’s a cabinet with shattered glass cases and medical supplies that have all been taken away as evidence. Kaito vaguely remembers it before the explosion. Despite half a roof caving in around it, it’s still in one piece structurally and that means it’s built stronger than a cabinet should be.

It takes twenty minutes of careful prodding and digging and tugging to get it to budge and when it does it shrieks like rusted hinges. But Kaito keeps pulling and gets a space big enough for him to crawl through, stairs traveling down.

It’s dark and even mustier than above. The floor must have cracked or the foundations, and it’s growing mold, but Kaito’s surprised to find it isn’t completely dark. Somehow there’s still power running here, probably underground. The overhead lights are shattered but in the gloom are a few red blinking lights of appliances.

Kaito wants to turn back but he’s never been one to shy away from the truth.

Glass crunches under his shoes as his small pocket flashlight illuminates fragments of the dark. A table. A kitchen. A bed, all in the first room, but heavy metal doors beyond. They’re warped though, and the ceiling sags ominously where a support beam crumpled slightly from the explosion above. Kaito has no idea how it didn’t get destroyed with the rest of the place, but it had to have been the placement of explosives.

He creeps further, leaving the eerily normal living area for one of the metal doors. It’s stuck, but he gets it to move enough to squeeze past, his ribs protesting the movement. It’s fine. It’s not important. The room is the metal foundry he’d expected, casts and tools and carefully disguised air vents branching off. It’s heavily reinforced, probably also muffled so the metalwork didn’t make too much noise. He sees finished metal bones, all sorted neatly into labeled bins and racks of molds. There’s a half-finished skull just sitting there on a work bench, empty eye sockets unnerving.

Kaito wrenching his eyes away from it. There’s papers and diagrams, documents on the doctor’s research about how the robotic body comes together, about alloys and density and weights that Kaito should keep if it ever becomes something he needs—He drops the thought into that emotional void growing in his head.

If he needs anything from here, he will take it. And will not think about what it means.

The documents about the muscular, nervous, circulatory and digestive systems aren’t here. Might not even exist anymore. But there had been a personal computer in the living space and it had glass littering it like the floor, but it wasn’t destroyed. It was one of the blinking red lights, so maybe…

Kaito’s taking that when he leaves.

The other metal door is warped worse than the foundry. Kaito has to go and get a metal femur to lever the gap wide enough to pass through and he’s surprised to find the inside almost fully intact.

One light flickers on, the only bulb not destroyed. He’s not sure at first what the room is. There’s a filing cabinet by the door, sure, but also a chest freezer and something that looks like an opaque glass case except there are wires running to it and an electric hum that’s louder than the freezer. Something in his instincts prickle and Kaito can’t explain the heavy terrified feeling bubbling in his gut the longer he stares at the simple room in the dim, flicker light.

Glass crunches and he tugs the freezer lid up. He’s half expecting to find a dismembered corpse in there. There’s not a corpse but there is vial after vial of dark liquids with strings of numbers on them and containers labeled ‘skin’ with numbers after them. The liquid looks a lot like blood. Kaito’s stomach lurches. The other containers are opaque and thankfully impossible to tell the contents of, though they could be organs, real or synthetic. Kaito really hopes the skin is synthetic.

He lets the lid close and tugs the file cabinet drawers. Locked, but he can easily get in them later. That leaves the glass case.

It has a computerized box attached to the front with strings of numbers displayed that mean absolutely nothing to Kaito. There’s controls too, but the only one he cares about is the one that opens the glass case. It unlocks with a pneumatic hiss, like its contents were under pressure and Kaito swings the glass up.

And stares down at his face.

Peaceful. Like it’s asleep. He’s asleep. But his lips are bluish and his skin is pale and, when Kaito reaches out with a shaking hand, he’s cold to the touch.

The police never found a second body.

The room goes a little sideways and dark and Kaito realizes only after his face is mashed against the metal edge of the glass case that he’s hyperventilating.

“Shit,” he hisses through chattering teeth. “Shit.” His hair’s standing on end and his whole body is shaking and he’s having a panic attack next to his own corpse. “Shit.” It shouldn’t be possible to have a panic attack when he isn’t even real.

The room keeps spinning and blinking bright and dark as he tries to control his breathing. Shit, how can he hyperventilate when he doesn’t have real lungs and maybe not even a real brain—unless. He pops back up like a man drowning and scrabbles for the case.

He tilts Kai—the body’s head one way or another, but there’s no sign of it being cut open. The hair’s the same wiry texture he feels when he touches his head and there’s no injury he can feel. The knobs of its spine along the neck are intact. There’s wires, now that he’s looking, glued at the temples, but they’re not going in the body. There’s wires other places too and he has a stupid, fleeting moment of gratitude that at least the sick fuck that did this left Kaito’s underwear on. The body’s. Shit. There’s no marks and no indication of what happened, but the body isn’t breathing and there’s no pulse at its throat and it’s Kaito’s body right there.

It’s him but it’s not because Kaito isn’t.

He has to let go of the body and take three steps away to empty the meager contents of his stomach on the glass-littered floor. Stomach bile burns his throat. Is it even stomach acid? Is it even—how is he digesting if he’s wires and not-quite-organs? What is he?

He’s crying and hiccupping and he can’t quite seem to stop, the sour taste in his mouth and the smell of mold in his nose. What was the point in making a robot so close to human it can’t tell the difference between flesh and machine? What’s the point of a machine that can cry and vomit and panic like a real person? What’s the point of killing a teenager to replace him with a machine?

He crouches for an unknown period of time until the panic sort of flat lines and his tears dry. His hands stop shaking and his throat is raw, each breath a rasp. He bleeds and feels pain and emotions and—

Kaito goes back to the body. His body. Say the memory transfer worked. Say that Kaito in his entirety went from human flesh and bone to this. Intact. Say that the process fried Kaito’s brain and the doctor was left with a comatose teenager and a robot that didn’t know it was a robot. What would the doctor do with his mistake? Was the case to preserve the corpse? To keep the body as reference or had there been another purpose?

Or maybe the process hadn’t fried Kaito’s brain. Maybe the real Kaito had looked at his double. At the other Kaito and tried to break free. Maybe he’d been sedated or something else went wrong. But maybe that Kaito had died in terror and left an imposter in his place.

Kaito will never know.

There is no sign of decomposition. No sign of the body going through rigor mortis or any kind of trauma. Like he’s just sleeping. Like a few tiny stimuli could open the hidden blue eyes and the body would rise up and express how frigging cold it is in the case.

Maybe, for a scientist playing god, that had been the intent. Make a man from scratch achieved, next step bring back the dead. The first person to successfully revive a cryo patient.

Kaito closes his eyes, then closes the glass case. He can’t look at his own body anymore. He can’t. It seals with another hiss, preserving the body for however long the machine keeps running.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

He presses the heels of his hands against his swollen eyes. It’s not right to leave this here. It’s not right for any of this to be left here. It’s not right for Kaito to take the place of the real Kaito either but he doesn’t know what the hell to do. He’s been taking his place for months now; what else is there for him?

Is it better or worse if he is, in fact, a complete imprint of Kaito’s brain? Would he even know the difference if something is missing?

Worst of all, no one noticed. Not Aoko. Not Kaito or Jii. Not Kaito’s own mother. No one.

Kaito died alone. And no one noticed.

He’s crying again, not sure if it’s for himself or for the body at his back. Months. Months.

The overhead light flickers out and all at once Kaito can’t stay here. It’s like he’s the one in the box, trapped and slowly running out of air, and he squeezes out the door and up the stairs before he can even process moving. He doesn’t stop until he’s up a tree and breathing smoke and mold free air and trying to stop trembling. ‘What now?’ his mind asks. ‘What now, what now, what now?’

It’s night when he finally moves. He doesn’t know how long he sat up a tree, can’t remember the sun going down, only knowing that his body aches everywhere from stillness and unforgiving solid tree limbs beneath his ass. He makes a call. “Jii?”

He doesn’t know what his voice sounds like, couldn’t pick up his poker face if he tried right now.

It must be horrible though because Jii’s voice comes through the line sharp and worried. “What’s happened?” he asks.

There’s no way to start, no words to draw on to explain the mess that this is. How does someone say that they’re dead? That they’re dead and not, human and not, all at the same time?

“Kaito-bocchama?” Jii says sharper.

“How good,” Kaito says, voice gone all wobbly and out of control, “is that friend of yours with robotics?”

“…Kaito-bocchama?” Jii says a lot more dubiously.

Kaito licks his lips with a dry tongue. Dry mouth. Probably dehydrated and doesn’t that make no sense for a robot to have that feature. “There’s a problem. And I don’t know what to do,” he admits.

He can’t say it. How can he say to Jii that Kaito’s dead, like Toichi is dead, to Kaito’s mom that he’s dead and there’s just this remnant body of wires and meat-mimicking mess wearing his face left? How can he do that?

“Where are you?” Jii says, the sound of him getting clothing, maybe or a coat in the background.

Kaito hesitates, but gives the address of the burned down lab. “How good is your friend with robotics?” he asks again.

“…It isn’t his specialty,” Jii says after a long moment.

“Ah.” Too much to hope for. Still, maybe this mysterious friend Jii gets the occasional gadget from will know how to read the research notes better than Kaito would. Keys jingle as Jii locks his front door. “Jii?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, in advance,” Kaito says knowing it’s not enough. He hangs up before Jii can say anything in response and doesn’t pick up the return call. Instead he stuffs his phone in a pocket and covers his face with his hands and just breathes. If nothing else makes sense, at least he can do that.