#It's like a mild warm feeling but nothing painful just odd

[siixkiing]

Just a quick head’s up, I am restarting my pills...I don’t expect this to be a problem, BUT just encase the side-effects happen you all know.

[nanamiscocksleeve]

A Helping Mouth

Warnings: MDNI, lactation kink, mentions of motherhood, mild threesome, clit play A/n: Here it is you milk-loving sluts (said with a lot of love). Enjoy. Not really proofread.

You swiftly walk back to your office, rolling your shoulders and sighing. It had been a long day but in a very satisfying way. Returning to the office as a new mother had left you with some doubts and trepidation but as your mother had said as she waved you and your husband off into the car, it was good for everyone to spend some time away from the baby.

Your mother had sent a few photos throughout the day reassuring you the baby was fine and truthfully, you found that she was right. After nearly 3 months of maternity leave, it felt good to be back at work, talking to people your own age and teaching strategy. And the glorious joy of dressing up to go to work, in your neat office outfit, which your husband had been kind enough to buy a new dress shirt for. You had settled back into the rhythm, humming as you turned down the hallway.

Nothing could go wrong. You were wearing comfortable shapewear, your makeup and hair were neat, there was nothing that could go drastically wrong today. But as you took a step, you felt an odd tingling sensation in your breast, followed by a stab of pain hard enough to make you stop and put a hand up to the mound of flesh. No, it couldn’t be…you had pumped earlier in the morning.

But as you hold yourself, you feel the undeniable sensation of warm wetness, and when you remove your palm, see the unmistakable smudge of milk on the front of your brand-new dress shirt. You feel tears in your eyes, the new shirt your husband had brought now going to smell like milk like the rest of your ugly tees and sweats, the pain intensifying and being felt in your other breast now. You let out a small gasp and try to keep walking, hoping to make it to your office, to do what, you didn’t know. You didn’t have a breast pump here, no change of shirt, nothing. The first day back at the office was ruined, all your joy turning into embarrassment and slight defeat. 

“Honey, what’s wrong?” You halt as you hear your husband’s voice, unsure whether to feel relief or shy away from him. You turn to face the tall, blond, muscular sorcerer walking towards you. 

“Kento I-” You pull your hand away from your shirt and he sees the milk stains dotting your front. 

“Oh, honey.” He comes closer to pull you near him and you angle your body to prevent your milk from staining his clothes as well. 

“It hurts Kento…I’m in so much pain and…I didn’t bring a pump, or towels, or a change of clothes.” The tears spill from your eyes and your voice trembles. “I should have listened and waited a little longer to return to work.”

“Ssh. Nonsense. These things happen. I bet it happens to more mothers than you think.” He soothingly strokes your back and you try to calm down. 

“You can wear one of my shirts. Come to my office sweetie.” Kento puts a hand on your waist and starts leading you in another direction and you lean against him, praying no one sees you this way. 

“I need a bra though. These things have gotten all huge and floppy now so I can’t not wear a bra.”

 A low rumbling chuckle leaves your handsome husband’s lips. “They aren’t huge, they’re just fuller now. And I have one of your bras in my office.”

Your eyes widen, your inconvenient lactation momentarily forgotten. “Excuse me?”

“You kind of left it here by accident. Remember that time right before your delivery, you got really horny and we fucked on my desk?” Kento whispers slyly into your ear, making you blush. “It’s been in my desk drawer since then.”

“You pervert,” you manage to crack a smile. I’m shocked at this inappropriate behavior but right now, I’m willing to let it slide. Oh, thank god for the drawer bra.”

Kento leads you into his office and closes the door. As usual, you sit on his desk, the position so normal that it didn’t feel right to sit anywhere else. You wince and hold your breasts as pain stabs through them. Kento removes the buttons one by one, eyes darkening as he sees your soft flesh, the cream-colored bra also victim to your milk, leaving two round stains seeping into the cups. He licks his lips.

“Kento…” you say blushingly as you see his expression. “Stop looking at me like a starved man.”

“A starved man I am right now darling.” He lets the shirt hang off your shoulders and undoes your bra, pulling off the straps and carelessly throwing the stained garment onto his desk chair. Your lovely nipples were on full display, softly leaking little beads of creamy fluid. He languidly dips his head, making you gasp, as he draws one of the aching buds into his mouth, suckling, feeling his cock harden as the sweet fluid hits his tongue.

You moan softly, yet you’re helpless to push him away. You’d had sex in his office before, but somehow having him nurse from you felt far more intimate and taboo and you resisted, albeit very weakly. 

“Kento no…not here…” you whimper, despite feeling the wonderful release of pain along with a throb of carnal pleasure between your legs. 

“Don’t your breasts hurt?” Kento releases your nipple with a pop, milk dripping steadily from the hardened peak towards your naval. He goes to the other one, and you let out a weak cry of relief, feeling aroused yet bashful at the same time. 

“They do but…Are you enjoying this?” He lets go of your nipple, licks his lips, and looks up at you, in a trance. 

“Darling, you taste absolutely divine. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been wanting to sample you?” His tongue laves the very tip of your nipple, licking a bead of milk from it, making your brain fog up in a sexual haze. 

“R-really? This? Milk?”

A low hum leaves his mouth as his lips latch onto you to suckle again, and you can’t help but cradle his head, softly playing with the beautiful hair, and whimpering as he helps you. Your free nipple, stimulated by the action on the other leaks freely, pearlescent beads flowing onto your body which he kept rubbing off with his thumb, licking it clean in between his tender sucks. 

Your pussy is wet and you can feel the slick folds gliding against each other and you squirm slightly from the attention, feeling like you might sob from the comfort of your husband’s mouth. It was so unconventional but it was helping you and the fact that he found you so appealing even when you were dripping milk felt so powerful, your inner feminine psyche purring at the knowledge. You begin to rhythmically rock your hips, getting friction between your legs.

Noticing this, Kento smoothly slips a hand under your skirt, pushing aside your soaked panties to gently rub and roll your clit. You rest your head on his shoulder, moaning quietly, feeling the promise of a very delicious orgasm building inside your belly, heat rushing towards your core, little jitters of electricity running down your spine. Kento’s name spills from your lips, your fingers tightening on the locks of blonde strands, eyes closing in ecstasy…

“Nanami, I wanted to-” All the sensation stops suddenly as Kento’s office door opens, and Kento, lips glistening with milk, glances over your shoulder to see Satoru walk in, dumbfounded. 

Gojo’s eyes widen slightly in shock, and you’re thankful your back is facing the door, torso covered by your shirt, but it was obvious what was happening. Kento’s hands deftly hold the sides of your shirt closed, pulling you closer to him. He licks his lips clean and talks in a surprisingly calm voice to Satoru.

“Gojo. Didn’t expect to see you.”

“And I would have expected you to lock the door Nanami,” Gojo says pointedly. “What’s going on here?”

Nanami’s voice becomes professional and practical within a split second, the transition amazing you. For a man who was discovered nursing from his wife, he was surprisingly composed. 

“As you’re well aware Gojo, my wife just had a baby. We might be a top Jujutsu school, but we lack a lot of facilities needed to support women returning to the workforce as mothers. I was merely helping my wife through a difficult time. Since you are not a parent, you wouldn’t be aware of how painful it is for milk to remain for too long in the breast.” Kento looks at Satoru almost defiantly as though daring the white-haired man to challenge him. 

Instead, your heart skips a beat as you hear a soft click of the door being locked, and footsteps as Satoru moves towards both of you, coming behind Kento and leaning over his shoulder to take a look. Your clit throbs in unbearable arousal, wedged against Kento’s calloused fingertips as Satoru, eyes covered by the blindfold, appraises you, before asking Kento, “Won’t it get messy if her other breast leaks freely like that?”

He gestures towards the streaks of milk on your abdomen and Kento nods. “It does.” Then he looks at you. “Honey, do you think you want extra help?”

You turn red but at the same time, the idea is appealing, turning you on even further. Kento suckling your milk was one thing, but the thought of another man also drinking your milk simultaneously was turning you on like crazy. You look at Kento and there’s no judgment in his eyes. You nod your consent and Satoru shuffles to your other side as Kento lets go of the shirt, and takes your free nipple into his hot, moist mouth.

It was exquisite, feeling your milk flow, the soft sounds of slurping filling the office as both men drank your milk like an elixir, Kento’s fingers softly rubbing circles on your engorged nub, your gasps and moans filling the air as they suckled to their heart’s content.

Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined yourself in a situation like this but it was happening and despite knowing this began as a pain relief exercise, you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, body becoming a mess of pleasure as your nipples flowed freely into their eager mouths. 

“She’s so sweet Nanami,” Satoru murmurs before quickly placing his lips back onto your moistened bud. 

“Don’t hog all her milk Gojo. Remember she’s mine.” 

An urgent need grips your body as they talk, Nanami’s fingers bringing you close to the edge. The fact that they were fighting over you, over your milk, was another delightful turn-on, suckling almost competitively now, as though trying to see who could drink more from you.

Your cries become shamefully louder and abandoned, feeling the way your abdominal muscles clench, the way your pussy flutters in desperation until a hot wave of gratification hits your body like a shock, sending pulses of pleasure flowing through your body. Neither of them stop, gently nudging you through your orgasm until the last throb of pleasure vanishes away. 

Neither of them let go, however, and continue to drink from you. 

“Guys?” You tap their shoulders, and they look up at you, Kento’s whiskey eyes hazy, Satoru’s blue ones covered by the blindfold, both of their mouths still suckling relentlessly. “Shouldn’t we stop?”

At your question, it becomes obvious neither of them wants to let go. With a sigh, you lay back on Kento’s desk, folding your hands behind your head, letting them nurse, playing with their hair. If they wanted to waste an afternoon on your breasts, the least you could do was get comfortable. 

© nanamiscocksleeve original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

@actuallysaiyan @aether-seawolf

@makingtimemine @snwvie

[deedeeznoots]

Not the Strongest Anymore 

➺ Characters: Satoru Gojo, GN!Reader 

➺ Word Count: 3.1k

➺ Genre: Fluff, Mild Angst 

➺ Content: Reverse Comfort, Established Relationship, Non Sorcerer!Reader, Injured!Gojo, Mentions of Blood 

➺ A/N: I made this story because Gojo deserves someone to take care of him and give him a million hugs :( 

➺ Synopsis: When the Strongest sorcerer and your lover Satoru Gojo suddenly barges into your shared home bloodied and injured beyond belief, you make it your priority to heal him. However, you get suspicious when you notice him continuously dodging questions related to how he sustained those injuries. 

Water. 

That was the only thing that filled your senses. Whether it was the feeling of the warm water on your hands as you washed the dishes, or the soft plop plop plop as single droplets of rain made their way on the glass pane of your window. Yeah… water, that was what surrounded you on this night.

As you look out the window, you think of nothing but Satoru. Being the strongest sorcerer, your lover often worked early mornings and late nights. This was something he was accustomed to since he was a teenager. By extension, it was something you grew to get used to as well. It wasn’t that you were particularly fond of him being away for an entire day, or sometimes days on end, but it wasn’t like you could say anything. This wasn’t a normal job he could call off for, and you loved him so much that you wanted to stick by him, no matter the possible dangers that entailed. 

Still…you had an odd feeling in your chest. Think of it as intuition from being with Satoru for so long. You had the smallest feeling of something being off, and you felt it in your bones. After finishing up on washing the dishes, you looked out the window for any trace of your partner. “It’s getting pretty late, I wonder what he’s up to”, you thought out loud. Unfortunately, your mind jumps to the worst case scenarios. You thought about monstrous curses and curse users with terrible intentions. Satoru always got the worst of the missions, always being relied on to deal with the most dangerous of work. Your body shivers at all the things he must have seen, what it must be like to be expected to handle the worst sins of society. It was something you wouldn’t have wished upon anyone, let alone the love of your life. 

You shouldn’t be thinking like this. These thoughts would only make things worse, after all. So you shake your head to try and keep the thoughts at bay. “He’s probably fine” you said to yourself, walking away from the window and deciding to head to bed. Sleep… that’s what you should do right now. Then once you’re awake he’ll be by your side, just like normal. He’s perfectly fine.

Almost as if on cue, the man of the hour comes in, loudly barging in through the door. 

“Satoru!” you yelled out, before gasping at the sight. 

Before you was Satoru on the floor, bloodied and wet. He had wounds of differing severity all over his body… and the blood. Oh, the blood. There was so much of it, combining with the water to make a small puddle underneath Satoru’s pained body. You were used to Satoru coming home slightly injured sometimes, but this… this was something else. It was a truly terrible sight, so terrible that you froze for half a second, trying to process what you were seeing. 

Cough. Cough. The sound of Satoru coughing up blood before passing out in front of you snapped you out of your thoughts. You had to take care of him, and you had to do it fast. 

When Satoru opens his eyes, he finds himself lying down in your shared bedroom. He groans in agony and discomfort, feeling pain in seemingly every cell of his body. He has no knowledge on how he got home, other than hazy memories of trying to get to you in the rain, which based on context clues, he assumes he was successful. He turns his head to look for you, which causes his body to give a jolting rush of pain at his attempts to move. 

“Don’t move”, your voice hits his ears, and he finally looks at you, sighing in relief as he sees your face. You’re here… thank God. In excitement, he sits up, ignoring the pain that his body is in. “Satoru…” you say in a warning tone, and he apologizes, though he’s already sat up. You’re covered in blood, his blood, but you don’t seem to have much of a reaction, only focused on his wellbeing. 

He sees the clock and notices that it’s nearly 4:00 AM. He was probably knocked out for at least a few hours. Realizing that you took care of him this late into the night fills his heart with glee. He looked down at his body and noticed the bandages all over himself. You attempt to bandage him up some more, getting to the spots that you couldn’t reach while he was lying down, but Satoru stops you. 

“Don’t do that”, he says with a smile, his voice laced with honey. His hand lightly grabs your arm to stop you, before he lets go. “Watch this,” he says like he’s a frat guy who learned a new party trick. His hand moves to one of the wounds on his body, and he attempts to use Reverse Cursed Technique on the injury. You giggle and patiently watch as he works on his wound. 

“Voila!” he dramatically shouts out as his hand moves away from his wound. What he didn’t expect though, was for the wound to stay the same. “Uhhh…” he awkwardly blinks at the painful injury, believing if he looked at it long enough, he could somehow make the wound to heal out of sheer will. 

“You don’t have enough cursed energy, my love…” you say to him. Even though you weren’t a sorcerer, you certainly knew enough to understand that any chance of Satoru healing himself at the state he was in is something out of wishes and dreams. You lovingly ruffle his white hair and go “Don’t push yourself, okay? It’s not anything like Reverse Cursed Technique, but I think I’m pretty good at healing the regular way” you laugh and give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

Satoru accepts the kiss but still grimaces at the fact that he couldn’t heal himself. “I called Shoko but she’s away for a while, so this will have to do until you get your Cursed Energy back” you say while still rubbing his head, tangling his hair in your hands. Satoru nods. He was okay with that, more than okay, actually. He would rather have you heal him rather than Shoko or another doctor anyway.

“What happened out there, anyways?” you ask nonchalantly. Satoru just gives you a goofy smile and says “You know, I have no idea!”. He’s lying, you knew him long enough to know that. Plus, he was a terrible liar. You ignore it though, that could be dealt with another time. For now, your biggest priority was taking care of his wounds. Now understanding that he couldn’t use RCT, he allowed you to clean and patch up his wounds. Despite the agonizing pain he was in, he savored every moment of your touch, feeling warm inside at the prospect of you taking care of him. He usually dreaded being healed by other people, but this felt different. This felt… intimate, like a moment only you two shared together. 

“There you go!” you say with a smile as you finish patching him up, proud of the work you did to help bring him less pain. “Now…” you say, “Are you hungry? I can make you some food”. 

“Nah, I’m okay,” Satoru lied. He doesn’t remember when the last time he ate was, and the injuries weren’t helping. However… he didn’t want you to leave his side, so he opted to just deal with it, it’ll probably be fine, he thought.

His body had other plans though, and you hear the soft grumble of his stomach. You give him a stern look, and he scratches the back of his head, knowing he got caught. You give him one last look before turning away, “I’ll go make some soup”. 

“Noooo…” he whines, grabbing your arm “It’s really okay, I promise, let’s just go to bed”. 

“Satoru…” you give him another warning call, before moving closer to him, cupping his face. You give him a kiss on the lips, still careful to not worsen any of his wounds. As you pull away, you touch your forehead to his, and tell him “It’ll be no more than ten minutes, okay?”. He knows he’s not getting through to you, so he nods with a pout on his lips, and leaves you with one last kiss before seeing you off. So cute! You thought, but you knew better than to tease him while he was already down.

“I’ll leave the door open so call if you need anything” is the last thing you say as you walk away.

You’re back in no time, just as you promised. This time, with some hot soup in your hands. He tries to take matters into his own hands and feed himself, but you lightly smack his hand away, insisting that you feed him. “You’ll spill soup all over yourself” you tell him, as you bring the hot liquid to his mouth. He complies and quickly finishes his meal. As he feels his hunger slowly subsiding, he feels you slowly bring his head down to his pillow and feels you make your way next to him on the other side of the bed. 

Next to him, you slowly caress his face in a way that only communicates one thing: I was so scared. You didn’t want to say it out loud to not bother him even more, and he didn’t need to hear you say it to understand. So… you both simply lied together, slowly drifting off to sleep as the pressures of the terrifying world around you slowly disappeared from the small little bubble you two built together. 

When Satoru wakes up the next day, the first thing he notices is the fact that you’re not by his side. The moment he notices this, he quickly sits up from his sleeping position and his eyes dart from place to look for you. He doesn’t see you, but he can sense the faintest smell of pancakes coming from outside the bedroom. Like a child on Christmas Day, he excitedly gets up from the bed toward the direction of the pancakes. He nearly falls over a few times due to the stinging pain on his ankles, but he is not deterred, and he makes his way to where you are in the kitchen. 

The sight before him was gorgeous. You… in his shirt, flipping some buttermilk pancakes over the stove. It was a dream come true for him. When you notice him out of bed, you begin to freak out a little bit. “Satoru! You shouldn’t have gotten out of bed by yourself!” you chastise, to which Satoru simply shrugs. You don’t completely blame him though, the smell of anything sweet could lure Satoru into a volcano if he deemed it enticing enough. So you simply tell him to sit down and rest at the table and that you are almost done cooking. Satoru excitedly complied, happily listening to your command and waiting patiently for breakfast. 

He had a warm feeling in his stomach while he watched you make him breakfast. He didn’t ask for you to do that, but you did. Thinking about it… he didn’t ask for you to do anything. He wasn’t used to being cared for in this way by anyone, and it made him feel all sorts of funny feelings. What was going on? He thought to himself.

He wasn’t given much time to ponder, however, as you placed a large stack of pancakes in front of him. Hesitantly, you also gave him some syrup on the side in a little container. “I know you love your pancakes sweet but don’t put too much my love, it’ll upset your stomach” you tell him, knowing he probably wouldn’t listen. You aren’t sure why you enable his sweets addiction so much, maybe it’s because of how much his eyes glow with happiness every time you let him slide. Yeah… the little glint of glee in his eyes, that’s what you live for, and that’s why you let him get away with any sweets-related mischief. 

The fact that you care so much about something as little as a stomach ache makes Satoru feel all fuzzy inside once again… but as you expected, he didn’t listen. On the contrary, he nearly douses his pancakes in as much syrup as possible, beaming with glee as he takes large bites out of the fluffy buttermilk goodness. 

As you both enjoy your meal, you decide that it’s a good enough time to once again ask Satoru the question that has continued to bug you since last night. “Satoru…” you place your fork down, which causes the man in front of you to look up “Hm?”. 

“What could you have possibly fought last night for you to end up like… like this?” you eye him up and down, pointing out the obvious. Satoru looked better now, sure, but that was more of a commentary on how messed up he was last night than how well he’s doing. If he was a normal person, Satoru would not even be able to move a finger. This wasn’t normal, even for Satoru, and you needed to know what was going on. 

“I really don’t know” Satoru laughs, he’s lying again, what was with this guy? You consider pushing the subject, but eventually you decide to just let it go for now. You can talk to him once he’s more healed. For now, you’re just glad that he’s alive and seemingly alright. 

After breakfast, Satoru once again attempts to use RCT to heal himself, and once again, it does not work. He curses to himself in frustration, “It’s okay Satoru… you’ll just have to take a break like the rest of us. I’m sure the world will be fine without Satoru Gojo for a day” you laugh. He grumbles at the thought, not being used to sitting still for so long, but he accepts defeat and decides that he’d enjoy spending the day with you anyways.

You spend the majority of the day being spooned by Satoru on the couch and hate-watching all the terrible TV shows cable television has to offer. “Man, I can’t believe they even air this stuff still” Satoru laughs at the screen as you turn away to face him. Looking at him up close, you pay closer attention to some of his scars, and notice something odd. Observing the wounds, you notice that some of them appeared to be recurring, as if they were healed using RCT but then cut through again. You feel Satoru’s chest vibrate as he laughs, causing you to snap out of your thoughts, but you keep thinking anyway. Something was really off. 

You have to basically drag Satoru into the bedroom to get him to rest. “But I’m not tireddddd…” he cries out “I don’t care. You can’t watch the TV for too long or it’ll strain your eyes, you know that better than anyone” you tell him as you get him to lie down on the bed. “Plus…” you add on with a smile, “I want to be the big spoon this time” you say as you bring him closer to your body. This causes him to to softly smile and close his eyes as you asked him to, though he doesn’t sleep. 

You keep holding him close, kissing his head and playing with his hair. You also kiss his ears, but that causes him to shiver and he says “Stop! It tickles, hehe”. You don’t stop, of course, knowing he secretly loves it when you mess with him. 

As you caress him through the night, you notice the small frown that begins to appear on his face, as he looks lost in thought. This saddens you a little. You’ve tried your best to be open with him, from the moment the two of you began dating. It took a while for him to take down his walls, and it still remains something he clearly struggled in, not wanting to appear weak. Despite this, you loved him. You loved that he trusted you enough to be this close to him. You loved that he allowed you to take care of him, no matter how hard it was for him. You loved Satoru, and you wanted to communicate that at every moment. 

“You know, I love yo–” 

“It wasn’t just one mission. It was multiple” Satoru suddenly spoke.  

“…What?” You softly asked him, not fully understanding what he meant. 

Satoru turned around to look you in the eyes. There, he explained the story of what happened last night. How he was slowly worn down from each mission he took. It started getting bad when he lost so much cursed energy that he was not able to fully hold up infinity, opening him up for hits from attackers. Despite this, he kept getting called on missions, and he kept going on them. Choosing to ignore any of the injuries he sustained until he was fully pushed to the edge. 

He’s essentially boiled down to a blubbering mess as he attempts to communicate with you, and you’re hardly able to understand him. You feel his warm tears on your chest as he tells the story, and you’re trying your best to keep up with this new information. However, one particular thing he tells you as he holds you close causes your eyes to widen.

“I…I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to keep worrying about me”. 

The fact that he felt this way broke your heart, and you held him even closer. You tried your best not to hold onto him too tight in order to not cause him too much pain. “Satoru…” you coo, explaining that he shouldn’t ever feel the need to hide anything from you. You kiss his forehead as you wipe his tears, something he fully leans into. 

“Why did you keep going on missions even though you were hurt though?” you ask, trying to be as soft as possible. You didn’t want to make it sound like you were berating him. 

His blue eyes look up at you confused, as if you asked him the stupidest question in the world. He thinks for a moment, trying to find the right words, when he says, “I…I have to. If I stop being the Strongest and going on missions, what will there be left to see?” He looks down at his own palm as he says these words. 

Your heart breaks even more hearing that Satoru feels this way, but he keeps going “You know… sometimes I don’t understand you”. You look at him confused, “You keep looking after me and taking care of me despite me being so weak that I can barely even move. Even when I try to be strong and do things on my own, you stop me. You stop me from being the Strongest… I don’t understand that.” 

When he finishes his sentence, you give him a kiss on the head and hold him even tighter. As you hold him, you tell him, “Well I certainly admire the Strongest, but…” you cup his face, looking directly into his bright blue eyes “…My favorite person will always be Satoru Gojo, because only Satoru can lie on the couch to laugh at bad TV shows with me… only Satoru puts absurd amounts of syrup in his pancakes…” you both laugh, “…and while the Strongest protects the world outside, only Satoru can come home to lie next to me”. You then give him a passionate kiss, hoping to put all your love into the act, something to help him understand the full depths of your love for him.

Pulling away, Satoru leans into your chest once again, and only says “Thank you… I love you too, by the way” he giggles before falling asleep in your arms. 

Satoru still had a long way to go in order to fully bring down his walls in front of you, but this… being able to spend a day with someone he loved so much and for the first time in his life, do absolutely nothing. That was certainly a good start. 

-

A/N: Like Gojo? He’s also mentioned in this fic and this fic! <3 

[cupidkenji]

the warm spot at the bottom of the stairs

Pairing: Ghost!Spencer Reid x Chubby!Fem!Reader CW: Fluff, Mild Angst, Soulmate AU, reader has dreams, mentions of sex/masturbation, mentions of death, cursing, reader feels like she knows him but they've never met, let me know if I missed anything please! Summary: After inheriting your grandfather's estate, you fall in love with the man from your dreams. He just so happens to be in your house, too. Disclaimer: Reader is always written with a chubby/bigger person in mind but in this she's literally not described aside from the fact that she has hips, a stomach, and legs on her body. WC: 9k (this is what happens when you let a man cook) This fic is genuinely my baby. I love soulmate aus with all my heart and soul and also love the dynamic of falling in love with a ghost. Enjoy this please, I tried <3

You swore the heat radiating off the sidewalk was enough to melt the soles of your shoes down to liquid. The sun was unforgivably angry today, glaring down at the world like it had a score to settle. You were less than thankful, as the death of your grandfather had stolen any desire you once held for warmth. The brutal dichotomy of the cold pit sitting in your stomach and the burning heat of the day only added to the sour taste in your mouth.

This house was fucking huge. 

You had no idea how your grandfather managed to hide such an enormous investment from everyone in his life but he’d managed the task seamlessly. Nobody even knew what he was giving you at first. The reading of the will and testimony left nothing but confused relatives until they had found the address that marked the estate. Some were jealous of you, some were confused, some even asked if they could come live with you once you got settled in. You had been absolutely floored when you learned he’d given you a house. Being fresh out of university, you were moving on to grad school while simultaneously preparing yourself to live with your mother until you could afford anything besides student debt payments. 

Now though, you had a castle, with no clue why a house this big was given to you of all people. You were your grandpa’s only grandchild and were by far one of the least deserving of such a generosity. Sure, you were close, but never abnormally close. You talked once a week on the phone and were glued to his side at family gatherings - but he saw your aunt everyday, and spoke with your mother much more than he ever did you. Was it pity? Maybe he saw this as the only plausible way of you escaping the fate of leeching off your mother. Hopefully he didn’t think of you so lowly. 

You mentally cursed at the dull ache in your legs that persisted even after stretching. You had been driving all day with a car packed full of stuff that needed to be hauled into the house, and only yourself to move said stuff. You said a short plea in your head to not let the pain hinder your speed and began walking into the house to view the inside. The estate was isolated, huge fences of greenery surrounded the place, adding to the pleasant sight of budding flowers throughout the front yard. Even without the towering hedges, though, the nearest neighbor was miles away. Great, you thought. Any concerns of your car being robbed while you were gone were extinguished as quick as they came, but you locked the car regardless. Force of habit. 

The heat was only lessened slightly when you reached the interior. You made a mental note to get the A.C. turned on, no way a temperature like this was a liveable one. You’re sure the numerous floor-to-ceiling windows were the culprit. They were excessive. Beautiful - of course - and you were thrilled at the amount of light they let in, but you could basically see the heatwaves permeating through the stained glass. Your eyes caught on the odd choice. The slightly colored glass making the mansion feel mildly like a church, the thought coming to you quickly and stripping any of the minimal comfort you held moments prior. That’s weird, you thought. Your grandpa had never been particularly religious. He was a man of faith - said grace before dinner and thanked Jesus for every day he lived, but never to this extent. He was rather progressive for a man his age.

The kitchen could have easily fit a team of 12 and you wondered if there had been staff at one point. There was no sign of any employees, and you prayed there weren’t any left working. The last thing you wanted was more responsibility in your life. You took your time walking the house, marveling at every painting and polished chandelier that was now an asset of yours. The house was gorgeous, you’d give at least that much to the old man. The centerpiece, of course, was the large spiral staircase leading to the second floor. As large as the house was, it held only two stories. Getting it’s square footage from length, rather than width. It was equally as glamorous as the house it resided in, however it filled you with a certain devastation you couldn’t place. As though your most primal self rejected the idea of it. That’s silly, you thought. You wanted to go upstairs, you were definitely not avoiding half of your house because a couple of your neck hairs stood at attention. The only real peculiarity was the heat pooling at the very bottom of the staircase. The kind of heat that seemed to thread itself into you, intertwine itself with your very being. The rest of the house was cold and accusatory, if your grandfather ever did live here, any of his warmth was flushed out by his death. This was the only spot in the whole house you felt calm, cared for. You could bask in it, weirdly fascinated with the little pocket of humanity that sat there. 

It was more difficult than you’d expected to pull yourself out of it, and you could have sworn you felt arms trying to pull you back in. Ten minutes into your new life and you were already on edge. Negative feelings didn’t seem to penetrate the spot at the bottom of the stairs, so you physically felt the wave of unease when it struck you upon exiting. The upstairs was creepy. The abundance of windows was apparently only a trend on the first floor, as the second floor held dark, dim hallways. The whole thing, it seemed, was lit up by ancient lamps that lined the walls. It reminded you of the Shining, and you wondered briefly if maybe your mother would let you move back in. There was a bedroom right near the staircase, and you decided it would be yours. It could have been the smallest one for all you knew, the only thing you cared about was a quick escape if such a thing was needed. Something about the house put thoughts like that at the front of your mind. 

You don’t recall ever being a paranoid person, nor a believer in the supernatural, but this house was watching you. The feeling of eyes on you was simply too strong to write off. What a warm welcome. 

—

It had been a week, but the nights so far had been sleepless ones. The people you called on day one were just now getting around to starting the A.C. so you were hoping for a decent rest tonight. The fridge was stocked, your things mainly unpacked, and the house started feeling a little more like you with each day. Although, your friends were more or less convinced there was a ghost living with you. You spoke of the feelings you had, plus the fact it was an old and mildly creepy house, and they were off and running with theories. One of the tamer ones consisted of the house being an old church - given the windows - and that the eyes you were feeling were perhaps an old priest who died here. You were less than fond of that idea, but you would take it any day to the other propositions of old mental hospitals and certain death. You made a mental note to never again let your friends speculate on situations you couldn’t get out of.

You argued that a malevolent spirit wouldn’t invoke such a comforting sense within you. You felt watched - yes - but it wasn’t as though you felt stalked. It was much worse, actually, you felt lonely. Loneliness was never a battle you fought very hard in. You had hobbies, and you had friends. The desire for a romantic companion usually took the back burner if it was even a thought at all. People questioned the topic - you were pretty, smart, capable - what more could somebody want? They asked if you were insecure, if you liked girls, told you that you were wasting your “prime years” and needed to find someone - but it was never that simple. You just didn’t get it. The feelings others spoke of were unfamiliar ones to you. You held your breath for a long time before realizing that it probably just wasn’t for you, that you were built a little differently.

Needless to say, you were uncomfortable with the sudden sensation. It felt like seeing the moon in a glass jar - something unfathomably beautiful but something you were unable to hold. Lord knows it wasn’t from a lack of desire, though. You’re sure you reeked of longing, able to suppress the lot of it but unable to stop some from slipping through the cracks of your fingers. And with no obvious direction to cast it, it just clung to you and seeped back into your skin. 

–

“No, dude, I’m telling you shit’s fucking weird.” You shoveled popcorn into your mouth as you spoke with your friend. This was the third call since you moved in. “Every night I wake up at like two in the morning and just for a split second I feel it. It’s like I'm lying on someone’s shoulder or something. And - oh my god - the amount of times I get stuck in that fucking warm spot on the stairs is gonna drive me crazy.” 

You could hear her laughing at your frustration on the other end. “What do you mean you get stuck? Y/n I'm getting worried about your mental state.” 

“No I’m telling you, I walk in this one - like - warm spot and I enter some kind of trance. Like I want to leave but I can’t - Jesus!”

“Are you alright?” Your friend was quick to ask, hearing you cut yourself off mid sentence. 

“No! This shit is haunted I swear. My kitchen lights just turned off for no reason. If I die here I’m blaming you and Kelly for not getting me out.” You were being dramatic, you knew that, but it was starting to feel justified. You don’t remember a time in the last week you felt truly by yourself.

“Hey don’t blame us for your own choi-” She started speaking, but you lost her. 

“Hello? You there?” You tried calling her again but the usual buzz of the dial tone was dead silent, the lamps that were illuminating the house followed soon after. Phone lines were the first to go in a power outing. No fucking way the power just went out. You felt around in the dark for the drawer of the end table. There had been a flashlight on the counter when you’d first arrived. You threw it in the end table because you had no clue why it was there - you were thanking God you’d done so while also praying the thing had batteries in it. You wrapped your hand around the object and said one more plea to the stars you wouldn’t have to be without light until tomorrow. Somebody must have been listening, as the room lit up when you hit the ‘on’ switch of the flashlight. 

You’d seen the fuse box towards the south end of the upstairs hallway, sitting between a Da Vinci replica and a mirror taken straight from a movie star's wet dream. I’m gonna die was the only thing you could think at a moment like this. You were for sure going to see glowing red eyes at the end of the hall and die a horrific and bloody death. Thanks grandpa. The warm spot was a welcome refuge from your journey to certain death, and you embraced the sense of  peace it brought you at a time when your heart was surely beating too fast. You held the light in front of you as you ventured up the stairs. The top of them seemed cartoonishly haunting, you thought momentarily that you would fit perfectly into a Scooby Doo episode. It was vast and dark, having multiple pathways you could walk down, but you set your sights on the south hall and did your best to disable your peripheral vision. It was right there. You just had to reset the power and you’d have your precious light back. Who puts a fucking mirror above a fuse box? 

You held the flashlight between your teeth as you focused on your task. Open and reset. Open and reset. It was truly as simple as that and then you could be done. Go watch a midnight rerun on TV and pray that the spirits would leave you alone. Open and reset. The switches were flipped off - you didn’t think that was normal but what did you know - so you flipped them back on and heard the hum of life returning to the house. Thank God. Your nerves dissipated almost immediately. You were alright, no ghost had it out for you. It’s an old house, and would probably experience things like this a lot. You could do that again if you had to. You looked up, though, and ate your words. There was definitely a man behind you. If you had been trying to look at him, you would have seen he was young, tall. You probably would have thought he was attractive, but you had no time for that. You whirled around, yelping at the sight of him and mentally preparing to defend your life. It proved futile though, he was gone as quickly as he came. There was nowhere he could have gone that fast, so as much as you were certain he was there, you settled for him being imaginary. It was dark upstairs, and you were scared out of your mind. Surely your eyes were overcompensating for the paranoia that was racing through you. You walked back to the couch on guard and decided to call your friend back tomorrow. It was nearly twelve, and you knew she had work tomorrow. You could cope using TV and proper lighting to comfort you until sunrise. What’s one more sleepless night?

“You boys let me know if you need anything.” You heard the words in your own voice as if listening to a stranger. 

“Sure thing, doll.” All the men were in uniform. Gray fabric covered their bodies, adorned with hats of the same color. Soldiers.

You walked back behind the front counter as the bell above the door continuously chimed at the arrival of new guests. Orders were being shouted to the cooks. You stared at the bold letters painted on the large graffiti piece decorating the wall, “Cathy’s Cooking.” A greasy apron covered the light blue dress beneath it - waitress attire. The smell of fried eggs clashed hard with the scent of sanitizer you were using to wipe down the counter. Bells rang to signal orders were ready to be taken out to guests, and you discarded the rag you used to mop up spilled coffee. 

“Thanks, Benny.” You nodded to the chef as you took the food plates to table two. He nodded back at you before returning to flipping bacon. 

“L/N!” Your manager barked at you. “Take your break. Be back in thirty.” He was a friendly man, though he got a bit hostile under pressure. 

You couldn’t be more thankful for the break. It was hour 6 of your shift and you were beginning to think he might never let you off. You removed the apron as quick as possible and excused yourself out the back entrance to cool off in the alley way. It got hot as hell during rush hour, so the way the slight breeze nipped your cheeks felt like heaven. 

“Tough shift?”

“Jesus!”

He started laughing as you startled, turning to face him. “‘Fraid it’s just me, honey.” He walked towards you as you grinned at him.

“You scared me, Spence.” 

He shook his head, mocking you. “I’m so sorry.” Drama queen. “How ever will I make it up to you?”

You giggled at that, and wrapped your arms around his neck as he got closer. He put his hands on your hips, leaning you against the brick wall of the alley. You could feel your lungs open up when he kissed you, always feeling like you could breathe better when his lips were on yours. He was your God given destresser. He still donned his uniform but had opted for taking the hat off, he knew you hated when his hair was hidden.

“That’s not very nice, Reid. I thought you were a gentleman. What would your boys think of you being so mean to a lady?”

He smiled a bit at that. “You like when I’m a little mean, Y/N.” 

Fuck. He had you there. 

You looked to the side for a second to snuff out some of the tension. “How long are you here for?”

“We’re in town for two weeks. Gotta catch a boat up to base 14 on the 20th. Supposedly they’re preparing for a big fight.”

You frowned as you made eye contact with him.“I get so worried about you. About all of you. I don’t know what I’d do if - you know if something happened.” He’d been a soldier for a little while now, joining when he turned 18. He’d kept his hands on your hips, and you started to run your hands through his hair, a nervous habit you picked up when the two of you first got together.

“I know, honey. But by the time it’s done I’ll be off my leash. I do this and we can run away together.”

You looked at him the way you always did - with such admiration and love that he often had to look away before it went to his head. He swore he looked at you the same, but you knew deep down nobody could love anyone as much as you loved him. You laughed a bit at the elation you got from just his presence. 

“I got lucky with you, Reid.”

He just shook his head. “Give yourself more credit, L/n.”

Your consciousness hit you like a truck and you realized before long that sun was shining through the windows. You’d fallen asleep sometime between ultimate terror and fleeting hope of your survival. And that dream - dear lord what the fuck was that dream. It was more vivid than you thought possible. You always forget most of your dreams when you wake up, but this time it felt like forgetting would be a betrayal. You could recall word for word every single thing about that dream. It was as though you saw a movie of your own life. A feeling so familiar you could taste it but just far enough to escape your grasp - and boy were you reaching. Not to mention the man. You didn’t know if this was some sort of coping mechanism you were inventing in your head but that was definitely the same man from the mirror last night. An imaginary friend. You had an imaginary friend as a grown woman. Terrific. 

–

“You’re never going to attract a suiter with such a tragic expression, my dear.” This had to be the third time your mother had roused this point in the past hour. 

“These dances are dreadful, idiotic nights of captivity that do nothing but mock the existence of genuine companionship.” The irony of you saying this while patting your cheeks with rose pigment was not lost on you. “Let me scrub myself raw and willingly restrain myself in hopes a man will see me and fall in love.” You spat out the last word with enough vitriol to hopefully drown yourself in. “Maybe he’ll like me so much he’ll lay claim and I can live on to be his housewife and half a person. How I've always dreamed of letting a man decide how much value I have.” You were flustered by the end of your spiel, looking at your mother through the large vanity with the tentative hope of a child asking for sweets. 

“You read too much, darling. Those little romance books of yours are nothing but nonsense.” She was a professional at writing you off by now. “You know plenty of women who are perfectly satisfied with their lives. This is how we do things, Y/n. I don’t understand why you insist on fighting it so intently.” 

She was never truly angry at your defiance, only tired. You could never tell if she was tired of you complaining or if she, like you, was tired of living this way. Your mother had married young - even for the times - and you knew your father left much to be desired in her life. They were basically repulsed by each other, only joining in union to produce a child. Your mother had been thrilled to have a daughter. Your father would trade you if he could, but he made do. The ultimate lack of affection between the two of them made you ill. You weren’t much older than your mother had been, you could very well end up trapped and child-bound in a loveless marriage.

“I would rather die alone than end up with my father.” You spoke, she sighed. 

“I know.”

You stared at her through the mirror for a moment longer, then you rose from your chair. Your makeup was done, your look now complete. You noticed your mother’s eyes start to well up at the sight of you and she started to walk closer. 

“My beautiful girl.” She smiled, forbidding the tears to venture down her cheeks, and held your shoulders. “You deserve a man who will worship you. Your future husband will be the luckiest man on planet Earth.” A gentle prompt, but a prompt nonetheless. You knew she loved you, but she carried more shame as you got older. Having only a daughter was something frowned upon, but having only a daughter hellbent on avoiding marriage was something that weighed on her. 

“I’ll see you in the carriage.” Then she was gone, kissing your cheek and taking her exit to go talk with the director of the communal ride. Carriage was being generous, it was more like a one-way wagon to the local suiter’s ball. You watched her leave with a sense of grief so intense it nearly toppled you. She deserved a man like that too. 

-

This was your third ball of the month. The pool of potential partners diminished with each one. People would often take whatever they could get, meaning less and less people even needed these nights anymore. You walked in with your mother, hand resting gently in the crook of her extended elbow. Your father stopped attending with the two of you a while ago. You believed he’d given up hope of a man ever choosing you - Lord knows he wouldn’t. Scanning the crowd, you saw little to look forward to. The music was pleasant, you would dance with a couple men who seemed bearable at best and criminal at worst, indulge in some of the enticing pastries and teas, and then you would leave. Back home until your mother dragged you out the following week for another one. With your current rate, you assumed you would end up marrying the vagabond that perused your neighboring streets. Taking another look around, you thought you might prefer that. 

You made your temporary home in a corner chair, letting your mother excitedly drag prospects up to you and watch dejectedly as they ruled you out as an option. You felt bad for her, considered caving in and finding a man to give you a child, but you remember swiftly how long the years take to pass when you’re miserable. The chair gave you a good view of the room, you could see the entrance and the dancefloor filled with enticing women waiting for men to notice them. You could feel the sweat start slicking your skin beneath the corset you wore. It was too hot in here. 

If you hadn’t been so determined to ignore the occasional advances of bored men, you would have missed the small group entering the area. Two women and two men, you wondered briefly if it was two couples, but discarded that thought. This wasn’t a place for couples. You felt your heart physically lurch at the sight of the last man in the row of four, as though your heart was running to greet an old friend. Had you seen him before? Surely you would have remembered such a visceral reaction. You averted your eyes before he could notice you. You don’t remember ever wanting to be noticed by a man - especially not this badly. You allowed yourself the escape of your own thoughts, getting lost in your head to pass the time and focus on anything other than what was probably the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

“Do you mind if I sit with you?”

You looked up, he was standing above you. The chair next to you had been taken all night, the same woman had been sulking in her seat, and you found comfort in the fact someone else was unhappy to be here. She was gone now. Someone was definitely messing with you. 

“Not at all.”

Your mouth was drier than it had ever been. You wondered if your lips remained stained from the color you applied earlier. You’d done nothing but sit all night and yet you were praying nothing had happened to your makeup. 

“Why are you alone in a corner?” 

“Men tend to be repulsed by my pessimism. I also happen to hate it here. Serves for a less than desirable combination.” You refused to let your sudden attraction diminish your stubbornness. You hated the self-consciousness racing through you, no man had the right to take your assurance in yourself. 

“Why do you hate it here?” He wasn’t being mocking. He seemed - genuinely - a little sad at the thought of you being unhappy. 

“Well, sir, I am of the belief that these dances are nothing but congregations of people settling for lives that won’t make them happy. They trade excitement for safety as though the presence of security has to mean the presence of misery. I don’t think anyone can know the true meaning of love in our current state as a society.” You didn’t look at him as you spoke, instead staring out at the people dancing. “I hold no desire to settle. I am capable of making happiness on my own. Most men don’t like the thought of me not needing them.” 

You were almost positive you lost him. You were betting on him not being there when you looked, preparing yourself to bite the bullet and cope with tonight’s losses. Maybe your mother would agree to leave early. 

You heard him chuckle softly. “Sir.” He repeated your words, finding humor in the formality. “My name’s Spencer.” He added. ��And I also happen to hate the purpose of these events. I’ve never actually been to one before, but I’m new to the city, and something about tonight was begging me to come out.” 

You were absolutely bewitched by him. “I’m Y/n.”

“Fitting.” He smiled, a smile directed at his own thoughts, as though something in his mind had clicked. “Will you dance with me?”

The music had slowed severely. You scoffed at his proposal, but you were taking his hand as if you’d been waiting on this. Maybe you had been. You were grateful for the ballad that was playing, never having been one for upbeat dancing. He led you gracefully, and for once you felt yourself relinquish power. With a mind like yours, a man’s company was almost never wanted. With this one, though, you laid your heart at his feet as if you’d done so a dozen times before. The heat of his hands was seeping through your dress, and his eyes were locked with yours. 

“I feel like I know you.” A confession. He had an effect like that.  

“Maybe you do.” 

–

Two in the morning. Everyday you’d woken up at two in the morning from a different dream involving the mysterious ‘Spencer Reid’. You friends had kindly dubbed him the “Man of your dreams” following the stories you told them. You’d been a housewife, trying to welcome him home from work before he laid you down and made an altar of your dining table.You’d been the daughter of a king, at one point, falling in love with his favored knight. Shamefully, that one haunted you. Reappearing in your mind during intimate times when you needed a spark. You’d never been one for desire either. When your friends started preaching the wonders of sex to you during your highschool days, you felt no pull towards the act. Just another it you didn’t understand. Now, though, this house served as an aphrodisiac. You lost count of your streak by day 13, and were now just begging whoever put this apparition in your home for the strength to keep your hand out of your pants. 

Spencer had become more like a roommate rather than an unwanted guest. You saw him in most reflective surfaces around the house. You felt him everywhere. He sat at the table with you, watched TV with you, he would wait by the door when you got home from work. Sometimes, your hand or your shoulder would run hot. Physically hot, like he was putting his hands on you. You wondered if he was around during those times, but if he was there he made sure you didn’t know it. You were gaining a sort of intuition for him. The thought Spencer would like that struck you numerous times when you were window shopping or when you tried on an outfit. You were starting to think maybe you were just crazy. Perhaps a ghost who seemed to be your soulmate and made you incredibly horny was how all psychotic breaks started. 

Weirdly, through your bizarre dreams and inconsistent sleeping patterns, this was the most well rested you’d felt in a while. Waking up at two am was routine now, sometimes you managed to fall back asleep afterwards but most times you were up dwelling on the images your mind had shown you that night. You thought maybe your body was just adjusting - surely it was nothing supernatural giving you energy - just the adaptivity of the human brain. One persistent thing you couldn’t adapt to, though, was how much you missed him. The increasing number of times you woke up to being the only occupant of your bed was starting to wear you down. You feel like you’d spent lifetimes with this man and yet he was someone you never knew. You'd seen the two of you fall in love countless different ways except the one that actually counted - the present. 

“I genuinely don’t know how much longer I can do this.” Another phone call, another conversation about your rapidly declining mental state. “I have fallen in love with a figment of my own imagination. Surely this is some demented form of narcissism.”

“I don’t think it works like that, Y/n.” Your friend was terrible at comforting people. It probably didn’t help that you hadn’t been fully honest with her about the severity of your situation. From where she was standing, you had learned to lucid dream and now that was bleeding mildly into your real life. Not the biggest deal, maybe you were just lonely. 

“It’s a ghost, dude, I’m fucking telling you. There’s no way I’m imaginative enough to conjure all this shit up.” 

“You know his name right? Go down to the library and look him up. If he’s a ghost then surely there’ll be something to find.”

Holy shit. She was a genius. “Oh my God you’re so smart. I love you. You just saved my life. You’re God’s gift to the planet. Who would I be witho-”

“Jesus Christ will you just go? Stop kissing my ass and start driving. I want details when you get back.” 

You don’t know if you’ve ever been so eager to get to the library of all places. If you could snag a computer spot then you could put an end to all of this. He wasn’t real, realistically you knew that, but you had a fool-proof way to check. If he was real you were going to have to come to terms with the fact you could see dead people. Well, a dead person. You had never seen any before Spencer. You’d never seen Spencer either, not before the house at least. They say you can’t make up faces, that if you see someone in a dream then you’ve seen them in real life but you were incredibly doubtful of that by now.

Spencer Reid. Thankfully the man didn’t have a particularly common name. You hoped there would be limited matches, less to look through. Pretty soon you could accept your own mental insanity and maybe ask your mother to spot you for some therapy. Well, moment of truth. You watched each letter be typed in with baited breath until his full name was in the search bar. Even just looking at his name brought that sense of calm. You were hopeless. Until, apparently, you weren’t. 

Brilliant Dr. Reid dead at 26

Former FBI agent Spencer Reid found dead in his home

Spencer Reid co-workers speak out on his legacy. Where to go from here?

You scoured every article you could find, analyzing every pixel of every image available. This was your guy. Same Spencer Reid from your dreams. Same Spencer Reid that stands behind you in every mirror of the house. Holy shit who was this guy? He was a little older than you, died last year in the summertime. Each article painted a brutal picture of his death, speculating on how the doctor died but never comfirming anything. Only that he was dead when paramedics got there, the sight of his covered body being extracted from his home was one that would stick with you. His home. It was the same house you were living in. It’s possible your grandfather was renting it out. That’s probably why nobody ever knew about it - he wasn’t living there. You didn’t know when water started pooling in your eyes, you only realized them as they started falling down your cheeks. You didn’t even know him. You didn’t even know him but you felt like someone just sucker punched you and were about 60% sure your lunch was coming back up. Jesus. 

There was no way you could tell your friends about this. The majority of your brain was pleading with you to rationalize this. Maybe you’d seen one of the articles before. Maybe your grandpa talked about him. Holy shit he had known your grandpa. Every individual thought you had was identifiable and that was far too overwhelming for your brain to handle. You signed out of the computer and went to go sit in your car. Could you even drive like this? Your hands were shaking so bad there was a good chance you’d crash the car before you got home. It’s twenty minutes, you thought. You had to go back. Staying away from the house any longer felt like a punishment. You can make it twenty minutes.

–

“No, no. Like I said it was just some old guy who wrote a book. No sign of my Spencer.” You were lying straight through your teeth. You figured it didn’t truly matter. If you sat here and told the entire story of finding exactly who you were looking for online, you think she’d have checked you into a facility. 

“Maybe if you believe hard enough you can manifest him.” 

“Wow you’re hilarious. Remind me again how I ever lived my life without such a humorous presence.”

“I question that same thing everyday, Y/n.” You could hear the smile embedded in her words.

“I’ll let you go. I know Dylan is probably waiting on you. Thanks for checking up on the Spencer chronicles.” You felt slightly bad. She was on her honeymoon currently, and instead of spending time with her new husband, she was listening to your stories of fraternizing with a ghost. 

“I’m sorry you’re going through this. I’m sure it’s weird as hell. Call me up if you need to, yeah? Hotel has unlimited calls so I can talk all night if you need to.” She was an angel in this world.

“Thanks, same goes here. If you get sick of your husband you know where to find me. Remember to use protection.” 

“Alright, nevermind. You may suffer by yourself for all I care.” She laughed while she threatened you.

“Bye, honey. Love you.” You should have felt alone, but you never did. He was most likely here with you. 

The exhaustion had well and truly crept up on you. You planned on getting home and calling your friend immediately, but you ended up needing a good few hours to cry and pace around the house. You weren’t scared - it was essentially the opposite. The complete lack of fear bred so much confusion that you didn’t know how to cope with the amount of frustration on your shoulders. You paced the house hoping to find him. You wanted to be near him. You harbored the immature hope that knowing who he was would grant you the ability to see him. Did you even know who he was? He was a doctor, an agent, but who was he to you? Is that what you needed to know in order to see him?

Now, sitting on your bed, you felt like you’d been through the ringer. The mental gymnastics of the day weighing heavily on your body. You needed to go to sleep. You wanted to go to sleep. In the last week or so you’d noticed a certain excitement regarding the promise of another tale, another dream. They were so extravagant, not even in the details of them, just in the consistency of pure emotion. You could have been fighting dragons or sitting on the porch in rocking chairs. If he was by your side, there was always this certain euphoria surrounding the two of you. A feeling reserved just for you and him. God you missed him.

– 

You woke up slowly to a familiar bed beneath you, this was your house. The window was open, curtains blowing cautiously as the mild chill of the Fall breeze wafted in and dusted over your collarbones. It wasn’t this cold last night. You felt the breeze again on your whole body, and realized you were lying naked on top of the ruffled comforter. Had he pulled the blanket off you?

“Are you cold? I didn’t think to shut the window when I got up. I was kind of rushing to get my stuff.” You noticed then that he was sat behind a canvas, angled so he could glance between you and the task at hand with ease. He noticed you furrow your eyebrows, and even managed to catch the minuscule tense of your muscles as you prepared to sit up.

“Stay still for me, honey. I’m almost done.” He was adding feather-light brushstrokes to the piece, a finishing touch of his you now recognized from watching him paint so much. 

“This isn’t a very good pose, Spence. You know I’m not the most photogenic.” You referred to the fact you had been sleeping as he painted, limbs not organized and environment chaotic. Notoriously unfavored things by the man. Maybe he was hoping to capture a candid version of you. 

He exhaled a laugh. “How rich coming from you.” His lips quirked upward as he continued adding touch-ups to his art. “Something about you this morning…I don’t know.” He shook his head like he was talking to himself rather than you. “You just looked…mesmerizing.” He shrugged, brushing off the sentiment. “Felt wrong to just look at you.”

Dumbfounded was the only word you could think to describe yourself. He’d painted you before, mainly from the neck up for practice with faces, but this was different terrain. You were nervous to see the piece. You thought of your hips, your stomach, your legs. A silhouette he’d sworn time and time again was worthy of worship. One he wanted to treasure. You hoped you’d see a glimpse of yourself through his lens, hoped all that adoration would show on the canvas. Once he was finished with it, he turned it so you could see. It was breathtaking. His talent never failed to leave you speechless. 

“I feel like I should be paying for this.” You joked, but still felt as though something should be given in return. He stood from his stool and joined you on the bed.

“I assure you, I’m well compensated.” Your face ran hot. “Can I hang it?”

“Spence, I’m naked-”

“Not downstairs, Y/n.” He chuckled. “I’d put it there.” He nodded to a vacant wall space on the right side of the room, entirely visible from his side of the bed. 

“You want me watching you sleep, Reid?” 

He grinned at you, shaking his head slightly at your remark. “Just wanna be able to see you.” He held your eyes. “I’m hoping looking at you before I go to sleep will give me good dreams.” You hummed in sarcastic agreement, your gaze falling soft a moment later.

“You can if you want to.” He looked relieved. 

“Thanks, honey.” He looked stunning in the morning light. The sun hadn’t risen too long ago, and he was only covered partially by a pair of joggers. He was practically luminous, the bare skin of his chest looking golden in the sunlight. You stuck your hands out to feel him, and you felt as though you were trying to touch heaven itself. He leaned down to be closer to you, he always said you felt magnetic. 

“You should let me paint you like this more often.” 

“Is that right?”

“Mhm”

And, just like before, you could breathe again when he kissed you. Truly breathe. It was times like these when he felt like your oxygen, like pulling away should be sin. Lord knows you would suffer any version of Hell for him. 

–

Your frustration seemed to have doubled in your sleep. Two am. You were gonna find that fucking painting. It wasn’t in the spot he left it - you would have noticed a giant painting of yourself naked on the walls, but you double checked to be sure. You threw up every light switch you came across and started scavenging through the upstairs. There was a certain tug in your body - when you didn’t find it in a room, you knew it wasn’t there, something internal telling you to look elsewhere. It was only when you were halfway done with the downstairs raid that you remembered the storage room. You’d found it when you first moved in, a room full of dust and white tarps covering furniture and other indecipherable shapes. It had to be in there.

You wrecked havoc on the tiny room. Tearing off layers of fabric quickly, leaving little thought to where you were throwing them, completely tunnel visioned on finding the painting. You came across a covered square the same size as the canvas had been. It was coated in so much dust that the covering looked ancient, and you were begging any conceivable being to be merciful, to let you have at least this if you couldn’t have him. You unveiled the shape to find the same vibrant pigments you’d seen just hours before. It was you, draped over the comforter and basking in the hue of the morning. This was it, you thought. Holy shit this is real. You had no grounds to deny this anymore. Spencer was a real guy, clearly he’d died in this house and clearly the two of you had lived enough lives together to fill months of sleepless nights with. 

What did this mean for you? Were you a clone? Were you and Spencer both clones? Were you living in a simulated reality and all of this was actually a ruse calculated to induce reactions in the brain that could then be studied? Oh my god - were you a ghost too? Had you died and were now stuck in some form of purgatory?

You felt sick with it. You didn’t know you were capable of bearing such intense metaphorical weight. You needed to see him. Maybe if you went to sleep, you would realize you were having a dream and could figure some things out. That’s so stupid. You mentally scolded yourself for even thinking of such a dumb idea. You needed to speak with him. You needed him to tell you what was going on. Of course him and everyone in your life who could have known him were six feet deep. A seance, maybe? Perhaps  just buy a ouija board and wing it. You’d seen the most of him when you were asleep, that had to be the key to figuring this out. Please dear god let it be the key to figuring this out. You took the painting and headed back upstairs. Maybe it could serve as a medium, you thought. That’s a thing, right?

You don’t think your bed had ever seemed so uninviting. You remember how grateful you’d been to finally sleep on your first day here. It was a pain in the ass hauling a mattress up a spiral staircase and the moment you realized you were done was a relief to say the least. Now you stared at it and your mouth ran dry. What if this didn’t work? What did you even want to happen? Were you going to rummage through your dreams and play detective to piece together what might have happened in your past? No degree of mental antagonizing could push you off course by now. He was real. You know he’d been a real man, and surely the painting of you meant you’d known him as something other than a ghost. You were simply praying this would work out how you wanted. You needed a semblance of closure, even just a small one.

–

The room was dark, making you double check if you opened your eyes in the first place. You hadn’t had a dream. This was the first time in months you had fallen asleep and woken up without having lived a different life. You felt tears forming in your eyes. The disappointment you felt was so immeasurable that your brain practically short circuited trying to find a way to process it. You knew it was a long shot for everything to be fixed overnight, but you’d expected something. Like he was reading your mind, the bed dipped down, him now occupying the space next to you in bed. 

You were worried your head might fall off your neck with how quickly you turned to look at him. The moonlight came beaming in through the window, like she was your secret ally, giving you enough light to finish your battle. It lit him up, practically shining through him like it would a crystal. He was ethereal. You stared into the same brown eyes you’d been looking into for months and felt your resolve give way from within you. You could have looked at him forever, you wanted to look at him forever, but you crashed hard into him. You would have fused your soul to his at that very moment if you were able to. Nobody had ever drawn out such a reaction - you needed to feel him. It was the proof you had been begging for, he was here, he was tangible. You could finally know what it all meant. 

You felt his chest jolt as he chuckled at you. “I missed you.” You could hear the smile in his words. 

Choking on a sob, you spoke your response so quietly you could barely hear yourself. “What the fuck is going on?” You knew tears were probably soaking through his shirt but he just held you against him. “Please tell me you know what’s happening.” You were muttering your words quickly, sharply inhaling between your sentences as air refused to stay in your lungs.

He ran his hand up and down the length of your forearm, a motion so familiar and so comforting you’re sure your knees would have buckled if you weren’t lying down. “Just relax, honey. I can explain everything, ok? I just need you to breathe right now.”

It was hard to maintain your oxygen through the sobs begging to get out of your chest but you were nothing if not stubborn. You needed an explanation. If that was his condition then so be it. You took a deep breath, regaining your ability to inhale and exhale at a regular pace. You could see the room better now having been awake in the dark for a while, so you tried to focus on anything that might help. The painting. You stared holes into that thing and forced your breathing to even out. 

“I was really proud of that one.” His words held an instinctual twinge of fondness, still smiling as he spoke. Like now that he had you, he could describe any horror of the world and still be happy with you in his arms. He looked back at you, tracing his thumb along your jaw. “You seem to get prettier with every lifetime.”

Even as the overwhelming confusion wrecked your brain, your body was completely in tune with him. Warmth seemed to spring to life in your stomach, his words bypassing any guards you had to root themselves within you. He regarded the situation so lightly, so casually. He wasn’t worried about slipping away, or running out of time. He would have given you a decade to calm down if you needed it. He seemed content with just calling you pretty, as though he’d waited a century to touch you again. 

“My dreams, were they -” You paused. You didn’t even know what to ask him. “What were my dreams?” Were they real?

He took a moment to just stare at you. The smallest, knowing smile on his face and a look of pure adoration in his eyes. He knew what you were asking. “They were us.” Fucking obviously. If you were any more on the edge of your seat you would fall off. “All the lives we’ve lived together.” Jesus.

“How long ago-”

“Two thousand years, 5 months, 27 days, and-” he leaned up slightly to check the clock “14 hours.” Giving you the cutest tight-lipped smile when he finished talking like he didn’t just say you’d been in love for two millennia. 

“So we’re soul mates?”

“Essentially.” He nodded. ‘Soulmates’ was close enough. 

“But - is everyone like this, then?” Did all your friends have this too? Everyone in the world? “Everyone has a soulmate?” Your friend’s on her honeymoon right now. 

He laughed a little and shook his head. “No, no. It’s just us.” What was so special about the two of you? “For all I know of at least. Your uh…your husband-” He hesitated for just a second, fingers digging into your skin just a fraction harder. “He found out about us. Had his mother cast a spell. He thought he was punishing us, I think. Figured we’d get sick of it after a while. Poor guy, all he did was condemn us to eternity together.” He held no genuine pity for the guy, more amusement at the thought of his plan actually succeeding. 

“How long have you been here?” You hadn’t bothered to check when the articles were from, too busy trying to keep your head on straight to look for the publication date. 

“A year.” A year of him alone in this house. God, you couldn’t even imagine. “I started having dreams of you. Everyday I just felt, like, something pulling me away from where I was. I knew your grandfather from an old case I worked and everything just seemed to happen.” He reminisced fondly, like the memory didn’t hurt him. “I don’t even really know how I died. I just remember having a party one night, and how the hallway looked from the bottom of the stairs.” Oh my God the warm spot.

“When you moved in I was thrilled but - fuck, honey, it was torture.” He delivered the line like it was a joke but his eyes were watering. “I couldn’t talk to you, I couldn’t help you - I couldn’t fucking touch you and it was unbearable.” His hands hadn’t left you since you woke up. Making up for lost time, you guessed. There was one question you were brutally aware of, something that persisted in your head even as you tried to enjoy the moment. 

“Why can I see you now, then?”

He sighed, so full of devastation that it was clear he’d been preparing for this. “You can’t.”

“What?”

“You’ve seen all our lives, Y/n. This is the only one left.” He was so delicate in his explanations. His palms soothing over your face as if trying to physically soothe the sting of his words.

“Wait what does that-” What was he talking about? “I don’t understand.”

“To be honest, I don’t really understand it either.” He exhaled at his own ignorance, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. “For the first time, I don’t know what’s gonna happen when you wake up.”

“Wake up? What do you mean wake up - Spence I’m awake.” You held onto his wrist that was near your face for emphasis, his hand still caressing your face. “I’m awake.” 

His eyes were definitely watering. “No, Y/n, you’re not.”

“Spencer.” You’d never said it so sadly before. Tears were in your eyes for the second time that night. You would have done anything to carve this moment into stone. Sit here in his arms until time forced you into your next life. 

“It’s ok, honey.” He was always reassuring, always safe. “We’ve done this for two thousand years, Y/n. You’re bound to get a little unlucky sometimes.” His optimism in the face of such a crushing development almost made you sick. Some things never change. “I finally have you back, alright? Just lay with me for a while. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. We’ve got plenty more lives to live.”

You halted the tears in your eyes, sniffling once to reign yourself in. “Ok.” You laughed, a little tearfully, and kissed him with all the love you had to give. 

Plenty more lives to live.

[peachsukii]

Hiii omg I love your writings so much!!

May i request texting katsuki while reader is drunk in a bar (maybe bc reader just broke up with her previous boyfriend or sth. It’s up to you but please make it spicy 🔥) (also 18+ please 🥹)

ohhhh the things swirling in my head about this!!! thank you for the request nonnie & hope it delivers! 💜

on the rocks

『 ♡ 』  k.bakugo x fem!reader ꒰ pro-hero au | age 24 | friends to fwb ꒱ ⇢ your week couldn’t get any worse. between a screw up at work and getting dumped out of the blue, you needed to desperately let off some steam. thank goodness the girls were more than happy to take you out for the night in the city and spoil you with a good time. everything’s fine until you receive a text that spirals into an unpredicted hookup.

꒰ tags & warnings ꒱ 18+ MDNI mentions of alcohol, mild/implied smut, suggestive texting, friends to friends with benefits, heavy flirting, sexually comfortable reader, reader went through a break-up, soft bakugo, fluffy ꒰ cross posted to ao3 | wc; ~2.6k ꒱ -`✧ katsuki bakugo masterlist

The bartender hands you the drink you ordered, nodding a thanks when you smile at her. You’re not drunk, per se, but you’re definitely buzzed - that warm and fuzzy feeling dancing through your veins, letting you relax for the first time all week. Tonight's goal was to think about absolutely nothing, to let go of all the shit weighing on your shoulders. Even if it's just for one night, anything to shake away the pain you've been carrying.

But the alcohol seems to be betraying you, forcibly shoving those thoughts to the forefront of your mind instead of burying them.

Memories of your ex begin to haunt you as your mind wanders aimlessly, the dam bursting that was keeping it all at bay. You try and shake your head to rid yourself of the feelings, but they just wouldn’t go away.

God, fuck him and every false promise he made to you.

Some people would consider three months a short amount of time, but to you, it felt like an eternity. He seemed so sweet, caring and kind when you first met, but once he forcibly ripped off your rose-colored glasses? He was nothing but a walking pile of shit.

Suddenly, your phone dings on the bar, lighting up to show a text message notification.

'Who the fuck is texting me so late?'

You blink a few times, re-reading the contact name before it registers: Katsuki Bakugo.

That's rather...odd. He's notorious for going to bed by 9pm - it’s almost midnight. You two were friends, sure, but never the 'text you in the middle of the night' type of friends. Curious to know what he wanted, you open the text to reveal nothing but a picture. When you squint through your hazy vision, you realize just what you're looking at.

It's a picture of Bakugo from the neck down, laying on his bed in nothing but grey sweats that are tugged down and nestled at the bottom of his hip bones. The pose accentuates the delicious deep V below his abs and shows the blonde trail disappearing underneath the hem of his sweatpants. The shadows trace each well-earned muscle, perfectly outlining them in the dim light of his bedroom.

Was this meant for you? Did he send it to you by accident? Your mind goes blank, stopping your previous train of thought about your stupid ex.

…did he send it to you on purpose? Your core pulses at the thought, causing you to cross your legs defensively.

Right on queue, another text pops up, your phone vibrating in your hands.

[katsuki] fuck, sorry. that was an accident

That was a bold face fucking lie, and you knew it. Bakugo's not that stupid to send the wrong text by mistake, especially a selfie. There's no way in hell he would even take a picture like that for someone unless he wanted it to be seen.

Liquid courage does you a favor when you reply, loosely teasing him about it.

[you] damn, katsuki. who's the lucky girl?

You don't notice Mina approaching you with how intently you're staring at your phone screen, startling you when she taps your shoulder.

"What are ya doing over here?! Come dance with us!" she pleads, pulling on your arm. She notices how you're clutching your phone like a lifeline and the coral tint on your cheeks. She quirks an eyebrow at you. "Who are you texting?"

Oh god, find a lie - fast! She'll see right through your facade if you don't.

"No one, just a spam text."

Mina stares at you - shit, she knows you're lying.

"You're a shit liar, babe. Who is it?"

"I got a random text from Katsuki," you admit, the flush in your cheeks deepening at his name. Are you into him, or is it the alcohol in your system? It's no secret that he's attractive, he's always been effortlessly handsome. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't checked him out a few times, but never acted on it. The two of you were friends and you’d assumed he didn't think much else of you.

Mina grabs the phone from your hands, entering in your passcode (how did she know it?!) and reading the texts. Her eyes blow open, pinching the screen to zoom in on the photo. You scramble to grab the phone back to quit her oogling as she's squealing with glee.

"Holy shit!" she yells. "Accident my ass, Blasty. Damn, that's hot."

"Mina! Keep your voice down," you beg, locking the screen to prevent anyone else from seeing.

"No one is listening over this music," she squawks, punching you lightly in the arm. "Come back to us soon you minx!"

And with that, she leaves you at the bar, returning to the dance circle with the rest of your girlfriends. Your phone vibrates a few more times in your hand and recaptures your attention.

[katsuki] thought you'd like a distraction [katsuki] shit, if this is weird, just tell me and i'll fuck off [katsuki] i should've just asked instead

So it was on purpose. You swallow hard as you shakily type out your reply, trying to keep your cool.

[you] it's not weird, what made you think of me? [katsuki] mina wouldn't shut the fuck up about you earlier. sent me pictures of you in the dress you have on, couldn't get it outta my head

When the fuck did Mina do that?! You had thought she was taking pictures of herself earlier at your apartment. That sneaky bitch!

[you] goddammit mina, i'm sorry about her. why would she send them to you?

You see the typing indicator pop up and disappear a few times before his response arrives.

[katsuki] you know how she is, playing matchmaker and shit with everybody [katsuki] honestly? i'm not mad about it [you] oh? [you] so that's why you sent it to me. hell of a pickup line kats [katsuki] fuck off [katsuki] i can't deny that you're gorgeous [you] yeah? feelings mutual

Your face is burning hot, sitting at the bar in disbelief that Bakugo's flirting with you. And it was all because he was infatuated with what you're wearing? He couldn't get it out of his head?

You're still debating on whether you want to yell at or thank Mina for igniting this fire. [katsuki] where are you right now? [you] sitting at the bar, some club in the city

Another picture is delivered to you on screen and has your jaw dropping to the floor.

The picture is closer to his face this time, cut off at his cheekbones and barely illuminated as Bakugo's fingers are parted over his mouth. His tongue is lazily hanging above his bottom lip with a string of salvia attached to one of his fingers.

Your legs twitch as you bite your lip, imagining his face slotted between your thighs.

[you] holy shit, katsuki...fuck [katsuki] find a bathroom or some dark corner [katsuki] there's more where that came from. just say the word, princess

The pet name is doing things to you that you didn't think was possible. Your overloaded with a sudden rush of arousal, heat twisting in your belly at his promise. Grabbing your bag from the chair, you bolt to the nearest bathroom and lock the door behind you. Luckily, this club's on the nicer side, the bathroom not being as scummy as you thought it would be. You set your things on the counter and grab your phone, turning the camera on and pointing it in the mirror.

If that's how he wanted to play? You could play right back.

[you] that deserves a reward

The photo attached shows your breast pushed closed together, daring to spill out of the top of your dress and wearing the poutiest lip you could muster.

Bakugo’s response is immediate.

[katsuki] goddamn, your tits look amazing in that dress [you] would you believe me if i said they look better out of it?

You turn the camera back on and click the record button, sensually slipping the top of your dress down and letting your breasts loosely lay over the bust. Your nipples are pebbled from the rousing desire flowing through you, making them standing perfectly at attention. You give the camera a wink and squeeze one of your breasts playfully. Once you're happy with the video, you send it with no hesitation and readjust your dress. [katsuki] holy fuck [katsuki] you alone? That's not the response you expected, but you roll with it. [you] yeah, one person bathroom

- Incoming Call: Katsuki Bakugo -

You stare at the contact screen for a few seconds before picking up.

"Hey Kat," you greet, nervousness wracking your body, the thrill of the situation making your heart flutter.

"I wanted 'ta hear your voice instead," Bakugo groans, heavy breaths following his words. "I never thought you'd...want to do this with me."

You can't help but laugh under your breath. "Never thought you wanted to, either."

You're thankful that your not drunk off your ass after all - you want to remember this. You're tipsy, but coherent.

And turned on to high heaven.

Bakugo breaks the silence before you cut him off. "I know you're fresh outta-"

"Katsuki, he's not worth mentioning. I'm focused on you right now."

"Yeah? Tell me more."

"I'd love to see what you're hiding under those sweats, Dynamight. I'm practically a puddle just thinking about it. How do you think my lips would look wrapped around you?"

You can hear Bakugo exhale into the phone and groan. He tries to hide it, but fails miserably.

"Cat got your tongue, huh? Too forward?"

"N-no. It's fuckin' hot. Shit," he whispers with baited breath. "God, what club are you at again?"

"The one near Shibuya station. Crystal Crown, I think. Why?"

There's a pause before you hear various clicks and a beep or two from his side before he answers.

"Changed my mind, this ain't happenin' over the phone the first time. You're 15 minutes from my place, I'm comin' to get ya."

You can feel your panties soak from your excitement, clenching at the thought of him just ravaging you in his car and not being able to make it back to his apartment before touching you like a man starved.

"Coming to sweep me off my feet or to fuck my brains out?" The words spill from your lips before you can stop them, but you don’t regret it when you hear Bakugo moan in response - loudly.

"Fuckin’ - have you been stockpilin’ this shit ‘ta say to me?" He laughs. “You’re gonna kill me before I leave the damn apartment.”

“Didn’t think you’d be so easy to play with,” you joke playfully, twirling a piece of your hair in your fingers. “Better get here before I change my mind, find some other rebound in this stupid club.”

“I’ll be your fuckin’ rebound any day of the week, sweetheart. Ain’t no guy in that building better than me.”

His confidence makes it difficult to bite back the moan in your throat.

“Guess you need to prove it. Get your ass over here, I’ll be out front. You better be wearing those sweats.”

You’re about to hang up when you hear Bakugo say something quietly, too muted for you to make out right away.

“Kats?”

He clears his throat before repeating himself, his voice soft and low. “You sure y’want this? I don’t wanna fuck anythin’ up or whatever.”

“You won’t fuck anything up, nothing wrong with friends fucking with no strings attached. I already flashed my tits at you, no turning back now.”

You subtly hear him let go of the breath he was holding and a hollow chuckle, sounding relieved at your answer.

“Good. See ya soon.”

The line ends with a click, leaving you with your thoughts while staring in the bathroom mirror. You didn’t realize how badly you’ve been shaking until you attempt to walk, unexpectedly stumbling like a baby deer on your heels. Once you gather yourself, you exit the bathroom and hurry over to the dance floor. Mina spots you, rolling her eyes and placing her hands on her hips when you approach the group.

“Where the hell have you been?!” She shouts over the music. “I was starting to think you died in there.”

“I’m heading home,” you say while waving your hand, brushing away her worries.

“Oh…oh my god. Is Bakugo coming to get you?!”

“Mina!”

Jiro and Uraraka turn in your direction, yelling in unison. “Bakugo?!?!”

You palm your face, desperately attempting to hide your flared cheeks as the girls squeal and cheer for you.

“Stop it! We’re still just friends!”

Mina clicks her tongue. “Uh-huh. That’s what I said about Kiri a year ago, and now look at us!”

“You gotta let us know how it goes,” Uraraka winks, elbowing you in the rib. "Rumor has it he lives up to his hero name in bed."

Before the interrogation continues, you back away from the group with a smile and turn for the entrance. You slide through the doors and slip out onto the sidewalk and see Bakugo parked out front, smiling as his eyes spot you on the busy street.

Has he ever smiled at you like that before?

He gets out of the car and walks around to greet you.

“Hey Katsu-”

Before you can process what’s happening, Bakugo’s got one hand on your waist and the other on the back of your neck. He gently leans you against the car as he swoops down to place a featherlight kiss to your lips. You squeak before melting into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. Sparks are flying through your whole body - a sensation you haven’t felt for a long time. When the two of you part, his eyes are half-lidded, cheeks flushed and lips parted with shallow breaths.

“Ready to go?” He asks, removing the hand from your neck and stroking your cheek with his thumb. Your heart is in your throat, strangling any words you try to say, so instead, you just nod ‘yes.�� Bakugo walks you to the passenger side and opens the door for you, just like any other time you’ve hung out. When he shuts the door and goes to walk to the drivers side, you finally notice he’s wearing the damn grey sweatpants.

The entire drive back to his place, Bakugo’s hand doesn’t leave your thigh. His fingers danced over your skin, playing with the hem of your dress and gingerly squeezing the plush surface every so often. You return the favor, walking your fingers up the inside of his thigh a few times, stopping short of the growing tent in his sweats. Pulling up to his apartment complex seems to take the breath out of both of you. He turns the car off and you sit idly in silence, it's only a minute or two, but feels like a lifetime.

Bakugo gets out first, jogging over to your side to open your door. He takes your hand as you stand, closing the door behind you and swiftly sweeping you off your feet into his arms, bridal style.

"Wow, do all the girls you bring home get this treatment?" you tease, planting a kiss on his warm cheek.

"Never had the pleasure of bringin' a princess home, so no."

That shuts you up and makes you quiver in his hold.

"I'm honored, sir Dynamight. Take me to your castle!" You swoon, dramatically leaning back with a hand over your head.

Bakugo shakes his head and grins, starting to jog through the parking lot and up the stairs with you. You hold onto his shoulders while giggling uncontrollably, ecstatic to see where the night takes you.

One things for certain - you haven't thought about your ex once. And you look forward to keeping it that way.

tags; @slayfics @maddietries

[justauthoring]

enigmatic.

dabi doesn't understand love, but that's okay, because he's never understood you either.

a/n -> i honestly don't know what this is but i wanted to write and i am NOT ready for next weeks mha episode so... here you go ;)

pairing -> touya "dabi" todoroki x f!reader

tw. -> mild spoilers? not really, but just incase. implied abuse.

you were a enigma to him.

he couldn't completely understand you in the way that he couldn't really understand most humans nowadays, but it was a little different with you. in small, miniscule ways that often happened beyond his comprehenson.

because you were kind and you were bright and you twinkled in a way that took his breath away and made his heart beat in a way he thought it no longer could. you were gentle, fingers brushing against his burnt and ruined skin and yet it felt like he could feel your soothing touches. and you smiled at him with that big warm smile and doe eyes and dabi just didn't understand one damn thing about it.

about you.

why you were here. why you were a villain. why what had happened to you had.

but most of all, he didn't understand why you chose him.

-

the first day dabi sees you is the day you joined the league of villains.

shigaraki introduces you as a new member, gesturing to you as all eyes, including his own, fall on you. it strikes him as odd, instantly, the way you smile at everyone. it's just so... un-villain like, as silly as that sounds.

because your smile isn't twisted nor is it guarded. you're not smiling for the sake of smiling but because you genuinely mean them.

stood in the back of the room like he always is, dabi watches you. watches as you introduce yourself to those who bother to ask, the way you laugh as toga comes bouncing up to you. you smile and laugh and talk and it's all so... normal.

dabi hates it.

most of all, he hates the way he can't look away.

-

"you're bleeding."

the next time dabi sees you, it's just the two of you.

"tch," dabi spits, meeting your eyes across the room. "where?"

you raies your hand and press it to your cheek. "there."

sure enough, dabi presses the pad of his finger against his burnt skin, feels the metal of the staples holding it all together and pulls back to see blood. it doesn't hurt, it's why he doesn't notice it — he doesn't really feel pain like that anymore.

his heart though?

his heart aches.

you don't say anything as dabi wipes it away, but he can feel your eyes on him.

"you need something else?"

the words are sharp, cruel, bordering on yelling.

and you don't flinch. your eyes don't widen. you don't get angry, either. really, you do nothing. you blink, and then shake your head. "no," and then, you turn and walk out the room.

dabi watches you, frowning.

-

it occurs to dabi he doesn't even know what your quirk is.

at least, not until now.

and for the first time in a long time, dabi watches someone use their quirk and thinks... you look beautiful. it's a confusing thought. dabi isn't even sure he understands the meaning of the word — not anymore.

not after what he's become.

and yet, he thinks it.

because you look graceful. and happy. and at peace. and despite your smiles earlier, those genuine, warm smiles, dabi thinks this is the first time he's seen you so at peace.

dabi thinks it's amazing a quirk make someone feel that way.

-

he walks in and you're standing in front of him naked.

dabi pauses, halting, and for a minute the two of you are just standing there. you're pressed against the sink, body twisted as you'd been trying to look at your back, but your motions stopped the second dabi came barging in and instead, you're just staring at him, wide eyed.

for the first time, you look afraid.

eyes lowering, dabi's eyes dance across the scars on your back. they're muted to the colour of your skin but they're there — bumpy and ridged and permanent. long, deep gashes across the entirety of your back; everywhere.

then, dabi meets your fearful eyes.

your lips part like you want to say something, but you continue to just tremble in front of him.

dabi doesn't know what to say. if it was anyone else, he would've just left. dabi long since stopped caring for the people he crossed paths with because that part of him was gone and yet since he's met you, you've changed that without evening knowing. he's spoken no more than a few words to you and yet, his eyes always find you in a room and his heart races at the sight of you.

his dead, still beating heart.

if it wasn't you, he wouldn't care. so what you had scars that looked like whipping marks? so what you looked so afraid?

dabi wouldn't care. he shouldn't.

yet, oddly, inexplicately, he does.

"do they hurt?"

he's not sure why he asks it. the words just leave his lips.

"no," you answer, finally gaining the courage. but you hesitate, face faltering; "at least, not... physically...—"

and you don't need to finish, because dabi understands. he doesn't feel the pain of his burnt, ruined skin nor does he feel it when he pulls the staples and makes himself bleed. but it still hurts.

strangely, you smile at that too.

-

in some weird twist of fate, something changes between the two of you after that.

it's unspoken. neither of you really still say all that much to each other, but your actions are different. softer. gentle.

you don't tell him when he's bleeding anymore, instead, you wipe the blood away for him. when you wake screaming from nightmares, dabi will come in your room and sit with you until you've calmed.

you tell him how you got your scars. tell him about your father and the things he did and the way you'd killed him the day before you joined the league of villains.

and dabi?

dabi tells you about endeavor. about who he is.

tells you about touya.

everything changes after that.

-

"i could die."

dabi's not sure why he says it. but the reality of it weighs on his mind and realistically, he knows it's a possibility. this was the cultimation of everything and dabi wasn't really sure if he'd come out alive on the other side of it.

dabi isn't really sure if he cares either.

"i know," you say after a moment, staring at him. "me too."

dabi blinks at you. "you scared?"

and you shrug, pressing your hand further against his chest. your fingers press into his skin, and then brush across his staples, and your eyes aren't on him anymore — not his eyes, at least. you eye him, in his completeness, and then, smile.

"no," you breathe. "this is what i've been waiting for."

dabi smiles at that, dark and twisted and not at all directed at you. "the battle to end it all, huh?" he muses, letting his eyes flicker up to the stained and ruined ceiling.

"i guess," you agree. "this is what you've been waiting for too, right?"

dabi turns back to you. "yeah."

your hand drifts, falling into the palm of his hand; you thread your fingers through his and squeeze. "i'll be sad about one thing, though."

dabi raises a brow; "yeah? what's that?"

"if we die, i won't get to see you anymore."

dabi blinks, shocked. he shifts, sitting up, and oddly finds himself touched by that; "you mean that?"

"yeah," you nod. "i mean, despite everything, i'm happy i found you."

it's sappy. it's sentimental. dabi should hate it. most of all, he should hate the way he relishes in the words. should hate the fact you say them and that he likes them.

and that he feels the same.

but he doesn't hate it.

dabi isn't sure if he loves you. he doesn't think he's capable of love, not anymore. but he knows he feels something for you, whatever that is, and in your own broken, twisted way, you've provided him with a sense of peace he hasn't felt in years.

so yeah, if dabi could feel happy, he'd say he's happy he found you too.

he squeezes your hand in return, soft and gentle and so unlike him and allows you to shift until you're leaning against his chest. slowly, you lean into him and dabi wraps his arm around your waist, and he allows himself this one moment of peace.

allows himself to hold you. allows himself to pretend that it was a different world and the two of you had found each other not broken and ruined as the result of your fathers but instead whole and happy and complete.

"yeah," he finds himself whispering, "me too."

[eldritch-spouse]

Bregs obsession being a weirdo who secretly collected his cum in a jar who knows how and breg walking in on them slurping it like a regular drink

[Oh, you're so gross. I love you. Fem reader.]

TW: Unsanitary (cum jar TW? I dunno, it's gross.)

He can't really believe it.

There must be something wrong with his mind, with his sight, he's hallucinating. He's finally gone mad and this is what his melting brain chooses to taunt the breeder with.

It could be worse, all things considered. He has to admit that.

Out of all the horrid things a greatly perturbed mind could pluck from its many shelves of unfortunate life happenings, Breg's brain was the least bit merciful- And in the wake of his spontaneous insanity, he's only shown projections of you, eating his cum like it's frosting on a cake.

The monster remains stock still, partially hidden behind the door to the kitchen, black skin shimmering slightly in the pitch black darkness of your home, the only thing providing any light being the open freezer.

Breg didn't plan to get up from bed tonight. Sure, he finds it hard to sleep as many hours as humans apparently require, but that doesn't mean he can't cuddle you or play with your hair while you're deep into slumber. It just so happened that he did nap for a while, and when he woke, you weren't there. This had raised in the male no small amount of anxiety, and he began looking around for his mate. Perhaps it was wise of Breg not to call out for you, because he would have missed this marvel of a sight.

There you were, a decently-sized glass jar in your hand. The type you'd used to store jams or fancy desserts, the substance inside was of a pretty solid white coloration, nothing too off, so he wondered if you were going to cook something at that untimely hour. Said assumption died as soon as little hands unscrewed the lid. His nose never fails him, that was definitely fluid... After a quiet snort, Breg balked.

His cum?

That... Definitely smelled like him.

He sniffed again just to be sure, pelted with his own musk, even if masked by the coldness.

Why- Why did you have a jar of his seed? When did this happen, for that matter? Breg wasn't that surprised, you make him so horny he basically agrees to everything you want when you're touching him, but that didn't make this any less odd.

Some part of him soured. Were you selling it?

Again, his expectations are flung out the window, as the breeder watched you lick your lips, cheeks heated, slipping a single finger right into that mess and shoving it right in your mouth, a string of it falling to your chin. Breg could see your throat shift when you swallowed, making a quiet sigh of what he could only hope was contentment, before repeating the gesture.

He swears to anything out there his cocks never sprung up so fast.

It hurts actually, to get hard that fast. His slit is stretched before having had the time to warm up, Breg bites into his arm to muffle a groan of equal parts relief and mild pain. He can feel the events unfolding before him being burned into his frontal lobe, something he'll keep fresh in his mind for a while to thrill himself with.

It's one of the most puzzling but also erotic things the breeder has ever seen in his time outside captivity. Your short, pretty, now cum-stained tongue laps at slick pink lips and you forgo sucking on your fingers entirely in favor of tipping the jar directly into your mouth.

Oh fuck him. Fuck yes, Gods above yes. You filthy thing.

Breg feels his eyes bulge out under the layer of skin hiding them, stiffening -In many ways- As you almost chug it, audibly swallowing down his seed like it's the sweetest, most addicting treat one could ever hope to taste. You were never the type to waste his offer, now that Breg thinks a little, but he had no idea you loved it this much.

His cocks practically ooze to the floor, he wants to cry out from how hard he is, but the monster doesn't think he could forgive himself if he ruined the moment. The vision. The dream. Whatever the Hell this is, hardly reality.

This has to mean you love him as much as he loves you. There's no other explanation, you want him so bad and you're so taken with him that you'd collect the fruits of your love and eat it. So that it always remains with you at some capacity. Sure, his cocks throb, but so does his heart.

And then you had to moan.

The voice of self-control in Breg sits down and shrugs, telling him to do whatever at this point. His legs power him forward immediately and the monster stalks into the kitchen without so much as a click of claws on tiled floors. He's behind you in seconds, hovering like an unseen shadow, having to suppress the chirp from deep inside his throat when you make a gross slurp.

Do that again and he'll fucking cum.

A fever seizes his arms. He slams the fridge door closed. You're jarringly turned around, the container in your hands tumbling to the ground, thick enough not to break upon contact. Although you yelp and prepare to scream, the air to do such with is forced out of your figure when he pushes you down by the shoulders, forcing you to land on your knees. He'll regret this later, but right now, he's got other, urgent goals in mind.

You can't see anything in this blackness, but Breg gets to ogle you, a wet cock nudging your cheek while the other hovers untouched.

" W- What- "

" Please please please please- " As if he had the mind to say anything else, guiding a precum-soaked member to your lips desperately.

" Breg, I- " There's something akin to shame and timidity in your face.

" Please angel- It'll be quick. I'll come for you, as many times as you want, please I'm so hard. "

You gawk in what would be the general direction of his face, and he whimpers like a kicked dog until you finally slip the insistent length into your mouth, working at it. Breg sighs, then moans, as you focus on torturing the most sensitive parts. He fists his other girth with a fury, intent on keeping his promise.

" You- You don't think I'm gross? " His sweet angel must be joking.

" I think you should just tell me when you want my cum. " He nearly growls, a large hand edging you back to work. " Please harder. "

It doesn't take too long before you get more than a generous reward. It's hot and fresh as it slides down your throat, coats your mouth, chin and chest, the breeder more than happy to let you wring the rest out of him with that eager little tongue.

You seem secretly satisfied. Perhaps, in the dark, you forgot he can see your face perfectly fine. Breg grins as he resumes stroking his members in front of you.

" M-More? " He suggests.

He wakes up long before you. As usual.

Breg's planning on doing some simple errands for you, but of course, he hasn't forgotten your present. How could he?

There's a nasty little smirk on his vastly featureless face as he calmly walks back to your now shared bedroom.

Your bedside table is graced with a hefty, slightly bigger white jar filled to the brim. Warm, and perhaps clumsily cleaned.

Breg kisses your cheek before getting ready to leave.

He loves his mate so much.

[acapelladitty]

Whole Day Off: The Apartment

Word Count: 7k (nsfw)

Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Reader

Summary: One week has passed since the basement incident and emotions are still running high. However, a knock on the door announces a late night visitor and with Jonathan Crane now standing in your apartment, perhaps it was time for some answers.

(warnings for: mentions of assault, threats, oral sex, piv sex, groping, mentions of drugs, mild d/s undertones)

The thick branches of the overhanging trees are dense enough to almost obscure the moon fully from your gaze as quick feet snap the thin twigs which line the uneven ground. Panicked gasps break free of your lips with every pace as your body sprints through the trees of Robinson Park, the chill of the Gotham evening nipping at your senses through the thin dress which hugs your body like a second skin.

Twisting your head, the hulking form pursuing you grows closer with every passing second and terror grips your heart as your attention falters, and you stumble in place for a heart-stopping moment.

It was one hesitation too many and you yelp as something hot and violent slams into your back.

Knocked to the harsh ground with a pained grunt, the sound of ripping fabric alerts you to the fact that the hem of your dress is in tatters, but that concern is immediately squashed by a sobbing horror as the creature descends on your prone form.

Sharp claws dig into your exposed wrists, forcing them against the muck of the forest floor as a heavy weight settles against your stomach.

“No!” You scream, arms and legs kicking out at the monster which pins you in place with obvious ease. “No! Get off me! NO!”

“Yes, witty girl.” An inhumane voice emits from the beast, familiar and yet utterly unknown. “And now to take what is mine.”

Razor teeth clamp around your neck, piercing through the skin like it was little more than butter, and the pain is so intense that you cannot even cry out as the air is sucked from your lungs. As darkness touches at your vision, a bestial growl reaches your ears while the teeth pull free of you, ripping a chunk of flesh from your neck with them as a spray of warm blood splashes your upper body.

Gasping in terror as you bolt upright from the couch, your hands fly to your neck in an instant as you fight to stem the flow of blood from your injuries. Feeling no torn skin or wetness there, they drop back to your chest just as quickly as reality sets in.

A nightmare.

Nothing more.

The sigh which escapes your lips blossoms in the quiet room. One week having passed since your incident in the basement, the lingering nightmares which accosted you were sparse but intense with each one ending in a destruction which you didn’t need to be a genius to figure out the meaning of.

Glancing over at the calendar which hung over the sideboard, its pages splashed with various farmyard animals, you could easily make out the marked day which you were due to return to work. Highlighted by several, messy red circles, your paid time off had been much appreciated and a quick lie about a familial death had ensured that the time would be given.

You didn’t like to lie, but the truth would have been a much more terrible burden to bear.

The first day following your experience of a true batch of fear toxin was awful. Even a reduced dose which had been swiftly provided with an antidote still afflicted some side-effects and you had spent the majority of the hours trapped between your bathroom and kitchen sink as waves of nausea ebbed and flowed. Mild cramps were another inconvenience but the pain there was massively overshadowed by the fatigue which gripped your frame and made the small journeys across your apartment seem like a pilgrimage.

But, with a little painkiller and a hell of a lot of water, it had passed, and the rest of your time had been spent catching up with odd bits of paperwork and cleaning out cupboards and drawers within your apartment that hadn’t seen such meticulous care since you had moved in. It was a deep clean which had been needed and one that allowed your mind to focus on something other than the messy thoughts which were always on the peripheral, just waiting to sink their claws into your mood.

You had not spoken to Crane.

The temptation is there, even now as you glance over at your phone. It would be easy to fire off a quick text message. Just a few shaky taps of the touchscreen could draft something resembling forgiveness or a rejection and then the limbo which you existed within would be laid to rest, one way or another.

However, it was an impossible task since neither option was one which you were willing to commit to fully.

To reject him would be dangerous and you were not stupid enough to believe that you would escape from such a rejection without losing a pound of flesh. That possessive streak which brimmed just below the surface of his stoicism would not allow for you to escape him so easily and the hurt that a rejection would inspire would no doubt result in another dose of his toxin.

He wouldn’t kill you.

That much you felt confident in.

This whole mess was his mistake, and he knew that well enough to let you leave the basement without any further hassle.

You don’t want to leave him. A merciless voice whispers at you from within. Even after everything, you still like his company and what he can give you.

Grimacing at the difficult truth, you kick your feet off the couch as you stand from your seated position.

A rejection was not what you wanted.

But you were also not ready to forgive as there were still questions which needed to be answered.

Your kitchen is spotless, the scent of bleach tickling your nose as you pull open your pantry and snatch free something simple for dinner. In no mood for anything which required effort, the allure of some tinned soup and buttered bread was a siren call which you could not even pretend to ignore.

It’s a quick meal and within half an hour you find yourself crawling back on the couch, the pleasant warmth of your recent meal making you feel slightly more invigorated as you relax against the pillows.

Reaching down, you grasp at the nearby remote and flick the TV on, ready to lose yourself in whatever overproduced cooking show that Food Network had to offer.

“-officials say. Mayor Wright has yet to give a public statement about the incident but sources report that he is recovering well and will be available to speak within the hour. Both the Joker and Harley Quinn have been taken into custody by the Batman and will return to Arkha-“

Ah, fuck.

The news.

Zoning out of the ongoing newscaster’s speech, your eyes zero in on the headlines below as they quickly absorb the details of the story. A failed attempt to kill the mayor at his own birthday party. Saved by the Batman. The Joker and Harley Quinn apprehended and thrown back in Arkham where they belong.

Harley Quinn.

Everyone knew the story of Harley Quinn and her fall from grace to become of the most dangerous women in the city. All because she fell in love with a monster.

Discomfort settling into your gut as you continue to watch, your mind wanders once again to your own monster.

Was Crane as much of a monster as the Joker?

Every part of you wants to scream no at the accusation. Crane didn’t seek out pure chaos like the Joker did. He didn’t kill people indiscriminately and with such an obvious and irreverent joy. He didn’t kill children.

But he was a monster.

He tortured people with his fear toxin, forcing them to face personal horrors before allowing many of them to die by his hands. He used his skills to advance his studies in a way which had utterly destroyed the lives of so many people. He didn’t care about anything aside from his research.

It was a truth which sparked guilt. A guilt which you could only soothe by telling yourself that your relationship with him was separate to his other work. You did not help him. You did not encourage him. You were innocent of that, at least.

Laying flat on the couch, your hastily eaten dinner now sitting much more heavily within your stomach, the circumstances were perfect for another short nap and you didn’t bother to challenge the sleep which came quickly to claim you as you sink into oblivion once again; a vague hope that the nightmares would allow you a little bit of peace being your final conscious thought as the darkness crept in.

x-x-x-x-x

A loud knock at the door pulls you from your sleep with a violent start as your eyes fly open and your breath catches in your throat. Groggily looking at the small clock which sits by your TV, you can faintly make out the late hour and confusion twitches at your expression as you wonder who the hell would be calling on you at this time of night.

Smoothing out the longline t-shirt which serves as your loungewear, its hem falling to just above your knees, you shuffle to your front door as another loud knock makes you jump once more. Lacking a peephole, you palm the metal baseball bat which sits in the umbrella stand by the side of your doorframe as you hesitantly unlock the door, leaving the chain on to ensure that it cannot open more than an inch or so.

You pull the door open slowly, a neutral expression on your features as you prepare to call out whoever is there for such a late disturbance, but the neutrality is shot to hell by the shock which overtakes you as you take in your visitor.

Standing on your doorstep and casting a shadow which blocked out most of the dim light, Crane looked so out of place that it took your brain a moment to process that he was actually there.

“Hello?”

Such a lame response but one you stood by as your fingers flexed around the metal bat just out of sight.

“Good evening.” He responded, the simple words sending a shudder through your spine as the familiarity of his voice sparked an unfair reaction.

His thin frame was mostly covered by a deep brown overcoat, the material worn-looking and frayed at certain edges in a way that spoke of its historic use. Peeking free from beneath the old coat, dark slacks and a wrinkled brown shirt finished off his simple ensemble with the only strange thing being the slight bulkiness of his right arm; the limb covered by the coat.

Nothing happens and the lack of event is agonising as your mind whirls with the limitless possibilities of his appearance. He didn’t appear to be angry. Or sorry. Or even happy to see you. He revelled in his typical stoicism and it sparks a nervousness which causes your feet to shuffle against your cheap carpet.

“May I come in?”

“Can I trust you?”

The question escapes before you can think about it, and you freeze in place at how harsh it sounds.

To his credit, he takes it in his stride as he leans closer to your slightly opened door.

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

The slight movement on his part causes his words to wash over you and you can detect the faintest hint of whisky on his breath. He doesn’t appear to be drunk, his eyes holding the pinpoint clarity which often promised trouble, and so you relent.

Stepping back to close the door, you unlatch the chain before opening it to him fully.

He slips within your apartment like a shade, closing the door behind him with a gentle tap of his foot, and his brow quirks as he takes in the metal bat which is still clasped between the fingers of your left hand.

“Should I be concerned?”

“What? Oh-” Dropping the bat back within the umbrella stand, a slight flush of embarrassment tinges your cheeks as you feel the need to explain yourself. “I keep it there fo-”

“I’ve lived in Gotham City for many years,” Crane cuts you off with a cough, “and I would be more concerned by any obvious lack of protection. Have you considered a gun?”

“No.”

So thrown off by seeing him in the hall of your shitty apartment, you can’t muster the necessary wit to enjoy a back and forth with him; instead your thoughts land on the stupid t-shirt your wearing as another flush of hot embarrassment floods you.

Fuck it.

It’s your apartment.

“My living room is through here.”

You guide him through, indicating the single plush armchair which serves at the only other seating within your living room which isn’t the couch that you had just been asleep on.

“It’s too late for me to get you anything to eat. Do you want a drink?” You offer.

Seated on the armchair, his answer is a stiff nod and his eyes refuse to leave your own, even as you turn your back to him and go to prepare you both some drinks.

“I have water, Pepsi, red wine, or vodka. Pepsi as the only mixer.”

“Vodka will do.”

Your eyes squint at the strange label, the majority of the writing in some language you cannot read and so you go by the pictures which coat the front of the bottle.

“I think it’s peach-flavoured. Is that okay?”

A grimace tilts his lips.

“Red wine, please.”

The wine sloshes dangerously inside the glasses as you pour it out and a flinch overtakes your frame as a soft creak of your flooring alerts you to the fact that he has moved from his seated position.

Turning in place, you watch as he approaches your kitchen area and shrugs off his brown overcoat before dropping it in a messy pile atop your kitchen table. As the fabric falls, his thin hands delve within it to pull free something which makes the wine bottle still clutched within your hand stutter for a moment.

His fear gauntlet.

Anxiety spikes your heart as you glance between the gauntlet as his expression while he inspects the wrist of it quietly. Why would he have brought it? The answer seems obvious but something about his presence tells you that it is not meant as a warning.

“Should I be concerned?” You mirror his earlier question back at him as you keep your spine stiff.

“Always, but not because of this.” He places the gauntlet atop his overcoat as he fixes you with his gaze once more. “I am developing a new compound so the toxin hidden within the gauntlet is the only viable solution I possess at the moment. And I never travel through Gotham without at least one dose on hand.”

“Have you considered a gun?”

His lips quirk into a smile which disappears just as quickly.

“My history with guns is an interesting one. They have their place.”

Handing him a glass of wine, he accepts it with a polite nod before returning to the armchair. His wrinkled shirt is much more apparent now - the clothing in such a mess that you suspect he may have slept in it - as you follow him quietly and sit on the edge of your couch with your legs tucking themselves under your ass.

Your dressing gown is laying out on your bed and it would take less than a minute to go and collect it but you resist the temptation, not wishing to appear uncomfortable in your own home. The t-shirt wasn’t ideal but it was better than the underwear which had also been one of your main outfits of the week.

“This apartment is nice.” Crane offers with a deadpan glance around the small space. “Not what I expected of you but not cluttered with useless ma-”

“Why are you here?”

The question of the hour.

It would have been kinder to indulge his pathetic attempt at small talk but the roiling emotions which are barely being repressed within your chest demand their answers.

His response is just as sudden, any pretence of disinterest dropping in a moment.

“I wanted to see you.”

“And you always do what you want.”

“Yes.” His confirmation is simple and undoubtedly honest. “I very rarely consider others when making my decisions, even less so when it comes to their emotional needs. It is not in my nature to think of others before myself.”

“Well,” you pause, taken aback by the apparent honesty, “at least you’re aware of it.”

His long legs were not built for your cheap armchair and his hands came to rest on his splayed knees as he pins you with his gaze, the wire-rimmed frames barely hiding the intensity of his look.

Refusing to back down from the comment, you hold it without flinching.

“The decision I made regarding Sionis and my toxin was the best decision for me to make in that moment, but I understand that my actions wronged you in doing so. His presence within our space caught me momentarily off-guard and I reacted accordingly.”

Our space.

Whether he noticed that slip in his speech, you didn’t know, but you are content to let him speak and explain himself as a traitorous warmth spread through your veins at the mild acknowledgement.

“I regret allowing him to put his hands on you and hit you. That was ugly to me, and I took no satisfaction in his words or actions towards you.” Pulling the glasses free of his face to punctuate his speech, he folds and drops them to the arm of the chair. “I do wish I had intervened much sooner, but I never thought he would have been so bold as to do what he did.”

“I will not warn you again, leave my subject alone.”

The memory of his expression flashes through your mind and to someone who was not familiar with him, it would be easily to miss. But you had seen it. The barely restrained anger. The distaste.

Yes. He had tried.

You could give him that much.

“I appreciate that.” You relent, giving credit where credit was due. “Sionis is a monster and he acts like one, but what hurt me more than his hands was how quickly you threw me under the bus with your toxin.”

Feeling emboldened by the fact that you were on home turf, paired by the fact that he had come to you, you allow yourself to air the grievances which simmered below your skin; the hurt there no less disappointing even after a week apart.

“The,” Crane pauses to consider his words as an odd look of uncertainty shadows his features, “understanding that you and I share is one which is built on a particular level of trust. Something which I’m sure comes as much of a surprise to you as it is does for me, possibly more so given my own inclinations. However, I broke an element of that trust and I apologise. Had the situation been reversed, I can’t deny that I would have also been furious by the loss of autonomy.”

“What if it happens again?”

Frustration at the fair question adds a certain curtness to his tone which does not go unnoticed.

“I will not allow this to happen again, I can give you my word on that. You will never again experience my toxin because of third party interests.”

A very specific promise, but one you can accept in the moment as your mind falls to earlier considerations.

“I’m no Harley Quinn.” You state, fingers anxiously playing with the hem of your long shirt. “I don’t want to be a criminal. I couldn’t live that life. I know who you are, what you are and what you have done. I can’t condone any of it and I won’t condone any of it.”

“I don’t expect you to.” His leg raises from the floor to cross over the other, a slight relaxation taking over his frame as he realises that the conversation had shifted from accusation to something approaching a negotiation.

A clarification.

“Then what are we doing?”

The neutrality of his expression is overtaken by confusion, his brows pinching together as he tilts his head to the side and encourages you to continue.

“What is going to happen here?” You gesture vaguely to the empty space between you, the divide marked nicely by the tacky, plush rug which sits atop your carpet. “Eventually, something will have to change. I will not give up my life and you will not give up yours. We both get something out of these meetings but-”

Uncertainty clamps your speech.

You could both find other people to fuck, that wasn’t the issue here, the issue was everything which surrounded it. However, to verbalise that sentiment felt taboo. A potential truth which would prefer to remain unspoken, understood in a way which prevented either party from having to truly define it.

“The future is unforeseeable and our fear of it is as natural as our fear of the void and the horrors which lurk within. However, I will admit that there is something pleasant about having a distractive element in my life which remains unconnected to my work or necessary criminality.”

The words are thoughtful, spoken as much to himself as they are to you, and the apparent honesty within them is refreshing.

Over your time together, there are many words which you could use to describe him if asked - with most of them not being considered the kindest. But a liar? No. He may obscure or flirt around the truth at times, but he hadn’t ever disrespected you with a direct lie.

He didn’t want things to change, and the implications of his words was undeniable.

You were his something pleasant.

That was probably the closest thing to a genuine recognition of anything you were getting, given the circumstances.

“And you won’t ever force me to do something that I don’t want to do?”

Understanding your meaning despite the wilfully broad question, his head shakes slowly and the movement agitates his russet hair, causing a few stands to fall over his forehead.

“At times your presence reminds me of an earlier point in my life and I would enjoy being able to selfishly cling to that for as long as possible. In the interests of total honesty, it would be,” he hesitates for a moment, “preferable for you to remain separate from my mainline work. Besides, you do not strike me as ‘Mistress of Fear’ type. You hold far too much spiteful anger to be of any clinical or rational use in practical fieldwork.”

It was a frankly rubbish attempt at humour, but it was enough to break what remained of the tension and you offer him up a deep sigh which swiftly turns to a soft smile as you incline your head in his direction.

It was as close to forgiveness as you are willing to offer.

Besides, you had missed him.

Rising from the couch, you don’t bother to fix the shirt which rides up your thigh as he matches your movements and stands at his full height; his long legs making short work of the distance as he strides forward to stand before you.

From this close, the scent of him is maddening in its familiarity. The sharp scent of unknown chemicals mixed with the deep musky cologne which was his preferred aftershave sparks an arousal within your chest as it elicited memories of your various games together. The phantom ache of his hands on your body creating a hitch in your breath.

Feeling bold, you make the first move. Tilting your head up, you push your lips against his own and bite back a moan as he responds immediately, his mouth parting to grant you access as his hands lock themselves around your arms to pull you flush against him.

The kiss is filthy but short as you pull away, your lips tingling from the unexpected pressure, and your hands are quick to match his own, latching around his thin wrists as he remains clinging to your hips. He tastes of cheap wine, it’s fruitiness sweet against your tongue.

A wicked idea alights within your mind, one which you suspect he may enjoy and, more importantly, one which will allow you to claw back a little of the dignity which he saw stripped from you. Pausing his hands as they move to grope at your chest, you pull his attention to your face as you fix him with a heated stare before flicking your eyes to the side.

“Ignoring some of the stuff I said earlier, I want to wear it.”

“It?” He follows your gaze to the kitchen table and a visible flush overtakes the heights of his cheeks as his eyes land on his beloved fear gauntlet. “Oh.”

You break free of him in a single fluid move, your body shifting like a dancer as you slip through the room into the kitchen and pluck the gauntlet from his coat. The metal is cool to the touch and you run a finger along the heft of it seductively before pushing your hand within the opening.

Flexing the glove, the mechanism laughable oversized on your hands and the clink of the metal is surprisingly loud in the quiet room as you test it out, unsure how the thing actually works. As you turn to face him, the gauntlet held with a false confidence in your right hand, the obvious tent in his slacks speaks more than his blank expression ever could.

A small part of you can feel the fraudulence at play, the desperate clamouring to show at least some level of dominance which speaks of your desire to not resign yourself to an unwilling victim. Your submission to him was something earner, a reward which blossomed from his ability to recognise your needs and not push your limits in a way which you would be unable to come back from.

He would earn it back by allowing you this.

Retaking your earlier position before him, you run the sharp tips of the syringes down the thin fabric of his shirt. Not enough to pierce through but enough that you can imagine the gooseflesh the ticklish sensation must be leaving in its wake.

His hands raise to his neck as he loosens the top few buttons of the shirt, willingly exposing a small patch of his defined collarbone and no doubt making himself a little more comfortable from the heated situation.

“Tempting isn’t it, witty girl?” He growls, the words going straight to your core as you shudder and consciously rub your thighs together. “It would be so easy to take your revenge right here and now. One quick indulgence and you could prove us both wrong.”

Backing off him, you drop to the couch with some grace, allowing the arm to prop up your back as you flex the gauntlet at him in invitation. He follows rapidly, his tall frame moving to loom over you as you stretch below him, your right hand playing softly with the clothed peak of your right nipple in an open tease.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you, Dr. Crane?” You purr, running the edges of the syringes against the dark fabric covering his thighs. “To make me stoop to your level.”

His acknowledgement is a hum as his eyes dart between the gauntlet which vaguely threatens his groin and the tantalising movements your hand is making against your chest.

“If you won’t force me to taste my toxin then at least let me taste you.”

Adopting a predatory look, he doesn’t wait for permission as he sinks to his knees before your couch and you gasp as his hands confidently push the hem of your oversized shirt up to expose the underwear below. Simple black cotton, nothing too exciting, but it makes no difference to him as his fingers hook within the elastic and pull them free of your ass – slipping them off as you adjust your body to allow the movement.

Your non-gloved fingers bunch within the fabric of your shirt as his stubble grazes against your inner thigh, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth are vicious as they sink into the sensitive skin of your thighs and the sudden shock of pleasurable pain makes you flinch in place, the metal of the gauntlet squeaking as you flex it without thinking.

The flat of his tongue is warm against your skin as he draws it slowly up your slit, his thumbs pressing into your skin to open you up to him and allow him free access to his prize. A cry, almost savage in its intensity, break free of you as his tongue grazes your clit – the pleasure stiffening your spine as you lounge back against the couch.

Settling into a rhythm, his pace is cruel as he refuses to relax in his attack on your sensitive sex; alternating between using his tongue and his lips as he ensures that no inch of your cunt remains safe from his ministrations. Licking, kissing, sucking, and nipping away at your core, the hot pleasure of his tongue pairs with the sharp pain of his teeth to melt whatever sanity remained within your skull.

Pressing the tips of the needles against his back, his body stiffens in surprise for a long moment before he pulls away and turns his face up at you.

“A change of heart?”

His question is a tease, the words breaking free of slick lips which are coated in the same arousal which stains the rest of his lower face.

“Only if you stop.” You gasp out between pants.

A victorious snarl escapes him as he dives back in with similar enthusiasm.

Through the rush of blood in your ears and the moans which are escaping your lips in a frantic rhythm, you can faintly hear the hum of his mouth. The sound one of appreciation as he drinks down everything you have to offer while the softly vibrating noises serve to spur you on. In a stunning move of utter wickedness, his lips gather around your ultra-sensitive clit and suck at it with a keen pressure.

The result is dramatic as you unleash a high-pitched yelp, the fear gauntlet going taut against his back as your other hand buries itself in his russet hair, forcing his head roughly against your soaking core as your orgasm hits.

Rocking against his mouth, unintelligible pleas erupt from your lips as he meets your enthusiastic release with his own excitement; his movements never hesitating despite the death-grip which must be harming his scalp as you pull at the hair there, uncaring of anything aside from the waves of wicked ecstasy which are rolling through your frame.

It passes quickly and you carefully discard the gauntlet on the couch as you push at him gently and stand up, your legs feeling loose.

“Bedroom?”

It’s all the invitation he needs as the cuff of his shirt comes up to wipe away at his messy chin.

“Lead the way.”

In such a small apartment, the journey lasts little more than a few seconds and your hands run down your sides to smooth your t-shirt as you cross the threshold of your bedroom. A childish anxiety ghosts at your frantic thoughts as you survey the basic bedroom, relief fresh as you realise that the space is tidy with no embarrassing items left around.

Pulling the dressing gown for your bed, the dark cotton sheets now marred by small flecks of light pink fluff, you drop it to the floor in an untidy heap.

His body is hot behind your own, his chest pressing against your back as his hands seize around your waist in a vice-like grip.

“Are you going to let me fuck you, witty girl?”

The unfamiliar crudeness pairing with the hard length which makes itself known against your hip inspires a wicked shudder across your skin as you go pliant within his grasp.

“I think I might.”

Your fingers once again fall to the hem of your t-shirt and his grip loosens as he allows you enough space to pull the fabric overhead; the movement exposing your entire frame to his hungry gaze as he takes in your braless state, the black cotton panties still discarded somewhere beside the couch which you had both recently occupied.

A girlish yelp slips free as you find yourself thrown down atop the soft sheets, the new position forcing you to stare up at Crane as his fingers move to unbutton his shirt. At some point, he had taken the time to roll his sleeves up to expose his forearms and the slight exposure is surprisingly erotic given his usual state of dress.

Your hands move quickly across your chest, fingers pausing to tweak at your peaked nipples. Almost in tandem, his hands drop to his fly and loosen his slacks enough to free his hardened cock. The slight glisten at his cockhead speaks of his excitement and your tongue flicks at your lips without thought.

“I didn’t bring any protection.” His voice is clipped, hoarse with his arousal as he palms his cock. “This was not an expected outcome of this visit.”

The temptation to ask just what those expectations were is strong, but you dismiss them to focus on more pressing needs.

“I’m on birth control,” you admit with an open shrug, “and I can pick up extra tomorrow.”

Your eyes flick between his face and cock as your foot comes up to slowly press against his thigh in open invitation as your legs widen slightly.

Watching the brazen spectacle, any hesitation flees in an instant as the full force of the Scarecrow descents on you in a flurry of movements.

His hands dig into the soft skin of your thigh as he pulls your body to the edge of the bed. The tip of his cock bumps against your slit messily and he releases your left thigh to wrap his fingers around his length; coating the head of his cock in your juices as he rubs himself along you roughly.

“Fuck me.” It was a demand and the second word catches in your throat as his cock grazes your clit, sending a bolt of pleasure through your groin. “Please, Dr. Crane.”

Sinking himself within you in one swift thrust, his groan of satisfaction merges with your own hiss of pained pleasure as the stretch takes you by surprise. His hips move back until he is almost free of you before slamming back, forcing you to take everything he has as he sets himself into an easy rhythm.

“I should be punishing you.” He growls out. “The Scarecrow does not take kindly to a little mouse who neglects her duties while also plaguing his thoughts with her wanton ways.”

Never relenting in his frantic pace, his words are surprisingly coherent if a little breathless and you curl your fingers into the sheets beneath your writhing frame.

“And how would he punish me?”

“He would begin by warming that lovely skin up with a belt to see how beautifully reddened and welted it would become. Then he would take his time to ensure that every inch of you received a thorough inspection. I think particular attention would be paid to certain areas which deserve more thorough testing.”

Finishing his small speech, the fingers of his left hand come to rest on your chest as they grope at the flesh there with a possessive, almost painful grip. Shuddering into it, a mewl of pleasure breaks free as you find your nipple captured between his thumb and forefinger with a wicked pressure, his tugging a notable threat of a much more intense future experience.

“Maybe such a test should be scheduled for my next visit to the basement? I would hate for my wicked doctor to feel that he was neglecting his patient.”

A victorious snarl curls at his lips as he sets into a more rapid pace, every thrust being met by your own a you push back to meet him with everything you have. It’s sloppy and chaotic, your mutual movements being guided by a selfish need for pleasure which neither of you were sure you would share again. Your nails carving soft crescent shapes into his forearms just as relentlessly as his hands grip at your flesh, groping and massaging with pure greed.

His release reaches him quicker than either of you could anticipate as his thrusting grows more frantic and brutal, every stroke within your walls feeling like a delicious assault until an animalistic growl spears the air between you. A hot warmth spreads through your core as he fills you with his release, the sensation different enough to your usual fucking to make you dig your heels into his back as you revel in it.

Riding out his orgasm, his thumb is rough as it presses against your clit to rub cruel circles into the sensitive nub. It straddles the line between pleasure and pain, the torturous sensation very quickly forcing you to writhe against him as you simultaneously beg for mercy and yet demand more.

He pulls free of you, his attention now focusing on ensuring your own completion and his wicked thumb pairing with the intensity of his gaze is enough to get you there as you come violently against his hand. Your fingers twisting into the cotton sheets, the wet mess of your slit is obscene as his release mixes with your own, spreading against his palm as he continues to draw you to madness with his talented thumb.

Before you could become too over-sensitive to his touch, his hand pulls free of your shuddering frame as he extracts himself from your jellied legs and drops to the bed by your side. In the quiet of the night, very little sounds invade the space between you which isn’t your shared breathing.

Feeling delightfully fucked as you enjoy the post-coital comedown, your hand presses against your chest and you can feel the frantic beat of your heart beneath the slightly reddened skin.

“Did you mean it?” His voice is loud in the quiet room and you tilt your head in his direction. From here, you can see the flush which sits high in his cheek as he tucks his cock away once more within his slacks.

“Mean what?”

“Do you agree to return to the basement? Willingly?”

“Yes, but on the condition that what I said earlier stands.”

His hum of approval is enough, and he sits upright with a small sigh which would be easy to mistake for an exhale. His russet hair is a shock of untidiness, the strands sticking up on end in areas but there is something relaxed within his features which hasn’t been there since he first crossed the threshold of your front door.

It’s surprisingly endearing.

“Stay with me?”

Again, your lips seem unwilling to allow your brain to dictate their actions as you throw the question at him softly.

Freezing in position, Crane covers the momentary hesitation on his part by turning to face you more clearly, his eyes locking to your own as he pauses to consider the meaningful request.

“Why?”

“Why not? You’ve seen my apartment now and we just fucked in my bed. Plus, it’s very late and you might as well stay the night.”

He remains unmoving and anxiety swirls in your chest as a fear you may have overstepped the mark cuts through your post-coital bliss. Regardless, you continue.

“Concerned about a little bed, Dr. Crane?”

“Concerned that a certain little mouse may finally come to her senses before dawn and attempt to kill me in my sleep.”

His reply is deadpan but the speed of it earns him a tired giggle as you shrug your shoulders.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could have used your gauntlet.”

A grunt of acknowledgement is his only response and your smile blooms slightly as he retakes his earlier position, laying back on the bed in his full shirt and slacks combo.

Feeling victorious, you wriggle your body further up the bed until your head falls against a familiar pillow. The mess between your legs would require an early morning clean-up but you were content to leave it for now, not wishing to disturb the peace too greatly.

Crane follows your lead but rather than suffer the indignity of wriggling across the bed, he stands fully before walking around the other side and dropping to the soft sheets once more. In all your time within the basement, you had never once witnessed a bed and you briefly wonder how long it must have been since he had truly lay down for a night sleep which wasn’t on his work chair or the ratty couch which often housed your fun.

The urge to reach over and press yourself against him gnawed at you like a beast, but the more rational part of your brain understood that such a movement would probably result in him choosing to leave.

It was better not to push it.

Sure, he would eat you out like a man possessed before fucking you senseless, but post-sex cuddling was beyond him in a way which make your heart clench in vague disappointment.

Stretching out fully, you turn to your side as fatigue claims your thoughts. You press out your foot almost without thought until it touches his calf, the skin there protected by his slacks. It was enough and the small piece of physical contact soothes some primal part of you as you press your head into the pillow and allow him to make himself comfortable in the space beside you.

In the grand scheme of things, very little would change.

Your life was your own and his world was one which you had no interest in experiencing.

By agreeing to return to his basement, you had sealed your fate. A fate of faintly addictive sex rounded out by a companionship which both parties were content to settle into.

No spoken commitments.

No unwarranted cruelty or betrayal.

No perceivable future.

I will admit that there is something pleasant about having a distractive element in my life which remains unconnected to my work or necessary criminality.

Something pleasant.

That, at least, you could probably do.

Also posted on AO3

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Prompt idea: We all know Crosby can’t sing, but nobody knows that Bubbles can sing quite well

Bubbles has a beautiful singing voice. When he was in Basic, the joke was that Payne not only looked like an angel, but he sang like one. He sang when they ran. He sang when they did push-ups. He sang when they hiked.

But when it came to navigator school, there just aren't places to sing. Bubbles and the other nav trainees prefer silence so they can concentrate. There's some common noises: throat clearings, chairs squeaking, pencils being sharpened, but nothing above a very quiet murmur from any of them in training.

The first time Harry panics and curls into a ball and stares at nothing, Bubbles curls around him without thinking. It's late at night. They're the only two up. Bubbles's had heard a quiet, pained sound and turned in time to see Harry curl like old leather in the sun.

It takes a couple of hours for Harry to uncurl. Bubbles doesn't let him go for another few minutes, not sure Harry even realizes he's uncurled and also not willing to move away before Harry knows it's Bubbles who was holding him and that he doesn't mind.

"Sorry," Harry murmurs.

"Did I help?" Bubbles asks.

"...yes."

"Then I ain't sorry," Bubbles says.

Harry doesn't say anything else, but he lays his hand over Bubbles's on his waist, and they hold onto each other a little longer.

*

"I overthink," Harry says to Bubbles two days later. They're jogging together like they have since they started nav training together. It wasn't a decision, really. Bubbles had gone for a jog and caught up to Harry, and Harry had said hello, and Bubbles had felt like it was right to keep pace. They'd exchanged the usual name-hometown-did-you-try-to-be-a-pilot information, and then it'd gone easily into more details.

"I see it," Bubbles says. "It's odd to me because it never seems to happen in front of me."

"Something about you bypasses the overthinking," Harry says. "I don't know what it is. I don't even overthink it when I'm alone, which is usually when it hits."

"Well, I'm glad of that," Bubbles says because he is. "I like you lots, Harry, and I'm glad your brain likes me."

Harry ducks his head and is quiet for a few seconds. "Not just my brain," he says.

Bubbles shifts so he can bump Harry with his whole left side. "Good," he says.

Harry laughs and bumps him back.

*

The next time Harry goes curled up and worried in bed, Bubbles curls up behind him again and thinks about what Harry told him. That something in Harry's brain goes quiet when Bubbles is near.

But Harry's body clearly isn't fully touching his brain because he's still tightly curled ten minutes later.

Bubbles, going on instinct, tucks his nose behind Harry's ear and starts singing quietly, starting at the chorus:

How long would it take me To be near if you beckon? Off hand I would figure Less than a second

Do you think I'll remember How you looked when you smile? Only forever That's puttin' it mild

Harry uncurls like the sun's rising high in the sky and he's a pretty flower. He turns to face Bubbles as he sings the chorus a second time:

How long would it take me To be near if you beckon? Off hand I would figure Less than a second

He snickers and touches their foreheads together. "Bing? Really? With a name like mine?"

Bubbles grins and presses his thumb to the corner of Harry's smile, testing the waters. Harry looks him in the eyes as he presses a kiss to Bubbles's thumb. Bubbles feels warm and proud and right at seeing the confidence Harry carries hand-in-hand with his overthinking coming to the forefront because Bubbles's message is unmistakably sharp.

Their first kiss is sweetened by Harry humming the next verse completely off-tune and terrible. They're a perfect fit, Bubbles thinks, A Crosby who can't sing a note, and a Payne who can take it away with a pretty voice.

"Sing me another," Harry says, tucking a hand around the back of Bubbles's neck. And it's nothing to meet that sweet request.

[rising-volteccers]

Heya! Thank you so much for reading and enjoying my fics! I wasn't sure how to show the submission so I decided to break it into images like this. Out of all the prompts, I decided to go with the first one! The premise is there but the plot certainly derailed so I hope it'll still be an enjoyable read!

Series: Pokemon Horizons

Characters: Friede, Orla

Mild warning for descriptions of a character experiencing a panic attack and injuries.

--

Friede woke up to total darkness and a frantic voice uttering gibberish. He had no idea where he was or how he had ended up there. All he knew was he hurt all over, from the top of his head all the way to his toes–or he would, if not for the fact that one of his legs was absolutely throbbing.

Panic instinctively swelled within him but he swiftly showed it down with a heavy swallow. Panicking during an unknown situation often spelled disaster–or it already struck and he was now experiencing the aftermath. Right now, he bemoaned the slight memory loss, as if his working memory wasn’t already poor. 

Friede tried to move his legs. It yielded mixed results. He could only move one leg while the other didn’t move–and it hurt, so much so that he gasped out loud.

“Friede!? Friede are you awake? Can you hear me?” That frantic voice had since lost the gibberish quality. It sounded familiar but he couldn’t put a finger on a face right now in account of the panic that resurfaced, speeding up his breathing.

He took back what he said about panic. It was good. Great even. It was such a perfect reaction right now that he couldn’t possibly not panic.

“Friede please, try to calm down!” the voice pleaded. Friede felt a hand probing his arm, trailing down from his shoulder till it found his clenched fists. He felt fingers slowly prying it open so he wasn’t digging crescent moons into his palm. The warm hand that slipped into his had an oddly calming effect, and he grasped back like his life depended on it.

“That’s it, you’re not alone. I’m here. Do you remember how Mollie taught you those breathing exercises? In for four, hold for seven and out for eight? Can you do that together with me?”

Well, seeing that he somehow found himself submerged deep in an ocean where the light didn’t shine and pressure was caving his ribs in, this voice was making quite the impossible request. Yet the part of his brain that didn’t fully dissolve into senseless panic felt like he should give it a shot, if only because the voice dripped with worry. 

So Friede tried to follow the rhythm set by the voice. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He coughed initially from getting a lungful of dust but he forced himself to continue on through ragged breaths. Against all odds, Friede eventually realized he wasn’t drowning on air. He still didn’t know where he was, only that he laid down on something hard with sharp bits digging into his spine, and that the voice belonged to someone he knew all too well.

“Orla…?” he gasped, eyes sliding shut once the panic receded, leaving behind a bone deep exhaustion that he didn’t need on top of the full body hurt. 

“Yes, it’s me. Oh thank goodness you woke up…” Orla’s voice sounded watery. Friede wished he could see her expression but their surroundings still remained dark.

“Ugh,” came his very eloquent response. Friede hesitantly tried to move his arms. He knew that the one connected to the hand that Orla grasped was functioning but it relieved him that both responded to the command. With his free hand, he reached up and touched his aching head. Something warm and sticky met his fingertips, and his hair felt matted down.

Ah, that probably caused the memory loss.

Next, he tried to move his legs again. With more neurons connecting in his brain, he felt something heavy pressing down on his… right leg. He couldn’t move that leg, only feel them even if it was just a lot of pain. 

Distantly he recalled that feeling something was better than nothing when it came to one’s limbs getting trapped in some shape or form. By no means was it a good something, but still something.

His cautious experimentation still made him gasp in pain. The hand that Orla held squeezed in response.

“Don’t move! Y-Your leg, I think it’s pinned down by one of the rocks and I’m not strong enough to move it without risking it–just I don’t want to make things worse for you.” Orla’s voice gained a frantic edge to it. Seeing that he somehow caused it, Friede squeezed her hand back. That made her fall silent.

“I won’t. Don’t worry.” Despite feeling a slight metallic taste in his mouth, the assurance came easily. “Gotta be honest, don’t remember much. Think I can plead a head injury this time so no getting on my case about it.”

Orla wheezed out a cross between a chuckle and a sigh. “Of course you’d joke around about that,” she murmured, giving his hand another squeeze. “We were tasked in finding materials to repair the ship with. We eventually found a cave, and I wanted to see if there were any nice stones to use. Then…” A soft, shuddery breath. “The ground started shaking. You said it wasn’t natural and we were heading back out when…”

She fell deathly silent after that. While her retelling didn’t loosen the cobwebs for him, Friede had enough facts to work on to deduce that they got caught in a cave-in. That explained the total darkness, musty scent and his trapped leg. 

“Man, this is rough,” was the only response he could give right now. Friede had plenty of choice words to say about this situation that wasn’t family friendly. The only reason why he held his tongue was because he didn’t want to stress Orla out by his uncharacteristic cursing. “Then the reason why my leg’s pinned is…”

In the darkened silence, the soft sniffle might as well have been lightning with how quickly it struck Friede. Suddenly his pain felt insignificant. He wanted nothing more to assure Orla, to wipe the hot tears sliding down her cheeks. Small droplets hit his exposed cheek, and Friede saw the vague outline of her body hovering above his.

“Y-You… you pulled me back when the ceiling collapsed. You weren’t fast enough to get away and… I’m so sorry Friede. You got hurt because of me.” 

Her quiet sobs tore his heart to pieces. It hurt more at that moment to hear the usually cheery, confident Orla cry. Friede hated hearing it back when they were kids and he spooked her by falling out of tree. That feeling never changed, and now he despised the fact that she cried because of him. Because he chose to protect her, as it would always be his choice to do so regardless of the situation. 

“Hey Oreo, don’t cry,” he murmured, using an old childhood nickname. Friede gently freed his hand from Orla’s grasp, mimicking her prior action but in reverse by running his hand up the side of her arm till his hand gently cupped her cold cheek. By feeling alone, he gently brushed the wetness with his thumb.

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened. I chose to protect you. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“But…”

“Not buts, ifs or anything that’ll feed whatever nasty thoughts your brain is telling you.”

That drew out a short, watery chuckle. Her soft breath warmed his palm. “Isn’t that what I said to you once? Using my words against me now?”

“Yep, no regrets.” A brief pause, where he adopted a slightly more serious tone. “Trust me, I know it’s hard but I want you to not feel guilty about this. It’s my choice, I don’t regret it.”

Several beats of silence passed before she released a soft sigh. “I’ll consider it when we get out of here and you get treated. I tried my best but it’s hard to do much when I can barely see. All I really know is that your leg is trapped and you’ve got a head wound.”

“Yeah, I guessed as much. If it makes you feel better I still feel something. That something’s a boat load of pain, and I’m guessing adrenaline’s taking the worst of the edge of but it’s better than nothing.”

Vaguely he spotted light movement, likely shaking her head. “In a strange way, yeah it kind of does.” Another pause. “Just… hang tight, alright? I’m sure help’s coming soon enough. Metagross was waiting outside when the cave collapsed so knowing it, I’m sure it would alert everyone else.”

As if the universe took pity on them or decided that the timing was absurdly funny, gravel slowly shifted from the pile of rocks separating them from the opening. The pair held their breath, worried that it’d collapse inwards but instead, they heard faint voices. 

“...iede? Orla? Are you in there?” Murdock’s voice sounded muffled but close. Real close. 

“Murdock! Murdock we’re in here!” Orla shouted back. Friede felt hope surging within him at the prospect of getting rescued. 

“Orla? Are you alright? Is Friede with you?” This time, Mollie’s voice came through. 

“I’m doing alright but Friede… he’s hurt and trapped. We need help!”

“Alright, stay put. We’ll get you two out of there soon.” After that, Friede heard no more voices. Knowing that help finally arrived made Orla weak with relief. He heard her heaved out a deep sigh that shook around the edges.

“Guess I didn’t have to hang tight for long,” Friede quipped, trying his best to keep pain from seeping into his voice. It seemed that his body decided he no longer needed distraction so he was really feeling the effects of having one leg be trapped underneath rubble.

Orla’s hand found his again, this time holding it with both of hers. She gave it a brief but firm squeeze.

“We’re going to free you and get you treated. Just hang on a little longer.”

A shaky breath escaped his lips. “I’ll try.”

The first beam of light that filtered through from a hole that appeared was like watching the sunrise; instilling a whole lot of emotions within him. Slowly, the hole got larger as more of the rubble were carefully cleared away. Friede guessed that Orla’s Metagross was using its powerful psychic abilities to speed up the process.

Mollie didn’t waste time in squeezing through once the opening was big enough. She quickly reached their side, a sharp exhale the only indication of her surprise before she fell into her usual cool, professional demeanor. 

“I’m going to need Metagross’s help in lifting this. What can you immediately tell me?” Mollie asked, gingerly inspecting his head wound.

“Head hurts. Leg hurts more,” was Friede’s straightforward response through gritted teeth. 

Mollie nodded. She did some treatment that Friede slowly lost track off seeing that his attention laid solely in keeping himself calm from the steadily rising pain. At some point, Murdock had crouched by his side too. Guess that meant the rubble was cleared up enough that Metagross could now enter.

“Alright, have Metagross slowly lift this from his leg Orla,” Mollie instructed, then turned to him. “This is going to hurt.”

Like it’d hurt worse than what he was experiencing right now. Still, Friede severely underestimated the effects of having his leg finally be freed. The vague numbness that had been creeping up for the past however long disappeared. Sharp, stabbing pain rushed through his leg, moving up his entire body before stopping to do a drum roll right in the middle of his head.

A sharp hiss slipped out. Mollie started to say something but his vision was greying out and he thought it was Orla that squeezed his hand and–

The next time he regained consciousness, Friede found it to be much pleasant than before. A distant part of his brain pointed out the infirmary’s ceiling after some solid blinking. He took his sweet time to make some observations, namely that the pain was at a manageable level and that one of his legs felt like they were encased in concrete.

Oh, and that Orla was apparently asleep by his bedside, head resting atop folded arms. He spotted bandages covering her hands and what peeked out from the sleeves. His memory returned in startling clarity, which was a first for him.

Both of them were caught in a cave-in where he protected her from getting hurt but wound up getting one of his legs trapped. He carefully tested stuff out by wiggling his toes, mildly relieved that it responded to the command. The sigh that he exhaled must have been louder than expected or Orla wasn’t as deep asleep as he thought.

She shifted, eyes slowly fluttering open. When her gaze wandered to him, her eyes snapped open as she sat up with a, “Friede, you’re up!”

“Mmhm, just about,” he replied, managing a small smile. “Guess I passed out, huh?”

“Yeah. Not surprising considering…” Her eyes darted to his leg underneath the blanket covering his lower half. “Well, good news is that miraculously, it’s not broken. Bad news is that it’s still a fracture, so you’re going to have to take it easy for at least a month or two.”

Friede couldn’t help but groan out loud. He really wasn’t looking forward to using crutches to get around, not to mention he’d be unable to fly on Charizard throughout the healing process. Sensing what appeared to be bandages on his forehead, he asked, “Right, and what’s the damage to my face?”

“Probably a light scar but you can easily hide it with your bangs. All things considered, we honestly were lucky to get out of that with only a fractured leg as the worst of the injuries.”

He heaved out a deep sigh but no more complaints passed his lips. Friede knew Orla was correct. The fact that he received an injury he could recover from (albeit slowly) was leagues better than something permanent.

Friede quietly took her in after that. “What about you?”

“Just some cuts and bruises. Nothing as bad as yours.” Her light smile dropped, and Friede could almost hear the guilt running rampant in her mind.

“We’re out and I got treatment. Time for you to consider not to feel guilty about this.”

Orla briefly looked surprised, the she sighed, her lips lifting up slightly. “That easy to tell, huh?”

“How long have we known each other for?” Then he added in a quieter voice. “I know you as well as you know me. I don’t regret my action, Orla. I’ll always choose to protect you cause you’re precious to me.”

Silence briefly enveloped them. Orla eventually broke it with a whispered, “You’re precious to me too Friede. I was scared I’d lose you.”

He pulled off one of his confident smirks, which would have been more convincing if he wasn’t laid up on the infirmary bed. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Orla.”

A soft exhale. “I suppose I’m not. You’re far too stubborn.”

“And you love me for it.”

Friede and Orla gazed at each other after that. Slowly their smiles grew softer, and Orla leaned down to softly press her lips against Friede’s. 

“I do.” 

[underforeversgrace]

same memory (different perspective)

title: same memory (different perspective)

Words: 3843

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence/Dissection

Summary: It’s just chores, just him cleaning the lab. It’s just a normal day and he’s definitely fine. His fight or flight instinct definitely isn’t screaming at every single atom in himself to run.

Prompts: At end of story

AO3

Danny was fine. He was absolutely fine, thank you very much. His jeans definitely weren’t getting coated with sweat, both from his constantly wiping his damp hands against them or the uncomfortable heat in his legs, despite the chill he felt everywhere else. His chest definitely didn’t feel tight, like his lungs and heart were shoved into a mouse trap. He was absolutely fine.

He bit at his lip, focusing on the breathing techniques Jazz had taught him. It was supposed to help, she’d repeatedly assured him. But he didn’t understand how breathing was supposed to help, when his chest was too small for lungs to expand, when his heart kept forgetting how to beat, when his skin felt like a costume he was trapped in. He didn’t need to breathe, didn’t need his heart to pump. But that didn’t make the pain any easier.

But he was fine! He. Was. Fine.

Several more breaths passed - in through the nose, out through the mouth - before he was able to push open the door separating the kitchen from the lab’s stairs. Danny forced his feet to carry him forward, though his body felt far heavier than it usually did.

He was acutely aware, for the first time, of the floor’s transition between the two areas. The bright, warm linoleum of the kitchen suddenly giving way to cold, hard silver tile. Hm, the floor was like him. His human half bright and warm, his ghost half cold and hard. Polar opposites yet existing beside each other, an immediate change from one to the other. Oh, yeah, he was definitely fine. These were definitely normal thoughts to have, definitely not just him trying to find any and every excuse to delay his descent.

Allowing himself another moment and more deep breathing, Danny finally continued his trudge down the stairs, a protective hand on his cramping stomach. He didn’t understand how that could even hurt now. The cold bit at his nose. It had been so long since he felt the cold, since… before. He’d forgotten how irritating it could be. He longed for warmth to come back.

Danny’s feet echoed in the space as he stepped off the bottom step, the stench of spilt ectoplasm assaulting him. 

Chores. He just needed to do his chores. He had been putting this off for a month and his parents were getting upset. He desperately didn’t want them to be upset with him. He told himself that it was just because he didn’t want them to keep a closer eye on him or take away his bedroom door or whatever, something mild that could risk his secret. He wasn’t afraid of them. He wasn’t.

His eyes immediately pulled to the far side of the room, opposite the portal. Trash needed to be picked up. Things needed to be cleaned and put away. Weapons need to be reloaded. His mind swapped to autopilot. He forgot how to feel anything - feel the cold stabbing his skin, feel the coils in stomach, feel the odd stutters in his chest. His mind fell into a willful fog. Trash found its way into a biohazard bin - it was all covered in ectoplasm anyway. How old is some of this ectoplasm? 

The thought managed to penetrate his carefully crafted oblivion and he flinched. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. Look at the pizza boxes, those are safe. Ha, there’s even ectoplasm on them! It’s a miracle Jack hadn’t been contaminated, hadn’t ever questioned how Jack managed to avoid contamination entirely yet Danny was so ecto-contaminated he set off all the Fenton weapons. Yeah. As far as they knew, Danny just had some small ecto contamination. What else could it be? It wasn’t like their son was a ghost!

…Maybe this train of thought wasn’t helping, either. Get trash. Place in bin. Get trash. Place in bin. Nothing else. No other thoughts. Nothing else existed. Just perfectly normal trash going in the perfectly normal biohazard bin.

Time passed oddly in this state. Was time even real? Had Clockwork destroyed time?

Why hadn’t Clockwork stopped time?

Again, an intrusive thought, one he had no answer to. Not helpful. Not helpful!

He glanced around the half of the room he was in, realizing all trash had been removed.

Wordlessly, soundlessly, Danny went to the weapons on Jack’s workbench. For spending so long as a ghost, Danny had never felt as wraith-like as he did at this moment, so much like a shadow of himself.

Still on automatic, Danny began picking up guns. He wiped them off of the ectoplasm splatters around the ends of the barrels. Emptied the spent cartridges into his palm. Pulled new ones from the storage beside him, loading the new energy sources of swirling green back in, cocking the gun so it was ready to fire. Maybe he shouldn’t do that. Maybe he shouldn’t make it easier for them to finish killing him. But he couldn’t leave them helpless. It may be another ghost they ran into. Their weapons had to be ready.

With each gun - ranging in size from a miniature pistol to the comically large bazooka - Danny made sure he didn’t think. Clean. Unload. Load. Prep. There was no worries about safeties on any of these. Ectoguns didn’t hurt humans and all ghosts were evil. Only one of the weapons did he ignore. A new one. It was coated in an ecto repellant. He couldn’t touch it even if he wanted. He didn’t even want to look at it, much less touch it. He’d already touched it once. Or, well, it had touched him? Regardless of semantics, he still had the fork shaped scars over his core to show for it.

Danny hung the weapons on their designated hooks on the wall. Maddie had at least been trying to get the place more organized. She was, after all, certain that Phantom had stolen something when he escaped. She had to figure out what was stolen.

The young ghost child wondered when, or even if, she would realize nothing was stolen. Phantom had taken nothing.

He’d left far more behind.

Once the weapons and trash were cleared, there wasn’t much left to do on this side of the lab. A quick wipe down of the desk, some splotches of ectoplasm to mop up off the floors and scrub off the walls.

All too soon, he was done with this half of the room. But it had been an ordeal more taxing than Pariah Dark had been. And this was the easy half of the room. He’d barely managed to keep his mind buried far enough in his body to finish. How was he going to do the other side?

But he had to. He was strong. He could do this.

Still, he delayed. He studied his hands, suddenly the most fascinating things he’d ever seen in his life. Completely, utterly human.

Well. If he ignored the thin pink lines that scarred his wrists, wrapping around both.

Breathe. Take a breath. Danny turned his body, studying the part of the lab immediately to the portal’s right.

The acidic bite of ectoplasm only got worse as he moved closer to the portal, though he kept the left side out of his line of sight.

There wasn’t much to do on this side and Danny wasn’t too sure how he felt about that. On one hand, elation that the less work he had to do, the sooner he’d been done. On the other, though, the fear and dread of knowing he was also sooner going to have to face what was behind him. And that terrified him. But for now, there was Maddie’s desk to tend to - much cleaner than Jack’s - and a storage closet beside it. Very little ectoplasm splattered around on this side, or so he thought until he moved a box that he realized was open, scalpels stained green falling to the floor. Grabbing those took more willpower than he thought he’d had, but he managed to at least drop them in the nearby lab sink before doing his best to purge the memory of that sight from his mind, turning back to the easy tasks.

Danny threw trash away and wiped up the occasional spill before focusing on the storage closet. Those were his least favorite things to clean, even on a good day. The amount of sandwiches Jack had forgotten in there long enough to mold was frankly concerning. But at least closets were normally safe. They tended to just have papers and the aforementioned forgotten food. Danny thought nothing of it as he pulled open the double doors, his half-present mind just thinking about all the paper he was about to see.

As soon as the doors came open, though, his useless breath left his useless body as he clutched at his upper chest, wide eyed and desperately trying not to vomit food he didn’t have.

Jars had replaced the paper he’d suspected, no sign of rotting food anywhere. Just the ethereal glow of glass jars filled to the brim with ectoplasm, slightly darker green things floating within.

Danny whipped around, desperate to get away from the sight, scrambling forward. In his desperation, he slipped, but caught himself on the edge of something cold and smooth, though it was as slick as the floor beneath him.

His entire body trembled as he fought to get into an autopilot deep enough that he wouldn’t see, wouldn’t feel, wouldn’t think, but terror pierced through. Fight or flight response triggered, no time to be mindless, yet his body wouldn’t move to allow flight (literally or figuratively) and there was nothing to fight here. He was a deer caught in headlights, unable to avoid the car barreling at him despite having time to do so.

He didn’t know why he was surprised. He’d know what they’d done a month ago. Maybe he’d simply expected them to clean up the ectoplasm within the past month, rather than letting it congeal into the slippery, sticky slop that surrounded and coated the table and ground. Maybe he’d expected his parents to not ask their fifteen year old son to clean up a supposedly biohazardous material or to warn him there were ghost organs, bottled like pickles in the storage closet.

That was foolish of him, though. He knew his parents. For the past month, they’d been so obsessed with finding Phantom, so sure that ghost was plotting his revenge. They hadn’t even noticed their son missing for two weeks. Whether they had assumed he was spending time with friends since it was summer vacation or they genuinely had not noticed Danny was gone, he didn’t know. But he knew them. He heard them talk about all their plans to get Phantom back on that table whenever he dared show his face again.

The metal table that was currently the only thing keeping Danny from collapsing. Of course, it was the metal table that kept him standing when a month ago it had held him down mercilessly. Everything, it always came back to this metal table. Haunted him, tortured him with nightmares of the table even as he tried desperately to simply sleep. This table refused to leave his mind, whether asleep or awake, human or ghost.

A feeling of nausea settled deep into him as he squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to smooth and calm his ragged, terrified breathing. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. Surely, his parents would understand. He wasn’t used to working with ectoplasm. Ectoplasm was a mysterious, dangerous subject to him. Of course he wouldn’t be equipped to clean it, as far as his parents knew. All he had to do was get out of this lab.

“Danny?” A feminine voice behind him called, soft footsteps coming down the steps.

Phantom pain ripped down his entire body at her voice. He couldn’t call her mother anymore. Couldn’t see her as anything more than a blue predator with eyes like a bug. Her footsteps continued to draw closer. “Oh, drat. I meant to tell you to leave this part of the lab alone! Your father is supposed to be cleaning it this evening. Are you alright?”

Breathe. Breathe. BREATHE.

Danny shakily pulled his hands off the table, turning and facing Maddie. He did not like her behind him. She was a carnivorous creature that he couldn’t let his vulnerable spots. “Fine. Smells.” Talking was difficult and the words sounded like gravel.

Maddie nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is more ectoplasm than you’re used to, hm? Can be quite pungent. You can go ahead and head upstairs, Jack’ll finish this tonight.”

Moving slowly enough to not slip on the congealed green goop under his feet, he moved towards the exit, those stairs a beautiful light at the end of a dark tunnel.

He was almost free, again, when Maddie pulled something up on her computer. Normally, he’d have ignored it, except for the word flashing across the top of the screen.

Large, bold, and red flashed the word: HUMAN.

“What’re you working on?” Danny asked cautiously.

“Oh, it’s the most fascinating thing!” Maddie said, excitement lighting up her eyes. Danny was idly relieved that she’d kept the googles on a month ago. He had no doubt she’d had the same sparkle in her eyes then as she did now, a thought that did nothing to settle the anxiety shooting within him. “Remember how we caught Phantom?”

A rough nod, a deep seated uncomfort strangling him.

“Turns out, he’s half human!”

“What?”

“It’s true! The samples we took confirm it! Somehow, Phantom’s part human.”

Hope. A little, tiny seed of hope. “Does that mean you’ll stop hunting him? Being human and all?”

The seed was very quickly drowned, set on fire, buried deep into the earth, and thrown into a volcano as Maddie shook her head. “No reason to. He’s still mostly ghost, still not sentient. And he may be an even bigger boon to science, beyond the scope of ectology! What if small snippets of ectoplasm could be merged with human cells? It could cure illnesses, extend life itself! Look at this!”

Danny’s feet didn’t work. He couldn’t move as she minimized the file, double clicking on another one on her desktop and again the feeling of all of his insides clenching violently consumed him.

He was on the screen. Phantom, tied down, jumpsuit ripped off his form. Based on the angle in the video, Danny suspected there was a camera implanted in the ceiling above the table.

Maddie appeared to have been watching it earlier, the video was clearly around the middle of the…event. Green leaked from every part of him, on screen. He remembered. Every cut. Every gagged scream. This was, however, the most unpleasant thing he’d ever seen. There was something incredibly wrong about seeing straight into your own rib cage, body split apart and ripped open, flaps of skin pinned to yourself to make sure nothing obstructed their access. Other wounds littered him, that would’ve been incredibly concerning if not for the gaping void in his central, black bones shining eerily, small drops of green blood glowing against the bones’ dark backdrop. Chunks of skin were gouged out of him from all over. A deep cut along his right leg, all the way to the bone, from hip to knee, held open with a surgical instrument Danny didn’t know the name of.

Yet, still, Danny knew they weren’t at the worst part. They were nearly, though.

Maddie pressed play and Danny’s screams assaulted his ears, the audio making him stumble back a few steps.

“Oops!” Maddie said, quickly pressing the mute button, though the video continued playing. She swiveled toward him in her chair, a reassuring smile on her face as she saw the horror stricken one on his. “Don’t worry, dear. He can’t actually feel pain.”

Danny nodded. He wasn’t really hearing her anymore. He didn’t need the audio to play. His memory sufficiently provided the sounds as he struggled to rip his eyes from the screen. But they’d gotten to the part. The worst part.

The bone saw glinted in Jack’s hands as they applied their anti-ecto coating onto it.

When the blade started moving, Danny’s mind provided the sound, despite his desperate urge to suppress it. Jack leaned over, pressing the saw into intact ribs. Green ectoplasm and black bone dust began to fly. And his brain supplied the smell, too. The smell of burning bone and cooking flesh. He hadn’t known bone could even burn before that.

Once the saw had done the brunt of the work, Jack reached in and pulled, splintering bones already made more brittle from the gun they’d shot him with before they caught him, a burn deep within himself that he knew to be the burn of the ecto coating.

The entire time, the ghost on screen tried to scream, tried to fight, wrists straining against iron clad, phase proof shackles. All he managed to do was cry.

Danny pleaded with his body to move, to get out, away from what played innocently on screen.

But this was a train wreck he couldn’t stop watching.

Once the bones had been cut and pulled, Maddie stepped back into view, scalpel in her hand. Jack set the saw to the table beside them, just barely still in frame, Danny’s blood dripping languidly from the serrated blades.

This was when she’d started excising organs. Danny’s heart and lungs had came out first. Again, portions surgically sliced off for smaller samples before being placed in off-screen jars.

The still open storage closet loomed at the edge of Danny’s vision.

Maddie pressed fast forward, either forgetting Danny was there or thinking he was so fascinated by their work.

He watched as every organ he had was cut out, carved up, and placed out of the camera’s view in triple speed. They were getting to the end. Or, at least, the end of what he knew. He watched as Jack again picked up the bone saw. Danny rubbed his right wrist absentmindedly.

Danny was numb at this point. That wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. He was here and alive. The glowing figure with hair stained green and a blue tint to its skin couldn’t be him, either of him.

Especially as the saw was placed against the glowing figure’s right wrist and pushed down, harshly severing tendon, muscle, bone. The hand, which had been continuing to try to pull away, slapping and punching uselessly into the air, went limp, plopping onto the table beneath him. The other hand got the same treatment. If it hadn’t been for the cuffs at his elbows, there would’ve been nothing left to hold his arms, oozing green stumps that they were.

And now for the grand finale, the last of his memory. The pain hadn’t been any worse, his entire body had been agony by then. But, as Jack had pressed the moving saw against his neck, as his vocal cords and esophagus and spinal column were hacked through, that had been the most terrifying. Because he could see Jack’s face.

Jack had been having fun.

Danny must’ve made a noise, as Maddie paused the video, glancing over to him as he pressed one hand against his throat, the vague ridge of the small line under his fingertips. “Isn’t it fascinating? All those human adjacencies! Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” she said, noticing how he held his neck, “remember, ghosts can’t feel pain! They also can’t die that way, since Phantom managed to escape.”

Danny’s eyes drifted to the bar at the bottom of the video - since it was paused, it showed how much longer was left of the video.

It was only halfway.

Maddie continued. “Which has me so upset, still! Your father convinced me to turn the recording off when we left, to save memory, so we don’t know how he got out!”

A nod of acknowledgement was all he could manage. He knew the rest of what happened, even if he didn’t remember it. His last memories were as he was being beheaded. But he knew more limbs had been removed. He’d been stitched back together, reminded of how Frankenstein’s monster was supposed to look, just less lopsided and with better stitches. He’d apparently slept for a week when he first got to the Far Frozen. They’d had to sew him up at most major joints and some random spots - neck, wrists, elbows, knees, ankles. Left forearm, right calf. What was even the point of slicing him up like that, cutting organs out? What had they been hoping to learn or accomplish?

Jazz hadn’t talked about finding him. She refused to and he could not blame her. She’d told the yetis of the Far Frozen, once, and that was enough. They’d told him.

Sometimes he wished they hadn’t.

Jazz had just been looking for her parents to give them her final report card, since school had only let out three days prior. The lab had just been an obvious place to check.

The report card never made it to Jack or Maddie. Jazz had dropped it as soon as she saw the gore splattered around. Seen her little brother in pieces. She had gathered up all his body parts, though she hadn’t thought or noticed the organs missing too, and loaded them into the Speeder. She’d been running on pure instinct and theory.

Danny still glowed. He still had solid form. Surely that meant he could recover, right?

She’d been right, of course. A doctor named Hailstorm had sewn Danny’s body back together, closed the incision in his chest. The damage from being cut into a jigsaw puzzle had healed quickly - his body able to merge back to itself easily, since all those parts were still there. Inside him was another matter. His body was regrowing entire organs. His stomach was gone, he hadn’t felt hungry in so long. His heart had half reformed, the lack of blood flow making him so cold. Lungs semi there, almost ready to truly draw breath again instead of merely resting in his empty chest cavity.

He nor Jazz spent time around Jack or Maddie anymore, ever, typically even spending their nights away, but the elder Fentons didn’t notice. They never noticed. But maybe now that was a good thing. How would he ever explain his intense need to get away from them if they were even five percent as attentive as the Mansons or Foleys?

“Are you alright, honey?” Maddie asked, Danny tearing his eyes away from the frozen screen, paused right when his head had rolled to the side. He watched her for a moment, thinking. Remembering how she had flat out said they knew Phantom was half human and were still willing to slice up a child.

A fake smile was quickly plastered onto his face as he moved towards the stairs, slick ectoplasm still wet on his hands, the eyes of his would-be executioner following him. 

“I’m fine.”

Prompts:

Lexosaurus -A metal table. Of course, it was always a metal table. Berry -Danny learns he can’t die from dismemberment. Mossy-covered-bones -“Oops”

[geewintg]

In another lifetime

Fandom: Genshin Impact Ship: Cyno x Tighnari

A gift to @dramagotchii during a cynonari gift exchange and I'm just reposting it on tumblr. It's available in ao3 too.

Synopsis: They say that wishes could be fulfilled in another lifetime. But it has a catch... with every reincarnation, the further apart you are born from your wishes. Until those odds could never be rekindled. Your wishes will remain as it is.

Prologue

This is it. The enigma behind the blinding light as he laid supine surrounded by crashing boulders staring at the clear blue sky. He can no longer feel the pain in his body; his muscles that ached, his lungs that burned. Chapped lips parted for air yet he can feel his breaths shallow.

Does he regret it? No. These were his efforts. To enforce justice is his duty and he swore until his life's end. He had escaped death by hair's breadth countless of times before that it felt like he was cheating life, thinking that he only stole his remaining moments, or that he exchanged them for something greater like his years of lifespan. Ironic, isn't it? Yet out of all the times it could happen, it only had to be now. It was as if the world was mocking—punishing—him for being too unfair in their tug-of-war.

Now it will take him; swallow him whole. He has no doubt about it. Yet in this short moment as everything crashes, he wished to see him. How he yearned for his touch, how he could only keep his hands to himself for years, how would want to see his face one last time. He wants to confess.

He felt remorse. Remorse of the fact that someone will have to know the news of his passing, that he failed in his mission right at where he told him to wait for him— that he'd come back.

He never did.

~~

The lingering smell of an all-too-familiar scent...

The seemingly mildness of floral mixed with fresh-cut grass. Like the nature that beckons him calling and he would respond with a smile nurtured only to it. He doesn't know; it only comes natural to him. As if it was something to him... something important. Yet all thoughts seemed to dissolve to an opaque sense of forgetfulness, like following an old unwinding path he knew too well only to come across a dense fog he couldn't pass through. He knew there was something beyond there, but he could only frown upon this frustration as there were no seemingly important memories to remember.

He always had that feeling whenever he lies in nature's arms: the oblique sky, the sway of the verdure, and the warm sun under his skin. It's not the sense of belonging from a city boy having to live in it his entire life longing for that quiet life in the woods. No, he doesn't think he fits in the forest nor its emerald pastures. It's more the feeling of accompaniment like a presence that gives him comfort; something to call home. He can't see himself tending to plants in a little cottage that hits them nicely when the morning sun comes, yet he could see it in his dreams. How those plants would be lively green and freshly watered, absolutely taken care of. It's not his, he was sure of it. He tried taking care of one only to fail miserably, fern dried and yellow under the sun. He thinks plants do not suit him.

Yet it always lingers, longing to find what missing puzzle fits the questioning feeling. A feeling that he never meant to have in the first place. No friends, no family; how can he hope to fill something missing when it was never there to begin with? Maybe it was envy that drove him down this bottomless pit, a hole forever marked on his person never to be filled.

But sometimes, he finds himself searching for answers, for something that isn't there; hoping for that slight chance, for something that will never happen; praying... praying for what doesn't even seem to exist.

And perhaps, it was nothing after all.

The painful ringing in the ear.

The smell of metal and powder hazed the air.

Dirt spray that blinds one's eye after a round of fire shots, and the harsh yell of orders from men to reposition as soldiers scamper for cover. The earth quakes so often it makes one feel numb to their breaking point of where they can't differentiate reality whether they even have their eyes closed. Their ears bled of a faint whistle that each second it took longer, dread slowly reaches for their ankles and anchors their boots to their impending demise. Then the explosion was instant.

The sky and dirt are painted with two different shades of red like spilled wine on a feast table's cloth between clinking stemware of merry government officials while fire rains from above on sacrificial pawns.

Cyno snaps his eyes open while the ringing fades. It was too felt—too real. The fire burning his lungs, the sharp whistle drowning the screams, and the throbbing pain on his right eye just where his bangs fell. He touched it, sensing the vague strangeness of having it there, the ability to see; to have it blink; to feel something that was hopelessly forever lost back within his capabilities washed him with relief.

Cyno is a top graduate of his class. Paired with his strong sense of justice, he never has the issue of lacking clients contracting him to defend them. However, only those who have done no wrong to the laws will ever be able to get his full cooperation, otherwise, they'd only get their asses handed to the court. Some clients knew so they would deliberately try to present an altered truth to paint them as an innocent victim being framed, but Cyno had a discerning eye for lies and deception. Being in the field of laws and politics, he is no stranger to these.

Cyno took a sip of coffee as he looked over the documents and continued to type. It's not long before he clocks out the office. He has no work for him since he had finished all of it as soon as it comes. He's still halfway through the documents and nothing to do after that. His assistant, Aarov, already headed out earlier because he finished the work he gave him. He said something like "I can't wait to catch the look on my children's faces when they see me home early!" The guy was smiling from ear to ear while whistling a merry tune as he packed his suitcase.

Cyno cannot blame him. Because of how much he gets contracted, Aarov had to carry out some of those burden so he ends up going home late. He complains a lot about how much work is being dumped on them, resulting to him returning home with his children already tucked in and sleeping.

Ah, yes, frustrations of being an overworked father. Cyno can sympathize but much less relate. He had nothing in particular that eagerly awaits him at home so he doesn't mind staying overtime to finish this miscellaneous work. The only thing he looks forward to doing is playing TCG Invokation online at home in his pajamas. He also loves collecting physical cards whenever he chances upon them.

"Beep."

His ruminations were cut short when the last of his colleagues pressed his card to check out.

"I'm heading out. How about you?"

Cyno raised his head and checked the time then glanced at the remaining papers on his desk. Just three more... he'll be going out soon.

"Not long. I'll just finish this." He dipped his head. "Good work today." The man returned it and closed the door then his work continued. The clock ticks blended with his taps on the keyboard until footsteps echoed down the corridor. The door once again opened to reveal a security guard doing his rounds. Seeing Cyno still on his seat, he wasn't surprised.

"Closing time," he grunted, then closed the door.

Just on time, Cyno finished the last paper and piled it neatly on top of the rest on his left. He didn't realize how stiff his neck was until he threw his head back and let out a sigh. His gaze was blank as the white-painted ceiling. There wasn't much contemplation before he started cleaning up after his mess and closing his suitcase. Soon, he was out of the office.

The way home was very much uneventful just as it had always been. There was moderate traffic and the ride was quiet with the muted sound of engines and purposely-chosen static noise of the radio. Life wasn't much to be contemplated for, really. He stopped by the convenience store to buy himself something instant to satiate for dinner. He could try to make something good but the best he could do from scratch was fried.

The moment he gets home, he changes into yesterday's pj and threw himself on his gaming chair with the instant food in hand, mouse cursor already hovering over TCG.

"Thank you for your services." The man gave him a salute which he returned, heart empty and mind disarranged. "...Lieutenant."

Should he be happy? Should he be in grief? For the award...or his lost comrades? He felt nothing; his entire being devoid of anything, just as numbing and hollow as the reassuring hand fell weight on his shoulder. The man dipped his cap below his brows to give his last respects then walked away.

Shouldn't he be rejoicing for war's end?

Again, he felt nothing. Like another meaningless existence of no purpose. He was going back to his once-again dull life wandering around its intricacies like a lost forlorn soul.

He held the box of his belongings with his basics. Two pairs of clothing, his uniform, and a badge of his honor...his sacrifice—the reason why he was discharged from his only life's purpose.

He is no longer fit to serve.

It's a pity. But he doesn't want to see it from someone else. He saw the way the man looked at him as he dipped his cap. Admiration, respect, but also pity. ‘What a pity you are.’ Those eyes said it.

The more he thinks about it, the more he is made aware of the absence of the bulge in his right eye. The way the bandages and soft cotton wrapped around his head... He could only exhale his frustrations.

Well, there's nothing he could do.

As he stepped out of dull white corridors, light assaulted his poor eye. It was like watching a film with a faded filter of white. He was once painfully made aware again that not only did he lose his other eye, his functional one is no longer as good as it should be.

Horse carriages rode around the bustling town square. It was livelier than he expected it would be, completely different from the deserted towns he had seen caught between the crossfire. It made him feel strange. The activities, the smiles from the folks, the laughter and squeals of children playing in the park—not screams and whistles of missiles.

There was a child wearing a newsboy cap over his dirty blonde locks, pointing at an ice cream shop as he tugged at his mother's skirt while she was chatting away with the vegetable stall's vendor. He had a huge smile across his face when he got one. Then Cyno realized that this boy could be any of his comrades' son. Some of them were fathers whisked away from their family to protect their country, others were boys who grew up to be men to take their fathers' place in the war. Then there's Cyno who was just there.

Life is full of irony...or it simply loves to toy with the intricacies of mortals.

If some other were to take Cyno's place, there would have been one family who would be able to feel the joy of having their dearest return. They would have been complete, not grieving, or left to be a widow to raise their child on their own. Cyno doesn't have those. Yet in life's mocking fate, he was spared.

What now? He doesn't have somewhere to go home to, doesn't have anyone to look forward to returning. Not a family, a relative, nor a friend. What a sick joke.

Horses neighed, interrupting his thoughts, followed by shouts from an angry coachman. "Move out of the way! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!"

Cyno realized he was standing in the middle of the road and hurried to the side before he could cause any major accidents. The coachman flicked the reigns to continue on, but not before sending Cyno a dirty look and muttering a few curses under his breath.

Well, that was embarrassing.

But Cyno thought about it long and hard. He had no destination. The city is a little too much for him to bear. Clip-clops from horseshoes striking the pavement, the churn of cartwheels and wooden groan of carriages, the bustling of people that were like bees to his ears—overwhelming. He doesn't like it here.

“After this, I want to live a quiet life by some rural town. Surrounded by nature and trees. Build a family… I mean if we ever get out of here alive.” The man cackled that drowns all their sorrows away as they joined in the hearty laughter. “How about you?”

Cyno was asked. And he answered, “I’m not sure.”

The hut was fine. Enough space for himself and his belongings. He’s a simple man who has nothing and desires nothing. A kitchen, a bathroom, a bed space, and a small living area with a short round table that doesn’t go past one’s knees. The walls were made out of concrete and draped over by a minimal space of aesthetic bamboo wood. The roof was made from straws, strong and meticulously made enough to be a strong household but breezy enough to ward off the scorching heat when the sun is at peak. Golden, green, and bright. The trees are like nets that catch sunlight as it streams down the forest floor. The soft wake-up call of twittering birds in the morning pleases his ears.

The serenity, it reels him was like no other. It was almost like his dreams—

Dreams...?

The faint gurgles of the river and distant crash of cascading water. The cool damp air on his skin as he strolls along under the emerald leaves. The familiar feeling swelling as he comes across a humble sight of hanging huts under the great branches of a giant tree.

What was that place? He swore he had never seen anything like it. His entire life he has lived through smokes and hazards, never once was something so peaceful, so quiet...so comfortable. Enviously so that it's surreal.

He breathed in the fresh morning dew of grass. Then sighed. Perhaps his mind is merely playing tricks on him. Nothing but an exhausted man from the battlefield.

After days of getting used to his new life in his humble abode, he finally sets off to go see the town square. It wasn't anything grand or noisy, no crowded places, no rattling carriages, no speeding horses, no yelling. It was absolutely peaceful, just how he enjoys it. He wasn't entirely going to settle here in the first place, but it is dovish and reeled him into its welcoming embrace like the cold silk sheets of his bed after a long tiring day of work. It was the sheepish bustle of a quiet town—peace the others longed for and in which only he was able to attain.

He first dropped by the local bakery for some bread. The aroma of fresh pastries greeted him like a lover hugging a long-gone soldier from war—warm and relieved, making him remember of the days food tasted before he started munching on dry, stale rations that felt like rock sandpaper to his throat.

"How may I help— oh..." The young lady who looks no older than fifteen—bright-eyed and with wide smiles—accidentally dropped the tray full of freshly-baked cookies. The metal made a sharp noise that made his muscle instinctively twitch. The girl was at lost for words as she stared at the mess she made and in panic, she tried recovering them from the floor. She muttered the same words over and over again while her voice wavered and the cookies kept slipping out of her trembling hands. "I- I'm...clumsy. Very clumsy— oh no! I'm-! I am such a mess..." Then she melted as if wanting the floor to swallow her whole.

There was another voice behind the curtains who called, "Collei? Are you okay over there?"

Cyno and the girl's eye met. She let out a yelp as if she saw something grotesque. And perhaps she did.

Cyno averted his gaze in shame.

A woman, a little older than the girl, with tousled brown bangs swept back by a red headband, came out of the back area to check up on Collei. Seeing the mess on the floor, she helped the girl up. "Oh no, Collei..."

"I'm really really sorry! I'll bake the cookies again-! I promise!" She blurted.

The young woman shook her head. "I wasn't talking about that... are you hurt?"

"Oh, uhm... Uh- I'm fine..." Then she groaned. "But the cookies for Sir Tighnari..."

"-can be done again later. Go patch yourself up first." She ushered her to the back room and sent her a big smile.

"But—"

"No buts! I'll handle this one," she reassured. Then she turned to Cyno with a chirpy tune, unperturbed by his appearance. Or at least, try not to be. "What can I get 'cha?" Cyno pointed to a loaf. "And?" He shook his head.

As she was about to hand it over, she paused, "Now wait a minute! I haven't seen you before! Are you new in town?" She leaned on the counter with interest.

Cyno hesitated for a moment, then slowly nodded.

"Don't you speak?" The question wasn't meant to hold any ill will, just pure curiosity. Cyno could tell.

"I'd rather not." He shook his head.

"Woah, you do speak!" Then she caught herself and cleared her throat. "Oh uh, ahem, I mean we welcome you to Ghandarsville! I hope you have a lovely stay in this lovely ville! If there's anything you need help with, don't hesitate to visit the town's hall! If you're sick, don't be shy to seek medical aid from our local herbalist. And if you wish to know more about this town's past, go down ahead to the center where you'll find our library. That's all! We welcome you once again to our humble ville!"

Cyno blinked, but seeing that she's waiting for his reply, he mumbled out an unsure affirmation.

"Thank you for buying our goods! Come again," she chirped, handing him the bag of loaf.

Cyno stepped out with not knowing what to feel. He felt the shame for himself, for making others feel bothered by the way he looks. He knows how unsightly it is, so before he enters another store, he makes sure to have his bangs cover his other eye. He doesn't want to scare anymore of the town's people.

The second shop smelled like stocked herbs. It was a bit cold and brooding. There was no one behind the counter until a little voice spoke up. "Welcome to Bubu pharmacy. How may I help you?"

It was that of a child's, head barely over the desk. Cyno was taken aback.

"How may I help you?" she asked once again in that toneless manner. Honestly, Cyno just wanted to look around.

"Qiqi, do we have a customer?" Someone called from behind. Then emerged a bit tanned slender man with long green locks spilling out of his bun. This is no doubt the woman is referring to as the local herbalist.

"Sorry, didn't mean to bother. I was just looking around," Cyno said politely.

Baizhu welcomed him with a smile, bobbing whatever that thing was around his neck. It looked like a white scarf with a definite shape; its one end doesn't seem to go down.

"Don't mind her. She's harmless." Baizhu followed up a chuckle as he petted 'her' head. Cyno blinked. She? It's alive? As if it read his mind, a tongue slithered out of it as it raised its head higher, displeased.

"He's new, Chanseng. Go easy on him please." The herbalist said as if the snake was ready to pounce on Cyno.

After a few more chats with the herbalist, Cyno decided it's time to get a move on and check the other shops. The third shop was owned by a mechanic; clockworks and motion movements. Parts of it were just laid out messily on the shelves while built ones were put on the front desk for display. Fourth shop was a small restaurant run by a sweet elderly couple. Fifth was a smithing shop which had Cyno genuinely surprised. He didn't think there would be one here. The townspeople didn't strike him as people who'd be interested in such things, especially with its blood lackluster atmosphere. The owner said he was a descendant of renowned blade smiths who also had a history with previous wars. He travels from one town to another to distribute his works but he mostly stays here despite the heavier demand outside because he became attached to this place. That, Cyno could understand. Then there's the library the woman spoke of, also the town's hall. But as he was on his way home, he passed by a plant shop that compelled him to take a turn.

There were flowers displayed at the front and inside were filled with even more plants Cyno couldn't recognize. It almost felt like he was inside a human-sized terrarium. Vines crawled up the walls and gripped around the planks of the wooden ceiling like a spreading disease. Some cascades down the tree branch decors, or was it a real tree? It was too overgrown for Cyno to tell. He trod on the narrow snake space left to step on and the wood creaked under the weight of his boots. Elongated blades of bromeliads draped over the pathway where he could crush it under his footsteps if he wasn't careful. It was like a jungle. The smell of damp air tinted with the scent of fresh spray on proliferating leaves and the sunlight that filters through the translucent glass. There was that chime again when the door closed behind him, alerting whoever was inside.

"Hello, is someone there?" A voice called from behind that made Cyno stop in his tracks. "Wait a moment. I'll be right over soon." There were clangs of metal against metal before the door leading to the staff room opened. There stood a young man with a dirt stain on his cheek, wiping the sweat off from his hands after using the gloves for extensive hours.

“How may I help you?” He asked. Cyno stood there speechless, voice waning. He felt a pull, an explainable feeling. Familiarity and repose. Yet he had never seen this man his entire life. He had no person to compare him to, no family, no friends. But, for some odd reason, he did. He felt him close. The brightness of his smile, the warm welcome of earth in his eyes, and the tide of his greeting. It all feels the same just like how he had lost it.

“Sir?” he tilted his head to the side. “May I get you anything?”

Cyno swallowed, a ball stuck in his throat, ebbing to spill unsaid words he thinks would not even be possible for him. He has found him.

…but who is he?

~~

There was this dream he once had. White knuckles, blurry vision, and blood drips on the floor. The fire in his lungs and the singe of blood in his veins. He was numb yet in pain. But before all things faded to black, he saw one person. A person who screamed his name before he fell to the floor, "Emperor Cyno!"

Then he woke up.

What was that dream? Who was that? What does it supposed to mean? Anger, terror... and then helplessness...

Wait— what was the dream again...?

Cyno woke up sluggishly in bed. His eyes felt like he had cried for more than hours at how dry it felt when light blinded him; they were puffy and red. His muscles cried for help and his throat burned sore. He was attacked by a million of needles in his head when he turned over to his side. But despite this, he knows he should get ready for work. This wasn’t the first it happened. He still needed to pass those papers he finished nights prior unless his assistant already covered that for him.

Things like this happens after waking up from certain dreams. Though he had no clue what it meant, it shouldn’t matter. They were just hopeless dreams after all, were they not? Maybe it actually meant nothing after all.

Some he remembers, others he doesn’t. But then they’d just come back to him again like a haunting visage, trying to warn him of something he couldn’t seem to figure out. Just like this one dream. His role was to enforce justice as the order of the Knights Templar. It was all he ever wanted to do since he was a child. He was given a rare opportunity, a young boy such as he who had no name and money to his title, no shelter—nothing at all, just like as he was for the most part. But these people are magnanimous. The regime was rigorous and severely strict, almost felt like he was no different from a spartan but that did not discourage him from pursuing righteousness, conduct, and moral; his life’s purpose, his dreams.

But all of it seems like a fading phantasm. Nothing but a delusion after reality sets in the error of their ways. They were enforcing law—a perfect world—a strict adherence all citizens must abide to, no matter who. Yet the rich benefits while the poor suffers. Everything can be bribed, dismissed, or closed by either money or power.

“Is this right?” He once asked, holding the bag of gold coins with eyes wide fixated on his colleague’s face. He was young and naïve. Inexcusably foolish. Yet he stood there in the dark alley watching dumbfounded as the aristocrat rubbed his hands together with an unscrupulous glint in his eyes, seemingly ecstatic with his negotiations with his colleague while the poor man this morning was dragged like he was convicted of ten murders, beaten and bruised, when all he ever did a minor fault that he couldn’t pay fine for.

What a perfect world they wish to live in. He realized his faults so he plans to make it right starting by enacting his own justice. But that proved to be much harder than he initially thought.

“Brother Lord Cyno, you are hereby sentenced to trial for your misconducts and disloyalty towards the Templar Order and the Pope for colluding with the Assassin’s Guild.” And thus, he was whisked away to the lowest of the underground dungeon where the most immoral criminals are held with contempt. He had trod this far and no doubt he was finally cornered by the people who saw him as thorn by their side. Where they served law as money, he served justice himself with the highest virtue. The order did not like that.

The hammer was down. “You shall be executed.”

And now he had no more than a few hours before dawn arrives, to relive his last moments in this waking world. Now that he had thought of it, it was all useless—a futile attempt to make the world a better place. It never was and it never would be.

In his last moments, as he offered his head on guillotine, he felt no remorse. He had served as he felt it is just. Amongst the crowd, the front row sits were those nobles, who he had on wit’s end tailing them, and consequently who had framed him, hiding their pleasure behind solemn faces. The common people were in tears. They were no doubt, the one who he had done service, and he was glad he had. Because in these moments, he knew that he done something to make the world somewhat a better place for those who needed it.

As the bell dongs, the wind picks up. It played with the trees and his hair. And for the first time, the distant clouds in the horizon never looked even more breathtaking at this moment. He had never felt more closer to the earth to smell the musk, the hushed lullabies of the dancing leaves, and the cool breeze against his nape. Then…

—shlick!

He saw him.

In darkness, he saw him. The way his smile graced sunlight blindingly, his dark hair that danced with petals of his garden, his careful touch when he tends to him… He never found him in this lifetime, but in the next, he will not forget.

Cyno opened his eyes, his hand slowly reaching for that tingle in his neck.

~~

“NO, prince… s-stay behind me!”

“Thank you for you service, General. But this is how far my lineage will go. All of my elder brothers are dead. So will I.” He then smiled as if it was natural for him to do so. “You can no longer walk, General. It is better for us if I surrender now. No more suffering for the people of this kingdom.”

The smell of incense roused him awake. Fine silks flourish the ceiling with deep purple and intricacies of gold that only befits royalty. What a strange dream he had. And it’s him again. That palace doctor.

Even his dreams he managed to slither into.

It wasn’t that long since he first just met him. He was notable but… that was just it. He wasn’t anything to be worth of special attention yet the people of his palace speak high praises of him. A young genius, they said. But Cyno was, in fact, more annoyed at how his mere presence bothered him ever since that day they met. Like he said, he wasn’t of anything worth-noting yet his gaze would drift whenever he sees him pass by like a sunflower to the sun. His eyes would seek him in the crowd like a bee hovering over a meadow fussing for fresh pollen and every time—every time—he would know where he was.  Cyno doesn’t know what to make of it. It was as if he was bewitched, hexed, captivated by no rhyme or reason.

He hates it.

He fought those thoughts, those dreams of him, the way he would know him by scent if he were blind, the way he would just stand out to him even if there were thousands of people in one room, he’d know him by breath alone—his mere presence. He’d know him. It was a losing battle Cyno was too late to realize. And soon, he found himself deeper into the hole where he could no longer get himself out of. Those dreams were the bane of his existence, for knowing someone who he hadn’t interacted with at all. Cyno no longer knows himself.

“Silence!” He growled. His advisers stopped. “Not one word,” he warned, “we shall discuss this later in the throne room.”

“Your majesty—” One of them hesitated when he turned over to look. He swallowed and proceeded, “May I advise dropping by the infirmary for your headache?”

Cyno was having none of it. This headache is getting worse day by day, and all of it was because of those dreams he wished could simply disappear acting like an intruding thought slowly driving him down to madness in each of his waking moments. “I’ll drop there by myself.” And they were dismissed.

He held his forehead with a sigh. If anyone were to see him taking support from the wall, it’d be a pathetic sight and a great insult to this great empire for their ruler to be seen in the hallway grasping the bars like it was his life’s end. But he can’t seem to get himself off. The pain was eating him up.

“Your majesty?” Cyno raised his head in distress, startled with the sudden presence; a voice from the person he’d least want to see right at this moment. That cursed pretty face looking down on him in confusion, tilting his head worriedly when he registered his position. “Are you alright, your majesty? Do you need—” He pushed him away. He felt their brief contact, the slight graze of their skin.

The serendipity of his touch, how his heart leaped from his ribcage and how it burned him. It made his hair stand on its end like an electric spark seizing his body frozen, motionless and helpless. Every fiber of his being responds to him.

This man is dangerous.

"Your temperature is high. We should take you to the clinic for good measure." He took note of his flushed cheeks and heaving chest, unbeknownst of the thoughts running inside Cyno's head. He flicked his hands away when he grabbed his wrist.

"No. I don't need your help."

Tighnari made an irksome face. "Don't be stubborn, your majesty. We're getting you treated."

And maybe that was the first mistake he let him do. He let him drag him, take hold of him, engulf him slowly but surely, he had fallen deeper to where he could no longer help himself. He became his closest confidant, his friend, the only one he could trust. He poured wine into their cups, raised it for a toast, but...

"Cyno?" Today, should he tell him today? "Cyno—!"

Huh? His eyes widened as red wine stained the furnished wood of his table. Not wine—blood.

He chokes. Like water in his lungs, his chest feels tight, burning— aching as it strips away every bit of his consciousness. Ah… there’s poison in the wine. But Tighnari could never be a part of this. He would never betray him.

First…second… third. Remember, the world gave you a chance. With every life you spent unable to fulfill your previous wish, the slimmer the chances you get to make amends. It was his own voice that speaks to him.

Second… He was the empire’s general. Such a high-ranking position for someone of low-birth. No name, no family. In the eyes of blue blood, he was nothing. A dirt; a lowlife meant to be trampled under the soles of their scrubbed shoes. It was until one nobleman realized his worth and took him under his name. He proved to be strong. But that nobleman’s good name was tarnished and sentenced, soon enough, so did the family fall. That kind nobleman, who was like a father to him, never saw how he had risen to the top and took the title he had so longed for him. He could only offer flowers on his tombstone and only the empty presence heard a proud son’s announcement. But having no noble blood running through his veins, he wasn’t duly welcomed by his peers. He tarnished the pure nobleness of the imperial knights—a mad dog he was called.

Well, those words hold no ground to him.

But they were right. He was a mad dog of the empire; a stepping stone of royalty. He was nothing but their dog. Blind and a pawn to their tyrannical schemes. He was sent to countless of wars, lead expeditions, and invaded countries. He was only a bloody functioning sword to the emperor’s eyes; as long as he remains sharp, he will not be discarded away. He was responsible for the empire’s peace and absolute power. But that power was put on a leash held by the emperor himself.

And there, he kneels before his throne not of reverence but in feign courtesy as that wicked smile would surely bring another order of expanding the empire in the northern borders. He will surely be sent away once again to bring glory to the emperor’s name. Such sickening deed. It rises a bile in his throat that bothers him so much he wishes to set this castle aflame.

“Go forth, my knight. Bring glory to this empire.” So as the king commands, he leaves due in three days.

Cyno could only grit his teeth. He threw down his stash in fury on the grass the moment he was left alone. “Curse the royal family, curse loyalty—”

“Are you General Cyno?” A voice startled him. It was mellow like the fields of grass, or the butterfly that flutters around roses. Like the soft breeze that sweeps his hair the moment their eyes met. And they smiled. It graced him like the light touch of the morning sun.

“Only certain individuals are allowed in this area. Who are you?” Cyno spoke warily the moment he regained his wits.

They chuckled like the soft churn of bells. “We haven’t officially introduced but I am the seventh prince. You can address me as Tighnari.”

Seventh prince? The forgotten one. This was him, the so-called disgrace.

Cyno collected his composure and cleared his throat, giving a proper bow. “My apologies, your highness, for the intrusion. I shall leave immediately.” Then he got up curtly and turned to leave. “Whatever his highness heard was not from my mouth.”

The expedition was quick. He returned with victory as always, reporting straight to the emperor. But he was egotistical as ever, bearing a cup of wine in his hand, his face written with slight intoxication. He laughed boisterously and raised his cup, dismissing him as he and the nobles celebrate with another feast. Cyno clicked his tongue in distaste as he left the hall. Yet he came across once again the forgotten prince who smiled graciously to him as ever, without any malice or judgment—no hidden agendas.

“Congratulations, General. I heard of your accomplishment, but why do you look displeased?”

Did he not threaten him last time’s incident? He spoke as if they were friends, his voice as sounding as ever. Does this prince bear no grudge? Does he have no pride? “It is none of your concern, your highness. Aren’t you going to celebrate with them? Your brothers are inside.”

The prince shook his head. His eyes expressed sorrow. “General, I am not welcomed. No one will notice if I am gone.”

But that is none of Cyno’s concern. So he left him there in the garden once again, wondering.

He saw him again when he was called to the palace, still in the garden under the tree, holding a book. He read leisurely. He doesn’t seem to be bothered that no one is looking for him. He looks very at peace. Cyno was caught intrigued.

He was oddly drawn to him. The way he carries himself, the way he speaks. The people still recognize him yet they do not bother with him. Yet at times, he caught him speaking to maids—reprimanding them, while they nodded and listened intently, taking the criticism genuinely. If there was one thing he noticed, while the people hover around the other princes like a moth to a flame, drawn but with one touch, they know it would set them aflame. They bow their heads in fear and respect. But with the seventh prince, it was more of a mingle. He was light, not fire. They revere him as a teacher, a friend—a prince of his own right—as someone who has earned their respect and undying loyalty. He scolds harder than the feared royal chef but, in that way, he also parts his knowledge of proper procedures.

Cyno only watches until he realizes that his eyes would immediately search for him. He would sense his presence. He knows his hobbies. He would usually sit under the tree reading a book and occasionally, he’d find him asleep during the afternoons. He loves the forest and researching about odd plants. Sometimes even eating mushrooms that would not be recommendable.

It was that one time he accidentally made himself known. His body moved on its own when the prince was about to put a mushroom he randomly found in his mouth. He held his wrist before he could even.

But before he could even explain himself, the prince chuckled and said, “It was about time you showed yourself, General. Would you care to explain on why you have been following me for a very long time now?”

Cyno was caught red-handed, flabbergasted and tongue-tied.

They were such great friends. But then that happened. Perhaps it was the deeds Cyno has done that lead up to this fall. They were invaded—an alliance between the surrounding kingdoms they’ve did wrong. And he died trying to protect Tighnari.

He was the only one he truly cared for.

He remembers the feeling. The feeling of helplessness before one’s mortality. The regret of things he hasn’t said, of the things he had done, of the things he kept… He wanted to tell him something. Something… what is it? That vague feeling that’s been wanting to be known, trying to rip free from the cage of his heart. And as everything flashes white, there was another universe he saw. He saw Tighnari, not princely, but donned in comfortable layers of clothing. But he still had that same smile as they hugged before he left. Two tall ears on top of his head that he oh-so badly wanted to pinch was expressing longing and disappointment as he went on his way.

Then rocks came tumbling down on him as he gazed up into the sky, his limbs numbed and unable. He can taste the metal in his mouth. The clear blue sky—it had never been bluer before more than now. Then everything went pitch black.

Cyno gasped. His heart pounded loudly against his chest, drowning everything, even the blaring morning alarm. He was covered in a layer of sweat. He took in a deep breath then let it go, repeated the process a couple of times until his head cleared of the headache.

He had a dream… what was it? He could barely recall this time. But he remembered the sunlight on his face, the soft smile, and the— that face… who was it?

“Man, after all this time, we finally had something.” Aarov pats him on the back. “That’s the person you’ve been trying to find? They look pretty.”

“A biologist. Currently is staying in some part of southeast asia. Makes sense since it’s tropical there and most of the forests were untouched. It’d be field day for someone with that line of work.” Cyno contemplated. “Prepare me a ticket. I’m leaving.”

“Wait what? Now?! You have work!” His assistant called from behind, stunned. Cyno said nothing else as he put on his coat and walked out the door. “Alhaitham will have my head,” the man said bitterly as he shook his head with a sigh.

Cyno stared out the window from his airplane seat. Blue skies with streaks of white. It wasn’t the same shade as he had last seen it. No matter how calm and collected he may appear, he was an absolute train-wreck inside. What should he even say when they meet? How can he just introduce himself? Like oh, I’ve seen you in my dreams. You were very close to me. Right, he’d be called crazy and a stalker. He’d voluntarily place himself in a mental asylum after this if it ends badly. But there was this tickling feeling those weren’t just dreams. All of them ending tragic before he could even fulfill his wish. Just as he was a retired soldier who found solace in a peaceful town, he had found him again by the odds of faith. But it wasn’t long until he was called once again to the battlefield where he died protecting his country. He couldn’t forsake his duties. He told him as he was leaving he would come back. He promised him he’d come back safe and sound, and he told him to wait for him, he told him he had something important tell him. He couldn’t say it then as he left. He had no courage. If he did, he would have robbed the person of everything, his life, his dreams, his hopes. And that would rip Cyno’s entire being. He could never.

But he never again came back. Only the wind blows of the sorrow that carries the news of his passing, an honorable death, for someone as him to have life taken away from him in the battlefield. He had fulfilled his duties—his life’s purpose—in exchange for one’s lament.

He regretted it deeply. So if lifetimes do exist, he wished he would choose another career where he could have avoided the inevitable tragedy. And maybe it was now that he gets to fulfill that wish, to be reunited with him once more.

But— “Everyone prepare for an emergency landing.”

Then an explosion in the engine occurred. Cyno gasped awake. It was just a dream… The plane is now landing. He’s fine. All is fine.

As soon as he sets foot on land, he made haste. In a rural province somewhere on the outskirts, lies a forest. People said there’s no scientist there, only tour guides. And he happened to come into the most inconvenient time of the year. People from afar would be swarming the place. That made it harder for him to find him. But then again, how should he even approach him?

“Hello, you’re here for the tourist spot, aren’t you?” A brunette came up to him with a wide smile. “I recommend visiting first the shed in that area over there. They’re going to give you a map of the area that’s accessible. If you manage to get to an area not on the map, I suggest to get back on track cause you never know what’s gonna bite you from the ground!”

“I—”

“And if you have any questions, don’t fret! There’s a reason why we’re here!” She proudly pointed to herself and gave an assuring wink. “But if you see a blond boy that’s just right about this height with a bandage on his nose, I’d suggest to get another tour guide,” she whispered, checking sideways if there’s anyone near them.

Cyno gave her a weirded side-glance but nodded. She was familiar, but he couldn’t place his finger on it.

“Anyway! I’m Amber, a tour guide, but I’m also responsible for the zip lines and air gliding. Don’t you just love it when you feel the wind on your face? It felt like freedom!” Cyno could only nod to whatever was being said. For now, he doesn’t know where to start, she is he’s only bet.

After her lengthy guide of process and procedures, Cyno suddenly had the thought. “Oh, by any chance, do you happen to know this person—”

There’s a really loud yell of someone’s name that even shook the trees and had Amber scampering. “Oh no! I let myself get carried away! Oh no, oh no, oh no! I should get going. Bye!”

“But—!” but she already bolted off.

“If you have any questions, just ask them at the front desk!” she called after him before jumping off a low steep hill.

Cyno was at lost. It seems he’ll have to do just that. There was a chime when he opened the door. A girl who looked no older than fifteen greeted him with a cheerful smile. “Hello! How may I help you?”

“One of your pamphlets and,” he said then whipping out his phone to show an image, “do you happen to know this person?”

The girl’s magenta eyes locked on the picture. She seems to know something but then she shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”

“I see…”

“Is there anything else?” she asked nervously although she tried not to let it show. There was disappointment in Cyno but this town is his only lead. After all those years that led up to here, he wouldn’t just leave without any new info.

The first day, he went around town. It was lively. It just happens that he came at during their time of the festival. Streamers and banners hanging in every street. Stalls and vendors lined beside the road fanning their grills as a statue carved in wood stood in the center of the town. Music trots around every corner. He visited every store except one, he saved it for last.

He stood outside of a flower shop, hands shaking in anticipation. His collar suddenly felt too tight, as if choking him. As he rests his hand against the door, it felt different. He dreaded but he continued anyway. The door chimed. A girl with bright apple red hair was behind the counter.

“Welcome, sir, how may I help you?” she spoke softly.

Cyno looked around. It was clean and airy. Everything has flowers. “Are you by chance… the owner here?”

She smiled heavenly. “Yes, sir, I grew all of them by myself.”

“Ah… I see.” Disappointment.

“Ah! But if I have to admit, I did get help from the tour guides. One of them is really good with any type of plants,” she said, scratching her head bashfully. “I don’t get to meet him that much. He’s very busy. But he’s very helpful, although he scolds a lot.”

The girl told him that he visited her shop one time and criticized the flowers. At that time, Nilou doesn’t know how to properly take care of them despite knowing how to arrange bouquets. She was ashamed. But while he scolded her, he offered to teach her. At some days, she would try to find him but she couldn’t. Collei would say he’s probably asleep somewhere under the shades of the trees while trying to do his own research. Before it could go lengthy, Cyno cuts in, bidding the girl a farewell. It was afternoon, he needed to find a place to stay. There wasn’t any hotel but he was lucky enough to find a small canteen that rents a room of their second floor. But he wasn’t able to sleep that night. His head was filled with only the thoughts of this familiar stranger in his dreams.

So when the next morning came, then the next, the fourth, the fifth. He had no luck. He had already checked everything in this town. By tomorrow, he has to fly back home. He went back to the edge of the forest once again. He held the pamphlet in his hand. If there’s one place he’d find him, it’d be nothing else other than the forest.

The forest was like how imagined it would be, but more. The gaping holes of sunlight, the quiet air, and the fresh scent of dew. Birds hopped from one branch to another as they curiously watch him pass by. He felt strangely at ease—at home. Like he had done this more than a couple of times. He had never been out of the city before. It was like a reminiscing dream. He’d walk through an overused dirt road, the large tree in sight was his destination. He felt giddy, over anxious from anticipation. He hiked up a hill, nothing but more trees in sight, the long-overgrown path stretches to a curve.

Should he follow the path? What if he just ends up as fruitless as he had been all the time? Then should he risk straying? If that person was the same as he knew him in his dreams, then it would be better to divert from here on out against Cyno’s better judgment. He’s running out of time. He promised himself he will not leave empty-handed.

He refuses.

He crumpled the pamphlet and dumped it in his pocket, never looking back again. Least to say, it was the stupidest thing he had done throughout his whole lifetime. He’s lost, the sun is setting, and it’s starting to get cold. The pamphlet is useless, he doesn’t know the area and he entered an uncharted territory. He tried going retracing his steps only to wound up circling back to the area.

But perhaps it wasn’t as bad as he thought, because soon enough, a person arrived. And it was one Cyno knew very well albeit his face was contorted with a scowl. “How many times do people have to get scolded until they finally learn their lesson of ever going out of bounds, huh? Are your brains simply build upon stone bricks because it seems to me, none of this is getting to your THICK SKULLS!” His faced was flashed with a flashlight and a blanket was thrown at his face. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Cyno’s chest swelled. “Finally found you.”

[mythicamagic]

Purple Tremors: a Xiaolumi fanfic (Genshin Impact) ~ Chapter Two ~ (End)

Summary: Xiao's expression shuttered, before his fingers curled to clasp her hand equally tight. He stepped in close as if to hide her inside his shadow.

"Give your body over to me. The wind will take you. Nothing will hurt you while we travel."

Aka: Xiao finds an injured Lumine on a beach in Liyue after her encounter with the Raiden Shogun.

Chapter one: here

Rated M for some mild suggestive themes. Read on Ao3 - here.

-----

Lumine stared ahead of herself, chin pillowed on her arms. It was difficult to know what to make of the situation, but between the choice of a little awkwardness or prolonged physical pain, she chose awkwardness. 

She waited, completely bare save for a towel slung over her waist- and laying upon covers that smelled like Xiao. Vaguely she could hear the Adeptus moving about the room, blocked from sight by a shoji screen. Up until a little while ago, he'd been crushing herbs with a motor and pestle while she'd carefully languished in a special kind of bath. Xiao had filled it himself by pouring a vial into the tub that gradually increased to fill up the whole thing with steaming water. Lumine had expected to feel pain when entering it- but the waters had only gently lapped at her wounds. 

Incense smoke now wrapped around her gently, soothing. Lumine breathed deeply, in and out. None of it quelled the thrum of her heartbeat. The situation was unusual and her feelings were out of place but an undeniable something fluttered in her bloodstream. She’d never laid naked on anyone’s covers before. 

Lumine mentally shook herself. Her entire body was in agony and Xiao was helping her, that was all. Get a grip, Lumine.

At the first touch of lithe fingers upon her back she froze, inhaling sharply.

"Sorry," Xiao grunted. His weight settled onto the bed beside her. Lumine's back thrummed at the contact, but whatever he'd put in the bath made touch become a dull ache rather than painful. His hands returned- carefully this time- rubbing a damp substance over her back and massaging it into her skin. "Try to bear it as best you can. I know my hands are rough without the gloves."

"No, they're perfect," she found herself gripping the sheets tightly. Gods.

Strong and sure palms dragged back and forth, kneading her damaged skin. The callouses of his hands actually added to the soothing motions. The scent of incense wrapped around her like a warm embrace, and there was no pain despite her sensitive wounds. Instead, Lumine was free to appreciate the strong and sure touches. 

"I'm not a healer like some of my other kin. In fact, I'm probably the worst person to be doing this, considering…what I carry with me," Xiao muttered as he worked. "But I don't want to agitate your wounds too much by waiting for someone else or carrying you to them, so I'll perform this to the best of my ability. It's a healing process I remember, back when the yaksha-" 

He cut himself off. It occurred to Lumine that he was rambling, a very odd thing for Xiao to do. Maybe he was as nervous about touching her as she felt about being touched. 

"I'm grateful. Honestly, I feel leagues better than I did earlier already. What was in that bathwater?"

"Essence of slime."

She jolted. Panic entered his voice. "Kidding- don't move about too much. The vial was something Cloud Shaper gave to her fellow Adepti. She made it from her ability to gather water vapour and added her own flourishes. It's meant to be a safety measure. If we're in a tight spot and need water, this gives us a supply that never runs out. You can make the temperature hot or cold by your own will."

"And the paste? It smells kind of minty." 

"It's specifically Dragonspine mint mixed with Silk Flowers for the soothing texture and a range of other things I threw together."

Lumine hummed contentedly, feeling his palms rub down her spine exquisitely. She knew Xiao. He didn't just 'throw things together. ' 

Her guess was that the other ingredients were much harder to come by and he didn't want to make her feel guilty.

His fingers began massaging a trapped nerve, and Lumine sucked in a sharp breath, twitching with discomfort for the first time.

"Are you doing alright?"

She laughed weakly, smothering the pain. "You've asked me that a lot today."

"Maybe I wouldn't have to if you'd give me a straight answer."

"I have-"

"Lying that you're 'fine' when you're scarred and trembling isn't imbuing me with much confidence," he drawled. 

Lumine visualized his hands as they traveled lower on her back, always so careful. Sometimes it felt like they lingered longer than necessary. She didn't mind.

With a sigh, she shifted on her stomach,  resting her chin on the covers. "...I'm just tired. Really, really…tired," the shapes of the room softened into blurred images as her gaze unfocused. The numbness that kept everything at bay seemed to fail- ebbing like a tide and revealing her soft underbelly of raw emotions. 

Xiao said nothing and didn’t prompt her to open up again. He continued massaging the minty-smelling paste onto her back in silence, occasionally unwinding her trapped nerves.

"Logically I know the right thing- the best thing to do is to keep going,” Lumine broke. “To not lose heart. I've met so many people during my travels who have suffered worse than I have. Some lost family members too. They carried on. They're still fighting." 

There was a pause in Xiao's hands- before he massaged them beneath her ribs slowly.

"I never doubted that I'd find my brother, not really. But that last fight…I really felt like I couldn't. That I'd keep searching and searching in every region and he'd never be there. Like he didn't want to be found. And if I don't have him by my side I don't-" she choked on the words. "I don't really know who I am. I just let people call me 'The Traveler' because it's convenient. Paimon seems to lead me by the hand like I'm a lost child sometimes."

"I've guided lost children before, believe me- you're not one."

"Are you sure?" she gave a wan smile, before hissing as something twinged in her back. Xiao's hands were quick to ease the pain, soothing. "I'm blubbering like one."

“A 'traveler' reminds me of ronin. You wander but you are not lost. This was just an unexpected detour for you. From the strength you’ve shown multiple times…I know you’ll find your way again.”

She wished she could regain that sense of certainty he displayed. 

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" He asked softly. "I wouldn't insist if it wasn't important. I understand the desire to keep matters to yourself. However…I sense something damaging your aura. It feels similar to energy I've experienced before."

"I had a fight with the Raiden Shogun," Lumine closed her eyes, remembering it. "That's when I got hurt. Everything went dark. I went to this…strange desolate place. She was there…" Lumine trailed off, shaking her head. "I hid it as much as possible from Paimon and the others. After that, well- you know the rest. I felt like I needed to get away."

"So the Electro hurled at you was a direct attack from a God. That explains it. Her wrath has imbued your body as I suspected."

Lumine said nothing, closing her eyes tiredly. She could've rested under the gentle touch of his hands forever honestly. His hand on her shoulder brought that brief fantasy to a close.

"Are there any further scars?"

She bit her lip. Now was the tricky part. She'd been wondering if he'd ask. 

Maybe it would be kinder not to mention it. Xiao was a trusted, infinitely valued friend. She didn't want to put him in an even more awkward position than they already were. 

Besides, her heart was pounding inappropriately at just his fingers on her back. That made her feel guilty enough. Here he was, just trying to help her- and she was getting…ideas. Paimon would be so disappointed in her. Lumine snorted at the thought. 

"Traveler?"

"Uh- no. Not that I'm aware of."

There was a definite shift in his voice. A drop in tone that hinted at displeasure. It made her shiver in new ways. "That you're aware of? This isn't a light matter. I need to cover every inch of scarring before I can proceed. If we don’t do this right- your body may suffer irreparable damage."

She winced. Well there was no arguing with that. Besides…she was already practically naked on his bed and Xiao sounded fine. Utterly professional. Maybe she was the only one affected by being with him like this. 

Sucking in a deep breath for courage, Lumine let it go, shifting to sit up. She covered her bare chest with one arm, cheeks flaming red as she carefully twisted to face him and reveal the spiderweb of damage spreading over her torso. 

A yaksha mask gazed back at her. Lumine jolted, sucking in a hard breath. "H-have you been wearing that this whole time?" she squeaked. 

Xiao's expression was of course inscrutable. He sat back on his heels, the gorgeous black, blue and gold designs of his mask giving a solemn air, but ultimately hiding all emotion. She couldn't even see his eyes.

He touched the rim briefly. "It is necessary, in order for me to perform the task at hand to the best of my ability. Is there…" he cleared his throat. "Is there anywhere else you're scarred or is that it?"

"That's it," Lumine murmured. Disappointment curdled in her chest. She couldn't exactly explain why. Perhaps she'd been seeking a connection during this whole mess- but Xiao's mask put a stop to that. She couldn't tell what he was thinking when he touched her. 

"Alright. Hold still. I'll try to be gentle but don't go expecting a miracle. "

Lumine shifted the towel more securely across her waist before nodding. She held her breath, sweat beading on her brow as he reached out. 

Her exhale stalled and stuttered as Xiao's hands met her chest. His fingers began trailing over the damage, carefully stroking the medicinal herbs onto her skin. A map of healing. 

It was different, facing him. On her stomach, Lumine had just rambled her worries away. Now the contact felt inescapable. Direct. Xiao was sitting so close. His hands were kind and careful- fingers dipping into the valley of her breasts before having to slip under her arm and graze a damaged nipple.

Lumine sucked in a sharp breath. She caught it- the faint tremor in his hand. 

Her eyes snapped to his face, but of course could see nothing. 

"Xiao," she spoke, surprised at her own breathlessness. Could he feel how her heart hammered relentlessly in her chest?

"What is it?"

Her lips twitched. "Can I take off the mask? Please?"

"Why would you- I mean that's not-" his voice grumbled out, leaning slightly away from her. "I have need of it. Don't worry about pointless things right now. Focus on letting me heal you."

Lumine quieted. "...It's not pointless to me."

She could see it now: the little tells in his body language. How he held himself stiffly and tried not to touch her more than necessary. Wang Ping'an had once written that the Conqueror of Demons wore a mask- not just to strike fear into his enemies- but to hide the part of him that was human.

Lumine didn't think any further on it. She reached out and grasped the edge of the mask near his cheek.

She noticed him freeze up. "Lumine- don't."

"What are you afraid of?"

His fingers wrapped around her wrist, grip loose, unsure. "...I'm just unfamiliar with healing. I'm not disciplined enough to be…completely perfect at handling it. I'm ashamed of my own ability to get so distracted by you."

Ah, would the sensation of warmth ever leave her around this man? Fondness beat in her chest. She shook her head ruefully. 

"Getting distracted isn't necessarily a bad thing. Especially right now. I'm happy to have you distract me from how much pain I'm feeling."

She felt his grip tremble. Slowly, gradually, his fingers slackened. Lumine took that as all the invitation she'd get to carefully lift the mask up and away from his face.

Twin pools of luminous yellow greeted her. They made her pause, thrown. She'd never seen Xiao look at her with such heat before. His cheeks were dusted red. His mouth was pressed into a hard line- and he was unable to hold her gaze. 

Heart fluttering, Lumine cupped his cheek, redirecting his attention back to her. He trembled and released hot, tight breaths against her wrist. As she stroked inquisitive fingers into dark hair, she noticed something.

"Your ears-!" she exclaimed. 

Xiao jerked in her hold, blushing an even darker shade of red. "D-damn," he hissed under his breath. "It's not uncommon for adepti to sometimes lose control over their human forms. Ignore it."

She didn't think she could ignore the pointed tips even if she wanted to. 

"Have you ever lost control of your human guise?"

"...No."

Lumine bit her lip, stroking the shell of his ear with a light touch. The reaction was instantaneous- a shudder running through Xiao that left him sinking into her palm. He turned his face to kiss her hand, panting softly.

"Couldn't you- just let me help you. Why are you so incorrigible?" Xiao mumbled into her skin, pressing slow kisses to the tips of her fingers before leaning his marked brow into her knuckles.

"I won't apologise for it," Lumine smiled. She forgot about her exposed chest and used her free hand to tilt his head up, resting their foreheads together. They traded air with quiet breaths. Xiao's lashes lowered, closing his eyes as if to bask in her presence. 

"You scare me more than anyone," came his grim confession. 

Before she could pull away to voice her confusion, Xiao gripped her arm. "I don't understand the hold you have on me- and that's what's frightening. Feeling this way for a mortal is…new. And wrong. For someone like me anyway…"

"Someone like you?" She hummed, combing her fingers through his hair and massaging them at the base of his skull. Xiao all but purred, leaning into her touch with a stifled groan. "Kind, protective, vigilant you," Lumine opened her eyes. "Perhaps you're just as lost as I am, just in a different way. But, want to know a secret, Xiao?"

"Hm?"

"I might have to wander, but you're the one place I want to return to. Every time I leave."

His eyes snapped open wide. Xiao's lips parted wordlessly, searching her face with a pensive, hopeful look that made her heart break. Something about her earnest expression must have finally got through to him, as his shoulders relaxed. 

His gaze briefly dropped to her chest, and then back to her mouth. 

That was all the warning she got. A sweet, firm pressure suddenly pressed against her lips. Lumine stiffened, heart leaping wildly in her chest. Heat shot to her face in a healthy blush. Her fingers curled in his feathery soft hair, dropping to grip his shoulders and pull him closer.

Xiao broke away briefly- and fear shot through her bloodstream- but he merely looked at her, with a strange look of wonder. As if he couldn't believe what he'd just done. 

Lumine tugged on his shoulders, wanting more. 

"I- " he rasped. "You're going to make me go crazy if you keep looking at me like that."

Lumine blinked, slowly giving a pleased smile. She giggled and pecked his lips shyly, before meeting him for a longer kiss. Their kisses bespoke of their mutual lack of experience- clumsy, rushed, but eager and warm. 

His fingers, still smeared with minty paste, tangled in her buttery blonde locks. 

Lumine slung her arms tighter around his neck as they parted just a hair's breadth for air, which soon became filled with her soft laughter. 

She couldn't articulate the sudden giddiness. Her body was still sore and throbbing from the electro, but her heart was near to bursting with gladness. She was here, with Xiao- and he was kissing her like she was the most precious treasure in the world.

His touch strayed downward, stroking down the column of her throat and covering it with heated kisses soon after. Lumine moaned, arching into his mouth and rocking her hips slightly against his, lost in his embrace. Their mouths and touches strayed, familiarising themselves with each other's bodies. Lumine didn't even realise she was ticklish under her thigh until Xiao stroked his fingers there. She found his back felt as equally tense as hers, filled with trapped nerves and stiffness. She mentally promised to give him a massage too.

Mid-kiss, Lumine blinked as she combed her fingers free from his hair- pulling out something.

She and Xiao parted to stare at the teal feather held between her forefinger and thumb. 

An undignified snort sounded out. Xiao's eyes twinkled. Lumine grinned- bursting into laughter in time with him. The sounds of their laughter mixed and filled the usually silent room, carrying even outside into the quiet night. 

When the mirth died down, they exchanged smiles. Something shifted in that moment, as if they'd quietly sobered. Xiao brushed the hair out of her eyes, still catching his breath. His eyes had never looked more alive. Playful. Lumine felt her chest tighten, heart squeezing. She could have fallen in love with that look in his eyes if he'd let her.

"Are you going to behave now?" He rumbled. 

"Maybe."

He bent down to her ear. Lumine expected another kiss- only to squeal as a light nip scraped her flesh. "Alright, alright," she conceded, unable to stop from smiling- kicking her legs out beneath him when he continued until she was yelling it.

"Good. You're hard work, you know?" he huffed, pulling away to grasp her shoulder- pushing firmly.

Lumine found herself on her back- pleasantly surprised as Xiao slung his leg over her waist, settling above to straddle her hips. Heat shot down to her core at the view.

His eyes glowed in the low light. Seriousness now painted his features. Back to business. "The herbs will have taken effect now- numbing your wounds. This next part requires you to be absolutely still, Lumine. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded slowly. "Will you…keep the mask off?"

He blinked. "Fine. I need to concentrate though- so…no kisses or touches or your other feminine wiles." 

She arched a brow. Feminine wiles? 

Xiao sat back and closed his eyes as if to center himself. 

The atmosphere immediately changed. A hush fell over the room, as if holding its breath. Xiao reached around his neck and removed the beaded necklace, instead placing it around hers. The pendant rested squarely on her chest. 

He then took a hanging incense burner made of brass and coaxed the trailing smoke to life, letting it gradually fill her lungs. 

When he spoke next it wasn't a language she knew, but it sounded old. An incantation. A vow. 

Lumine remained still beneath him, feeling the change as everything began to feel heady, like a warm summer night. Energy sparked, and Xiao lowered the incense burner to rest a palm over her chest directly over her heart. It thundered as he spoke. 

Without his mask, those golden eyes framed with red markings bore into hers. She gave the barest hint of a smile.

I trust you.

Xiao's lips thinned. He inclined his head and began writing invisible characters onto her body- one at the base of her stomach, her collarbone, her arms and legs, the nape of her neck. He gripped his wrist and let out a hiss, clenching his teeth. Adeptus energy spilled forth from his palm. 

It bellowed around her, flowing straight into the invisible characters he'd left on her skin.

Lumine looked down as best she could, gasping.

The tree-like branches of lightning scars on her chest were glowing. They shone the signature colour of the Electro Archon; the purple scars resembling fissures.

With each new burst of Adeptus energy, the fissures raised, until the scars quite literally began peeling from her skin to dissipate mid-air, becoming static vapour. Lumine watched in awe as the vapour gathered above them due to the sheer volume of scarring. It hung heavy and low in the air like their own personal storm cloud. Xiao straightened and exhaled, before bending over her until they were nose to nose.

He uttered something hard and biting in that strange foreign language, the words hanging between them with a sense of finality. 

The vapour suddenly solidified; raining down all at once as harmless water droplets. Lumine panted, unable to look at anything other than Xiao. He shielded her from most of the downpour, those striking golden eyes softening into something reverent and yearning. 

Lumine didn’t leave him wanting for long. She threw her arms around his neck and bridged the rest of the distance between them, whispering a smothered ‘thank you’ against his lips. Exhausted, Xiao sank into her willing embrace, unable to keep himself upright. Lumine curled around him tight, shuddering with delight when he found the place between her neck and shoulder to rest his weary head for the remainder of the night. 

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” he rasped, only half conscious. “I’d do that…for you…a thousand times over.”

------

Time was a cruel inevitably and it wasn’t long before the sun began its sluggish climb into the sky for a new day. Paimon would be in a state of hysterics if she woke alone, so Lumine began walking down the stairs to Wangshu Inn’s Waypoint, Xiao shadowing her footsteps. Bathed in the brilliant hues of sunset, Lumine turned to face him once she reached the terminal. 

Unlike all the vulnerability and desire he’d expressed last night, Xiao’s face was wiped of emotion. He nodded curtly to her and turned away, summoning his primordial jade spear as if ready to depart himself. 

“I trust you’ll make it back safe from here. Don’t pull any reckless stunts like that again.”

Lumine bit her lip. She could sense his underlying care even in those acerbic words. Xiao brought a hand up- the yaksha mask appearing from thin air to hide his face once more. “I’ll see you lat-”

“Xiao.”

He froze. Perhaps he could act as though nothing had happened between them but she couldn’t. Things had irreparably changed. Unlike all the other changes in her life though, Lumine held onto those stolen kisses as something precious- a memory she’d revisit during lonely nights by the fire. And if she had anything to say about it, that wouldn’t be the last time they made such wonderful memories. 

Lumine stepped up to him, opening and closing her mouth as she searched for what to say. What could she offer in exchange for all he’d done? She settled on a fond smile, trailing her fingers up his tattooed arm to find purchase on his shoulder. Leaning up a little, she pressed a chaste kiss to his masked cheek. 

“You always find me,” she murmured. “Right when I need you. I’d like to return the favour next time.”

Xiao held himself still. His free hand twitched and rose, hesitating in the space between them.

“Don’t make promises like that,” came his halting reply- gloved fingers lightly stroking down her cheek in a lingering caress. “I’ll become greedy.”

Lumine’s lips bent into a smile, allowing a giggle to escape. She caught and held his hand against her, standing together with him for just one more stolen moment. Tilting her head to kiss the inside of his palm, she hoped her gaze conveyed her feelings. They roared loudly in her heart, yet not one word of love was spoken between them. She finally stepped away, and with a single wave and lingering look; teleported back to Inuzuma and all its dangers waiting there for her.

Alone, Xiao released a tight breath. He balled his hand into a fist, leaning against the railing for support. 

“I’m not as good or considerate as you seem to think I am,” he rasped, prying the mask off. His expression wasn’t one he ever wanted to reveal to her. “A good man wouldn’t have wanted to keep you so selfishly just now,” Xiao let out a shuddering breath, gripping his spear like his life depended on it. The Karma that felt so far away when she was near came rushing back, along with the weight of his sins and responsibilities. 

After taking a moment to compose himself, Xiao straightened and replaced his mask, glancing at the waypoint. “...Pray I don’t find you injured again, Lumine. I might do something even more foolish next time.”

With those grim words of warning for no one to hear, the Adeptus disappeared; returning to his duty with all emotion wiped clean from his being- but the image of her radiant smile lay burned into his ageless heart, and would likely remain long after the day's end. 

End

[jinx-on-mars-19xx]

Rushing Waters and Hushed Howls

⚔️ All Previous Parts Here ⚔️

Dom x Colson (Yungblud x Machine Gun Kelly)

Warnings: future ABO, slick, mpreg, Viking Col, fae Dom, PTSD, scared boys, mild panic, hurt boys, odd wound cleaning, blood drinking, grinding, talks about possible assault (of Dom), groping, talks of claiming, teasing, cock warming, breaking Dom's maidenhood (finally!), Aggressive Col, possible shifting, needy boys, something is up with Col 👀☠️ rating: explicit ☠️ ideas helped by @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker 🖤

Damhnaic tilted his head, his still fuzzy vision taking in the gorgeous man in front of him. Kol'son was bleeding everywhere, slashed and gashed all over- dripping red on his skin and his fur below them. There was a fire between them, a tension building fast and stealing their breath but it was as if they were both frozen. They'd just been positive the other was dead, they'd just been sure their lives were over and they would never be happy again. They had a moment to catch their breath and reality began to sink in. "Fhought I was 'possed to be glowing." The boy teased softly and the Viking choked on a laugh, looking down at himself.

He couldn't face whatever was happening though- surprisingly his rapidly changing form didn't feel like the most important thing between them and he knew Dom was being careful. "You are." He sighed softly, his hand trembling as he reached to wipe crimson off his lover's face. Fuck. He really thought one or both of them would be dead before nightfall. It was almost hard to process that they were both okay. "Did he-" His throat closed up around the words he knew he needed to ask and his gaze fell from his thrall's face to his blood drenched belly and core. "-hurt you?"

The siren knew his daidí wasn't asking what he truly wanted to know and when he caught the darkness in the man's eyes he almost wanted to cover himself from view. He felt bare in a way he wasn't used to. He spent so much time naked but Kol'son was truly seeing him and he didn't want him to think he was ruined. "I don't know. He… he cut me. I was out for a while. He killed-"

"Mom, I know. Did he try-"

"I don't know. I only feel you." Dom whispered honestly and they nodded to each other as if that was the only answer needed. The fae prayed that it was true. "You know?" He prompted after a moment and the chieftain curled his fingers around his thighs and gently tugged at him until he laid back again. He felt on display as his master leaned closer and he watched every twitch of Kol's muscles while the man hovered over his belly and the wound left there.

"Does it hurt?" He knew he was ignoring talking about what they obviously needed to talk about but the cut over his boy's belly scared him. It struck a nerve in the instinctual part of his brain that had been growling the whole time. The scent filled his nostrils and settled on the back of his tongue like candy. Without thinking his tongue flicked out to ghost over the slash, his lips almost leaving a trail of kisses as he traced the broken skin. His body just kept pressing lower until he settled between Dom's spread legs and the selkie's fingers tangled softly in his hair.

"N-not now." Dom whimpered, his body relaxing as his daidí soothed the pain he'd been through. He could tell by the way his lover's tongue explored that the wound wasn't deep, just messy. He hoped that meant their pup was alright. Muscles he didn't even realize were clenched slowly started calming, the fear in his mind gave way to need. His thighs spread further apart to fit the man and of course Kol'son took up whatever space he gave until his love was pressed tight against his finally filling cock. Gods he'd started to worry nothing worked anymore.

Kol hummed his response, almost smirking at the kid's reaction to him. All he wanted was to soothe his prince, if his body reacted too he couldn't help it. He couldn't remember ever enjoying the flavor of blood before but the tang tickled his taste buds and settled in his belly to send a thrill through his veins. He knew there was some noise rumbling in his chest but he couldn't tell why he was growling. Or was he… purring? His palms wandered the curves of his thrall almost absentmindedly, his thumbs rolling over his pebble hard nipples until the siren gasped and arched his spine.

Dom whined, his non-existent tits felt sensitive as hell. He knew he'd been close to his heat but now he felt almost stuck in that first wave. His toes curled and his cock twitched and finally- "Fuck-"

A trickle of heat spilled from between the boy's pink folds, his body had been trauma locked but Kol'son would always have the key and when he scented that hot slick dripping down his chest he pressed his pecs harder against the fae. "Use me?"

That rasped voice felt like it echoed through Dom's soul and all his instincts said he couldn't say no. He'd been calling the man his master since they met but it had never struck a chord in his soul so strong. His hips shifted, his cunt trying to find pressure enough to enjoy as the chieftain went back to cleaning every drop of red off his skin but it wouldn't be enough. It couldn't be. Now that he'd been taken by the Viking he knew what he needed most. "Kols please?" He begged, tugging rough at his lover's hair. The braids were stained and wild, they both needed a bath more than any mouth could handle but he couldn't force his mate to do anything. "Daidí-"

"Shit. What?" Kol cursed, his normally blue eyes flicking up to take in the sight of his desperate boy. He hadn't meant to sound gruff but he knew he did. That name felt different.

Dom's breath froze in his chest, his head almost dizzy with need but he felt pinned under the almost violet gaze- the Viking's eyes looked trapped somewhere between blue and red. He didn't think he should say anything though, he didn't want the… human to panic. "Come?" He begged instead, pulling softly to direct him.

A brow arched, a smirk curling Kol'son's blood stained lips. "That's what I'm trying to make you do." He teased but he crawled up the boy's body- making sure to drag his sliced up chest and abs against Dom's quivering cunt. When he finally reached his face the fae was trembling and the moment his cockhead settled against wet folds he felt himself shake too. He didn't realize how desperate he was- he'd been far too worried for his family. "What?" He tried to keep the mood light but they both knew it was anything but and now that he was basically holding Dom, his body close and protective over him, they both broke a little.

Tears welled the siren's eyes, his breath speeding in his chest. He was comforted by the Viking but he was overwhelmed. "I missed you." He sighed simply. Above almost everything else it was true. He'd sworn his heart had been ripped in two and it was taking time to realize it could be sewn back together. His arms curled around the man, his claws resting gently on his war torn back. "We-"

"Don't. I already thought I got you killed I can't-"

Dom held tighter, his ankles locking behind the Viking's back, and he wiggled his hips until the tip of his lover's dick was resting just inside him. He could still feel the man's spend inside him but he needed more. He needed to feel full and claimed. "She didn't die like tha'. We safe Kol's. Kol'son- look at me?" He begged when those violet eyes started to go wild. He couldn't let him pull away now, they had to reconnect. "We safe."

A broken noise escaped Kol's chest, something between a sob and a shout. He felt raw all over- inside and out and there was only one thing that would make him feel real again. Make him feel like himself.

Dom's head fell back as the Viking's hips plunged forward and his cock hit home in one quick thrust. The man was so overwhelming it was almost too much but it settled something wild in his soul. His body had felt the most intense pleasure and it's greatest pain all in one day but he finally felt complete again. He finally felt like he could breathe. "Daidí- '' His voice shuddered as if he was shivering, even his fangs chattered he was so worked up.

"Gods- Dom…" The leader sighed, his forehead resting against the boy's as he let his lover adjust. If they hadn't broken his maidenhood before he certainly had now and he thought he could scent that in the air too. Fresh blood and slick dripping down their skin to soak the fae's fur below them. "Safe. You and-" He swallowed hard, his hands pressing under the thrall's body until one could grope at his ass and the other rose up and tangled in that wild hair. That beautiful wild hair he hoped his babe would have. "My heir. You're giving me an heir?" The knot in his stomach eased as his prince smiled wide. He was sure he could have said that without such an inflated ego but no, that was exactly what his boy was doing. "Will it hurt them?"

"Wha'?" Dom huffed, almost laughing at the prideful smirk on his mate's face but as the man held him tighter those purple eyes got heavy lidded and his lover's lips curled in a wolfish grin.

"When I fuck another one into you." He purred simply, flicking his tongue over Dom's fangs. More than anything he needed to remind them both what it felt like to be alive.

Author's Note/Tags: @manicpixiedreamb0y @hollywoodxwhore @jaxbreaker @cole-way-iero28 @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker 🖤

Enjoy a little cocky Kol. I know it's not much but I'm having a rough day. Just wanted to get a little something out. I tried to post this earlier but my phone has been dumb all day so hopefully this one does! Hope you're enjoying the end of the slow burn and most of the angst being over 🖤☠️

[iceagebabystanaccount]

Omnia Sol-Prologue

Twelve years ago, Rei Baji’s twin brother was murdered. Now in the year 2017, Rei is a twenty-six-year-old office worker with no friends, no lovers, no goals, and most certainly no life. On their way home from a bar they are unexpectedly attacked, resulting in their death. This causes them to somehow end up twelve years in the past. With this new chance to change their mistakes, they decide they are going to prevent their brother’s untimely demise. They reconnect with old friends and enemies, and gain new allies. Can Rei save their brother or will they again be forced to go through life alone? 

This work contains an unreliable narrator and an unlikeable protagonist. If either of those things aren’t your cup of tea don’t read this.

cw: Discussions of death, mild gore, alcoholism

His altar had been extremely simple, as they couldn’t afford much more. The portrait was his most recent school photo. His hair was down and uniform neat, for once. White chrysanthemums littered the table with some yellows sprinkled throughout. It was a basic arrangement. They picked it out with the help of their mother. It was also the cheapest option available. 

Grandpa Sano offered to help pay for the funeral arrangements, but their mother refused. She claimed that it would be wrong to make another family pay for Keisuke’s funeral. Rei disagreed. 

The ceremony had been odd. Rei had never been upfront during a funeral, their grandparents had died when they were only a few months old, and at Shinichiro’s, they’d been at the very back. Now it was Grandpa Sano and Emma in the back. Rei hadn’t looked at them. 

They didn’t pay attention to how many came and paid their respects, who burned incense and prayed. What did it matter? He was dead. That wasn’t going to change. They assumed that the funeral was much more important to their mother and friends, as their mother was a practicing Buddhist, and their friends had yet to say goodbye.

When Chifuyu got to the altar Rei peaked at him. Tears streamed down his face, making it bright red, and snot leaked from his nose. If he had been embarrassed, he didn’t show it. He stood tall when he walked down the line, allowing everyone to see the state he was in. He and their mother had matching faces. 

As Chifuyu was about to make his way back to his seat, their mother grabbed his wrist, gently pulling him to sit with them, a sad smile on her face. Out of everything done that day, Keisuke would have liked that. Chifuyu walked in front of them and took the seat to their right. It was then that they made eye contact for the first time that day.

Before that point, everything had been fine. A few tears were nothing, that day they had wept for hours in their mother’s arms, the shared pain between them causing their rift to knit itself back together. But at that moment, locking eyes with one of the few people they knew truly understood their pain, the shitty dam they had built broke. They were, in fact, an ugly crier. But didn’t they deserve an ugly cry the day they mourned their brother’s death? When else could they be a blubbering loser than at a funeral dedicated to their brother?

Horrific sounds spilled from their lips, filling the air and making everyone uncomfortable. Good, let them be driven to the brink by their cries. 

He had just missed their birthday. He hadn’t even been fifteen.    

They grabbed both their mother’s and Chifuyu’s hands, needing something to ground them. Their mother’s were warm and dry, as opposed to Chifuyu’s cold and clammy. They didn’t call him out on it, as they were still busy terrifying guests. 

Sometime during their wailing, a few members of Toman paid their respects. Mitsuya, Shiba, and the Kawata twins were the only ones they’d known.  

As Grandpa Sano and Emma walked toward the altar, Emma kept glancing at them. Her eyes were red, a deep well of compassion. Maybe Emma could’ve understood them on a greater level, as she too had lost her brother. That made Rei somehow feel worse.

Sano-san and Emma each plucked a pinch of makko out of the bowl and brought it to their foreheads, then they sprinkled it onto the burner. They bowed to Keisuke’s portrait, Emma looked at it every few seconds as she said her prayer. Sano-san had bowed low, much lower than was required. His lips didn’t part until Emma’s stopped moving. He prayed for a long time. After he was finished, they both rose and began their walk to the back of the room. Their departure caused Rei to realize something. 

Someone was missing. 

Rei looked at the line of guests waiting to pay their respects. They checked once, twice and then they were sure. Manjiro wasn’t there. He hadn’t come to Keisuke’s funeral. 

Good. He shouldn’t have been there. Rei didn’t want him there. If they had had any say in the matter he wouldn’t have been allowed at the funeral, or even near their family ever again. 

But, he didn’t come. How could he not? They were friends! They had known each other since they were 4 and 5! How do you not go to your friend’s funeral?! How do you get someone’s brother killed and not go to the funeral?! The entire situation was incomprehensible. The cold grief in Rei’s chest slowly heated, until it was burning hot rage. It made them wanna go find him and…

Then again, the thought of Manjiro strutting in, walking up to his altar, and praying for him made Rei wanna scream and throw up. The rage didn’t completely cool, just lowered to a less volatile temperature.

They had sat there for what must have been an hour more, but he never came. He never said goodbye. And Rei hated that almost as much as him killing their brother.

Late nights at the office are not enforced, but they are expected. The typical workday is supposed to be nine-seven, but many of their coworkers stay much later. Rei doesn’t. They leave as soon as they can, throwing all of their shit into their bag and all but racing to the elevator. Tonight is no different. 

They glance at the clock on their desk and quickly kill the computer. Springing from their chair and crawling under the desk to grab the pens that have ended up on the floor throughout the day. Some of their coworkers are side-eyeing them, but they truly can’t find it in themselves to give a shit. The bar is calling them. Tomorrow is a Saturday so no need to worry about staying out too late. After grabbing their bag and blazer they’re gone. 

The moment they get outside they regret it, the humid air causes their bangs to stick to their forehead with sweat. As they walk they can feel the perspiration gathering on the back of their neck, under their hair. It needs to be cut badly, having grown almost down to their waist. The black button-up and slacks don’t help with the heat.

It’s seven p.m. in July, so the sun is still out. The streets of Shibuya are still crowded, some people are like them, leaving work to go drink themselves into a stupor and hopefully quell their increasingly depressing thoughts. After all, alcoholism is better than suicide. Others are walking to their jobs, the nightlife scene in Shibuya is big. Some are just college kids or tourists coming to party and get scammed.

The traffic is terrible. 

Rei stands at the crosswalk waiting for the signal to cross. It’s gonna take forever. The already hellish heat is made worse by the hoard of people surrounding them, and the garish electronic billboards strain their already bad eyes. 

The people blend together when they are so close, a mass of heat and destruction Rei tries to get away from to no avail. The only one out of the hoard they take any interest in is the old woman standing a meter in front of them. She’s short and wrinkly and looks like she’s barely hanging on. She reminds them of their old neighbor, Chen-san. They never did find out her first name. She used to make wonderful dumplings, giving them to Rei when they would come to clean her apartment. She also would yell at Keisuke for being too noisy. That was always appreciated. Even though she reminds them of Chen-san, there is no way it’s actually her. She died when Rei was in high school.

A rowdy partyer bumps into the woman, and she goes flying towards the road. Rei imagines her being struck by a car and rolling over the hood, her head cracking on the pavement. The car plowing over her, as they had better things to do than help an old woman who didn’t have much time left anyway. The other cars would follow the leader, running her over again and again. She would cease to be a person, just entrails strewn along the road. A memory of crimson painting the tires. How long would she live? How much pain would she register before her old bones gave up? How much of her would people have to put into plastic bags and dispose of? What-

A young woman grabs her, pulling her close and away from the road. She tears the near-murderer a new one. 

The signal finally changes.

It’s not a great bar. It’s old, cheap and dirty. But Rei loves it. No one from work would ever dream of coming here, if they even knew it existed at all. Like so many odd and out-of-the-way places this bar doesn’t have a name, or if it does Rei is unaware. No signs are out front advertising its presence. Maybe it’s a place that just draws people to it, like a moth to a flame. A place you’ll find one day when you need it. Rei doesn’t put that much thought into it though. It’s just a place they go to get cheap drinks and not be judged by the other patrons. 

The stool Rei sits on is crooked, one of the legs shorter than the two others, so they lean heavily on the sticky bar. In front of them sits their can of Sapporo, two empty ones behind it. They are tipsy, a light flush on their cheeks. At twenty-six they’re still a light-weight. 

The lights are very dim tonight, making it hard to make out any of the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Rei is happy with it though, as it gives their overworked eyes a chance to rest and not burn in their sockets. One of the bottles might say something about cream, Rei can’t tell. 

In October it’ll be twelve years since Keisuke died. Rei will turn twenty-seven, and he will remain fourteen.

They might come here that day, it’d be a lot easier than going to visit their mother. It’s not that they hate her or anything, it’s just…How do you go see the woman who gave you life when you know you disappoint her? They guzzle the last of their drink. 

A TV sits at the end of the bar furthest from the door. A man a few seats down from Rei holds the remote in his hand, uninterestedly flipping through the channels. His stool has 3 even legs. Rei’s jealous. He finally pauses on the news.

A female news anchor, who looks a little like Rei’s ex-girlfriend, is going on about a political scandal. Why come to a bar if you wanna watch the news? Rei is just about to voice that question when the news anchor switches to a new story and says a name that causes rage to rise in them. “It is believed that the Tokyo Manji Gang is responsible for the deaths of two civilians, Hinata Tachibana, and Naoto Tachibana,” she says the names of the dead with false sympathy. “If you have any information about the incident,” Her eyes lock with Rei’s through the TV, “Please contact the police

Nothing will be done for them. It’s an open secret that the Tokyo Manji Gang runs Shibuya, many of the clubs here are used to clean their money. There will be no evidence, or they will say there is none, and then it will be over. 

They don’t say his name, but it doesn’t matter. Their night has taken a turn for the worse.

The Tokyo Manji Gang. Toman. Manjiro Sano. Rei orders an entire bottle of sake.

Rei had long ago finished the bottle, and had five more beers with it. The bartender is telling them they are done, they’re much too drunk to continue to serve, but Rei doesn’t hear him. They keep trying to ask for another bottle, another beer, or fuck, a shot. Just something! They’re fine, see. They can have more. They aren’t winning the argument. 

Now, the old man who owns the joint is coming out of the back, telling them they need to go. Jeez, why is everyone yelling at Rei? They didn’t do anything. But fine, they’ll be the bigger person and go. Rei gets up, nearly falling off the stool due to its stupid leg. Their blazer and bag are grabbed in one motion, something a drunk person couldn’t do. They don’t stumble out the door.

No one is in the alley. They can hear the not-so-distant sounds of debauchery, but can’t see the glow of the annoying bright billboards due to the surrounding buildings. It’s dark and Rei doesn’t feel like carrying the blazer on their arm, so they throw it on, dropping their bag while doing so. They search blindly for their phone, running their hands over their many pockets. It’s in their bag, and dead.

That’s not good, sure they have no need for a ride right now, but they will when they leave the alley. It’s fine, they can hail a cab instead of using a ride-share app. They aren’t walking the five blocks to the station.

The march down the alley is an ordeal, they grip the grimy walls for stability but still topple over every few steps. When they reach the end their hands are covered in…something and their slacks have dirt on them. The street is dead, as all the establishments on it are closed. No taxis to be found.

They can see faint light from the billboards now. Civilization isn’t far. If they go to a more populated area then they can get a taxi to the station, go home, and sleep for fourteen hours. Usually, some tourists are walking down the street looking at all the closed shops with interest, planning to come back the following day, but for some reason, no one is out here tonight. One night will be fine, is what they tell themselves as they walk down the deserted street.

The sound of their loafers is accompanied by distant shouting and music. Their intoxicated state makes the street lights appear to be moving, swaying side to side and away from them. The world is a blur of colors and sounds, and their vision swims. Everything is moving much too slowly for Rei. They’ve been walking forever and still no taxis. Will they ever get home? Wait, why are they going home? They stop to pull out their phone again. It’s still dead. 

Footsteps.

At first, they think maybe it’s the booze or thinking about Manjiro that’s making them paranoid, but they are getting closer now. The hair on the back of Rei’s neck rises, and without thinking they take off. Or try to, but it appears as if the alcohol is making it difficult to quickly put one foot in front of the other. They start falling, bracing themselves with their arms at the last moment. A crack is heard and pain shoots up their right arm, slightly dulled in their drunken haze. Thump.

Rei lays face down on the ground, contemplating taking a nap right here. The footsteps continue. they push off the ground with their left hand, rising to their knees. Where are their glasses? They need to use their phone to find their glasses, so they reach for their bag and now their arm hurts. Why does their arm hurt? Aw, their phone is dead. Where are their glasses? Footsteps.

Oh shit. Footsteps. Rei moves in a way that shouldn’t be possible for someone in their state, leaping into the air and readying once again to run. But it’s too late. No more footsteps.

A man stands before them. He is short and stringy, wearing a nice suit and shoes, much too expensive to be walking around here this late, a Rolex sits on his wrist. His hands are deep in his pants pockets. They can’t make out his face. Rei whips their head around, but no one else appears. 

Ok. One guy is fine. They’re tired, sure, and not completely sober, but one guy isn’t the end of the world. People aren’t too far away now, if they break past him they’ll be home free. Yeah, that’s a plan. 

They don’t get the chance. He takes his right hand out of his pocket. 

They’re back on the ground again. How did they get there? The man is standing over them with something in his hand. Where are their glasses? Their abdomen burns. They try to lift their right arm, then switch to the left, and their hand lightly grazes their stomach. His hand goes back into his pocket, his Rolex glints under the street lights. Their hand comes away slick with blood, and that must be what is slowly trickling out of the corner of their mouth. They spit it out, let some land on him dammit.

That must’ve pissed him off cuz now he’s crouching down, and Rei can finally kinda see his face. Do they know him? Light flashes and dark spots cloud their vision. This is Rei’s death? Getting shot by some rich prick for no fucking reason, other than he was murderous.What the fuck? 

He isn’t saying anything, just looking at their tired face, the dark rings under their eyes more prominent due to the blood loss. They look like a mess-even more than usual. Their hair once again matted to their forehead with sweat, clothes sticky with blood, and glasses somewhere in the middle of the street. And oh yeah, the broken arm and a gunshot wound, how could they forget. He’s still staring. Is he getting off on this? Probably, sick fuck. Coughing starts and blood is shooting from their mouth, some hitting him on the cheek. He doesn’t move. 

It took Keisuke ten minutes to bleed out. He could’ve lived if given proper medical attention, all anyone had to do was call an ambulance. No one had. 

They know no one is coming to rescue them, but out of the corner of their eye, a shadow moves, and for just a moment they feel safe. 

Then it’s all gone.

[bluejayblueskies]

oh if you did a little something for jonmartin and "hiding their face in the other’s neck" i would be so 🥺💕

touches prompt list

a little post-circus kidnapping hurt/comfort! cw for wounds/injury, mild blood, mentions of non-consensual touching, and mentions of kidnapping

.

There is a stranger’s elbow digging into Jon’s side.

He shifts from one foot to the other, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his side while surreptitiously giving the stranger a glare that he hopes adequately conveys his dislike of the current situation. The tube is packed, as it always is at this time of day, and there are… so many strange hands. An elbow, at least, is better than the hand that had pressed to his back as the individual it belonged to had instinctively tried to maintain their balance.

After all, Nikola didn’t touch him with her elbows.

Jon doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. He wants to lie down in a soft bed and get his first good night’s sleep in a month and finally have the space to process. Alone.

Instead, Martin stands next to him on the train. His hand rests just beneath Jon’s where it grips one of the metal poles, and Martin takes care not to brush against him despite how crowded the car is. Jon considered telling Martin, when they first got on the tube, that it was okay—that his touch would be… well, it wouldn’t be bad. But he’d stayed silent, allowing Martin to cultivate a careful space between them. They’ve been silent for the past twenty minutes as they’ve passed by station after station on their way to Martin’s flat in Brixton.

“I have a flat,” Jon had said uncomprehendingly when Martin had suggested (or rather, gently begged) that Jon come back to his flat with him. “It’s, um. It’s nice. Spacious. S-sturdy locks.”

“You… you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Martin had said, sounding and looking very much like he wished Jon would anyway.

“I’m fine.” Jon was not fine. But he could be fine until he got back to his flat. It was always good to have a short-term goal.

Martin gave him a look that clearly said that he thought Jon was full of shit. Jon was, but it was still unnecessary. He was just trying to keep it together. What did Martin want—him sobbing and crumpling to the floor right here in the Archives? No, that wouldn’t do at all.

“You were kidnapped. Twice now. I really don’t want it to happen a third time. Besides, I…” Martin trailed off and fluttered his hands at his sides. “I—I should take a look at your hand. And your, um. Wrists.”

Jon looked down at his arms. They were, indeed, quite red and raw and scabbed over and likely to scar. Nikola had been irritated when she’d seen that he’d been tied up so tightly, but she’d decided there was nothing to be done about it. She would just ‘make do with what she had.’ And, well. She had never stopped Breekon and Hope when they’d cinched the ropes just a little bit tighter each time.

“I have first aid supplies in my flat,” Jon lied. He was fairly certain that he had a backpack of What the Ghost merchandise and a single mattress to his name at the moment. “I can take care of it.”

“So can I.” Martin took a deep breath. “I just… I don’t want to see you hurt, Jon.” His cheeks were flushed a rosy pink, and he looked over Jon’s shoulder at the wall behind him. “J-just for tonight, at least? I want…” Martin swallowed. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

And then Martin had turned those lovely blue eyes to his, and, well. Here they are.

Jon adds 24 hours onto his mental countdown of the time he has left until he’s allowed to break down and tells himself that he can manage. It’s… important to have long-term goals as well. He splits this one into steps.

Step one: get to Martin’s flat without crying. He achieves this easily enough. He finally escapes the cloying presence of strangers as Martin’s door shuts behind them, and then it’s blissfully quiet. Martin flips on a light, illuminating the space in pale yellow. It’s a little bit messy but otherwise spartan. The walls are painted a dull eggshell white, the floor made of cheap lino. Martin sits Jon down on the couch and disappears into the bathroom. Jon stares at the wall and focuses on breathing evenly and thinking about anything other than how smooth his skin feels when he slowly rubs his fingers together.

Step two: let Martin bandage his wounds without crying. This is… more challenging, if only because it hurts. Martin apologizes profusely as he wets a cotton ball with isopropyl alcohol and gently cleans the inflamed areas. Jon sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, focusing on anything other than the stinging, burning sensation in his wrists and hands. Funny—he’d thought that at this point, he would be used to the pain, but he’s not. All he knows now is what to expect.

Martin carefully wraps his hand and wrists in bandages. For a moment after he’s done, he delicately holds Jon’s hands in his like they’re porcelain. His hands are warm and soft, and Jon imagines how lovely they would feel against his cheeks. He thinks briefly that Martin is going to raise his unbandaged hand to his lips and lay a kiss across the back of it, but Martin doesn’t. Instead, he sets Jon’s hands back in his lap and stands, mumbling that he’s going to go make some tea.

Jon scrubs his uninjured hand across his eyes, just once.

Step three: sit on the couch with Martin and drink tea without crying. Martin presses a mug of steaming chamomile into his good hand and lays a plate of biscuits between them. “Th-they’re your favorite,” Martin says with a small, nervous laugh, like Jon’s not already staring at the plate with something choked sitting in the back of his throat. “I—I figured you probably haven’t really eaten today, and… I don’t really know what you’ve eaten lately. So, um. Yeah.”

Jon thinks of the things that Nikola had called food, then chooses not to think of them at all. He tucks the memory into a box next to cold hands and exposed skin and burning ropes and slams the lid before it can all come spilling back out again. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. He gingerly takes a biscuit in his stiff, aching hand that hasn’t had the time to heal properly and probably won’t get the chance to do so in the future and pops it into his mouth whole so he doesn’t get crumbs on Martin’s couch.

Step four: eat a biscuit that tastes like the best biscuit you’ve ever had and is the first palatable food you’ve had in weeks without crying.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks and comes back to himself. He’s staring blankly at Martin’s face, at eyebrows folded in concern and mouth curled into a small frown. Martin’s freckles are smudged into smears of tan, and the lines of his jaw waver like a mirage in front of Jon’s eyes. That’s odd, Jon thinks. Then, he feels something wet hit the top of his cheek.

Oh, no.

Quickly, Jon reaches up and scrubs the tears away from his eyes. As soon as he lowers his hand, more spring up in their place. He curses and sets his mug of tea down heavily on the table, taking one more look at Martin—whose eyes are now wide with worry—before turning away and attempting to pull himself together.

Step five: stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

(Stop crying, his grandmother says as he stands in the living room, hands and knees dirty and hair a mess. He’s managing to say words between his sobs, words like book and stole and spider. She’s frowning at him, but her voice is still patient and calm when she says, You’re not making any sense, Jonathan. Stop crying, please, and speak clearly. You had a nightmare?)

“Jon, what’s—” Martin catches himself, which Jon is thankful for. He thinks that if Martin had finished that question—asked him what’s wrong—Jon wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from saying, what isn’t? “What can I do to help?” he says instead, a hand hovering carefully in the air between them like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch Jon or not.

“Don’t look,” Jon manages to say. He immediately feels ridiculous and follows with a quick: “S-sorry, it’s—I don’t k-know how to—I’m not—I’m n-not good at—”

“I’m not looking,” Martin says softly.

Jon cuts off, takes a breath, and turns his head back toward Martin. True to his word, Martin has his eyes closed, though his hand remains in the air between them. Jon presses his good hand to his mouth for a moment to hide how the sight rips a new, more ragged sob out of him. Then, tentatively, he reaches forward and takes Martin’s hand.

Martin inhales sharply. Jon almost lets go, but Martin curls his fingers around Jon’s hand and squeezes. He holds Jon’s hand tightly yet so achingly softly, and Jon could weep. (Or rather, is weeping.)

“Can I hug you?” Martin says abruptly, like he’d been fighting an internal battle about whether or not to say it and had just lost. His cheeks darken, but he doesn’t say anything else or take it back. His jaw shifts as he pinches his lips together and worries them back and forth.

Jon is… not the kind of person who initiates or seeks out hugs. He always makes them too stiff, or he holds on just a bit too long and makes them awkward, or he doesn’t know what to do with his hands and ends up just dangling them uselessly in the air. He’s also never really seen the point of them if he’s being honest. As a form of greeting, surely handshakes or waves or head nods get the point across just fine. Right now, though, there is truly nothing in the world that Jon thinks would make him feel safer than having Martin’s arms around him.

Jon nods, then remembers that Martin can’t see him and whispers, in as composed a voice as he can muster: “Please.”

Step six: hug Martin Blackwood without falling apart completely.

Martin’s arms are soft and warm around him. His chest is flush with Jon’s, and he’s holding him so close that Jon is practically on Martin’s lap. All Jon can think is that it’s been so long since he’s been held by something not made of sawdust or plastic. He grips the back of Martin’s jumper with lotion-soft hands and cries tears that have been collecting for a month into the fabric as he buries his face in Martin’s neck. Martin’s hands rub large circles across Jon’s back, and he’s whispering gentle words into Jon’s ear. Things about safe and okay and time and here.

By the time Jon feels thoroughly wrung dry, his cheeks are sticky and his head is throbbing and he’s desperately in need of a glass of water. He takes a few deep breaths, then carefully extracts himself from Martin’s arms. Martin lets him go easily, though his hands remain resting lightly on Jon’s elbows as if he can’t bear to let him go completely.

Jon thinks he knows the feeling.

Martin’s eyes are still closed, and Jon is hit with such a swell of affection he can hardly breathe around it. “Y-you can open your eyes,” he says, a bit sheepishly. Martin does, and if he’s affected by the state of Jon’s face, he doesn’t show any indication of it. “Sorry,” Jon mumbles, twisting his ring—now on his left middle finger instead of his right—around and around mindlessly. “I just…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s elbows gently. “I understand. Any time you need me to look away, I will. Okay? I just…” He takes a breath. “I’ll always be here. F-for you when you need me.”

If Jon weren’t thoroughly out of tears, that would make his eyes water. Instead, he nods and offers a small, weak smile. “I know. Thank you, Martin. It… just. Thank you.”

Step seven: fall asleep safe against Martin’s side in the bed that he insists is big enough for two, face pressed into Martin’s neck once again and hands curled loosely in Martin’s sleep shirt.

He’s so drained by the time they’re there, so wrung-out and empty and relaxed, that he manages to do so almost immediately. He thinks he hears Martin murmur, “Sleep well, love,” as he drifts off. But it disappears into the fuzzy border between sleep and wakefulness, slipping from Jon’s mind entirely as he fades to black.