#don t jduge me

[lukellios]

Digger ( @svynakee) and my Bitters from pretty much the first Linksona fic. You can read it down below, or ignore it if you’re not about linkcest! However it’s really fucking good  because svynakee wrote it and i cried

There’s this thing he does when he’s serious. It took me a while to notice, to realise what it meant. He pushes that mask – so offputtingly macabre at first, but now oddly endearing in its impertinence – up onto his forehead. It makes the dark fabric that covers his lower face ride up, so that his mouth and nose are bared.

Maybe it’s his way of making sure that there’s nothing to stop the truth that comes tumbling through his lips. Each breath with which he tells me about himself, his true self and not the script he so deftly weaves for his charade, is carefully guarded. His truth is as rare as diamonds. And I intend to treat them with the same precious care, to make them eternal.

It’s on one such occasion that I reach out and trap his cheeks between my hands. He stops mid-sentence, with a surprised little intake of breath through his nose. “-what’s the idea?”

“Let me see your eyes,” I tell him.

He laughs; two short, loud bursts of air followed by a quieter drawn-out chuckle. He always laughs like this when he’s uncertain, when he’s scared, when he’s angry or lonely or hurt. It took me a while to notice that, too. I wonder if the others have. If they’ve watched him the way I do. If they see him the way I do.

“Why’d ya wanna do that?” he says. But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t shift the slightest to free himself of my touch. “They look the same as yours. See ‘em every day.”

“Because…”

It was a sudden urge, a sudden need. When had I become so reckless? He’s rubbing off on me, I realise. And it surprises me how okay I am with that. There’s a part of me that wants to chase his thrills, to be the first to see his latest stunt. It’s a part that’s growing every day, with every moment I spend wit him. So with a smile, I answer:

“Because I want to see the way you look at me.”

“…because I want to see the way you look at me,” he said, and it takes my breath away. In his eyes I see myself, the self I’ve made: the mask, the scar, the tufts of hair sticking out from beneath the black cloth. I see the way my mouth falls open in surprise. In disbelief.

What the hell, I think. I’ve shown more of myself to him than anyone else.

I want to show him even more. I want him to know me.

I take the mask off, carefully. Usually I just yank it off, toss it wherever. But there’s something about this moment that calls for caution, for slow movements. Maybe I want to make this last. Maybe I’m scared of what’ll happen next.

He gasps when he sees how long my hair is. It falls to my shoulders and tickles my cheeks. Before I can brush it away, he moves.

His fingers only touch my skin briefly, but it’s enough to set sparks tingling. As he tucks the stray strands behind my ear I become certain that I have never felt warmth before, not true warmth, and as he leans back I become certain that I never will again.

I need him.

“Your hair…”

“It’s a mess,” I say.

“It’s beautiful.”

I don’t have a reply to that.

“May I?” he asks, and while I don’t know what he’s asking for I know that I can’t refuse him. Not now, not like this.

“Go ahead.”

He moves behind me and starts running his fingers through my hair. It’s dirty, I want to tell him. I’ll just ruin it.

I’m not worth the effort.

“Ya don’t hafta do this,” is what I say instead. When did I become such a selfish coward?

He spins me around by the shoulders so that we’re facing each other once more. “I want to do this.”

With a sigh, I obediently turn back,so I can guiltily lose myself in the feeling of his hands massaging my scalp, parting my hair, teasing and pulling at it. All too soon he makes a satisfied noise and taps my shoulder, interrupting the comfortable doze I’d slipped into.

I move to the full-length mirror I keep by the wall to admire his handiwork. I’d already chosen my compliments and phrases of gratitude, but what I see wipes all rehearsed lines off my mind. The ticklish strands of hair that usually frame my face have been styled into delicate golden braids. The rest of it’s pulled back into a bun, neat and tidy and glossy. He’s used the chopsticks that keep his own hair in place on me, used his own ribbons to pull the braids back so that they hang from the bun. I see him in the mirror standing behind me, smiling. His distinct, elaborate style undone…

…given to me.

It’s beautiful. I watch my own reflection. The goofy, wide grin that stretches across my face. The tears welling up in my eyes. The reverential way I reach up to feel my hair, as if this is all just some fanciful dream.

It’s real.

He moves up behind me. Puts his hands on my shoulders. For once the radiant armour feels too thin – the way his touch warms me, it’s like I’m wearing nothing at all.

“Thank you,” I tell him, and I don’t even care about the way my voice trembles because it makes him smile, because it makes his eyes soften, because he giggles and blushes and gives my shoulders a squeeze.

And then his hand moved up, up along my neck until he’s cupping my cheek, turning my head, pulling me close to him-

The kiss starts off chaste. Just a touch of the lips, gentle and wary. I lean closer, to tell him I want more, I want him. He obliges and suddenly we’re pressed together, my hands in his hair, my mouth on his, head turned slightly so we can fit into each other as perfectly as a puzzle. The sweetness of his mouth, his tongue – oh, he’d chosen the wrong name for himself, I can never call him bitter again.

When we pull apart, gasping (how cute he looks, his face all red, his scarlet cheeks like two ripe tomatoes), he tells me with shaking hands, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the way you look at me.”