#even before he did anything. vividly the sensations repeat

[algolstare]

Baby truly does so much for us she can tell when i am getting away even when im just laying here. Shit has been such a mess internally since that bcame fresh & parts that never, ever, ever should have came back seriously did. The uterus is an intruding unwelcome organ & brains are useless - "oh hey, you know that memory you tried to off yourself over less than 24hrs after seeing it? Wanna see the next moment of it? No? Too bad" i wish it could go back in the box. I dont understand why it has to come forwards when i least need it.

[saintunhinged]

When All Is Forgotten

word count 2.1k content warning angst

w/ comfort

requested by @ppeachpits

summary julian breaks your heart, then disappears without any communication. during nadia’s ball, you come face to face with the man you’ve grown to hate for the first time in months. he’s eager to talk to you, but the feeling is far from mutual.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

When he took you to the docks, you never expected the events unfolding before you. Just hours ago things were fine between the two of you, but now it was all falling apart and you had Julian to blame.

You knew he was breaking up with you— at least it was considered one seeing as nothing was made official. But you didn’t need any labels on your relationship with him to know you were head over heels for a man you’d only just met.

“We never- we never had anything to start with. Just… a night or two stolen from time.” Julian hesitates, then his uncovered eye finds yours, lit with a gaze intense enough to burn right through you. The chance to ask the meaning of his claim never arrives. “I never loved you.” He blatantly confesses, leaving you in a state of shock.

You’re too stunned to speak. The words you once wished to share with him have disappeared. Your brows creased when you finally managed to speak. “What?” You timidly ask, hoping to have heard him wrong.

He’s quick to add, “I said I never loved you.” He repeats, his voice gradually coming to a whisper almost as if ashamed to say. Though he stands firm in his statement, it’s easy to see his facade struggling to hold up. Or perhaps it was the figment of your imagination that desperately hoped he didn’t mean it.

The gaze that once bore through you now struggles to stay on you. “That’s not true.” You sternly declare, your mask of confidence throwing him off guard.

“I– ah…hmm.” A pregnant silence stumbles over you as he thinks carefully about choosing his next words. “I suppose it’s foolish of you to think so, no?” His rhetorical question rings through the air. “I’m sorry. For everything. Truly.”

You reach out to touch him, but he takes a step back out of your reach. It only makes your heart hurt more. The stinging sensation in your eyes warns you of the oncoming tears threatening to spill over. “Julian..?”

A solemn smile played on his face. “Goodbye, dear.” It was the last you saw of him.

———-

The memory of that night rages through your mind like a fierce storm. It’s all you can think about as you watch the tall man stride proudly through the ballroom. From the small crowd around him and the exaggerated waving of his hands, you can tell he’s captured an audience with a story.

He’s too busy to even notice you.

You’re unable to stop yourself from glaring at him. The feelings that you thought had vanished with the months that had passed were beginning to resurface. Did you hate him, or was the thought of being in the same room with him that sickening?

While re-enacting a part of his story, he does a flamboyant spin while swinging an imaginary weapon, one you assume to be a sword, his gaze landing on you in the midst of it all. It takes only a second for him to fumble in place, his attention now fully on you. Even from across the room, you see the color drain from his already pale face.

You don’t stay long enough to see what he does next. Turning on your heels, you let your feet guide you away until you find yourself at the garden’s fountain. The still water vividly reflected the bright moon shining above. Twinkling in the night sky were the stars. You could easily clear your mind here.

Seeing Julian was certainly not a part of your plans, but you refused to let him ruin this for you. Because of how diligently Nadia worked to make the ball an enjoyable event for everyone, you couldn’t let her invitation go to waste. All you needed was a few minutes to collect yourself and you’d be fine.

A puff of air blows past your lips once you sit at the fountain’s edge. Your eyes slip close as you focus on your breathing, but the more you try to direct your mind elsewhere, the more you find yourself thinking of him.

The soft sound of footsteps approaching coaxes your eyes open. You’re not pleased to see a jittery Julian closing in on you.

Your name falls carefully from his mouth. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He anxiously informed you. Like before, his right eye remained covered by a black eye patch, but the dark circles around his eye was more prominent than you remembered.

“You would’ve never shown your face if you did.” You snarkily retort.

“... I deserve that.” His demeanor was unsure and tense as he racked his brain for something— anything to say.

The laugh you let out was not amusing in any way. You scoff in disbelief. “Oh, you deserve a lot more than that. Months Julian, it’s been months since I’ve heard from you!” You’re practically shouting at him, disregarding the quizzical looks a few onlookers shoot you.

In another situation, Julian would summon the perfect response he thought would calm you down or at least one he thought would. Now his mind was blanking. “I know– and .. and I’m sorry. I feared what you might say. What you might think of me...” He trails off, a pensive look crossing his apprehensive features.

“I think you’re a coward.” You begrudgingly express.

You hear him swallow the lump forming in his throat. His gaze shies away from you and his face flushes a deep shade of red. “I know.” His mouth quirks, his lips falling apart to say more, but he decisively remains quiet.

One second passes, two, then three and four. “I didn’t come here for this.” You pointedly murmur through gritted teeth. He was wasting your time. He followed you out here for what? You brush past him, your shoulder roughly bumping his arm.

Julian reaches out to grab your wrist only for you to jerk away from him. “Do not touch me.” You snap.

Instantly, he lets his hand drop back to his side, regret flickering across his face. “I couldn’t drag you down that road of destruction with me. I wanted what was best for you. If something happened to you because of me there’s no telling what I’d do.”

You eyes subconsciously roll. “That’s selfish! You’re selfish! What about what I wanted? Did you ever ask what I wanted?” Your question rings through the air between you. His head falls and you hear him sigh. His low voice is thick with guilt when he speaks. “...No.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” You turn to walk away, this time gaining a short distance from Julian.

“Wait!” He pauses briefly. Despite your mind yelling at you to continue, your legs carry you nowhere. Though you don’t turn to see him, you know he’s struggling to annunciate his thoughts. Behind you, Julian’s brows furrow. He doesn’t think at all; soon words are flowing past his lips before he can stop them.

“I uh.. I regret that night more than you know. Every day I thought of you, and quite frankly— I need you. I er .. messed up, I know. I mess everything up. I’m not worthy of your forgiveness, nor your time, but… I do love you.”

Your shoulders slump. Your eyes screw shut as you slowly shake your head. You fight against the prickling burn in your eyes. “Newsflash, no one leaves someone they love.” With that, you return to the ball determined not to let your encounter with Julian deter your night. You run into Asra on your way in.

You’re not sure if it’s the tears that gave it away or whether he just knows you that well, his face immediately softens upon seeing you.

Worry is written on his face. “What’s the matter?”

One question manages to break the dam. You find it nearly impossible to stop the overflowing tears. When you fail to respond, Asra wraps a comforting arm around your shoulder and leads you somewhere secluded. There you begin to sob. “I thought I was over him.” You shakily cry.

For a second his eyebrows knit together in confusion, then relaxes when he realizes. “Oh.” he softly whispers, “I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?” His gaze is earnest. At this moment you know he will do anything to console you.

After Julian ghosted you, it was easy to lean on Asra. You insisted on going through the “breakup” alone, but he was adamant on getting you to open up. Never pressuring you, but always telling you it would certainly make it easier.

You tell him about your evening. His expression changes several times. By the time you’re finished venting, you notice Asra in deep thought. “What do you want?”

“A part of me never wants to see him again, but I can’t ignore these feelings I still have for him. I don’t know what to do.”

Asra sighs as if he can’t believe what he’s about to say. He hardly called himself a fan of your fondness for the doctor, but Julian made you happy. That was all he wanted for you.

“Talk to him.” He suggests, and before you can protest against it, he speaks again. “You don’t have to forgive him, but at least hear him out. I know Ilya. He’s rash and reckless in his decisions. If tonight is any indication, I know he cares for you.”

His statement lingers in your thoughts. In the wake of your silence, Asra offers you a small smile and leaves you to your thoughts. “Think about it.”

The second he’s gone, tears involuntarily run down your face. You wonder if he really does care for you. While you’re alone, you blearily observe the room you’re in. You assume it’s one of the storage rooms due to all the cleaning supplies stocked on the shelves. Unfortunately for you, there’s nowhere to sit.

Wiping your eyes, you inhale deeply. When you open the door to leave, you’re met with Julian once again. This time you don’t even react.

You trust Asra would have never told him your whereabouts, but it did leave you questioning how he was able to find you so fast.

“What do y—”

“Wait. I just … I owe you an explanation. After everything, that is.”

Standing there, you contemplate what he said. With nothing to say, you open the door further and allow him to come inside with you.

Inside, Julian self-consciously clears his throat. “You were bound to get hurt being with me. I figured leaving you was the only way to protect you from going down with me. Now, I know how wrong it was. I thought I was helping you... in the end, I ended up hurting you. It doesn’t justify what I did to you, but you deserve the truth. I’ve always cared for you ... more than you uh, you might know.”

Asra’s words replay in your head. He was right. Julian was reckless, and the cloud looming over your judgment was beginning to clear. Would you have done the same if you were in his position?

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you think your words over— making sure the next ones to come are ones you won’t later regret.

You see him deflate, then he musters up the courage to utter a response before you’re able to finish your sentence. “I suppose I’m not right to blame you for your choice. I brought this upon myself and—”

“But I want to try.” Julian is too busy rambling to process what you said. When he does, he stops abruptly, a glimmer of hope flashing in his widened eye. “Could you er.. what did you say?” His voice falters.

“Nothing is easy and this won’t be either,” You move your finger back and forth between you and him. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

Julian’s gaze softens and a gentle smile touches his lips. “That..” he trails off, then tentatively holds out his hand for you to take.

You decide to do him one better. You can’t deny how much you missed him, and it shows when your hands are suddenly cupping his cheeks and your lips tenderly touch his.

His shock is evident. Too stunned to move, Julian’s body tense, wide eyed and flustered. You feel his face on fire beneath under your palms. He’s lost fpr words when you part. “I er.. You didn’t mean to do... that.. right?”

A hardly visible smile paints your face and you nod. “I did.” Unlike before, the silence that comes is serene and welcoming. Neither of you knows what awaits you in the future, but you’re willing to see it through with him by your side.

[contentloadingandstuff]

Mortuarius - Chapter IV

The flame disappears before his eyes. Adler snaps his fingers quietly, the flame returning as soon as the movement is complete. The small void dances over his fingertip, devoid of the characteristic crackles of fire. He gets his other finger closer, and the flame smoothly passes on. Adler repeats that action time and time again, marveling at the feeling. It feels like silk gliding across skin. 

Or, at least, that's how he remembers the sensation. 

The important, yet dull monologues of his colleagues fall deaf on his ears. Divisions, emplacements, mine fields, assault groups… discoveries of the recent, so-called "war games" rouse the younger commanders, dressed in clean, pressed, black uniforms. Despite their positions, they seldom wear armor. He sighs at this image. Some of his fellows, as time-worn as him, call this the collapse. The collapse of tradition, the collapse of old morality. Even of the old world. Although he would disagree with this nihilistic perspective, the reality doesn't elude him. 

Old guard. Those words resonate within his soul ever since he first heard them. That's what the new bones call him and his peers. No longer do they look at him as a shining example, the main display of Umbra's military prowess. Now, they see him as a rather dated decoration, an old yet charming vase. He's still seen as a source of general knowledge, but he's not perceived as the leader he was before. Not anymore. 

Adler sighs. Where did he go wrong? Is it even his fault, or rather - the inevitable advance of warfare? 

"Lord General?" 

The voice brings him back to reality. He swiftly extinguishes the flame, and looks back at the table. Almost every skeleton is looking at him, their eyes flickering with excitement and expectation. The officer that asked the question, whose name Adler couldn't remember to save his unlife, is pointing at a set of intricate wooden carvings of Legionaries and Rankmen, placed over a bridge. 

"Lord General…?" The man asks him again, fully snapping him back. 

"Yes." Adler clears his throat. "I see your point, and I can get behind it."

The commandant, seemingly satisfied with the answer, turns back to the table. 

Although he can very well grasp and understand the idea of artillery and gunpowder weapons, he can't comprehend the change these two brought. Suddenly, large regiments of melee troops were "undesirable", "risky". Heavy cavalry, so favored by Adler, was labeled as "pointless" and "too expensive to remain effective". Seemingly overnight his entire concept of warfare has been flipped on its head. 

He still doesn't see anything wrong with a good shock cavalry charge. The roar of a hundred hooves, the clouds of dust brought up behind the terrifying echelon of bone, armor and pointed lances… Yes! He still remembers it vividly from his time commanding the troops in the War of Vengeance. There's no amount of divine help that can save a man impaled halfway on a three meter lance.

Adler smiles and the black flame on his fingertips shakes as memories of violence come back to him. He remembers his formation tearing into the line of armored infantry during the battle for the capital, lances punching through shields and the men wielding them as if they were nothing but paper. He recalls discarding his weapon and drawing the axe, cracking helmets and skulls from the top of his undead mount. 

The sounds of screams, the sight of bodies crushed underneath the stampede of skeletal horses and the enemies routing in panic fill his mind. Too immersed in thought, Adler pays no attention to either the officers slowly leaving the room, nor the servant cleaning the table. His running thoughts are interrupted when a familiar figure sits on the opposite side of the table. He raises his head to meet Watcher's gaze. The other undead smirks. 

"Reminiscing old times, are you?" The liche crosses his arms over his robed ribcage. 

"Hm." Adler hums in response, putting out the black flame with a flick of his wrist. "There's nothing wrong with going back to the better days."

"That's all you have been doing recently, hasn't it?" 

The general scoffs. Watcher glances at his watch, and quickly straightens his gowns. 

"At least try to look presentable. They should be here any second now." 

Adler fondles his armor piece by piece, making sure everything is properly attached. The proper meeting was about to begin - it was in his best interest to show himself from the best angle, especially due to the caliber of individuals that would attend the meeting. 

And, of course, only a fool would look sloppy in front of any of the Death Knights. Let alone three of them. 

Right as the door opened, both skeletons jumped to their feet, their ornate chair scraping the floor loudly as they stood up. 

Three figures emerged from behind the wooden barrier. Adler didn't have to see to recognise the first character - the stench of rotting flesh and decay was so strong that it transcended mortal senses, making his very soul shiver in disgust. Plague came in with his more formal attire - out of all of his fellow Death Knights he was the one that favored variety of the wardrobe the most. Instead of his armor, a black frock coat covered his figure, featuring golden buttons with intricate carvings on them. Despite tightly fitting his fairly unimpressive frame, the clothing lay on him as if there was actual flesh underneath. His skull was practically indistinguishable underneath the combination of a black top hat with a wide rim, and the white leather crow mask, contrasting fashionably with the rest of his outfit. His hands, clad in white leather gloves, rested on a hardwood gentleman's staff. As he entered, he tipped his hat slightly in a gesture of greeting. If not for the oppressive stench, Adler would find him quite unimposing. 

Suddenly, the now serious voice of Watcher sounds out in his mind. 

"Don't look at Sibtu. This is one case where ignorance will do you good, Adler."

His eyes immediately dart to the floor. As much as Watcher likes annoying him, he never threw around warnings haphazardly. Listening to his words of advice, especially spoken in such a stern tone, would do him only good. The only sight of Fear his eyes register are the ornate boots, dated in style even by his standards, decorated with square, iron buckles. 

Adler looks up at the last newcomer. The first thing that catches his attention - as it always does - is the uniform Adaru wears. It is a somber ensemble, tailored from a deep, lustrous black fabric that seems to absorb both light and attention from everything that surrounds him. The coat, adorned with intricate silver embellishments, hangs sharply on his frame, giving him an imposing silhouette. Despite his fairly narrow stature, Adaru stands at an unnatural height, casting an imposing shadow on those before him. The angular lapels and precise stitching hints at meticulous craftsmanship, while the black gloves, tight and sleek, add to the oppressive air of formality. As customary for the members of the Commission, Adaru's face was wrapped carefully in pristine, white bandages. His hat was not unlike that of the newer generation of officers, and of course - black. 

Black, black, black. Why is everything they want to wear black? Is this, perhaps, another characteristic of the new era? In his time, black was the color of commoners, not one suiting the top of the hierarchy. Nowadays it seems to be the cornerstone of order and elegance, but he just couldn't shake the association with grime and soot. Despite multiple offers and suggestions to do otherwise, he never ditched his old heraldry. In his opinion, most of his colleagues could use some color. 

His thoughts were suddenly halted when Adaru turned to him, stretching out his arm for a handshake. Carefully, the skeleton took it, cautious so as to match the strength of his superior.

"General Aldehan Adler. It is always a pleasure to see you." Even if his eyes were covered, Adler was sure they were focused somewhere else. He relaxed slightly, comfortable in the notion that he was too uninteresting for the Knight. Having his attention was never a good thing. 

Adler nodded, forcing a friendly note into his voice. "The pleasure is all mine, Lord Bearer."

Without another word, Adaru moved to stand at the head of the table, with Sunqu to his right and Sibtu to his left. Adler was seated on the other end of the table, with Watcher to his left. 

"Gentlemen!" The Bearer of Pain spoke, his voice smooth and fairly modest in tone. "I am pleased to see you here in full attendance. The meeting will now come to order."

With that signal, everyone took their seats. 

"It has recently come to my attention that the soul transplant procedure, at last, yielded results." The glance at Plague is enough of a suggestion, promoting him to reply. 

"Indeed. Thanks to some improvements in the process, methodology and, of course, the appropriate host - for which the credit goes to Sibtu - I have managed to keep the subject stable and alive." Sunqu turns to the former humans. "I have placed him in the care of two of my most trusted associates."

"It is our honor, Lord Adaru." Watcher responds, placing his hand over his chest. "We appreciate the trust placed in us."

"I applaud your selection of assistants, brother. General Adler is a fine choice when it comes to martial matters." Pain smiles at the skeleton in question, before dropping his voice slightly, gaze pointed directly at him. "Even if the means and strategies change as the ages go by, his mind remains sharp and his constitution noble. And so does his sense of fashion."

Adler feels his long-gone heart drop. The feeling of three pairs of eyes burning into his very soul freezes his vessel, rendering him speechless. With a considerable amount of effort, Adler makes the motion to clear his throat.

"Thank you, Lord Adaru. I serve the Great One with all my strength."

Adaru smiles, slightly clearing the air. Gazes drift away from Adler. "Anyhow. I have yet to see the results in person. Would you be so kind as to share any information regarding the subject? How can we be sure he is fit to survive?"

"I have found this human to be very resilient, very resilient indeed." A dry voice echoes from where Fear sits. It is dull, but constant. Every vowel is spoken with a different layer of the same, mechanical tone, varying in pitch and volume. "His grip on life is impressive, and his resistance to Necro is beyond anything we have encountered before."

“I see, and I trust your judgment. Now, we need to pose ourselves the question of what to do with our new acquisition. Has any Bearer voiced a particular interest in him?” 

“Sakurai Denki is yet uncontested.” Sunqu chimes in. “He is still an unsure investment. He appears to be stable, but his capabilities are still being tested.”

Adaru nods. “General? How is the subject’s performance during training? Are your perspectives positive regarding his future in the military?”

A trick question. Should his views be too optimistic, he might be considered a fool, but if he is too negative, his reputation as an objective authority will take a significant blow. He needs to find a middle ground. “The Sakurai is in good physical condition, but the Necro inside of him is quite unstable. It seems to fluctuate, although I can see no pattern in these changes-” 

“Denki is still unstable, as fresh undead tend to be.” Watcher interrupts, his eyes focusing on Adaru who listens on with interest. “But the changes have yet to cause any damage. I believe that with our assistance  - and Lord Sunqu will second me in this opinion - he will stabilize soon.” 

“... Even if he makes mistakes quite frequently, he does not suffer a shortage of determination within him.” Adler continues, throwing a bitter glance at his predecessor. “I have yet to see him yield, even under my most… invasive methods. In my opinion, Lord Adaru, Denki has potential with a strong base to build upon.”

“Thank you, General.” Adaru straightens up, and puts his hand to his chin. He remains quiet for a moment, immersed in thought. ”I will admit this, gentlemen - the Adarian State Commission suffers a shortage of reliable field agents. If Sakurai is indeed as promising as you make him out to be, then I could find use for him, provided that he isn’t needed elsewhere.”

“Ah, I see what kind of a use you have in mind. But that depends. An individual of unchallenged loyalty and unshaken resolve is needed here. I can assure the former, but does our subject have the latter?” Sunqu moves his hand, subtly signaling at Adler. 

The undead thinks for a moment, making sure to do so in images rather than words to make his considerations harder to read. Isn’t it too early? Denki is young to be a soldier, perhaps too young. And certainly he shouldn’t be made to…

“General?” Sunqu speaks again, his tone lacking malice, but the sting of his gaze is quite a telling signal. 

Adler stops himself, and speaks out without much hesitation. “I will do as you ask, but I am not willing to take responsibility for the results. Your proposition can influence him in significant ways, all of which may make his training… harder to complete.”

“Have some trust in my handiwork, General. But very well, I will humor you - the responsibility for this test will fall on me personally. On one, single condition.” Sunqu smiles, his polished teeth reflecting the light cast from the chandelier above. “You will test his mettle tonight. I want to see if this venture is worth my time.”

Adler looks down at his gloved hands, and sighs in quiet annoyance. 

“I shall do as you command, Lord Sunqu.”

—

Waltz eyes his guest as he uses the silver pincers to lift the blue crystal to his jaw. He promptly crushes it between his teeth and lets the shards fall through his mouth and down into the ornamental bowl below. The juicy, sweet taste of a cold strawberry (or rather the memory of it) pulses pleasantly from his core and throughout the rest of his skeletal body. 

What spoils the delightful taste in his soul, however, is the crude sight of Denki’s whole hand clenched around the fork’s handle as he shyly picks at the Coq au Vin on his plate, wielding the cutlery as if it was a dagger. Not even the rich, opulent decor of the private lounge he rented can distract him enough from the sorry sight in front. 

Waltz clears his throat, making sure to keep a steady expression against the odds. His right hand grips his wine glass, the other straightening out his collar. 

“I take it, Denki Sakurai, that you are not from here.” He starts out, and Denki looks up. Waltz’s white pinprick eyes meet the gray pupils of the human. “Your name is reason enough for a particular speculation, but it is not appropriate to make assumptions.”

“I’m Inazuman, sir.” Before he can elaborate, Waltz cuts in.

“I see! That explains your… unfamiliarity… with the cutlery. Allow me.”

Without hesitation, Waltz jumps up from his chair. The screech of the wood against the floor stings Denki’s ears. The skeleton starts moving over with decisive steps, circling around the long table. His heart drops as the realization hits it and with that, time seems to slow around him. 

Mistake. Mistake. He made a mistake. He made a mistake and there will be consequences.  

Denki’s heart is picking up the pace, and so is his breathing. Not yet. His hands adjust around the hilts of the silverware, his mind darting from memory to memory, searching for any reference. Every step Waltz takes feels like a painful eternity. 

He was told, wasn’t he? He was taught how to use these, but he forgot, and he knows what that means. Punishment, forgetting means punishment. He disappointed Waltz and forced him to waste his precious time to correct him. 

His thoughts overwhelm him like a river’s current. His eyes turn azure, setting loose memories. Instincts. Lessons from the past years and what followed, dealt by hands of the teachers. Waltz’s skeletal visage twists into a pale face wrapped in bandages before Denki’s eyes, his Vision twisting into a glimmering Delusion. 

Not yet. Not yet. The footsteps draw closer. Denki can still taste the blood on his gums from today’s earlier mistake, his jaw still aches dully, he can’t take one more.  It was going so well. He explained things to him, gave him food, treated him well, and this is how he repays Waltz?

There’s no time. Nothing comes to his mind. He wants to beg, plead for just a moment longer, promise that he will do better, but is unable to. Fear turns into terror, constricting his throat and silencing his voice. Desperation. But Denki knows better than to cry and be pathetic. Nothing will save him now. He lowers the cutlery with shaking hands and latches them to the table, seeking any comfort.

Waltz says something, but Denki can’t make it out. He stiffens, gaze obediently fixed on the plate before him, away from Waltz. The footsteps stop, and in a split second the man’s mind is flooded with their toolkit. Open palm. Fist. Kick. Whip. Cane. Baton. His body tenses in preparation for whatever torture is about to come. He knows better than to resist, it will only make things worse. 

Denki sees hands coming towards him. Too much. Too soon. He lets out a quiet gasp and it turns into a cry of pain as he feels something cutting the skin on his back. 

Suddenly, silence. No new pain, no slur, no laughter. 

Denki opens his eyes, preparing for a disciplinary blow. Instead of his teacher, however, he sees Waltz, frozen in his tracks with his arms still outstretched. Through the mist of his tears Denki can read an aura of concern emanating from the undead.  

There's a moment of silence. The skeleton lowers his arm, letting it drop limply against his side. The narrow points in the undead’s eyes shrink further, not larger than grains of sand. Waltz narrows his non-existent brows, and slowly moves closer to Denki, placing a skeletal hand on his shoulder.

“Are you unwell? Should I call a medic?” He asks with a stern, yet worried voice. Denki takes a deep, shaky breath and wipes his face with his sleeve.

A sense of shame overcomes him, the sort of shame that encourages him to scratch out his very eyes and flee to die in a dark corner. 

Denki swallows the embarrassment and tries to speak. “I’m sorry-”

“No-no. It's alright.” In response, the skeleton softly pats Denki on his shoulder, looking him straight in the eyes with a sense of camaraderie and understanding. “The fault is all mine. With what I know about you, I should have been more careful. Now, Denki Sakurai, would you mind if I showed you how to use these?” He points to the tableware. 

Denki nods. With slow movements and a steady tone, the general showcases the proper method of handling the tableware and, before long, Denki operates them with more confidence, allowing Waltz to return to his seat. 

“Although I am unfamiliar with the exact details, I do know that your passing has been, shall I say, less than ideal.” He gestures towards Denki. “When you were startled, your eyes turned blue. May I know what that means?”

The young man remains silent for a moment, pondering the question. His thoughts are interrupted when the searing pain on his back catches his attention. He slides his hand behind his collar and traces his fingers down where the pain originates from. Suddenly, he feels the familiar warmth of blood and a large, fresh gash on his back. After retracting his arm and confirming his suspicions, Denki answers. 

“I’m not sure, sir.” The blood on his fingers is a deep crimson, contrasting with his nearly snow-white skin. “I wasn’t aware of it until now.”

Waltz nods. “It seems pointing it out to The Watcher might be a good idea. Anyhow, please, help yourself to the food. It won’t taste as delightful when cold.”

After discreetly using his sleeve to wipe the blood clean, Denki tastes the meat doused in brownish sauce and is immediately hit with a rich, intense and slightly alcoholic flavor unlike any he had experienced before. He closes his eyes, letting it dissipate pleasantly on his tongue. 

Waltz smirks at his companion's reaction. He chews another piece of candy, this time the taste of a freshly baked, buttered bun. His hand instinctively reaches for the wineglass, finding it filled to the brim with fine Clochette Terrestre, the memory of which has been meticulously formed into a dense, red mist. As he lifts the vessel to his jaw and tilts it upwards, the substance pours down his bones, latching onto the copper wires lining his spine, flowing down into his core and dissipating. Waltz revels in the rich, deep flavor of someone's finest memory of the drink. 

His eyes find their way back to Denki, who is picking the meal apart with his fork. 

“Is everything to your liking, Denki Sakurai?”

The man seems startled by the question as he freezes, but promptly clears his throat and relaxes. 

“Yes, general. It's a bit different, more intense than anything I had in the past. That's all. Also, if I may…” Waltz gestures encouragingly with his hand, and Denki continues. “In Inazuma, the family name is usually said before the first name.”

Waltz's irises flicker and he frowns. What a fool he made of himself! His mind scrambles for an explanation. He didn't know! Right, yes. 

“Forgive my ignorance, Sakurai Denki. My home nation, Fontaine, is everything but close to yours, and so is Umbra, in which I spent the last fifty three years, meaning my lack of knowledge is a somewhat natural result of my situation.”

Waltz sends Denki a courteous smile. His foot starts tapping on the marble tiles below with impatience. 

“It's no problem.”

Waltz deflates, the façade of his smile turning into a genuine expression of satisfaction. Crisis averted. 

“Speaking of, your lineage must be truly worthy of respect. After all, who else is there to honor for raising such a well-mannered young man?” 

The other shifts in his chair. He hesitantly tastes the next portion.

“Thank you. My parents made multiple contributions towards the safety of Inazuma, but they never received recognition from the public. Their occupation was a lot less flashy than that of other nobles.”

Waltz can't help the smile. “Ah! So you're of high birth… That would explain your eloquent speech and predispositions. I see why the Great One chose you.” Denki doesn't seem to think much of the praise. Instead, his face remains blank, but the wrinkles of exhaustion seemed to deepen. The undead clears his throat. “Although the way you speak of them encourages a certain conclusion. My condolences.”

A slight, dismissive nod comes as a reply. Denki chews quietly for some time, causing an awkward silence to envelop the table. Waltz lets out a nigh inaudible sigh as he takes another sip of his wine, waiting for an answer. 

“Forgive my bluntness, Sakurai Denki, but it seems that being a good conversation partner is not your forte.” Waltz leans forward in his chair, a note of annoyed disappointment in his voice. “Which is unusual considering your origin.”

Denki's eyes flicker with a purple tint. “General, I’m sorry that you find me uninteresting. My social skills might not be on a high level as I didn’t have the opportunity to learn everything. I… didn’t have enough time.” “Oh. Forgive me for my insensitivity. How old were you when you passed, if I may know?”

For a moment, the human tries to recall the last time he called Narukami Island his home. The memories are blurry, with many undated gaps between his departure and revival. “I think I was around seventeen, sir.”

Waltz takes a sip of his wine and nods. “I see. You are a proper young man it seems, but your intelligence is quite beyond your age. I’m sure you had an easy time making friends in your earlier years?”

A small smile starts to turn Denki’s lips as the first pleasant words in his recent memory warm his soul. He shakes his head slightly. “To be truthful with you, I wasn’t the type to enjoy outings or parties, neither formal nor informal. I spent most of my days with a book in my hands.” “That’s commendable, Sakurai Denki. Especially seeing as youth tends to dismiss education these days, no matter where they are in Teyvat. What I had seen in Fontaine seems to apply to Umbra as well.” The general’s skeletal head turns with interest. “Speaking of Umbra, what are your impressions?” “It’s very cold here. Whenever I look out the window of my room or train, it always seems to be snowing or raining. Inazuma isn’t a warm nation, and I had some…” Denki pauses, searching for the right words. “... experiences in Snezhnaya, but still I cannot see the climate as anything but… sorry.”

In response, Waltz lets out an echoing chuckle. “Then it seems our opinions are alike. I also miss the temperate weather of the continent. I miss the hot summers, the brightness of nature awoken by spring - I even long for a winter. It has been too long since I’ve seen clean, white snow instead of the brownish slog covering the city now and then.” After seeing his glass is empty, the general raises his hand. A living attendant comes shortly, dressed in a proper three piece suit, and refills Waltz’s cup. “I have always wondered why the only season here seems to be autumn.” “Maybe it’s the wind?” The same waiter comes to take Denki’s plate. When the man asks if he wants dessert, Denki shakes his head and places a hand on his heart in a universal gesture of gratitude, prompting him to leave. “I have read that, in some parts of Teyvat, Anemo is strong enough to form currents that can push and pull clouds over thousands of miles. Maybe Umbra is near one of them.” Waltz nods. “It’s plausible. The people here, however, seem to have their own theories.” “What do they believe?”

Denki stops himself from lifting his cup of green tea right before it touches his lips. He lowers it and looks inside. The tea is comfortably ordinary with nothing unexpected inside. Relieved, he takes a sip.  

“You see, Sakurai Denki, they believe it is a curse. A punishment from the Gods, to be precise. It is said that when the Cataclysm took place, a group of desperate survivors prayed for salvation to death itself, hoping to avoid punishment for their sins against the heavens. The Great One took pity on them and came to their aid, taking them in His care. With His power he tore out a piece of the ocean’s floor, carving out what is known as Umbra to this day as a safe haven for them. In return, they accepted Him as their leader and god, serving him both during their lives and beyond. However, Celestia loathed The Great One for harboring the unworthy. For his rejection of their rule, the Gods doomed Umbrians to life in this eternal, cold, hellish mudscape you see around you.”

Silence falls as Denki takes in the story. A question suddenly shines in his mind. “Why didn’t the Gods punish The Great One directly?” Waltz shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps for an immortal god, seeing their people suffer over a span of centuries is punishment enough?”

“Maybe you’re right, sir. At the end of the day, we might never know for certain. It is the gods we are talking about, after all. We aren’t in a position to understand them.”

“They are higher beings indeed. Even if we have transcended our mortality, our souls and minds are human still, and will likely remain so.”

Suddenly, a series of knocks on the wooden door sounds out. Both of the men turn their heads towards the noise. Waltz frowns. “Who goes there…” He whispers the phrase through his grit teeth, and changes his tone into a louder one. “Come in!”

The waiter opens the door and two skeletons, dressed in uniforms of similar fashion as Waltz’s enter the room. One stands near the door as the other marches up to the general. He leans in and whispers words into where the general’s ear once was. Although Denki can’t tell apart the words that are being spoken, their sounds suggest they are in Umbrian. Waltz listens intently, leaning towards the envoy with a pensive expression. 

After relaying his message, the skeleton steps back. Waltz turns back to Denki, and raises up. 

“I apologize, Sakurai Denki, but duty seems to call - in the most frustrating of moments, as usual. I’m afraid we will have to postpone our conversation until our next meeting.”

Denki stands up slowly. “I understand.”

He watches as Waltz draws a small block of white paper strips. Pulling out a black fountain pen with a golden tip, he makes several writings on the topmost one with just a few flicks of his wrist. Waltz tears it off and hands it to the waiter. 

The skeleton’s eyes find their way back to the human. Waltz stretches out his hand, flashing Denki a smile. The man approaches him and takes the gloved hand in his, shaking it gently. 

“Thank you, sir. The food was outstanding and it was an honor to be in your company.” As he speaks, Denki bows out of habit. Waltz doesn’t seem to mind, the feeling of a smile never escaping Denki’s mind. 

“Ah, nonsense! I should be the one thanking you for your time. Someone of such a reputation and unique situation as yourself surely measures his time in Ether.” Their hands part, and Waltz places his hand on Denki’s shoulder. “Besides, you must have trained hard today. You are surely exhausted.”

Their eyes meet, and Denki’s heart warms at the sympathy he finds in Waltz’s irises.

“I wish you a restful night, Sakurai Denki.”

-

But there was no rest to be had that night. 

Around midnight, when the pale light of the moon was the most prominent, Denki was shaken awake. Without a moment to question or even understand his situation, he was forced to spring out of bed and dress up amidst shouted orders. The skeletons that came for him wasted no time, shoving him out of his room and practically dragging him through multiple corridors and staircases. 

As he marched through the fortress, he could finally collect his thoughts. The most instinctual part of his mind raises alarms - it wasn’t the first time in his life when his privacy and rest was violated. But this time, it is the undead that ripped him out of the bed. What would surely scare the majority of people, however, brings him a sense of comfort in separating the memories from the present. 

He sneaks glances at the soldiers that are escorting him. Their weapons are absent from their sheaths, but the rest of their equipment is in place. Black, matte plates lined with similarly dark padding underneath effectively hide every bit of bone from the onlooker. The padding stretches from their heavy boots, over their rib cages and up to a high collar, tucked into their tight-fitting helmet on their skulls. In the front, the metal visage of an expressionless man covers their features, but Denki can still spot their glowing, white eyes within. He has seen their kind of armor before - he wore it during his training, learning how to put it on and getting comfortable with its weight. Without a doubt, they are Legionaries, the same that Denki saw Adler around many times before. 

Despite the exhaustion imprinted on his face, Denki smiles. Will he become one of them?

They lead him towards a side door that the human assumes to be, based on the lack of any windows, several layers beneath the ground level. Without knocking the soldiers push the door open, and motion for Denki to go inside. In the room stand two more Legionaries in full uniform, a skeleton in a flowing black robe and Adler himself.

The commander approaches Denki right away. 

“Ready?” He asks with a demanding voice. 

Denki nods, but his voice comes out slightly mumbled. “Yes, sir.”

Adler frowns, and turns his gaze left, where a large, open barrel stands. Several cloths are partially submerged in the water within, likely used in cleaning the soldiers’ equipment. Adler submerges his hand into the vessel, gathering water into his glove. Promptly, he turns back to Denki and splashes it across his face without warning. Denki recoils and gasps as the icy fluid instantly brings his senses back to working order. He coughs out the water that got into his mouth, and Adler crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Feeling awake yet? More confidence! You’re a man, not a teenage girl, Denki.”

“Yes sir!”

“Better.” He points to a rack with a complete set of equipment, polished and ready. “Get your armor on, pronto. Everybody is waiting for you.”

Denki wastes no time and rushes over. He starts with the leather jacket, draping it over his shirt and quickly buttoning it up. Despite being designed primarily for undead, the cotton reinforcement was left exposed from the inside, giving the wearer surprising comfort, along with plenty of warmth. Adler watches closely as Denki puts on the lower part of the fit, replacing his nightgown bottom with a thick, protective layer of dark leather and sliding heavy boots with studded soles on his feet. The armor plates are next - the most difficult part of the process. He quickly throws the top plate over his chest and starts clumsily buckling the straps, securing it tightly to his muscular chest. What comes after is easier - the greaves, braces and other limb protection doesn’t prove as challenging to fit. Soon his equipment is finished up with three belts - one for his waist, fitted with small pouches and two for his sides, with that for his right thigh holding a sizable knife, and the other an empty holster, with a secure strap on the top. Denki adds the helmet, tailor-made for his flesh-covered head, and reaches for the mask.

“You aren’t a skeleton, are you now? You don’t need that.” Adler says, and motions for Denki to come over.

The man obeys. Adler reaches down with his left hand, unbuckling his holster and drawing the weapon inside. He turns it so that the handle is pointed towards Denki, and the human takes it in his hand. 

The gun is unlike anything Denki ever saw in his life. A flintlock pistol from Fontaine is the closest item that it could be compared to, but it would still do no justice to how different the contraption was. Instead of wood, most of it was constructed from metal, this weapon’s being painted a dull gray with accordance to the nighttime camouflage pattern he was wearing. Instead of the multitude of parts one could see in a musket, this armament’s jaw was made up of a single element - a hammer-shaped piece of metal that would strike the unusual, box shaped part located right next to it when the trigger was pulled. It was shorter, yet heavier than a flintlock pistol. In spite of how often his mentor made Denki handle such a gun, he was still unsure every time he took it in his hands. The occasional tournaments in Inazuma were almost impossible to attend due to the noise, and firing such a device was all the more difficult than watching it in the hands of someone else. 

Still, he needed to swallow his worries. He won’t become what he is meant to be by being fearful.

“Reza Model 22. Rules.” Adler eyes Denki with expectation. The latter takes a deep breath, and begins reciting what he was made to remember.

“I keep the safety on until the mission begins. I only use it in an emergency. I never aim it at my teammates. I keep my finger off the… the…” His heart skips a beat as he sees the skeleton’s aura darken. “T-trigger.”

Adler nods. “Good. Now load it.” 

Denki takes the small cartridge box from Adler’s hand and cracks it open. The bullets within are as unique as the weapon itself. The outer layers of each are made exclusively out of brass, with the shell hiding what he was told to be the gunpowder, with the bullet, mounted at the tip and shaped like a dull spike of sorts being the only exposed part of the whole cartridge. 

He picks out five of them. Cocking a small lever on the side lets the barrel be moved. Denki carefully slides each round into a chamber, taking care not to use any force this time. His arms still ached from holding himself up as punishment for when his recklessness caused him to damage the barrel of his training pistol. After filling the chamber, he puts it back into place. 

“I need to put the safety on.” He says before Adler has a chance to instruct him again, a glimmer of approval shining in his eyes.

Denki uses his thumb to slide a small, wooden cap to the side. It shifts to rest between the hammer and the cylinder, preventing an accidental firing. He then slides it into place on the back of his left thigh. 

“Well done. It seems that you can follow simple commands.” Adler chuckles, turning around to face the rest of the skeletons. 

They stand near the undead in the robe, their backpacks on and crossbows in their hands. Denki slides on his gauntlets, made of thick, dark brown leather with small armor plates on the outside parts. They are painted, just like the rest of the metal - to prevent light from reflecting off of them and giving the wearer’s position away. Snatching the rectangular shield and his shortsword from the rack, Denki focuses his mind on the weapons, and soon enough, they glow a bright yellow. He marvels at them as they fall apart into small, shining dust before completely fading away. Despite their dematerialisation, he can still feel they are nearby. He flicks his hands as if attacking something with the sword, just like Adler taught him, and surely enough the sword reappears in his grip. Denki dismisses the weapon and eyes the final weapon on the rack - a heavy crossbow. He takes it in his hold, and at last he joins the rest of the group. 

The lich raises up from the floor, uncovering the complex chalk drawing on the tiles. Copper wires line every part of the symbol, connecting at the small red crystals placed on overlapping points of the icon. 

There’s a moment of silence. Adler talks to the mysterious skeleton in Umbrian, Denki being able to recognise just a select few of the words spoken. His shoulders are quite close to the heads of the skeletons around him. 

Was he this tall before? Suddenly, a violent screech fills the room, making Denki almost drop the crossbow. He looks up at the source of the noise, one hand over his ear, and sees… nothing. Where the wall was just moments before, there’s a tear - just as if someone outlined the area and painted it black. However, no light was reflected by as much as an inch of the surface. 

“Let’s move.” Adler says, and the skeletons step forward. 

Without hesitation, they just walk into the rift, their frames vanishing into the void beyond. Denki approaches from the side as his last comrade walks through. He finds that it is not, in fact, a crack in the wall, but rather a space floating in the air, directly above the chalk circle. As he moves his head to view it from the side, he finds it to be… invisible? He looks back at the front, and the black gash reappears. And yet, when he views it from behind, he can see only an impatient Adler-

Denki’s eyes widen, and he springs back to the front. He waits for a verbal correction, but none comes. 

“Fascinating, right? I wasn’t believing my eyes the first time I saw a portal, just as you are.” He walks towards the rift and places his heavy arm on Denki’s back. “I can tell you more about them, but later. For now, get a move on.”

A slight push forces Denki to step closer to the passage. No sound, wind or smell comes from within. He tightens his fingers around the stock of the crossbow in his hands, and runs into the rift.

For a brief moment, his vision goes completely dark. Then, a barrage of colors, some of them he would be unable to even name. They twist like worms, flowing into various, repeating patterns with spike-like protrusions. Overwhelmed, he feels his knees give out and he falls forward, plummeting face first into the ground. 

Denki's head throbs. Unable to see with fractal patterns dancing before his eyes, he feels the ground with his hands. 

Mud. Slick grass. He takes a breath. The air is cold, humid, but not frigid. Sounds of rain surround him. He feels the droplets sink into his clothing. 

Finally daring to open his eyes, he sees what he has nearly forgotten. Grass. Fresh, lush, slightly bluish in the moonlight. He drags his fingers over its blades, unable to feel it through his glove. Slowly, he raises up, snatching his crossbow from the ground. 

Rain pours down from the black sky above as he examines the area around him. Grasslands, barely visible in the dark, stretch in every direction, sprinkled with birch and oak trees here and there. The terrain houses many bushes, fallen trees and rocky irregularities, but remains mostly flat. 

His team is barely visible to him, but squinting his eyes reveals their silhouettes, even darker than the backdrop of the rocks they crouch behind. Denki wastes no time and scurries to a lone stone, hoping his small stumble didn't earn him a punishment. 

Adler stands several meters away from his position, looking around. Denki cannot help his curiosity, and looks behind the rock he is resting against and in the same direction Adler's gaze stopped on. 

Despite the fog raised by the rain, the city is clearly visible as the lights within pierce through the obstruction. It's walled and positioned on a small rock isle, a stone bridge lined with lanterns being its only connection to the mainland. On top of the towers, several, multi armed windmills draw his attention, completely still in the hostile weather. 

He sits back down. How did the opening carry them from Umbra up to here, a thousand kilometers away?

The commander raises his hand. A skeleton approaches him, and after a brief exchange takes off to the side. 

Minutes pass. Denki's shirt is soaked, the rain pouring through every opening in his armor without pause. He lets loose an involuntary shiver, his breath turning to fog in the night's cool. 

At last, Adler speaks, breaking the monotonous rustle of the rain. 

“On me.”

As one, the skeletons raise up and jog up to their commander, with Denki following suit. His boots sink into the muddy road, but he presses on, splashing it around with every hastened step he takes. Before Denki can even fully warm up, their units stop abruptly. His comrades part, letting Denki see Adler motioning for him to come closer. He complies. 

“Over there.” Adler points, Denki's eyes following his clue. Right away, he notices the warm, orange light of a campfire some distance away, accompanied by several rugged tents. “Hilichurls.”

Although it takes a moment, Denki notices a handful of lean figures through the rain. “Are they who we are looking for?”

“Well, in a sense, yes. Our target practice.”

Denki furrows his wet brows. He knew what they came here for, but hearing Adler's words, acknowledging their meaning and consequences makes him uneasy. 

Hilichurls are monsters, yes - just like slime, like Vishaps or Whooperflowers. But there's something exceptionally human about them that sets them apart from the rest. The way they can build, light fire, speak and form groups always seemed eerie for Denki. 

He grips his crossbow tighter, the weapon of fast approaching murder. 

It's just Hilichurls. Monsters. They are dangerous, he thinks. They need to be removed, else somebody might get hurt. He knows this, and yet, the idea doesn't spark excitement in him. 

“We're going to go to the right, over there. See?” The skeleton points again. “Near those bushes. We’ll get a clear shot.”

Just a few seconds are enough for the unit to change their position. Adler kneels down, Denki joining him before the undead’s armor could touch the ground. Denki knows what to do. 

“Five in the camp in total, three asleep. I don't see any noteworthy weapons in the tents.” He whispers, eyes darting from figure to figure. Despite how barbaric he knows them to be, they seem harmless. Peaceful even. 

“Very well. I want you to take out the one sitting on the log to the right. It should be an easy shot for you to take.” Adler switches his language, tone remaining firm but quiet. “Load.”

Denki understands the command and quickly lowers his crossbow. He slides the metal now underneath the sole of his shoe. After freeing the string, he pulls it upwards. Every muscle in his torso and arms tense as the heavy crossbow creaks quietly, but eventually he pushes the tip of the line into a dedicated slot. Opening a pouch on the back of his belt, he draws a short bolt and places it carefully on the track. 

“Aim.”

Denki raises the weapon, lining the tip of his bolt with the humanoid figure by the fire. His heart pounds. His right hand rests over the trigger, ready to push upwards in a split second. 

His arms wobble under both the weight of the weapon and the sinking feeling in his heart. Denki bites his lips and props his right elbow on his raised leg. His aim grows still. 

“Fire.”

Denki pushes the level upwards, setting the projectile loose. 

Simultaneously, five more bolts are released as the team fires with him. In a flash, Denki's arrow finds its mark. The missile sinks into the Hilichurl’s side with a full thud. It lets out a yelp and falls from the trunk. 

A second passes. Then the next. The only sounds are the droplets of rain plummeting from the sky. In the camp, there are no movements. The Hilichurls lie still on the mud and in their tents. Some of them never woke up. 

“Clear.” Adler says, raising his hand and waving it forward. “Let's go.”

The company moves as ordered, this time at a normal walking pace. As they approach the campsite, the fog clears enough for Denki to get a better look at the tents. Calling them makeshift would be an insult to all things provisional. The cloth is made up of various fabrics differing in color, stitched together with thick threads. The water weighs heavy on the covers, coming through the ever present holes in slow, steady streams. Despite that, as he enters the camp, he can tell the hay inside every single one is at least partially dry. 

“Search! Grab every valuable item you can find.” Adler orders, and the undead get to work. Denki picks out the shelter closest to him and goes in. 

There's no monster carcass inside. Instead, he finds it full of crooked pottery and rudimentary boxes with red paint chaotically splashed across them. Denki strikes the top with the butt of his crossbow. The lid proves tougher than he expected, but another more forceful blow shatters the shoddy construction. The man can't see its contents through the darkness. He reaches for the pouch on his belt and draws a crystal. He unwraps the wire, and right as it is untied it starts glowing a bright yellow light. Using the Electro crystal’s light, he examines the contents. Rotten fruit, bags of stolen grain and rusty weapons fill the box. 

Nothing interesting. But then again, what did he really expect from Hilichurls? 

He leaves the tent. The area is littered with broken planks, smashed pottery and various miscellaneous pieces of junk. Someone already stomped out the fire, leaving most of the site to be illuminated solely by the moon. A red glint in a nearby puddle catches his eye. 

Blood has long started pouring from the creature he killed, mixing with the rainwater on the ground. It lies on its side, facing away from him. Denki crouches down and gently turns it over, coming face to face with its white mask adorned with unintelligible symbols. Using his free hand, Denki tugs at the fur around its neck, but it doesn't budge.The hairs are wet and filthy, littered with mud and dried, yellowed remains of… something. Below the mask the mane is stained dark red with blood, prompting him to turn his attention to the bolt. Only the back end of it sticks out of the body, seemingly having either broken them or passed in-between, burying itself in the right lung of the creature. He trails down, noticing how, despite having a fragile appearance, muscles line its stomach. Its nails, placed on five fingered hands, are long and unkempt with dirt and blood underneath. There's a simple bracelet around its wrist, composed of sea shells and pieces of polished metals. 

“Admirable shot.” 

Denki jumps and nearly falls onto the body. He turns around and sees Adler, looking down on him with a smirk of approval. The man recovers and rises to his feet, wiping the mud off his thigh plates. 

“Have you found anything interesting?” 

Denki shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Happens. Not every expedition yields income. Now come, we're done here. Let's not waste time.” Adler walks away, but Denki doesn't follow. Instead, he turns back to the Hilichurl. As if reading his mind, Adler speaks over his shoulder. “I’d advise you to leave the mask on. It's there for a purpose.”

His hand, already reaching for the wooden veil, stops, and he raises up to rejoin his comrades. 

Under the cover of darkness, they move southwards, away from the city. The rain faded, shortly giving way to the chirping of crickets. As the soil absorbs water, the terrain becomes more traversable. 

In a low voice, Adler breaks the silence.

“Remember, boy, that everything you can get your hands on that is on or near the enemy is yours to keep - that is the conqueror's right.”

“To the victor go the spoils.” Denki speaks out, and quickly adds: “Sir.”

His mentor nods. “Aside from Mora. Mora has much more use than a mere currency. Alchemy, forging, necromancy, sciences - any practical art you can name makes use of its power. Regardless, you can exchange it for Ether, ten to one.”

“I understand, sir.” 

The unit reaches a small clearing. Someone draws a pair of binoculars, and examines some areas invisible to Denki. The Legionnaire turns around and signals to Adler with a small nod. The general hums, putting an arm around Denki's shoulders. 

“Now, Denki, we'll see if you have what it takes to become a man. We'll find out what you are made of.” Aldehan Adler takes the binoculars from the scout and passes them on to Denki. He takes the wooden instrument in his hands, bringing them closer to his eyes and turning them in the direction pointed to by Adler. 

His eyes instantly pick up the light coming from a small crevice in the terrain. During daytime, the camp within, adorned with triangular, green cloth to stop the rain would be nigh impossible to spot. Now, however, it's easy prey-

Prey…? 

He shakes off the thought. 

Unlike the camp of the Hilichurls, this one is far more organized. Denki spots a tent over the rocky elevation, partially obscuring his view. It's completely gray, clearly designed with care - the shape is perfectly triangular, and the ropes stretch from the pegs and under the fabric to ensure the construction is stable. Behind the shelter there's a small, makeshift fence on which various clothes rest, their every thread thoroughly soaked. 

“We separate into groups of three. Two and four go with you from the left, and the rest of us jump down from the right. We jump down after you kill the wachmann, and start the massacre. They will be panicked, disoriented, easy to kill.” Adler speaks quickly, likely impatient. 

Denki wants to say something against the plan. Anything, even for a nonsensical reason. Whoever is in there likely doesn't have good intentions - why else would they choose to camp out in the open? Even if they are Treasure Hoarders, criminals, low lives, the very scum of the earth… No.

He couldn't do it. 

He hands the binoculars back to the scout. Denki turns to his master, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak his words die right in his throat. 

What would Adler do if he said no? 

Weak. That would be what he would hear. Pathetic wimp. Waste of time and space. He would have to hold himself up for hours on end, run in ankle ties of sharp wire, crawl over sharp rocks and mud until he would beg at Adler’s feet for forgiveness. He would mumble and cry, again. 

And yet, he didn’t want to do it. 

He didn’t want to obey, but was there really an alternative? Adler took him under his wing, The Great One offered him a new life. He was given a home, a place of safety. He was never hungry. He was never cold. All he is asked in return is a choice. A choice between weakness and… strength. Grit. Stoicism. He can show them that he can move on, be strong again. Achieve, mature. Become someone worthy of what he has received, a man deserving of respect, both feared and adored by those around him. 

He has to do it. 

“I’m ready, sir.” 

Without delay, Adler waves for two of the Legionaries to come with him. “I like that attitude, Denki. Get going.”

His group turns around. Denki follows their lead, careful to maintain his balance on the uneven, partially sunken road. The leading soldier quickly locates a smoother descent and slides down to the level of the camp, the other two following suit. Keeping a borderline crouch position, they wade through the trees and approach the entry to the base as close as the greenery will allow them to stay out of view. Denki sees his teammates load their crossbows, and so does he. One of them turns to him. 

“Do you see the man in that lean-to? Shoot at him with me. Wait for my signal, and remember to aim at the chest. It will be easy to hit.”

Denki takes aim, his hand tucked securely away from the trigger mechanism. His gray eyes pick up a flash of purple light from the rocky platform above the campsite. Illuminated by the signal are the other members of the team, their shields and swords at the ready. 

His eyes wander back to the human at the other end of his weapon. 

They sleep clothed, covered with ragged blankets. There’s a flask and a knife by his side, the candle that once illuminated them long burnt to the end of the wick. 

“Fire.”

The tension in his body is released as the bolt flies loose. The bandit opens his eyes, but before he can even react the projectile pierces his stomach, with the other planting itself directly in the middle of his chest. He curls and falls to the ground with a choked grunt. Behind him, the rudimentary roof collapses under the weight of the three armored undead as they jump down into the camp. A woman raises up from the ground, but her life is taken before she can make a sound. An axe leaves her skull split in half, painting the wight’s armor red with fresh blood. To the right, Adler stabs a startled human through the stomach, pinning him to the ground. With violent glee he turns the blade in his flesh, making his victim wail.

“Charge!” The command falls from the skeleton on Denki’s right. 

He slings his crossbow over the shoulder and dashes out of their hiding spot. As he enters the camp, his melee weapons are already resting in his hands. A quick glance over his surroundings reveals most of the work has already been done. Bodies lie strewn around the ground, amongst packs and chests splattered with blood. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Denki rips the front flaps of the tent to his left, revealing a lifeless body with a crossbow bolt lodged in its back, wrapped in bloody bed sheets. With his next breath, Denki takes in the nauseating scent of copper, causing him to back out and into fresh air. 

He lowers his weapons. It’s done. He turns to view the others. 

The subtle sound of a body being turned over escapes his ears.

In a flash, someone latches onto his back. Denki curls on reflex, making the assailant’s blade miss his throat by inches, sliding harmlessly off his armor. He struggles, trying to shake them off. The blade strikes again and again, each time meeting hard steel instead of vulnerable flesh. Fighting back, Denki dismisses his shield and uses his left elbow to strike at the attacker, causing them to let go. He darts around, coming face to face with a smaller figure clad in a brown cloak. 

She wastes no time and delivers a decisive kick to his knee, causing him to stumble. He raises his sword just in time to block her dagger arm, but his victory is short lived as he receives another kick, this time into his groin. He growls through the pain, and clumsily uses his whole weight to ram the bandit. They both fall through the tent, tripping over the dead body and plummeting to the ground. The woman pushes the disoriented Denki to the side, but he manages to get a fistful of her hood along with the hair. She yelps and kicks him in the face, using the initiative to flip around and stab at his eyes. Denki covers it with his iron-clad arm, rolling over to his stomach and tackling her again, sending both of them over to the edge. He pushes himself up to hover over her and grabs a hold on her neck. She attempts to retaliate with the knife pointed at his throat. Denki attempts to seize her wrist, yet is stopped by a knee right to his stomach. A glint of steel is all he sees before the very tip of the knife buries into his face and slices upward right through his left eye. 

He lets out a howl of pain, clutching his wound but never letting off the girl. She kicks and punches to get herself free but his body is too heavy. Grabbing a hold of his shoulders and flipping him over. Denki strikes at her chaotically, knocking both of them through the stick fence and down into the sandy ditch below. The woman yelps as his armored body crushes her hand with its weight, her only weapon falling out of her grip. She lands on the ground with her opponent rolling just past her. 

She tries to scramble to her feet, but her damaged hand proves unable to provide any support. Sobbing, she grabs a handful of wet sand and throws it at Denki who is rising up, using his sword as a booster. He stumbles over, knuckles growing white from his grip on the weapon and teeth clenched tightly, adrenaline pulsing through his body. 

The woman whines, raising her good hand defensively, but instead of mercy she is met with a crude horizontal slice across her chest. She screams and is promptly silenced when Denki points the sword at her stomach and rests on the handle with his full weight, pushing it through her like through a pillow. 

He pants heavily as he stares into her green eyes, wide with shock and agony. His remaining iris glows deep purple while blood continuously drips from his destroyed eyeball and onto her clothing. 

Denki watches as life slowly leaves her eyes. At first she struggles, attempting to push the sword out of her wound but soon grows weak, her gasping for air replaced with slight twitching.

Before long, her body grows completely still. 

With a groan of extension, Denki withdraws his sword and falls back. He doesn’t even have the strength to look up when clapping sounds out through the night. “Well done!” Adler congratulates Denki with several slow claps, a wide smile on his absent lips. “Sloppily, barely, but well done!”

Followed by the team, Adler steps through the collapsed fence and down into the ditch. He looks over at the body, and then back to Denki, who by that time managed to sit up, his blade still stuck to his hand. He looks up at Adler. 

“Why didn’t you… help me?” His voice is hoarse from exhaustion and screaming. He feels as if someone had poured acid down his throat. 

Adler crouches down to meet the man on eye level. “Because I don’t want losers, dead weight, wimps. I want men. Men who can fight for their life and win. Those that can help themselves first. And it seems that you, Sakurai Denki, are one of them.”

Denki tries to stand up, but his knees feel weak. Adler grabs his arm and hoists him up against the nearest tree, allowing him a stable support to grab. 

“A-am I…?”

Nodding, Adler seems to smile even wider. “Yes! Your strength, the sharpness of your mind, the pure desperation for survival… And the lack of hesitation. My boy, you aren’t just a natural survivor, oh no. You’re a born killer.”

Adler’s words distort in Denki’s mind. His eye feels heavy. Adrenaline rapidly leaves his system, the pain in his eye growing to an agonizing level. He fails to support himself and slides down to the ground. 

He closes his eye. 

The rain picks up again. 

Thank you so much for reading!

[haikyuu-scenarios-drabbles]

Shower Friends (Miya Atsumu x F!reader)

The dorm you live in has co-ed bathrooms. Why that’s remotely a good idea is beyond you; and recently, your precious shower time is being interrupted by a certain blonde haired setter for the volleyball team. When he lies to his teammates that he has a girlfriend, somehow you get roped into his scheme.

genre(s): college!au, fake dating, angst, fluff, mutual pining, enemies to lovers (kinda), eventual smut (maybe)  words: 3.5k

a/n: ah the sweet sweet smell of mutual pining. also 3 more chapters are planned, not written yet though bc i just decided i’d be writing them lmao. hopefully can get started on that this weekend and post them next week 🤗

taglist:  @apollochjld @kurosarium @vicassa @carbs-need-more-love @underratedmage @idek-at-thispoint @wtfeverbrandi @food8me @yikes-buddy @ntimacy @nyxiie @oikawasbooty @chocolate3010 @sugawarabby @greenyiplier @kritiiiii @tokyosdawn @youstydiaa @h3llok1ttygirl 

one | two 

Chapter Three

“You want me to help you with what?” You ask, a bit stunned when he showed up at the door, a terribly annoying but also cute pleading expression on his face.

He groans, his shoulders hunching forward in exasperation. “Ya really gunna make me repeat it?”

You peer closer at the top of his head and see that he’s being serious. The roots of his hair growing in are a dark brown and it had never even occurred to you that he dyes his hair the blonde color you’re so used to. “No, but why do you need my help?”

This is so embarrassing. Normally his roommate or a teammate can help him but none of them are available today and he’s already let the roots grow longer than he likes. But when one of them suggested you help him out instead, something inside him rebelled. For some reason, the thought of having you dye his hair for him made him uncomfortable, like he’s showing you an intimate part of him. This hair has been a part of him so long he can’t remember the last time he’d let it grow out.

“I can’t see if I got everything,” he admits. It took a lot of pacing around his room and staring at his roots for him to get up the courage to come over here to ask you. He can’t really explain why he was so against it, especially since you don’t seem to mind after you got over the initial shock of realizing this isn’t his natural hair.

A wave of relief washes over him when you sigh, conceding, “Alright. Just let me change into something I can get bleach on. I’ll meet you at your dorm.”

While he waits for you, he busies himself with mixing the dye together so it’s ready for you, and when you arrive in a t-shirt and shorts with paint splatters all over them, he mentally kicks himself for thinking about how even wearing something so simple you still look better than anyone he’s ever seen. Crossing your arms, you motion for him to take a seat at his desk. Before he does so, he reaches behind his neck to grab at the collar of his shirt and pull it over his head.

You stand there dumbfounded for a moment, it taking you a second to process that he’s now standing before you shirtless and you’re free to ogle his muscular chest and arms to your hearts content. He doesn’t pay any attention to you, knowing if he meets your gaze, he won’t be able to stop the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. Instead, he wraps a towel around his waist to protect his shorts and sits in the chair to wait for you.  

Except now, you have free reign to stare at his back, which is just as defined as the front of him and you need a few more seconds to reel your thoughts back.

“Whaddya waitin’ for darling?” He drawls, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, not expecting you to be standing there frozen, eyes pinned to his now bare chest.

He opens his mouth to tease you further, but your eyes snap to his and you practically shout, “Do you have another towel?” He just cocks a brow and then points to his closet where another towel is hanging on a hook. Snatching it, you return to him and drape it over his shoulders, hiding most of his annoyingly toned body. “Don’t want to get any bleach on your skin,” you explain, no way in hell ever admitting to him that you’re finding it hard to focus with him on display like that.

Absentmindedly, he hands you one of the clips he bought a long time ago, one that’s almost completely bleached itself and you start running your fingers through his hair to section it. He closes his eyes, focusing intently on the soothing sensation of your fingers on his scalp, doing his best not to groan out loud at how good it feels. With anyone else, this isn’t anything special, normally he sits as patiently as he can whilst trying not to annoy whoever is doing his hair (lest they decide to ‘mess up’ as punishment). But with you, it’s a different feeling entirely.

It's jarringly intimate as you clip his hair back and reach over him to grab the plastic gloves that came with the dye. Lathering up the applicator brush, you start slathering it onto his hair, trying your hardest to make sure it’s evenly distributed and surrounding each strand. As you do so, you ask, “How long have you been doing this?”

He resists the urge to shrug, not wanting to jostle you, replying, “Osamu and I started in middle school.”

“Osamu dyes his hair too?”

“Yeah, he goes for gray. But I’d heard blondes have more fun so—here we are.”

He grits his teeth as your fingers skim over his scalp, glad for the towel you wrapped around him to hide the goosebumps skittering along his bare skin.

“Let me guess,” you muse. “You guys did it because people couldn’t tell you apart?”

“That,” he laughs, “And we thought it would look cool. The first time we did it, it looked like shit.”

Your answering laugh warms his heart as you unclip a section of hair and keep working. “I can’t imagine your mom being too happy about it.”

“Livid. We got bleach everywhere.”

You laugh, continuing to move through his hair methodically. It doesn’t take very long as you’re just dying his roots and they weren’t that bad to begin with, contrary to what Atsumu thinks. When you finish, he gives you a sheepish look and has to swallow his pride to ask you to help him wash it out. Every time he’s tried to do it himself, he always ends up leaving a huge chunk of bleach somewhere.

You oblige, following him to the bathroom, not bothering to care about the looks you get along the way. If they want to stare at a shirtless Atsumu and then glare at you for having that all to yourself, that’s their prerogative. It does wonders for your confidence, regardless that all of this is a ruse.

Luckily, the bathroom is empty and Atsumu dutifully bends over the sink to let you start washing the dye out of his hair. He’s immensely grateful his eyes are shut, and his face is shoved into the sink to hide his flushed cheeks as he thoroughly enjoys your fingers running through his hair. The sensation of your fingernails lightly scraping over his scalp makes him ball his fists as he has to bite his lip to keep from making any sounds.

You’re unbothered, until you notice the towel has slipped from his shoulders and with the way he’s bracing himself against the counter every muscle in his back and arms is on display for you to see. It’s an effort to continue your task as if nothing is wrong and force yourself to look off into the distance instead of eyeing him up.

It’s no easy feat. Especially when you finish and he rises, scrubbing at his face with the discarded towel before moving on to his hair. You press your lips into a firm line and let yourself indulge just a little bit looking at the way his muscles flex with the movement, droplets from his damp hair trailing down the planes of his chest towards the waistband of his shorts and—your attention is broken at the sound of him chuckling and you snap your gaze to his.

You find him staring at you with mischief sparkling in his eyes, so you speak before he can tease you. “Is that it?”

“We have to actually dye it now.”

“Oh.” You turn on your heels desperate to escape his gaze. “Let’s go then.” A smirk plays across his lips, but he refrains from teasing you, solely because he very much enjoyed the way you were looking at him and doesn’t want you to stop.

And yeah—sue him if he thinks about your hands in his hair for the rest of the day. In the end, he might be a little grateful no one else was available to help him.

When mid-semester break arrives, it comes as a surprise that you actually miss each other. What surprises you even further, is that he’s the one to bring it up. Within the first night, he video calls you, a sheepish expression on his face, explaining he needed someone to complain to.

“What do you mean?” You teased. “Sounds like you’re getting stuffed with good food from Osamu and you have plenty to brag about.” You winked, smiling devilishly at him and pointing to yourself. You’re only joking. Slightly. You aren’t sure what will come about if he tells his family about you, or if that’s even a good idea. It’d be much easier to break this off cleanly without the involvement of each other’s families.

He sighs, flopping down on his bed and scrubbing his face with one hand. “They’re just dyin’ to meet you now.”

Your brows lift, half-expecting him to have tried to keep this a secret. “You told them?”

“I wasn’t gunna,” he explains. “But apparently some college sports news channel caught um—,” he coughs awkwardly, remembering very vividly this day, yet the two of you haven’t acknowledged it since. “Our—uh—celebration.”

Eyes widening, you stare at him a moment before the both of you burst out laughing. Between your giggles you manage to say, “Oops.”

Laughing alongside you, he grins, despite the pang in his heart at the voice in his head desperately trying to remind him all of this isn’t real. You aren’t his girlfriend and the moment all of this ends, you probably won’t bat an eye at him ever again. He hates how much that hurts.

Forging onward towards his demise he discloses, “I am now a very proud owner of a very jealous brother now, so thank you.”

That only makes you keep grinning, setting a hand on your cheek and dramatically saying, “What? Of little ol’ me?”

He fights the urge to tell you that yes—jealous of little ol’ you. The girl who is slowly becoming the girl of his dreams. The beautiful, funny girl who deals with him and everything that comes with him. He swallows all that, keeping the mood and saying, “He refuses to let me try any of his onigiri. A crime, really.”

“Of the highest caliber,” you agree, stifling your laughter. “Though I’m sure you steal some when he isn’t looking.”

“Yeah, but he caught me and hit me on the head with his spoon.”

“How dare he. Lucky for me, my family is clueless.”

“What do they think yer doin’ right now then?”

Shrugging you say, “I told them I had a project to work on with a classmate. Which isn’t entirely a lie, I do have a project to work on. But someone interrupted.”

He smirks. “Wonder who that could be.”

“Beats me.” His responding grin does something to you that’s been happening a lot more frequently lately. Making you feel like all the air has been punched out of you and like your heart is going to beat out of your chest. Though, you’ve gotten quite good at hiding it.

In the distance, you hear someone calling his name. He panics, it’s bad enough his family knows about you now, but he isn’t sure if he’s ready for them to meet you. Especially Osamu, who he has the sinking feeling is already suspicious of this. It’ll be a miracle if he can slip this by him.

“Gotta go!” He says quickly, and before he ends the call, he hears you chuckle and say, “Beware the spoon.”

Every day his situation only gets worse.

The next night he can’t get Osamu off his back. Enough that when he tries to retreat to his bedroom to give you a call, pathetically missing you again, Osamu bursts in when he’s about two minutes into the video call with you. He tries to shove him out, embarrassed and afraid Osamu will see straight through him. But Osamu is stubborn, and he hears you laughing on the other end of the call before saying, “Aww, Atsumu won’t you at least let me try to charm the pants off him?”

He grits his teeth, the thought that he wants you to charm the pants off of him, not his brother flitting through his head before he can stop it. But he relents, letting Osamu sit backwards on his desk chair to join the conversation.

He isn’t sure how, but somehow you get Osamu to believe this is real in a matter of minutes. You have him laughing and talking about culinary school and he almost feels jealous that your attention is now on Osamu instead of him. It’s a ridiculous notion, he knows it, but it doesn’t stop him from keeping the camera on him as much as possible.

When the call ends, Osamu looks at him seriously, and for a moment Atsumu thinks he’s just been pretending to believe you this entire time. However, he breaks into a smile and smacks him on the back saying, “Got yerself a keeper, there.”

Atsumu tries to grin with as much sincerity as he can. Yeah—he knows he does. But that isn’t going to stop this from ending.

That night, both of you go to bed feeling like you’re getting in too deep.

And as per usual, when school starts back up again, neither of you bring it up. You’re happy to keep ignoring it, hating yourself for liking this arrangement and him more and more every day. It sad really, how much time in your day is spent thinking about him. Wondering if there’s any possibility that the two of you could just transition to a real relationship. Because to you, that’s already what this is. Nothing would change, but at least you’d stop feeling guilty every time you enjoy his hand in yours or the soft press of his lips to the top of your head.

A few days after returning to school, you find yourself alone with him in his dorm room studying. He’s sitting at his desk, hunched over a textbook while you lay on his bed, head propped up by an elbow. You can feel your eyes drooping, the words blurring together, it becoming harder and harder to stay awake. His bed is too comfortable and smells overwhelmingly like him, a scent you’ve come to enjoy every time you’re pressed up against him. A mixture of his body wash and the ever-present faint smell of the volleyball court. Eventually you’re powerless against the solace of sleep.

When Atsumu notices you, his heart jumps into his throat. You look so serene and peaceful, your chest rising and falling ever so slightly, part of him wants to crawl in beside you and press his face into your neck and fall asleep right along with you.

But he too has begun to feel like this game has gone too far. The moment he had to tell his family, lie to Osamu, he knew he’d crossed a line. It isn’t fair to you. No longer does he need to pretend for his teammates that he can have a serious relationship, there isn’t a reason to torture himself and keep you tied to him anymore.

Yet, thinking about not being without you, no longer eating lunch together, studying together, or having you in the stands at his games wrenches his heart in such a way he actually feels like it’s crumpling inside his chest. He hasn’t been able to admit it, but at some point along the way, he thinks he fell in love with you. And it just hurts too much to keep pretending. Especially when you’re only doing this for peace and quiet during your showers.

For you, he shouldn’t drag this on any longer.

So, a couple days later, you texted him telling him you were in the library and can join him anytime if he wants. A harmless text, one you’ve sent him many times since this whole thing started, but this one makes his heart sink. Knowing this is the opportunity he’s been waiting for to talk to you. He tries to not think about it, trying to let volleyball take over his thoughts, but it’s futile. All he can think about is saying those words to you, and how it’s quite possibly going to utterly destroy him.

But you take it well, as he expects, squashing the hope that you might feel something for him too.

That night in the library feels particularly lonely. There’s no quick-witted remark from the boy who carved himself a place in your life, no one there to make you laugh when you’re struggling with a problem. Instead, you’re met with nothing but the darkness and silence of the library. It’s almost too much to bear, and once the silence starts closing in on you—you force yourself to leave, refusing to let yourself wallow.

The next weeks are hard. He never imagined that he’d think that after all of this was over. He keeps showering in the mornings to avoid you and uphold the deal you two struck months ago. He ignores the empty hole in his chest when he eats lunch without you, or studies late alone. The most jarring thing is your absence at his games. He constantly finds himself searching the crowd for your face, before remembering you won’t be there. He misses that intense gaze he could always feel on his back, the one that kept him awake at night when he let his thoughts run wild.

He feels as though something has been ripped from his life, leaving nothing but a gaping hole behind that seems intent on devouring him whole.

The same can be said for you.

Who knew you’d ever miss his teasing remarks while you shower? Or miss how you could complain to him endlessly about classes and then have him comfort you in the warm solace of his arms? Even the little things like walking to class together, now that you do it alone, it feels like there’s something missing.

The two you go on like that, thinking of the other every night before sleeping, tossing and turning with the thought of what could have been.

And eventually, you reach the point where you’re over it. Over pining after him day after day, peering out your door to make sure he isn’t around, or taking detours just to avoid him in the hallways. You’re over it. Enough that you’re willing to swallow your pride and confess to him, even if he doesn’t feel the same way—maybe you can fucking move on then.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you stomp to his dorm room, his roommate opening the door; his eyes widening upon seeing you. Immediately, he grabs his keys saying into the room, “I forgot I need to go to the store Atsumu, see you later.”

He leaves no time for Atsumu to protest, out the door in a matter of moments, leaving you standing in the doorway. Atsumu is just sitting in his desk chair, looking dumfounded at you, having fully expected to never see you again.

The gears in his head grind to a halt as you say, “This is stupid.”

He gives you a bewildered look, unsure what exactly you mean by that.

You steel your courage and press on. “I like you. And you like me. I think. And all this pretending that we don’t is stupid.”

After a few moments, his lips curve into a smile, the mischievous one you used to hate but now feel relief seeing. He can’t help the joy building in his chest at your confession. How many sleepless nights thinking about this very moment did he endure?

“You said it,” he teases.

Despite giving him a look, you do nothing to stop the grin rising to your lips. “Well, it didn’t seem like you were going to.”

His smile only widens, and he motions you into the room. “Get yer butt over here already.”

You move on instinct, striding into the room and climbing into his lap, settling your legs on either side of his you wrap your arms around his neck. The overwhelming sense that yes—this is exactly where you want to be, washes over you. He smirks up at you, his large hands resting at your waist, waiting for your next move.

“I can’t believe I actually missed that stupid smirk,” you say, lowering your lips to his, fingers slipping into the short hair at the base of his neck.

His smile hasn’t faltered, muttering against your lips teasing, “Does this mean I can shower at night again?”

A laugh bubbles out of you, but he smothers it in another kiss and refuses to let go.

[detective-crescend]

let go

The low buzz of the electric shears fills the air within the four walls of the apartment’s bathroom.

With its sleek body and rapidly vibrating blade, the machine looks oddly foreboding in Klavier’s hand. It is heavy, too, enough that Klavier can feel its potential for change in its weight.

“I am going to cut my hair,” he’d said to Apollo an hour ago. The comment was made without any preamble, no prior indications of his intentions, and yet when Apollo looked up into Klavier’s face from the desk he was sitting in, he did not look surprised.

His reply was equally succinct. “Okay.”

“You are alright with that?” Klavier had pressed. He was not so deluded to think Apollo was unaware of his reasons for making this declaration—after all, Kristoph had played a significant role in his life as well—and yet, this was the only version of Klavier that Apollo had ever known.

But, again, Apollo’s answer was direct; he’d only shrugged with his lips pressed into a small, obliquely supportive smile. “Yeah. It’s your hair, Klavier.”

And that had been that.

Now, the monotone humming of the clippers continues, persistent.

It is hard for Klavier to compartmentalize the symbolism that the artificially blond strands represent.

He was seventeen when he’d first made the decision to grow it out. Despite what the tabloids and water cooler gossips alike had surmised, it had been his choice alone—Kristoph had mocked him for the decision; though his face had been oddly affected, his words lashed out with all the sting of a steel tipped whip, imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, I suppose—and it was one that he had not taken lightly. With his atypical ascension to the district attorney’s office cemented by the events of his first trial, it had felt necessary to mark his newfound dedication in some form; the hair, therefore, was a representation of the gravity of his commitment, the resolute pursuit of the truth.

The irony that the declaration instills, in hindsight, should be enough to raise the clipper in his hand, to methodically shear each and every bleached and dyed piece of hair from his previously wide-eyed and faux-idealistic head.

And yet, though he had been arrogant and presumptive, Klavier had also been sincere. His only thought, then, had been to leave the word better than he had found it. Through the law or through his art—the specifics hadn’t mattered, much. Yes, it had been naive of him. But had it really been wrong?

Klavier stares at his reflection, expression so blank that it could be a portrait looking back at him from the dark wood frame of the mirror. The hair of his reflective doppelgänger is longer than it’s ever been before, curling slightly where it falls inches below the line of his collarbone. It had taken time and effort to reach this point, regular cuts and careful application of products, hours upon hours spent in a chromed, rotating chair.

He had been proud of this hair, once. It had been a part of him for so long, such a recognizable feature on the front page of entertainment magazines and newspapers alike. Synonymous, almost, with his name, with his brand.

But it was also recognizable in photographs of Kristoph as they’d led him in recently applied handcuffs from the courtroom—calm and collected on the first occasion, with his own hair perfectly styled, not a strand out of place; unraveled and wild on the second, a perfect allegory to his brother’s deteriorating mental state.

After the trial, Klavier had placed all the mirrors from his apartment that could be easily removed into the back of a very deep closet. Those that could not be taken down were covered in dark and opaque sheets. The thought of looking into the eyes of his reflection, then, and seeing the accusations and the truths in Kristoph’s eyes staring back at him had been completely unbearable.

For that reason alone, he should cut it.

And yet…

Klavier tucked an errant piece of hair behind his ear as he spoke, almost, but not entirely, clearing it from the line of his gaze. Apollo’s eyes, on the other hand, had narrowed considerably at the gesture. “Why do you always play with your hair when we talk? If there’s something you want to tell me, just say it.”

And,

Apollo wrinkled his nose, plucking a long strand of hair from the weave of his suit’s fabric. “Ugh, you shed worse than Mikeko and Vongole combined. Your hair is literally everywhere.”

And,

The room was completely silent, except for the sound of Klavier’s own pulse crashing in his ears and the gentle sound Apollo’s dress shirt crumpling upon contact with the floor. Klavier’s hands were still placed firmly against the sides of Apollo’s jaw, partially to keep Apollo close, but also for support—it was very possible that, without Apollo there to ground him, Klavier might lose himself in the rush of ‘finally’s and ‘at last’s. The sensation of Apollo’s fingers raking through the hair at the back of his neck, twisting around handfuls of the strands, tugging slightly in their haste to feel as much as possible in the shortest span of time, hadn’t helped to keep his thoughts level. He’d found himself gasping gently into Apollo’s lips, the sound enveloped almost immediately by an even more intent kiss.

And,

Apollo looked up sharply at the question, his gaze confused as it passed between Klavier’s amused face and his own hand, which was still coiling strands of Klavier’s hair absently around his fingers. “I guess I didn’t even realize I was doing it,” he’d shrugged, face shifting to an expression that was half embarrassed and half apologetic. “Your hair’s nice? I can stop, if you want.” But Klavier had only shaken his head slightly—it was difficult to move more without losing several of those same strands to Apollo’s grip—and laughed.

And,

Though the room was dark, Klavier’s too-wide eyes could see the scene quite vividly, a frame by frame replay of the trial flashing before his eyes in the stillness. He was aware of Apollo’s arms holding him, of one hand rubbing circles across the skin of his back while the other moved rhythmically to smooth the strands of Klavier’s sleep-wild hair. It would take time for the nightmares to fade, for Klavier to fall asleep in the comfort of Apollo’s arms without the worry of waking hours later in the throes of the guilt-ridden dreams, but knowing that Apollo would be there, should he need him, had helped.

And, back in the bathroom of Klavier’s apartment, nearly half an hour after retreating behind the closed door, Klavier thumbs the switch of the clippers. The sudden silence rings out like an alarm around him; the absence of their sound, so encompassing only moments before, is nearly as distinct.

When he opens the door, Apollo is waiting just beyond, legs folded beneath him in the armchair where he sits. His face is carefully arranged into an expression that would pass, for most people, as neutral. Klavier, however, can see the slight furrow of concern in the space between his brows, the tint of relief in the curve of his mouth.

“Changed your mind?” Apollo asks, equally mindful in tone.

His attempts to maintain neutral despite the worry he is so clearly struggling with evokes a surge of emotion from deep within Klavier’s chest that is difficult to swallow back down.

Klavier’s voice, when he responds, shakes gently. “Ja. Is that alright?”

Sometimes, it is possible to watch a person’s heart break under the strain of nothing but a simple question.

Without another word, Apollo stands and takes the steps across the room, too quickly to be anything other than affected by Klavier’s words. The difference in their heights is enough that Klavier has to bend slightly to fit into the circle of Apollo’s arms; in the process, his loose hair falls all around them and over the curve of Apollo’s shoulder.

“It’s your hair, Klavier,” Apollo repeats. The words are insistent and their meaning, dichotomous.

Klavier sighs gently—the exhalation a mixture of grief and the early traces of relief—and closes his eyes.

[makaylajadewrites]

A Moment’s Rest

Drabble written for this prompt. I actually kind of like this one, so I hope you enjoy it!

Pairing: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid

Tags: Nightmares, bedwetting, implied/referenced child abuse and csa, angst

Word count: 1354

Summary: Spencer was quirky in his own way. He was perfect, in Derek’s opinion, with his hand flapping and wide brown eyes, wise beyond his years, and never before had Derek felt so... complete with another human being. As different as they were, Spencer understood him and took the time to peel back every single layer of Derek Morgan. Derek had tried to do the same to Spencer, but... Spencer had a lot of dark baggage, surprisingly, and very quickly Derek began to understand that Spencer’s childhood was not a good one. 

Read on AO3 here

The last time Morgan had ever wet the bed was when he was twelve years old. He could remember it so vividly, waking up to the wet sensation of soggy sheets sticking to his bare legs, the brief cloud of confusion that was quickly overtaken by shame as his consciousness returned fully. He had met Buford when he was only ten, just months after his father had died, and shortly after meeting Buford, the bedwetting had started. It was sporadic at best, and each time he was left feeling embarrassed and disgusting. Not even in his dreams was he safe from Carl Buford. 

It had been over two decades since the last time. He still had the dreams, but with age, the bedwetting stopped. Buford would forever be an ugly stain in the quilt of his life, but to overcome the lingering shame he felt he helped people, and saved them from all of the horrors that humanity had to offer. It was when he couldn’t save people that he was reminded of his past though, and how he had failed to save himself from the hands of Carl Buford. 

But even so, that feeling of wet sheets clinging to his skin was not a feeling that he would forget. He pushed himself up in the bed almost immediately, only to realize soon enough that it wasn’t his own incontinence, but instead, his partner’s.

He and Spencer Reid had met nearly four years ago. From the start, their differences were quite clear, and they were both okay with that. They were aware of each other’s limitations and strengths, and they depended on one another as coworkers - in and out of the field. Only after Derek’s past was disclosed did the relationship between them begin to shift from friends to lovers, and in that brief period, Derek was reminded how amazing love could really be. He had given up on ever finding a true partner, believing himself to be ruined after Buford, deserving of nobody. He didn’t think he would ever be able to find a partner that would love him despite his issues, and one that he would wholeheartedly love in return, but Spencer shuffled out of the elevator on his first day in his scuffed up Converse and an ugly brown sweater, and Morgan was enamored. 

Spencer was quirky in his own way. He was perfect, in Derek’s opinion, with his hand flapping and wide brown eyes, wise beyond his years, and never before had Derek felt so... complete with another human being. As different as they were, Spencer understood him and took the time to peel back every single layer of Derek Morgan. Derek had tried to do the same to Spencer, but... Spencer had a lot of dark baggage, surprisingly, and very quickly Derek began to understand that Spencer’s childhood was not a good one. 

Spencer had once told him that he could remember walking into a casino one age at the ripe age of fifteen with a fake ID and ten dollars, and leaving with close to two grand which he used on bills, food, and medication for his mother. Reid had talked about it like it was a good, happy memory, and Derek couldn't help the pang of pity that ached in his chest for his lover. Neither of them came from good beginnings, but they began to build a happy future together on top of their past ruins. 

It had only been a week ago though, when Spencer had confronted his dad for the first time in nearly twenty years, and in all of the years that Derek had known his lover, he had never seen him so distraught; so physically uncomfortable to be in the presence of someone that he should have felt safe around. Spencer had accused his own father of being a pedophile and murdering the young Riley Jenkins. That turned out to be false, but even still, Derek saw a bit of a change in Spencer. It wasn’t something he could necessarily describe in words, but Spencer just... changed ever so subtly. Derek couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

But those sheets. Wet, clingy, warm. Derek felt a shiver of horror run up his spine as he watched Spencer whimper in his sleep before gradually waking up, sitting up slowly and looking down at himself before pushing the blankets away to confirm his suspicions. The expression on his face was at first blank, but the way it quickly twisted into one of disgust, horror, and shame broke Derek’s heart. Spencer glanced over to him, his eyes widening even further as he realized Derek was awake too, and without wasting another second, he got up and bolted to the bathroom. 

“Spencer, wait...!” Derek calls after him, quickly following after him without a care in the world of his nudity, a remnant of their lovemaking the night before. Spencer was too embarrassed to even worry about closing the door, so Derek followed him inside, albeit hesitantly. Spencer was white-knuckling the sink countertop, doubled over and breathing heavily, but the shake of his shoulders was evidence enough of his misery.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry...” Spencer repeated over and over again through the sobs, shaking his head raising a hand up to drag his messy hair away from his face. Derek felt helpless, standing in the doorway and watching his lover fall apart.

“Baby... It’s alright, you don’t have to apologize. Let’s get you into the bathtub, okay?” Derek suggested warmly, and soon, Spencer was nodding his head and standing up a bit taller, stumbling towards Derek who sat him down on the toilet. Derek let the water run and when he deemed it warm enough, he helped Spencer in, holding one of his hands and pressing his lips over his bony knuckles. 

Spencer didn’t say anything through the duration of his bath, but about halfway through, his sobs had tapered off and he had transitioned to an eerie calm. Derek practically carried him to the guest room wrapped in a towel, sitting him on the edge of the bed and promising to be right back. After washing himself off and stripping the sheets off of their bed to wash, he returned to Spencer and frowned at the sight of him in exactly the same position he had left him in, those dark eyes staring down at his toes which flexed occasionally in the carpet.

“Spencer?” Derek hummed softly, sitting down beside him and gingerly placing a hand on his knee, squeezing slightly and rubbing his pale skin. “How are you feeling?”

Spencer sighed and shrugged, not even bothering to brush his hair out of his face. “I don’t know.”

“Do you... want to talk about it?” Derek asked softly, “You know it won’t help to keep it all bottled up inside. You close yourself off from me sometimes and you can’t do that right now.”

“Derek, please, I just...” Spencer sighed again, this time in frustration, bringing both hands up to drag down his face. “I didn’t want to believe it at first.”

“Believe what, pretty boy?” Derek murmured, squeezing his leg again as encouragement, scanning his lover’s face carefully. 

“That he... William, he...” His lips began to tremble again, and Derek didn’t need to hear anymore to know what was going on. He wrapped an arm around Spencer’s shaking shoulders, pulling him close with gentle hands and encasing him in the protection his embrace. Spencer was a sobbing mess all over again, his tears tracking down Derek’s bare skin like dew dripping down a blade of grass.

“I’ve got you,” Derek whispered, cradling his lover’s petite form against his chest and squeezing him, tears burning in his own eyes. “I've got you, baby... I’m here.”

“He... He...” Spencer could never actually say it as his sobs shook his entire body, and as he wailed, Derek felt his heart ache a little more, Spencer’s childhood now tainted with an irreversible truth. 

And as Spencer cried himself to sleep in his arms, Derek only hoped he could offer him a moment’s rest from those wretched childhood memories. 

[willadisastercry]

Keith relapsing and not being able to stop once he starts... pt 2

(((( Once again: please, please, please read the trigger warnings and proceed with caution before reading this. I vividly describe Keith’s internal struggle after he relapses... if anything even remotely regarding self harming or someone discovering a person who has is sensitive to you I HIGHLY RECOMMEND YOU DONT READ ))))

tw: in depth depiction of acting on self harm ideations/urges, scars, relapsing, becoming ill from blood loss, someone discovering a person after they relapse, rationalizing their self harm because the alternative is suicide, contradicting oneself and later very much deciding they would rather be unalived, panic attack symptoms, reopening a wound, allusion to surgery (stitches)

Keith is still very out of it after having a full fledged panic attack and the last thing he wants is to invite another spectator into the mix to watch him devolve further. So Shiro agrees to do something he hasn’t had to do in a very long time... courtesy of his battlefield medicine training.

Also again... YES klance and NO klance. You can interpret it however but their questioningly less and less ‘no homo’ behavior uh certainly ramps up and I suggest that they’ve had certain discussions/interactions before... definitely still not the main focus of this fic but there for context bc it just happened that way.

Part 1 / Part 2

The tension in the air was palpable as it hung on all of them. Lance watched Shiro’s entire body visibly relax, the grimace on his face the only tell that he was working through something in his mind, remembering something unpleasant.

Keith’s wimper pulled both boys back after a minute of terrible silence.

Several of the hardest cuts to close had broken free of the glue that held them and were gushing steadily. Keith was paling by the minute as he continued to breathe rapidly and tremble as if he was cold despite the sweat on his forehead.

He just wanted this to be over. To finally be asleep where at least then he could pretend that it had never actually happened and it was just a horrible dream.

Without saying anything more Shiro pressed the bandage back to his side and moved Lance’s hand to hold pressure there while he stood up and scanned the room, his eyes landing on Keith’s towel. It was hardly even damp then with how much time had passed since Keith had finished his shower.

“Keith, I know you’re not going to want me to,” he started with his jaw set as he pulled Keith towards him for a moment to lay the towel beneath him despite his meager protests.

“...but I have to tell Coran so that he can—“

He stopped when Keith let out a desperate whine as he released his hand from his mouth to tug on Shiro’s arm, his fingers digging in like he was trying to anchor them to something so he didn’t drift away as his chest started working double time.

“No. You can’t! You’re n-not t-tell-telling him.”

“Keith, I know that this is—“

“No, you dont,” Keith rasped, “you d-don’t know anything and you c-can-can’t tell Coran.”

The fear in his wide eyes was enough to make Lance want to cry for the umpteenth time that night, his chest hitching painfully as he pleaded with Shiro, getting himself more worked up as he did.

“Calm down, buddy. You know how this works. You know we have to get you fixed up.”

He shook his head back and forth as Shiro tried to rationalize with him.

“Keith,” he paused with a lengthy sigh because the last thing he wanted was to do something that Keith didn’t want him to do.

“Keith it’s bad. You need stitches, we have to.”

His purple saucers met Shiro’s grey pinpoints for a long moment, fear and desperation glistening in Keith’s and making Shiro want to pull him up into a bone crushing embrace.

“Then y-you do it...” he all but whispered through a heave as he tried to take in enough air to satisfy the ache in his chest so he could talk.

“Ke—“

“You’ve d-done-done i-it-it before Sh-Sh-Shi—fuck. P-please, j-j-ju-just-just-j—“

“Okay,” Shiro agreed, his voice pitching higher as he tried to assuage the budding panic evident in Keith’s anguished expression and worsening trembling.

“Hey, it’s okay. I will. Shhh, I will.”

He repeated the words religiously after Keith began to choke on his own, his face reeling with frustration when the full body trembling made him unable to get a proper sentence out and the effort of trying sent him spiraling further.

Shiro carded his hand through Keith’s still damp hair as his hands rose back up to his face, his feet kicking against the bed as the terrible dropping feeling worked its way through his stomach, gasping as it did. Lance watched in horror as Shiro tried to comfort him but any point of contact made Keith struggle harder.

He absolutely hated being so vulnerable, so reliant on others in such a fragile state. He knew he sorely needed the affection but his body instinctively cringed away from their touches, at war with itself as his mind lied to him, told him he was pathetic for needing such a thing. Another part wanting to melt into even the faintest brush against his shuddering body. All while feeling the consequences of losing a pretty descent amount of blood, the loss fogging his mind to a point that made it immeasurably harder to not succumb to panic, especially since he was still bleeding.

It was truly the perfect storm and he hated every second of it.

His lungs felt like they were being dripped dry of every ounce of oxygen in them as the phantom sensation of spinning returned and disordered his heaving breaths further as he fought the urge to vomit. The bone deep exhaustion seemed to be rather helpful then, the physical symptoms of his anxiety fizzling out in minutes as he quite literally just lacked the faculties to accommodate them.

“I’m right here, Keith,” Shiro assured when his grip on his arm tightened and then wavered as he began to sink back into the mattress, his hands settling restlessly on his chest as they shook.

“That’s it, you’re alright.”

Shiro griped his shoulder securely now, the metal of his prosthetic arm weighing with an oddly pleasant pressure on Keith as his whole body shook still.

Closing his eyes seemed a tad less dangerous once he could breathe somewhat regularly again and the intense dizziness had somewhat dissipated. They were also swollen like hell and heavy from all the crying so shutting them became less of an active choice then as well.

Lance’s hand moved to his leg after a beat, just to peek and make sure that those wounds hadn’t met a similar fate. He watched as Shiro’s face dropped when he saw the second wrapping, swallowing thickly and shifting where he sat on the edge of the bed to speak to Lance.

“Will you get him to eat something while I go grab a few things?”

He nodded and made his way to the forgotten tray of snacks he’d nabbed as Shiro took off for supplies. The sobbing had died down after the climax of his panic did but the tears didn’t seem to ever dry up, evident from the sniffling every few minutes as he tried to clear his airways.

“Hey,” Lance nudged his arm where it had moved to cover his blotchy face again, “why don’t you sit up a little, gotta eat something...”

He didn’t even try, just shook his head.

“N-nauseous,” he stuttered, the shaking impossibly infuriating as he tried to relax enough to do anything other than cry.

“Hmmm, well you could also have juice, I can water it down a little. That sound doable?”

He just sighed and Lance took his indifference as a ‘whatever’ and went ahead anyway, nudging him again when he had a modified juice pouch for him.

“You don’t have to sit up all the way, there’s a straw,” Lance noted when Keith tried to raise himself up on shaking arms before they gave out. He grunted defeatedly and tried to scooch back on bent elbows and sit up that way but found he didn’t have the core strength then to do that either.

“Here, what if I...” Lance mused with a shy smile as he moved to pull Keith up enough to slide in behind him, bringing the pouch up to his lips where his now propped up head rested securely in the crook of his arm, still racked by tremors but seemingly more at ease with the contact.

“That better?”

Keith didn’t answer, just sucked on the straw of the pouch like he was dying of dehydration. By the time he’d finished the pouch Shiro was walking through the automatic door with a whoosh that startled Keith, his breathing picking back up as he nestled his head further into Lance’s arm like he was trying to hide under it.

“He finished some juice,” Lance stated proudly as Shiro laid out the haul of medical supplies he brought back.

“That’s good, something solid would be better though. Hm, how bout the bread?” Shiro asked, walking back over to the tray and picking up a roll from the batch Hunk had made with a type of alien wheat they’d found.

Keith grumbled but took it from Shiro’s outstretched hand because he knew that he wouldn’t be able to win that debate, but more because he knew what was coming next and he wanted that more than anything.

“What?! You just give in for Shiro but with me it’s like pulling teeth? I’m offended, mullet. Deeply offended,” Lance scoffed and Keith made a noise as he bit into the bread begrudgingly.

“It’s not personal, he just knows not to be stubborn unless he wants to be awake while I stitch him up.”

Lance’s heart sunk impossibly further into his chest because Shiro had fully found him like that before... and done this exact thing after. This wasn’t new to either of them.

God he wanted to cry too.

Once Keith had made a sizeable dent in the roll from the dinner he’d missed Shiro handed him three pills of which Lance assumed were some variant of a sleep aid that took him a while to swallow with how choppy he was breathing still. The high sort of buzz had never really gone away and only worsened when his anxiety took over, leaving him both feeling floaty and trapped in a constant state of shaking.

Lance tried to comfort him now that he seemed more receptive to being touched, tracing light circles on the shoulder not tucked against him and leaving his other hand out where he could reach it in case he needed something to squeeze.

In the time being Shiro had set up a sterile tray for what looked like a literal fish hook and a whole bunch of gauze. Oh, jeez. Lance wasn’t sure he could stomach watching and tried to manifest being able to just hold Keith in his arms while Shiro worked, ya know for moral support. For Keith obviously.

“How ya doing? Tired yet?” Shiro inquired as he continued to ready the tray, fiddling with bottles of medicine similar to what Lance had used before.

“Mhmm, getting... sleepy,” he slurred, his trembling dying down a bit as the medicine helped his body relax.

“Good,” Shiro let out a hollow laugh at the way he sounded like a kid again, “Lance will you let me know when he’s out?”

The altean medicine was working quickly, aided by the fact that he was already utterly spent and leaving his eyes fluttering as his breathing evened out. He didn’t want to fall asleep still worked up or he’d probably be restless, maybe even come to and be more disoriented than before. So he dragged out the relief of slowly being pulled to sleep by the flick of Lance’s fingers on his arm, forcing his eyes to remain open as long as he could manage.

“Yep, shouldn’t be long,” Lance noted when Keith let out a hissing yawn and turned his face towards Lance’s chest, his cheek resting against the squishiest part he could find and making Lance stifle a gasp.

Keith wasn’t known for being cuddly and the gesture, though not really a conscious one, made Lance’s stomach flutter. He wasn’t able to dwell on it long though because Shiro was addressing him again.

“Can you pinch his arm...?”

Lance obliged and Keith didn’t make a sound.

“Perfect, okay, you won’t get squeamish will you?”

“Uh... glue is a bit different than a needle but even that sort of freaked me out.”

“Alright then, you can clean and dissolve what opened up while I handle what’s already free,” Shiro determined as he ushered the familiar supplies closer to Lance.

He took up the needle which was already threaded and sighed heavily before pulling Keith’s desk chair flush up against the bed.

“Help me get him more on his side.”

They managed to by Lance pulling him by the shoulders and more onto his lap as Shiro pushed.

Shiro breathed deeply then, something in his eyes flickering as he removed the soaked through bandage from the younger boy’s hip. His entire side coated again, the skin visibly raised and puffy.

Lance took up the wound wash and showed it to Shiro who nodded, bringing the towel up to catch the excess liquid as he poured. Once he’d sopped up what had bled again Shiro started with the widest gash, the hardened glue was easy to pull off with how horribly it had been secured over such a large area. Lance looked elsewhere, focusing on removing the glue from the other reopened wounds.

Shiro operated like a robot after that, known quite literally for a precise hand but what happened next took that generalization to a whole other level. His fingers moved swiftly, tying off stitches almost faster than Lance could wash out the gashes but definitely quicker than he could remove the blue tinted glaze. He had to scrub and scrape at the substance from the open wounds, the bloody mess they’d become making the task harder than it ought to have been.

In actuality only a few had reopened, but they were also the deepest. Some of them took upwards of five stitches, others two or three. The proximity of them to each other, especially to ones that were still glued, made it difficult for Shiro to figure out where to place the needle.

They were done after ten or so minutes but when Shiro sat back to analyze his work, he frowned.

“What’s up?” Lance questioned dubiously.

Shiro didn’t answer, just brought his hand down to examine the glue that was barely holding about a dozen more wounds together. They’d grown darker, the amount of red beneath the generous amount of blue visibly greater than the lesser wounds as more blood gathered and threatened to burst out as well.

“Some of these look like they’re about to go too, they haven’t clotted. I don’t think they’d heal right if I don’t stitch them up, they’d leave worse, uh—worse scars.”

Lance nodded transfixedly, not sure if his heart could take hearing more things like that, more direct acknowledgments of how one of his best friends had hurt himself so badly... how it hadn’t been the first time... how he couldn’t make sure it was the last if even Shiro had failed to.

“-nce. Lance, hey, don’t let me lose you now. I need you to work on dissolving the rest of the glue,” Shiro said, his tone gentle again as he brought Lance back from the depths of his weary mind.

“Right,” he affirmed more for himself as he brought the dissolving liquid back down while Shiro rethreaded his needle.

Opening a just about to burst wound was admittedly a lot harder on Lance’s stomach than freeing one that had already. There was so much more blood because when he was done with one side it’d spring open and pool immediately as he fought to dissolve the rest before it spilled out and got everywhere.

Both of them were coated then, the only saving grace that kept Lance’s nerves at bay was Shiro having the forethought to have them both wear gloves, but that just made it seem like a literal operation. And with the amount of black threading Keith back together it was seeming more like one each horrible minute it droned on.

Shiro had lost his vest and jacket somewhere around the third time he had to rethread his needle, Lance’s discarded too after some time, both of them uncomfortably warm as they poured over stitching Keith back together.

Oh, oh god.

That did it for him.

Lance huffed shakily and turned his head away as he nearly lost it again over how much he wished he could do more than just help heal his wounds, he wanted to mend every one of his broken pieces, put the parts of him back together that you couldn’t see.

He couldn’t stand the thought of slapping a bandage on what had happened and ever going about normally again.

“Lance...”

Shiro looked at him with sorry eyes, wanting to hug him as he blinked back tears but Keith was very much preventing that from being possible.

“I’m okay, sorry—it’s just a lot.”

“I know. We’re almost done if that helps, just need to finish up on this one and then I want to take a quick look at his leg,” Shiro offered as he got back to the gash that was almost closed.

“It wasn’t as bad, only a few were deep,” Lance noted, his eyes glossy as they stared at Shiro’s busy hands, not even registering the way they pulled on Keith’s skin as they tied off the last knot.

Shiro nodded, sneaking a worried glance over at Lance who didn’t meet his gaze as he finished applying an ungodly amount of tape over top the gauze he’d put on the area. He then manhandled Keith’s leg so he could get at his thigh.

Lance looked down at his arms. There wasn’t much blue of the medical gloves on his hands showing, blood smeared past even that and up his arms. He hurriedly yanked at them, peeling one off within the other and folding the outer one over itself.

“Just toss it, I’ll clean this all up later.”

Shiro suggested noticing how dangerously close Lance was to unraveling and hoping to delay it until he could actually help.

He was right though, only a handful required stitches and half as many as the ones on his hip had needed at that. Shiro was done in record time, taking over Lance’s job of removing the glue and cleaning up the mess that followed, finishing by wrapping a thicker bandage around his leg and taping it in place.

When Shiro finally sat back and started to clean up he was dimly aware that Lance was silently crying and had scooted further down the bed to hold Keith more securely in his arms. Though he was definitely out he had never fully stopped shaking, but now it seemed more like a nervous system response to the nowhere near healthy amount of blood he’d lost. Lance moved his hands up and down his arm in attempt to soothe him anyway.

Shiro brought the throw blanket at the foot of the bed over the two of them after he’d removed all of the trashed medical supplies from it. Lance’s eyes had fluttered shut but were open now.

“He shouldn’t be up anytime soon but you look wiped, figured you’d want to stay...”

He nodded absently, eyes bleary but understanding as Shiro moved about the room for a little before sitting down at the foot of the bed.

“I’ll handle talking to him about all this tomorrow but in the case that he isn’t entirely dead to the world when the morning drill alarm goes off, tell him that he is not only excused but barred from training and piloting Red until his stitches are out.”

Lance just nodded again and yawned, pulling the blanket over the rest of his upper body.

“And Lance... “

He eyed Lance with a sort of fondness then.

“I know how fucked up tonight was, it couldn’t have been easy. You didn’t have to help him, you could’ve just gotten me, but you did. And I don’t know what kind of headspace he’ll be in when he wakes up but I do know he’ll be grateful you were there for him... even if he has a funny way of showing it.”

The lump in Lance’s throat bobbed threateningly, his eyes stinging again as he whispered a meak ‘thanks’ as Shiro stood up and leaned closer to ruffle his perfect hair before he turned to leave, shutting the lights off before he did.

[pandoraborn]

Inspired by this tik tok!

(disclaimer: I know this isn’t canon, but I was inspired by this tik tok/dsmp theory, and I wanted to write a one-shot based around it.)

-----------------------------------------

Mellohi is playing again. Ranboo is raising his pickaxe, ready to break down each piece of obsidian to try and find the hidden jukebox, afraid that someone had found his panic room and vandalized it. He’s screaming, too. He doesn’t know who to scream at, but his cries are echoing around him regardless, bouncing off the walls and causing his own voice to pierce his thoughts.

“I don’t know what’s happening!” Ranboo yells out. A piece of obsidian falls when he strikes the wall, but there’s nothing more to see. Bits and pieces are falling around him, but he kicks them away as he continues to strike the wall in random spots. He’s becoming more frantic, especially now that he can hear a faint voice above the music.

“Talk to me! Help me!”

“Ranboo.”

That’s Dream’s voice. That’s Dream’s voice. That’s Dream’s voice. That’s... Ranboo cranes his neck back, staring up at the ceiling. The music is starting to sound more faint, distorted. It’s causing a sense of unease inside of Ranboo, and he wishes he could go home, run to safety in the shelter of Techno and Phil. They’d help him They have to.

“Ranboo, can you hear me?”

“What?” He lowers his arm, followed by his head. He turns toward the exit, as if running out of this room would save him. He can’t bring himself to move, remaining rooted in place. It’s as if his entire body is resisting his will.

“Can you hear me? I need you to wake up and talk to me.”

Why is he hearing Dream’s voice again? Why is he hearing Dream’s voice so vividly? This isn’t like the previous times he’d heard the voice; it doesn’t sound disembodied, and it’s not echoing around him. It’s coming from a certain direction now, so Ranboo forces his head to turn in that direction.

“I didn’t do it,” Ranboo pleads. “I didn’t do anything. I know I didn’t, I would’ve remembered.”

“That’s what I’m trying to help you with. What I’ve been trying to help you with. I need you to focus. I keep losing you.”

The walls themselves almost seem to be melting. Again, Ranboo wonders if breaking through the threshold will save his sanity. There’s nothing to remember, nothing to really soul-search over. He can’t keep letting this voice control him. The panic is clearly manifesting into his own personal demons, and he needs to leave. He needs to leave...

“No, no!” Ranboo shakes his head rapidly. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything, Dream did. I didn’t help him, I just...”

“But you did do it. You admitted to it, which is why I’m trying to help you. You’re not in trouble, I just need you to come back to me. I’ve done nothing but try and help you.”

Dream sounds genuine. Dream sounds concerned, and Ranboo wants to seek him out. He wants that comfort, but there’s something about accepting it from Dream that makes him feel sick. Dream caused all this, Dream caused all the madness that spread.

“Why should I trust you?” Ranboo asks. “I have no reason to trust you or anyone.” Just one step toward the exit. One step closer to freedom. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. It’ll be...

“Because, I’ve always tried to help you. I was here this whole time, with you. I didn’t have to be, but I was. You’re lost inside your head, I’m just trying to help you remember.” This time, Dream’s voice is accompanied by a physical presence that Ranboo hadn’t felt before. He whips back around, expecting to see Dream standing in front of him, but all he sees is more obsidian.

More, more...surrounded by obsidian. There’s so much of it. Even spinning back around reveals that his opening is gone. Replaced with obsidian, no light. No light. No escape. No freedom. Nowhere to run to. No one to-

No.

Dream is with him. Dream, with his mask on, though pushed up so Ranboo can see his mouth. The lighting is too dim for him to make out features, but whatever lighting is left shows that Dream might be smiling.

“There you are,” Dream says soothingly. “I’ve been trying to wake you up for awhile now. You keep going catatonic on me.”

“Where am I? This...this isn’t my panic room.” Ranboo clutches his chest, looking down. There’s no pickaxe in his hand. There’s still music playing, but now he can see the jukebox it’s coming from. There’s lighting somewhere nearby; a flickering candle or two, because the shadows are dancing across Dream that casts a sinister glow across the man. Is Dream even a man?

“You’re in prison,” Dream explains. “You’ve been here for a few days now. You don’t remember?”

“I don’t...I was free. I was safe, I know I was. I had Enderchest with me and I built my comfort room. And...”

“Ranboo, Techno and Phil came to me with concerns about you. They said you told them some funny things, and you’ve been in here for days muttering about how you needed to remember. I’m the only one you let get close to you anymore, you scream whenever anyone else gets close.” Dream holds a hand up, as if he’s going to offer physical comfort. Ranboo recoils, scooting away from him.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t get close to me, I don’t want to be here, I want to go home!” The panic is welling up all over again, and Ranboo feels his mind starting to go foggy. Along with that is coming a sensation he doesn’t feel very often: tears wanting to well up. He’s not going to cry, not in front of Dream. “Why can’t I go home?”

“Ran, did you blow up the community house?” Dream asks. “I need to know who did it.”

“I don’t know, I really don’t know. I want to go home. I want my friends.”

“I can get Techno for you. He and Phil aren’t too far away. Ranboo, we’re here to help you. I just need you to remember.”

He forces himself to focus. Dream is pushing up the mask more, so Ranboo can see freckles. He didn’t know Dream had freckles. There’s something about this that seems oddly endearing, and equally as terrifying. Ranboo swears he’s seen someone with freckles before. There’s something about this that seems all too familiar, like some forgotten dream.

Dream. Dream.

“Have I talked to you before? Did I really get a disc from you?”

There’s a pause as Dream seems to ponder the question. Ranboo still can’t see Dream’s eyes, but he can see the corners of his lips curl downward, the clenched teeth, or even the way his nostrils flair. He’s clearly angry. Or upset.

“You did,” Dream finally says. “But it wasn’t exactly a pleasant encounter. It could have gone worse, though.”

“What happened? I can’t remember, please tell me. You have to tell me.”

“You’re half enderman, Ran. In that state you might be...confident, but you’re also not great. I gave you a disc, yeah, but it wasn’t because I wanted or needed you. It was because you wanted to prove you were worth something. I didn’t really like what I saw. I was actually a little scared; you kinda held me at knife point.”

“...but...but you said you trusted me more in that state. You...you took advantage of me. I don’t like being used. I just want to be left alone. I don’t want to pick sides.”

“I did trust you. I still trust you. Not just in that state, but in this one as well. I did give you that disc for safekeeping, but it wasn’t because I was forcing you into anything. You were the one determined to prove yourself. Something about not wanting to be spineless anymore. You said you had something else planned, but wouldn’t tell me.” Dream shakes his head. “Was the community center the plan? Did you have anything else planned?”

“I don’t remember!” Ranboo clutches his head, hunching over. He wishes he could fall through the floor. His brain is getting foggy. He’s hyperventilating-

“Ranboo!” Dream reaches out, grabbing at his shoulders. “Ranboo, it’s okay! It’s okay! Look, I just don’t want you hurting yourself anymore!”

“Dream it’s not okay! If I did bad things, then I...then...then I’m a villain, aren’t I? I’m the bad guy! I don’t want to be the bad guy!”

There they are. The tears are finally streaming down his cheeks, in a stupid, pathetic display of confusion, grief, and everything all coming forward at once. Even worse, is the fact that Dream is watching. That adds a whole new level of shame.

“You’re not a bad guy,” Dream says. “You’re confused, and scared, and clearly not well. It’s going to be okay. You’re not in here because you did bad things, you’re in here because I was trying to help you. I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I pushed you.”

“I don’t want to be the bad guy,” Ranboo chokes out. “I don’t want to be hated, I just...I want to go home.”

There’s a long pause. Dream says nothing as he pulls back slowly, pulling the disc out of the jukebox and putting it away. He says nothing as he reaches down and pulls Ranboo to his feet. Ranboo’s forgotten how much taller he is compared to others. Towering over Dream and sobbing adds a whole new level of awkwardness.

“Sometimes I forget you’re just a kid yourself,” Dream mutters. “With how much you also deal with. Also the height, damn.”

“Will you kill me?” Ranboo asks. His voice is too cracked and broken to speak normally, and it’s barely above a whisper at this point.

“No, I won’t kill you. But listen, I won’t tell anyone. If anyone asks, it was me. No one needs to know what role you played in this. I think you’ve been through enough.”

“So...I’m not the bad guy?”

“No, you’re just confused,” Dream repeats. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll cover for you.” He reaches a hand out again, pushing the mask up with his other hand. Now Ranboo can see his full face. He tries to memorize it, not wanting to forget that smile. Maybe in this one instance, Dream isn’t the bad guy. That smile on his face looks friendly and even sad.

Ranboo knows he’s going to forget.

“Come on Ran, Techno and Phil are waiting for you.”

Ranboo takes his hand, feeling more security than he’s felt in a long time. Dream may be the ultimate villain, but even gods have soft spots. He’s happy to be Dream’s.

[closer-stars]

I Got You

Member: Hongjoong Genre: Fluff Requested: Yes! Content: Hospital trips are never fun. Hongjoong is best boy. Injections/Syringe stuff. Note: I suffered a bit of a writer’s block along the way, but i tried my best. I hope this helps you anon! I also tried to incorporate some physical affection from our favorite blueberry hehe

The trip to the doctor’s scares you to near death. Unfortunately, they’re a must no matter how much you hate them. As far as you can remember, you were never alone in these trips. That is, until this year. All your friends had prior commitments, your parents live too far and you’d rather not burden them so you really had no choice but to do this on your own. 

You walk to the hospital, a weak attempt to prolong your agony when you know that you already scheduled this prior. Each step makes your hands clammy, and you were sure you were sweating from fear and not the physical activity of walking. With each step, your mind plays out the terrifying scene of needles and smell of alcohol, hell, you can pretty much vividly smell and feel how the chair feels before you receive your vaccines. Your vibrating phone snaps you out of your fears. 

[ Hongjoong ] hey hey where are you?

[ You ] On the way to the hospital.. why?

[ Hongjoong ] I was going to go with you. 

[ Hongjoong ] Where are you now? Wait for me!

That stops you in your tracks. 

[ You ] What?

You read his messages a few more times before sending him your location. It doesn’t take long until he’s jogging towards you. It was him calling your name that breaks you out of your stress induced thoughts. You stare at his slightly panting figure in shock. “Did.. did you run?!” You ask, incredulous. Wherever he came from, you were worried that he went out of his way. It’s then that you notice how vivid this blue hair has become. How often does he have his hair colored? 

“No not really. Once I saw you, that’s when i started running.” He says in between heavy breathing. It doesn’t take him long to straighten up and offer his arm to you. “Come on. I’m not letting you go into that hospital alone.” He repeats. 

You loop your arm with his, as he distracts you from your anxieties with stories of his work. “Yeah, Jongho’s wit is getting a lot sharper now too. His greed for the screen time is really impressive.” He says with a fake pout. His stories make you forget that you’re actually on the way to the doctor’s. It just felt like you were walking with Hongjoong to the studio. 

It’s the smell of antiseptics that remind you where you are. That’s when you stiffen up in the building, not liking how there’s always an undercurrent of stress and sickness in the walls. You never liked how hospitals remind you of things you’d rather not think of. 

“Hey..” His voice softens. Even if you didn’t have your arm in his, he notices how you pale within the first few steps. “I’m here. Nothing’s going to hurt you while I’m here.” He promises. In other circumstances, he would give you a morale boosting speech or question to cheer you up. In situations like this, the gentle reminder of company was enough. His eyes drink in the faint smile that graces your features. “It’s scary, but I’m here to keep you safe.” He’s not that fazed with hospitals at this point. His members have had their fair share of visits that he had to accompany them with to know how to care for them accordingly. 

With that, you lead him to your doctor’s office. The secretary greets the two of you warmly. As she records any changes in height, weight and blood pressure, Hongjoong would constantly joke around with you behind her back. “You came in time too, Doc’s got one last patient then it’s you.” She notes, though her tone is bright enough to calm you, it isn’t enough to slow down your heart beat. Hongjoong finds amusement in the secretary’s stories, telling the two of you how your doctor would often come in with light jokes and stories of comical patients. He guesses that even they know of how scared you are of this place. “It’ll be done before you know it.” She promises the two of you, opening the door as the previous patient comes out, holding a small cotton ball to their arm. The doctor bids them goodbye and the secretary then ushers the two of you in before assisting the previous patient. 

The doctor greets you just as brightly. It’s her job to make sure that the patient was comfortable after all. She’s used to the fearful patients, and she knows how it can be to have no choice but to deal with a fear. “I see you have a new friend! It’s nice to meet you...?” She trails off as she gestures the two of you to take a seat across her. 

“Kim Hongjoong.” He says simply with a polite bow. 

“Kim Hongjoong! Thank you for accompany our dear here to the doctor’s!” She exclaims as she goes through your records, making sure she has what she needs to administer. She praises your record of being able to stay healthy with little to no issues, especially at a time like this. She checks your vitals for a few moments, it’s how Hongjoong squeezes your hand in time with his breathing to remind you to breathe slowly, to ground yourself. You catch a glimpse of your doctor’s reaction as she records your vitals, a smile. That’s good. 

Afterwards, she stands up from her seat, looking for your vaccine shot, seeing that she can’t find them in her office. “Excuse me, dear.” She sings softly as she steps out to ask her secretary for them. 

As she disappears from the room, the male pats your hand lightly. He didn’t need to say much anymore. He plays with your fingers lightly, distracting you from your thoughts. “I know that look. If it’s too scary, just look at me okay?” He says, making sure you look at him as he talks, to which you nod. 

Your doctor comes back with the vial and clean syringe. “This will be fast, okay? Just focus on Kim Hongjoong.” She says softly as she starts the procedure. 

You don’t realize it but you end up leaning your head against the male’s shoulder, finding comfort in his presence. His free hand reaches up to cover your eyes from the view of the syringe being anywhere near you. “You’re doing fine..” Hongjoong murmurs softly as he watches for you. “Breathe.” her voice soft and reassuring, and that’s when your grip on his hand tightens. 

The sharp pinch of the needle makes you whimper softly, resulting in the leader to rub his thumb across the back of your hand. Before you knew it, the pinch was gone, and is replaced with a cotton ball rubbing the spot gently. “Congrats, dear! You’re clear for the next few years now.” Your doctor praises you as she tosses away the used syringe. With that, she gives you a few reminders of staying safe and healthy. “The vaccine might make your arm feel heavy but that’s normal, just massage your arm lightly or use a cold pack to ease the pain okay?” 

With that, the two of you bid her goodbye, thanking her for her time and effort. The smiley male then leads you out of the building and it’s one of those moments where you appreciate the fresh air a little more. You take a deep breathe, loving the feel of clean air in your lungs instead of alcohol and artificial air fresheners. 

“Let’s get ice cream. You did good today.” Hongjoong wasn’t taking a no for an answer. Your free hand holds onto your arm, you can feel the heaviness your doctor warned and it wasn’t as terrifying as you think it would be. If anything, the heaviness just felt like a nuisance. 

The two of you arrive at an ice cream shop, him opening the door for you. The room smells of sweets this time and it makes you relax, a sigh of relief slipping through your lips. “How’s your arm?” He asks, as the two of you approach the display. 

“Heavy... Not painful heavy just annoying heavy..” You mumble, massaging your arm gently, your eyes scanning the flavors available. This makes him chuckle lightly, thus causing him to ruffle your hair lightly. “Hey! What was that for?!” You complain lightly. 

“No reason, just proud of you today.” He says simply, the glint in his eyes show the genuine nature of his words. “So for today, your ice cream’s on me.” It’s the way your eyes widen in happiness at his words that make his heart melt. 

“Really?!”

He nods and from there you look back to the display as you point at the two flavors you want. “Wait for me outside? Let’s eat this at a park.” He asks, poking your cheek to get your attention. 

So you do, you stand outside, waiting for him as you watch people come and go. The wind chimes of the shop ring lightly into the air, signaling that he’s done with the purchase. A cup of your favorite flavors with your favorite toppings in one hand, and his Rainbow ice cream cone in the other. “Let’s go?” He asks as he hands your order. 

You keep the cotton ball in your pocket as you take the ice cream from his hands. The cooling sensation in your tongue making up for the terrifying ordeal earlier. The two of you walk quietly this time, enjoying the ice cream as much as possible before it becomes a sweet sticky mess on your hands-- well his mostly. 

By the time you arrive at the park, he was halfway done with his, you one fourth-- the perks of taking the cup option. The two of you settle down on a bench a few meters away from the people who linger around with their friends and children. 

“Thank you.” You speak up moments later, picking at your ice cream quietly. 

Wide confused eyes glance over at your quiet figure, watching you eat your ice cream thoughtfully. His brown eyes scan you in quiet curiosity. “What for?”

“For accompanying me today. I don’t think I asked you to come with me prior either..” You explain. You knew how busy he was that’s why he was out of the options early on. 

His smile was warm, an opposite to how the ice cream feels in your hands, but both of them sweet. “I know how you don’t like going to the doctor’s so I did my best to be there for you like how you are for me.” He explains gently, taking a small bite out of the cone. His words make you feel warm. “Also, mind you, we haven’t seen each other in a long while. I took the chance to see you again in my free time.” 

The rest of the day goes by at a comforting pace, the two of you catching up on the weeks of no communication: both of you busy with your own lives. It’s only when you notice that the sun is going down that you decide to head home. You don’t see his pout at the idea of splitting ways. “Let me walk you home.” Hongjoong offers. You don’t turn down the offer. 

By the time you reach the doors to your apartment, he rubs his neck a bit awkwardly. “I’ll get going now. Take care of yourself okay? Don’t forget the ice pack if your arm starts to get annoying.” He reminds you. It’s your turn to chuckle. 

“I’ll be fine from this point on Hongjoong. I’m serious about earlier too. Thank you for being there.” You say, before stepping into your apartment. 

“It’s no problem,” he starts. “just call me when you need me. I’ll be there. Always.” He says as he walks back, waving at you before turning on his heels. 

You watch him walk back, maybe back to his studio or to his dorm. Who knows, this boy never stops at what he does. The last thing you see before you close the door is his bright blue hair, standing out from the reds and purples that pour into your apartment complex through the windows. 

You were thankful for him and he was thankful for you too. 

[zabreti]

the time has finally come for me to start expressing what i have been overwhelmingly feeling for the past week, since i started to properly listen to this sunshine of a woman named joanna newsom. i want to- actually, i need to vent a little about the album ys, since it’s the one i first listened to. plus my initial contact with joanna’s work and thoughts that came with it

even though i only found out about her a few months ago, i guess everyone knows her(?); if you don’t, you should. there’s not one single moment in which i’m not mad at myself for not finding her sooner. so fyi, she’s a harpist, pianist, singer and songwriter from nevada. according to some sources, she may be the most famous harpist alive today; i really don’t know about you, but it really sounds quite badass for me.

i started searching for her stuff after watching her husband’s - andy samberg - multiple interviews, where he would be sometimes asked about their marriage. i’ve been binge watching random interviews with people i like for the last weeks, and i found myself actually watching some interviews of hers before i even got to listen to her music.

btw, look at this fucking adorable couple. just look at them for a second.

first of all, what a lovely woman! each answer, each laughter, each little thing she did on camera caused an admiration for the idea of andy and her together to grow strongly; i wasn’t even sure if it was ok for me to feel so strongly about someone else’s relationship. my curiosity grew when i started to read the comments on these videos on youtube, pretty much 100% of them being about her intelligence, her talent and how her music sounds angelical, mystical and perfectly constructed. (let it be said that it only grew more and more as i watched every single interviewer asking both andy and joanna about how different their works are, and how different they appear to be as individuals; not only was suggested that andy would probably not rise up to such an intelligent, serious taste as to fall in love with her (he doesn’t even need to say a word for anyone to realize how passionately in love he is with joanna and her entire work), but also said that no one could believe she was actually able to be a goofy, easy-going, good-humored person because of the lyrics she writes. ok, i could spend hours listing the unnecessary questions i identified in these interviews, and how i get easily annoyed by these famous hosts assuming stuff or trying to create an uncomfortable environment; and don’t even get me started on the fact that most of the interviews she was invited to would revolve around her relationship with andy. i’m choosing to let this feeling pass for now, since it’s not my focus today.)

i couldn’t help but start by saying all this since i truly adore andy’s works, and nothing feels warmer than realizing two amazing people are in love and have a family together by choice.

i mean..... ??????? c’mon. greatest couple alive. try and fight me on this.

another interesting thing i found out was that she dislikes streaming platforms similar to spotify, which probably (?) justifies the fact that i never came across her songs, since i use spotify on a daily basis and have been using it to find new artists for the last years. call me ignorant, it’s fine, truly; but i haven’t heard of similar opinions coming from artists, and it made me even more curious to know what this woman was expressing, creating, thinking. she actually told larry king: 

“spotify is a business model. it’s not good. it’s based on the idea of circumventing the payment of artists. (...) i’m not opposed to streaming. i understand that the world is shifting and that the way music is valued and monetized is shifting, and i’m ok with that. and i’m even ok with people not paying for music (...), i just wish that there was a better way to do it that didn’t only pay a company. (...) i haven’t heard of one [alternative to spotify] that seems built the way that i would prefer it to be built.”

one of spotify owners (owners or directors, idek and idec) even replied to her many critics, but she never changed her mind or retreated from defending even her honest, harsh comments about how spotify is “like a villainous cabal of major labels”. for me, that’s a badass woman. not only for expressing herself without giving a damn about anyone who might be offended in this process, but also for choosing the path that felt ethical and worthy, and being recognized all over the world for her talent while following her own ways. i know, right? simply awesome.

there i was, reading the endless comments on her interviews’ videos and wondering what the fuss was all about. there was nothing left for me to do other than to actually start listening to her songs. i could have done it by looking up her discography and starting from her first project, but somehow i stomped into the ys album, which was released in 2006, in youtube itself.

first of all, would you look at this freaking cover?

i found it absolutely gorgeous in each detail; in fact, i really wish to know if there are meanings in the little specific parts of the painting. maybe there aren’t any and i’m just trying to create a more complex joanna in my mind? sure, sounds like me. or maybe there are lots of ‘em and she already said it on camera and i simply missed this video? sure, sounds possible. i won’t lie, i spent so much time thinking about this cover... maybe way too much time. alright, on we go.

there are 5 tracks on the album: emily, monkey & bear, sawdust and diamonds, only skin and cosmia.

at first, i didn’t quite understand what i was listening to. and i’m not talking about the lyrics, i’m talking about the whole idea of the album, the artist, the genre. the conjunction formed by her high pitches and soft, delicious vocal variations, surrounded lovingly by the harp and the violins was very mysterious to me. at first, i wouldn’t be encouraged to keep listening to her. but something kept me there, seated, staring at the screen and paying attention to each second of it. it was an experience. a real transportation. i searched for the lyrics on genius, and anyone that would pass by my bedroom’s open door would see me completely enamored by what i was listening to, like a concentrated kid being told an epic, adventurous, huge, beautiful and complex story. that is exactly how i felt: in the middle of a field, picturing each image she described in the song; each figure, each feeling. she described it all in a way that made me wonder how can someone describe a dream so vividly, how can someone describe anything so perfectly, so fully, and not sound redundant, not sound at all boring. the way the melody and the lyrics fit together, as a gift perfectly wrapped and tightly involved in the most beautiful way. i repeat: it was an experience. it is an experience. this is not something you can listen to at any given time, at any given place; i would not dare to not pay attention each time i would plan to listen to it. this is how seriously submerged i felt by joanna in that moment; in that entire day.

all of this, all of this immersion, all of this dream-like state in which i found myself in, kept growing its roots in me throughout the entire album, in a way i needed to show someone - anyone - joanna before i even got to finish the five songs; and the first one that came near me happened to be my mother. while listening, she actually found it quite pleasing, “like some old movie’s soundtrack” when listening to emily, “like an 1960′s melody” when listening to sawdust and sand, and on she went about the entire album. and this got me thinking about how i would describe her genre; of course, after following her on bandcamp i found out i was actually listening to some folk/pop/avant-garde/baroque pop/chamber folk/indie stuff. sounds about right, but at the same time not right at all, for some reason. i believe it’s fair to say that joanna has a magical, rare quality to her music that makes it different to each one listening to it. i’ve said it too much and i’ll say it again: it’s an experience, a complete, true one. it ressonates with deep, personal places. and, strangely, it makes many people describe the feeling that urges to grow inside their hearts as “home”; and i share this exact same sensation.

i really don’t know if it makes any sense, but see: i cherish my alone time probably more than anything in the world. i have learned to be my own best friend in many ways, and being by myself in some quiet days, at my house, reading, listening, watching and creating is when i can truly be myself. with that said, listening to this album, i felt at home. it made me feel even more alone, and i mean it in the most loving, warm, hypnotizing way. 

the ys album is a relatively quick production to be heard, even though it feels like you’ve been gone for hours, days, weeks on end while listening to it. the amount of literary, historic and philosofical references in the lyrics is magically overwhelming; i simply wasn’t able to snap out of it for a long time, and i have, to this day, re-listened to the album about 5 times. still reading the lyrics again and again, still grasping at some expressions faintly but amazed, still finding out about hidden and not so hidden meanings behind each track. still defining it, every single day.

i hope for the great discoveries i feel like pursuing from her work, and the diverse new singers, song-writers, harpists, pianists, violinists, chellists and musicists in general i’ll try to find, understand and support from now on. i’m thankful for finding out how much i love the mix between an orchestra-like atmosphere and a sweet, honest voice ringing in my ears; and how the words assembled together feels like a psychography.

i thank the universe every single day for the opportunity to discover people like joanna newsom.

[frospino]

Demons in the Night

Jaskier x fem!reader

Summary: Hurt/comfort. Reader suffers from a panic attack; Jaskier is there to comfort her.

Word Count: 972

Warnings: Descriptions of a panic attack, both sensations and thoughts. Mentions of scratching. Thoughts that reflect low self-esteem.

A/N: This was one of the requests I received. Anon, I hope this is somewhat along the lines of what you had in mind!! I suffer from anxiety and panic attacks myself so a lot of my own experience wormed itself into this one. I find it very hard to describe them accurately—vividly enough that it makes for good reading, but also not too specific because everyone’s experiences with panic and anxiety are so different. I hope I found a good balance in this drabble.

You wake with a scream. You can still feel the monsters hunting you, clawing at your skin, leaving deep red marks as they crawl all over you. Or are those the marks of your own fingernails as you desperately try to remind yourself that you are real, this is real, the nightmare is over? It doesn’t matter. If only you can touch Jaskier, feel his soft hair beneath your fingertips, hear his lovely voice, you will find your way into the waking world—

But the bed next to you is empty and cold. If it wasn’t for the very head-shaped dent in the cheap pillow and the bedding that is half on the floor, tossed aside, you would have doubted your own memory. Cold. Jaskier must have left. Has he decided that I am too much, after all?

You feel the familiar weight on your chest, and each breath feels as if someone is shoving daggers down your throat. Your heart is stumbling, and your body is too cold and too hot at once, as if someone had dropped you in lava, and as if you were forced to stand in the cold night air without clothes at the same time. The sensations are too much, and in that moment, you are sure you will die alone in this bed, and with Jaskier already miles away, your body will be tossed into the nearest river, forgotten by the townspeople. Better not to talk about it. She was no one, anyway.

Sobs resound in the room, and you wonder who is feeling such anguish at the same time as you before you realise that what you hear is the echo of your own wailing and screaming. You swear you can see yourself as a spectre would, from the outside, a shivering body rolled into a tight ball, the blanket wrapped around you as a shield against the horrors you are feeling. You know you should focus on lengthening your breath, or count all the blue things you see in the room, or at least tell yourself that this will be over soon. But your mind keeps repeating the sentence Jaskier is gone, over and over again.

The door flies open and the cracking sound as it connects with the walls is enough to snap you out of your panic for a second. Standing before you, with lines of worry all over his face, is Jaskier. “No no no,” he says, and hurries towards the bed. “I shouldn’t have left, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up—”

He is beside you in the blink of an eye, and holds both of your hands in his as he speaks again. “Look at me—that’s right, keep looking at my eyes. Breathe, okay? Just breathe. In, two, three, four, out—” He counts for you, and your mind latches onto the familiar strategy. You focus on Jaskier’s face instead of the terrible things your thoughts say to you; you notice how Jaskier’s brows are drawn deep into his face, and the faintest bit of stubble on his chin, and the way even a simple breathing exercise sounds like singing when it’s Jaskier counting for you. He strokes your hands with feather-like touches. He knows by now that strong sensations can send you spiralling right back into your panic. Jaskier is gentle, and caring, and being with him feels so safe.

The weight of the world is lifted off your shoulders as your breath evens out and both your mind and heart slow down again. Afterwards, it’s so hard to understand why you believed Jaskier would ever leave.

When he realises the worst is over, Jaskier holds you close to his chest, and presses the softest of kisses to the crown of your head. You hear quiet apologies, “I’m sorry”s and “I shouldn’t have left”s, but for the moment you can’t react, too lost in the feeling of Jaskier’s warm body against yours.

Jaskier lets go just a little so that he can take a closer look at your face. You press your cheek into his palm, again revelling in how wonderful it feels to have Jaskier so close to you. “It’s not your fault, Jaskier,” you whisper.

“But it is. I know not to leave you alone in the night, and I did it anyway. No song idea is worth leaving you like this.”

“I don’t want to cage you—”

“You’re not caging me,” he interrupts. “Being with you is freedom. It’s everything I ever wanted.”

You look at him for a long moment, unsure of what to say next. Your mind tells you to object, to insist that you are too much; but you’ve had this argument with Jaskier time and time again, and in your heart, you know he means every word he says. He loves you. He loves you when you are smiling and dancing in the sunlight, and he loves you when your demons have a hold of you again in the deepest night.

Sometimes, you forget. Sometimes, you can’t believe. But Jaskier always makes sure to remind you of this simple truth: He loves you, and you can trust him.

Instead of saying anything, you pat the bed next to you and motion to his lute with your head. (That the instrument lies on the floor, hastily discarded when he saw the state you were in! Few things could say I love you quite so loudly.) “Let’s hear that new song of yours, then.”

Jaskier picks up his lute, turning it into different directions to inspect for scratches. He seems to be satisfied, and plops himself down next to you. As you listen to the bard’s voice, and his newest tale of adventures with Geralt that definitely never happened, exhaustion takes you, and you fall asleep.

[adrrianraines]

can’t speak the language that you need • adrian x mc

sensory prompt #37: the tender ache when you press against bruises.   song inspiration: if i—ross copperman

disclaimer: i wanted angst in that controlled love interest scene. where is it??? where??? so here it is! here’s how i imagined it would have been!! deadass just kidding im crying

YOU STARED BLANKLY up ahead as you zoomed like a phantom of the night in the streets of new york. the sinister look of rheya mouthing confidently that she’ll see you again kept playing inside your head like a badly orchestrated taunt from a cliched horror flick villain on repeat in a broken dvd player.

your hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as the unsuspecting city lights finally came to view. the illuminations and shadows the buildings emanated, the chatter and laughter of citizens going about their day, oblivious and ignorant to everything that’s happening felt nothing short of like a punch in the gut. it was too much that whenever your mind reels back towards the incident, you can feel your chest tighten, stomach churning and bile forming, the raw taste flooding your mouth.

you felt faint. you loathed how the trepidation just won’t go away. you wanted to cry out your frustration for the dire turn of the situation, wanting to desperately pin the blame on someone for the all the anger, fear, hopelessness and disappointment. whenever you blink, vivid images flashes, making you remember how rheya controlled your friends and commanded them against their will—the look of blood lust aimed right at you as bright as a neon paint being splattered on an empty canvas.

then after the rage, you felt nothing but exhaustion, hurt and apprehension as one face particularly struck you the most: adrian.

torment only consumed you further as you came to the most painful realization above everything else:

adrian almost killed you. without hesitation nor remorse.

you recall how terrifying it was to look at the face who showed you nothing but kindness slowly turn to a monster out for your demise. you recall how you stared into his eyes and not recognize the person who owns it. how he looked empty and hallow, like a puppet following its master’s strings. you recall the loss of hope that left a bitter pang when you tried calling out to him, trying to reason with the adrian that you knew, only for it to turn into a futile attempt of puny redemption.

the feeling of panic was lingering, wrapping your well-being like a blanket of breeze on a cold winter night. you blink and you remember the murderous look on his face, the way he bared his fangs at you, the way his hands wrapped around your neck, the sheer desire and craving to hurt you—of wanting your death.

you swallowed hard, millions of thoughts running rampant all at once as you trained your eyes on the road, shoulders tense and shaking. you quickly glanced towards your friends, all worn out and certainly out of it. realizing you drove far enough to be followed, you make a turn towards a dark and decrepit alley, parking the car on a curb. with the look of things, it was ideal to stop and collect yourselves first before proceeding blindly.

when the engine of the car died, you let out a sigh you realized you’ve been holding. you jumped in surprise when you felt someone’s hand on your thigh, the sensation goading a pleasantly unwelcome electric tingle on your skin. you turn to see adrian looking at you with regret and worry, mouth opening and closing at the same time, unable to find the right words to say. the visible flinch you showed because of his touch only made him remove his hand as quickly as it came, as if he just touched a burning flame.

realizing that you can’t look at him directly without remembering his murderous trance, you moved to get out of the vehicle for fresh air. maybe, just maybe, distancing yourself for a bit might be the most ideal thing to do that moment.

with a heavy heart, you marched towards the opposite side of the street as you unconsciously looked for anything to lean on, gaze frantic and unfocused. your breathing hitches and wild flashbacks of the day you died came back to haunt. it was the same amount of fear, a similar sensation, and yet entirely different at the same time.

you barely noticed your surroundings when your legs gave out, your sudden loss of momentum causing you to wobble. the world seemed to stop when you didn’t feel the hard concrete but instead a pair of strong arms wrapped around you, preventing your fall by catching you before you even hit the ground.

a familiar, calming scent wafted your senses which clouded your better judgment. the alluring lull of fierce security felt like loose threads tying itself again. you let out a shaky breath, feeling weak and drained to even struggle against his hold. adrian steadies you in front of him, arms holding you tight, the warmth of his presence both inviting and alarming.

you avoided his gaze as he tries to catch yours, the desperation on his features unparalleled. he remained quiet, as if he’s trying to assess things first before speaking. however, it didn’t take long until he finally got the answer that he was looking for. his eyes trailed your movement when you unconsciously touched your neck, precisely at the part where you felt his vice grip slowly snatching the life out of you.

you grunted at the tender ache that you felt, and he notices it—rather, he sees it vividly, the very product of his weakness. it was like watching a mirror slowly fall down and break to tiny pieces, each glass shattering to a thousand more. you did nothing but watch at how the weight of realization knocked the winds out of his sails with sheer terror washing over his countenance. the sadness and desperation on his face then turned to guilt and rage—not to you, but to himself, to what he did, to what he couldn’t do and to what he realized he was capable of doing. adrian couldn’t believe the depth of violence he caused.

his arms falls flat to his side, going limp and useless. he immediately took a step back, all signs of hope drifting further faster than a raging waterfall. yet under the faint glow of the streetlights, he still looked divine. if this was a normal situation, you would have laughed at yourself with how you’re still capable of such thoughts. however, you can’t even find your voice to speak, let alone bring yourself close to him. you wanted to badly touch him, to comfort him, to tell him it’s going to be okay. but you knew you’d be lying. you froze in place, unable to move, unable to do anything—your own fear becoming the burden you’re carrying.

“adrian... please...” you croaked out, wincing at how your voice was shaking. he shifted to his feet so he can step closer, his unsure movements an indication of his inner battles. his hands hang dead in the air, trying to reach you with words left unsaid. but he stopped midway when you instinctively took a step back. you didn’t know why, or how, but your body just moved. it’s as if it was protecting you from harm, as if it was on instinct, as if it recognized adrian as a threat.

“i did that... didn’t i?” his voice was quiet yet certain. he locked gazes with you before his eyes roamed to your cheeks, your lips, your jaw... and finally, towards your neck. and it was then that you witnessed how this was breaking him as much as it was breaking you as well. your chest clenched at how devastated he looked, how resignation reigned in his features. the color of life finally draining from his orbs—as if all of his nightmares finally came to life.

it shatters you to see how tired adrian looked and how exhausted he seemed, as if his age has finally caught up with him. he looked exposed. lost. vulnerable. helpless. like an empty shell of a man who touched many wars and took many lives. a warrior who was finally drowning from all the sins he committed in his entire lifetime.

“do i still deserve it? your heart...” he pauses and shakes his head. he let out a bitter laugh as his voice proceeds to quiver, then immediately breaks. “no... i... don’t... not anymore.”

and for the first time ever since you’ve met him, he looked defeated.

suffer with me laid ease!! @isabella-choices @dadrianraines @violinet

[chickensarentcheap]

I Found (Chapter 12)

Warnings: there is smut in this. Pure filth. Because that’s what the muse wanted.

tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @alievans007 @hemmyworthy

Four hours later Esme finds herself in the kitchen. Barefoot in denim shorts and simple white t-shirt, up to her elbows in soap and water as she scrubs the dinner dishes. Tyler works alongside of her; unusually quiet (even for him) as he dries the items waiting in the drainboard. It is these moments of normalcy that they have learned not to take for granted. That easy, smooth way that they work side by side even during the most mundane of tasks. They have never had to resort to mindless chit chat; their silences had always been comfortable, never awkward. Meshing right off the hop. Easily able to read each other's cues, recognize one another’s body language, allow their eyes and their facial expressions to do the communicating if need be. In the five days they'd worked side by side, they'd become very much in tune with one another.  Their very different skill sets playing off each other well.

And there had been the other aspect as well. Giving in to that sexual tension and suffocating need for physical contact. To feel alive again. To be reminded that they were worthy. That they were broken, but still good.

A year ago they were in entirely different places; he in that rundown shack of a house in the outback as she floated from motel to motel, working her way through North America. Spending an extended amount of time in New York City,  subletting a quaint little studio apartment in lower Manhattan.

A week before they'd met she'd started packing up her things and putting them into storage. Nik had tracked her down through G and offered her a job. She'd have her choice on where she wanted to settle down. The Big Apple wasn't on that list. Her plan had been to repeat the nomad lifestyle of living out of suitcases and ending up wherever life and the job took her. She'd been doing it since leaving the corps and it had become second nature to her. As if it were normal and everyone did it.

I have a job for you, she can hear Nik's voice as clear as day. I need some intel work done. An inside person. A drug dealer in Dhaka has kidnapped another dealer's kid. Information is slow coming. I need you to go there and get your pulse on things. Make friends with the locals. Get them to trust you. Word has it he's being held in or around the market area. But there's a catch. And I need you to trust me when I say I know it sounds crazy but I know it's going to work.

The next day she was on a helicopter heading for Australia. Out into the middle of nowhere to meet 'the catch'.

Only Nik hadn't told her 'the catch' was as insanely attractive as he was. Or as haunted and broken. He was an immensely private person; tortured by the bad decisions and the demons of his past. And she'd been intrigued by him. By the mystery that surrounded him. By the walls that he'd built up around himself. He was an enigma. A challenge. And she had found herself captivated by those brilliant blue eyes, that sad smile, and that voice. Low and steady, his accent dripping off every syllable. Physically he was a tall, cool drink of water on a hot summer day. Pleasing. Refreshing. But it was the way in which he carried himself that had drawn her in. Confident. Not cocky.  A man that lived on the edge and showed no fear.

A death wish, Nik had told her on the way home.  It's why he takes the jobs he does. It's not really the money. It's the hope that one day, the job is going to take him out. That it will make it all end.

A month later she was out of the job. Just as abruptly as she had gotten into it. Back in Australia and in charge of handing over possession of that shack in outback to one of Tyler's friends while he himself teetered between life and death in that hospital.  She'd found herself wandering down a new and often terrifying path. Starting an entirely new existence with the help of Nik and the surviving members of the tea.  A new life in a new country in a small two bedroom bedroom apartment. Spending the majority of her waking hours -a lot of her sleeping ones- at his bedside.

Four weeks after that she started feeling sick. Rundown. Taking the nausea, the headaches, the fatigue, and even her missed cycles, as signs of stress.

Until two little pink lies had told her otherwise.

She had bought the test on a sheer whim. A lineup in the hospital pharmacy bringing her directly into the aisle where they were store. She'd grabbed one, and hadn't even given it a second thought until later that evening and she'd gone into shopping back for something she'd needed.  And she can vividly remember sitting there on that cold porcelain toilet in the washroom connected to his private room. Barely thinking about that test that now lay on the sink ledge. There were too many other things to think about it. She couldn't remember when she had her last meal. Her last shower. Her family was leaving her strings of endless text messages and emails demanding to know where she was. Who she was with. Was she okay? It was too much. All too much. There was already an overwhelming heap of sadness and worry on her plate. Why would whatever higher power (if there was one) just add something else.

And then there it was. Her new reality staring her in the face. Things were already serious enough, and now there was a whole other layer being added. There was a life growing inside of her. During all that craziness in Dhaka....within those four dirty motel walls...she had had a hand in creating another human being.

She can even remember his face when she'd told him. The lucid moments were more frequent by then.  The amount of pain medication being pumped into him had let up and he was conscious more often than not. Still struggling with remembering all of the details of what happened. Things were hazy; he wasn't sure if he was recalling things that actually happened or if it was what he had wanted to happen so his brain was manifesting them as actual memories.  He  could vividly recall everything up to the moment that he'd been shot in the neck. He could even remember the sensation of choking on his own blood and feel it seep between his fingers. He was fairly certain he'd made it to the sidewalk along the bridge.  But after that...nothing. Nothing concrete and clear anyway.  

He still hadn't had a lot of strength. He grew tired and weak easily. But he would smile. Even laugh. He'd even bitch at her when she'd attempt to trim his beard and keep it under control.  And he'd wrap her in his arms and pull her down onto the bed with him and he'd hold her. They wouldn't talk.  She'd just lie there in his embrace as he played with her hair. Her head on his chest, listening to his heart.

Some days, they'd go for walks. He'd refuse to use a wheelchair, even on the days where he felt the most pain and the most weakness following his knee surgery. He hated feeling helpless. Weak. And she'd always try to ensure him that he wasn't any of those things. What he was, was alive. Recovering. And that's what mattered the most.  

It had been on one of those walks that she'd told him about the baby. Sitting on a bench when he needed a break and a chance to rest the knee.  And the sun had been high in the sky and the breeze had been crisp and fresh and the sounds and sights of live continued around them as she dropped probably the second biggest bombshell of his life on him.  It was the first time a silence between them had been agonizing. And she'd been screaming internally at him. To say something. Anything. To tell her that this wasn't the worst thing that could happen.  That this wasn't the end of the world. That this was just another thing that they'd get through together.

He had just stared at her. Shell shocked. Things had happened quick between them. They hadn't had time to catch their breath. And they hadn't wanted to fight it.  

“You're sure?” he'd finally asked, and it wasn't until he spoke that she became aware that she was crying. She usually kept tears to herself. She didn't like him seeing her in that kind of state. She had to be the stoic and solid one now, after all.

She told him about how she'd been feeling. The nausea. The migraines. The inability to sleep. The missed periods. She should have started just after the events in Dhaka. But it had never arrived and she'd just assumed that her body was in shock over everything that had went down.

Then he'd said the single most hurtful thing she'd ever had anyone say to her in her entire life. She'd tried to remind herself that this was all happening so fast. Too much, too soon. What did they really know about each other outside of the walls of that crappy motel? They'd jumped head first into...something. It couldn't really be called a relationship, yet casual sex didn't seem serious enough.  They were falling in love with one another. But they weren't in love. Not yet.

“Is it mine?”

She had wanted to slap him. She'd wanted to wrap her hands around his throat and strangle him. But she didn't blame him for asking. She understood his trepidation. If she'd fall into bed with him that easily, what's to say it wasn't a reoccurring behaviour for her?

When they'd been holed up in the motel she'd told him about her failed marriage. About her ex husband and his issues and the torment and torture he'd brought into her life. And on that bench she told him that she hadn't been with anyone besides him in over a year.  That sex had never been an overwhelming need.

Until she met him.

“You don't have to stick around,” she'd told him. “I don't expect that from you. If this isn't what you want...if I'm not what you want...you just have to say it, Tyler. I won't hate you. I'll walk away and I'll never bother you again. You don't have to be a part of this.”

Those normally brilliant blue eyes had immediately clouded over. His mouth setting into a grim line.

“Is that really what you think of me? You think that little of me? That I'd do something like that? That I'd just let you walk away?”

“You already have a lot on your plate. You're healing. It's going to take a long time. And you don't need me being in your way. You don't need me hindering you.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” his eyes had narrowed, his voice low. Almost menacing. “Is that really what you think? You think I don't want you here? You think I look at you like some kind of obstacle in my way? The only reason I'm doing this...the only reason I held on and I keep hanging on...is because of you. For you.”

That had made her cry even harder. And her face had dropped into his chest; his fingers burying in her hair as he held her to him.

“I love you,” he'd said. It was the first time he had let those words come out. He'd later confess that he'd been feeling them since the beginning. Maybe not love itself. But the realization that he was falling in love.  “I love you and everything is going to be okay. We're going to be okay.”

She'd cried into his chest. Telling him that she loved him. That she hadn't meant to fall in love with him. Maybe it shouldn't have happened. Dhaka hadn't been the ideal place to meet the love of your life.  But it had. And she didn't regret that.

For a long time, neither of them had spoke. They'd just sat on that bench as she clung to him and he consoled her. And then he'd gently yanked on her hair in an effort to get her to look up at him.  Those blue eyes had been sparkling again. There was a smile...a genuine smile...curving his lips.

“We're having a baby,” he'd said. “I'm going to be a dad.”

They have never taken things slow. It simply wasn't in their nature. After that first night in Dhaka, they never looked back.  They'd given into lust. The promise of something new. Empowered by the realization that someone wanted them. Needed them. That maybe...just maybe...their two broken halves could make a slightly dented whole.

****

“How'd it go today?” he asks now, as he stands behind her and reaches over her to place dishes on the higher shelf. “Your little girls day.”

“Good. It was fine. It was nice to forget about everything else for a while.”

When she'd gotten home, she'd run that photograph of Farhad through the paper shredder. Covering her tracks. Something she'd become good at thanks to the job. But the rule of thumb was that no matter how smart and cunning you thought you were, there was always someone smarter and far more cunning.

And that person is Tyler Rake.

She watches the way his hands move as he does something so simple as drying cutlery. They're big. Powerful. Calloused palms, long, thick fingers, scarred and swollen knuckles, and wide wrists that lead into muscular forearms.  And she notices...obviously not the first time...just how attractive he actually is. Those eyes. That mouth. The way his hair falls over his right eye. The scars and the tattoos. All mixing together to create on hell of a man.

“You're staring at me,” he says, snapping out of her reverie. A grin playing on his  lips.  “That's creepy. Stop being a creeper.”

“Dick head,” she retorts, and flicks soap and water at him.

He's mocking her. Playfully, of course. Using the exact words she'd tossed at him during their first massive blow up in Dhaka at year ago. When she'd disappeared from his sight in the market after he'd distinctly told her not to leave his side.

“I told you to stay right next to me,” he'd roared. “I told you not to wander off on your own. That I wanted to be able to see you. At all times. That I wanted to be able to feel you beside me. To even smell your hair if it comes down to it.”

“Is that what you've been doing while I'll sleep?” she'd shot back. “Smelling my hair? That's creepy. Don't be a fucking creeper, Rake.”

She'd meant it as a joke. To break the tension. But it had only made things worse. And the floodgates opened and all the pent up rage just came exploding out of them. His hand wrapping around her neck and his fingers digging into her throat, his eyes menacing as he backed her up against a wall.

“Do you think this a fucking game? Does it look like I'm fucking joking?”

The fight had been intense. His anger raw. And he'd been powerless to contain it.  Or what happened when it had transformed into something so much more.  Greedy hands pulling at each other's clothes. Hungry, needy kisses. His hands biting and bruising as he took her right there and then up against that wall.

****

She clears her throat noisily and fights the urge to splash cold water on her face. Her hormones have been out of control. Especially within the last week. He's always had a powerful effect on her. It took for very little effort on his behalf to rile her up. But this level of intensity...this level of need...was something she'd never experienced before.

“Admiring,” she corrects. “Not staring. I was admiring. In case you haven't noticed, you're pretty easy to look at.”

“Yeah?” he steps behind her once again, an arm circling her waist. Palm against her stomach, drawing her tight against him. He drops his head, his hair and the tip of his nose brushing against the nape of her neck. And he feels her shiver against him when he presses his groin against her ass.

He can't help but smirk.

So easy. It's always been so easy.

“You're not too hard to look at yourself,” he says, his breath hot against the back of her neck.  He's feeling it too. It's always been intense between them. The sex incredible. But since the decision to return to Dhaka, the desire and the longing and the desperate need had only increased. He couldn't get enough. Didn't want to ever get used to getting enough. Afraid that at this time next week, one of them may not even exist anymore.

He swallows heavily and closes his eyes. Desperately trying to rid himself of those thoughts. They'd come this far.  They'd gotten through some serious shit. There was nothing that could possibly come between them now.  He nuzzles his face in her hair; inhaling the sweet of the sweet, fruit scented shampoo she favours. Committing that smell to memory.

Just in case.

His mouth is  soft and warm against the back of her neck. Feathery kisses that make her shiver and her pulse quicken.  And his hand slides from her stomach to her stomach; both palms gliding over the cheeks of her ass before bringing one of his hands down in a ringing, stinging slap. A smirk on his face as she bucks against him, his fingers roughly grabbing at the spot he'd hit.

“You're a fucking dick!” she exclaims, wincing, struggling to turn around to face him. “That hurt. Fuck you, Tyler.”

He uses his body weight to pin her in place, sliding a hand between her legs. Feeling the heat and the moisture that pools there, even through the fabric of her shorts and the panties she wears underneath.

“That's exactly what I want to do,” his voice rumbles deep within his chest. “Fuck.”

****

They make it as far as the living room. Clothes hastily discarded, forming a trail behind them. With the baby asleep, and Nik and the rookie back at their hotel for a remote final strategies meeting with the team, they once more have the run of their own place His hands are rough and needy as they explore her body. He knows every inch by heart; every secret little spot that, when manipulated, drove her insane. He can remember the early days; that fascination and wonder that comes with getting to know someone elses body. With learning what they liked, and showing them things that they'd never experienced before. It had been that way for him. After his first marriage had broken up and he sworn off ever going down that road again, he'd had his fair share of hook ups; randoms he met in bars, friends of friends, women in different countries that -if he was in town- he could call up for no strings attached sex. Esme had been the opposite. Two men before him. Including her ex husband. So Tyler had taken it upon himself to show her exactly what she'd been missing.

Her body is softer now. Her hips wider. She's had a baby. His baby. And while it's familiar, it's still exquisite. A beautiful wonderland that only he gets to visit. And he still worships it...and her...as much as he did when they first met.  And as often as he can.

He stands above her as she lays sprawled on the couch, ready and waiting. Chest heavy, his eyes hooded as they take in every inch of her. Those dark eyes filled with desire, the flushed cheeks, those full supple breasts with their rock hard nipples. Stroking his own cock as he watches her playing with her clit. Exactly like he told her to. Growing even harder when her eyes close low and her head falls back, a long, tortured moan escaping her lips.

“No,” he says, when he senses she's close, and he yanks her hand from between her legs.  “I get to do that.”

She reaches for him but he shoves her hand away.

“Sit up,” he orders. “Back against the couch.”

She does as she is told. The perfect little submissive that she is. He gets off on it. Knowing just what he can get away with.  The kind of punishment that he can not only inflict on her, but that she can actually take. No woman had ever given him that kind of freedom with their body.  None had ever had that pure, blind trust in him.

He tenderly cups her cheek his hand, turning her face up towards him as he kisses her. Soft. Sweet. His other hand still tending to his direction, and he backs away when her fingers come in contact with him.

“Not yet,” he tells her, and then drops to his knees between her thighs. Sliding his hands between her and the couch in order to grab her by the ass, yanking her forward to give him access to what he really wants.

She gives a small cry the second the tip of his tongue makes contact with her clit. Bathing it with long, agonizingly slow licks that has her toes curling and her back arching. His fingers biting into the soft flesh of her ass when when he uses his tongue to penetrate her; jerking himself off as he tongue fucks her. Using it in the same way he could his cock. Spurred on by the obscene noises that are escaping are mouth and the fingers that are scraping across his shoulders.  

“Tyler...” she whimpers, and her hands are in his hair and her hips are rising from the couch to match every move of his tongue. “...shit...fuck...Tyler...”

And when he knows she's close...when he knows she's teetering right on that edge...he abruptly stops. Leaving her a near sobbing, panting mess as his hand drops away from his cock and he stands.

“Get up,” he demands. “I want you to get up.”  

Her legs are trembling. Weak. And he gently grabs a hold her arms and helps her to feet, pulling her into him a for a long kiss. The tip of his tongue briefly touching hers before gliding along the roof of her mouth.

“I want you to ride me,” he says. As if she has a choice in the matter. This is his game. He's in charge. And she never resists when he is. “I want you, to fuck me.”

She nods in understanding, and he runs a hand through her hair and grabs a hold of the tresses. A firm hold. But not hard enough to hurt. Just enough pressure to pull her head back so she looks at him.

He smiles. It's soft. Reassuring. They've been playing these games for almost a full year now.  She knows he'd never hurt her. That with the simplest word or the hint of discomfort, he would stop.  She trusts him. Maybe too much at times. An almost blind faith that both flatters and frightens him.

It's his turn to sit on the couch. Thighs splayed, his hand finding his own cock again. The other reaching out for her, resting on the small of her back and giving her that extra sense of security as she straddles him. Those small hands resting first on his shoulders and then sliding down onto his chest. He guides her with that hand on her back and the other around his erection, lining it with that warm, moist, welcoming entrance.

“Fuck...” It's his turn to groan, eyes closing and head falling back as she sinks down onto him.  And she pushes her hips forward, a movement that has him bottoming out inside of her.  And he releases more profanities and a low hiss when her nails dig in; scraping down his chest and over his nipples.

She pushes her torso forehead, and laying a hand on the back of his head, pulls him forward. His face buried between the valley of her breasts as begins to ride him. Slow, smooth movements that is torturous for them both. His hands slid up her thighs and over her hips. Up her back to her shoulders. And he takes one of those hard nipples into his mouth. Rolling it along his tongue before stepping up his game; fingers pressing into the soft skin of her shoulders as he aggressively sucks. And she moans at the sensation, her fingernails digging into his scalp as she moves faster.

His hands drop to her hips, removing his face from her chest and allowing his head to fall back onto the couch cushion. Sweat beads on his brow and at his temples. His chest heaves from the work it takes just to hold back. Allowing her to have this moment. Where she is the one in control. Temporarily giving her that power.

She smiles down at him and kisses him; her teeth painfully digging into his bottom lip when she pulls away.  

“You like this, yeah?” he asks, as he fights to keep his hips still “You like being in charge, don't you.”

She nods, and drops her head into the space between his neck and his shoulder. Where she kisses, licks, and nibbles at the side of his throat and bulging trap muscle.

“Jesus...fuck...” he winces when her teeth dig in. Hard enough to break the skin. And that signals the end of their little game. It's time to take that control back. He wasn't a submissive man. He never could be. Never will be. And curling an around around her waist, yanks her off of him and tosses her onto the couch.

“Kneel...” he orders, and she's watching him over her shoulder and running the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip as she does so.  He smirks, loving that innocent look she gives him. Those huge eyes and her hair wild and tumbling over her shoulders and swaying against the sides of her face. “...fucking do as I say,” he snarls, when she hesitates. “...I'm in charge here. Got it? I said fucking kneel.”

He snatches her by the hips, positing her exactly where he wants her, using his own knee to push her legs apart.

“Down...” he lays a hand on the back of her head, pushing her face into the back cushion of the couch.  “...just do as I fucking say, alright?”

She nods.

“What? I didn't hear you.”

“Yes. I'll do what you say.”

“Yes, you'll do what I say, who?”

“Tyler. Yes I'll do what you say, Tyler.”

“Wasn't so hard was it? Huh? What did I just ask you? I asked you if that was so hard. Was that hard to do?”

“No.”

“But you want it be, don't you.  You want something hard. Inside of you. Say it. Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“I want it,” her body shudders as she talks, and she shoves her ass out towards him. “I want you.  I want you inside of me.”

“That's a good girl. Such a good girl,” he kisses his way down her spine, runs the tip of his tongue over the small of her back. Over that tattoo that she'd gotten when she was eighteen and regretted ever since. He'd laughed when he'd first seen it. Not because it was horrible. Far from it. But because she'd actually wanted to leave her shirt on so he wouldn't see it. Mortified at her teenage decision.

She shivers at the sensation of the cool air on her skin, and her eyes close and her head drops forehead as he pushes into her. Not the brutally hard thrust that she had expected. But slow and deliberate. Letting her feel each and every inch until his balls are settled against her ass.

“I love you,” he whispers against her back, a deviation from the stone cold and demanding persona he'd been just minutes before.  “I love you so much. And I can't lose you. I can't.”

She opens her mouth to tell him that she loves him. More than he could ever possibly comprehend. But all words are lost as he pulls out and then pushes back  in, listening to that low growl that he emits, feeling those fingers digging into her hips.

He says nothing more. Neither the calm and quiet Tyler or the rough and demanding one. The hand on her shoulder that holds her in place is gentle, barely touching her. And those fingers on her hip release their painful grip and his hand slides around to her stomach. He moves inside of her. Long, smooth strokes that she swears can feel the way into the pit of her stomach.

He grunts when she pushes her ass against him, and he reaches around to pull her hand away when she attempts to reach between her legs for that extra pleasure. Replacing her hand with his own, fingers easily finding her clit and rubbing deftly at it. Until her body begins to quake and her back stiffens. His name leaving her mouth in a sob that's muffled by the cushion underneath her.  

He continues to rub that painfully sensitive nub until he's coming as well.  His head falling forward, eyes closing, profanities spilling from his lips.

****

“You realize we're probably never coming back here, yeah?”

They lay in the middle of the living room floor. Naked bodies wrapped in the flannel throw that's kept on the back of the love seat. A cushion from the couch serving as a pillow.  Moonlight streaming through the patio door.

She raises her head from his chest to look at him. One of his arms wrapped around her, the other behind his head. Brow furrowed as he stares at the ceiling. She hates that look on his face. Dark. Intense. His adrenaline is starting to kick it up a notch, driven by the nerves and the bizarre sense of excitement that you feel before every job.  The softness in his features his gone.

This is the old Tyler. She recognizes him well.

And although she'd encouraged it, his emergence scares her. Just a bit. More for him than for herself. Even the old Tyler was trustworthy when it came to her. Protective. Almost too much so. He would never hurt her. But when it came to his own well being, he was reckless. And she was worried if he crossed that line, that she may never get him back.

She moves onto her side, propping herself up in her elbow. Side of her head resting in her palm as she watches and waits. Her free hand on his chest, fingertips softly gliding against his soft skin and over the scars that use his body as a canvas.

“You do realize that, right?” he finally looks at her. His eyes are hard. Lips set in a grim line.

“You mean come back here as in here here or as in...” she lets her voice drift away as he gives an annoyed scoff and looks away.

“I don't mean it that way. I don't mean death. I mean here as in Australia. As in this apartment. This room.”

This is definitely the old Tyler. The one that was easily aggravated if she said something he viewed as stupid. Or if she dared challenged his power and control over situations.

She lets it go. She feels the stress and the nerves and the fear herself. The old Tyler always struggled to express those kind of emotions. He was stoic and solid. He hid his true thoughts and his true feelings. Locking them deep down inside and throwing away the key. The new Tyler had worked hard to give over that. Struggling to learn how not to close himself off and push her away.

Their return to Dhaka is less than twelve hours away. A place that holds a lot of memories. Some good. Most bad.

Most horribly, horribly bad.

“There's no way we can come back here,” he continues, and as if doing battle with his former self, he closes his eyes and then opens them again. His arm relaxing around her, knuckles brushing against her shoulder.

 “This will never be finished,” he says. “Well and truly finished. For every one Asif we kill, ten more will pop up. And each one will learn about what happened. What we did. How Asif himself failed. They won't let that shame go. They'll avenge him. Six months from now, six years from now. It doesn't matter. There will always be someone that wants revenge.”

She remains silent. Fingers skimming along his chest and over his collarbone. Nails scrapping along the underside of his chin, palm coming to rest his cheek. And he turns his face into it, beard scraping against his skin, lips finding her palm.

“If they know our names and know where we are, we can't stay here,” he reasons. “It would never be safe. We'd always be looking over our shoulders. We'd always be jumping the second we hear something moving in the shadows. And I don't want that for you. Or our daughter.”

She finally speaks “What about for you?”

“That doesn't matter. It's my job to protect you. It's my responsibility to make sure you're safe. That she's safe. And I know neither of you ever will be if we stay here. What's happen if I'm not here? I can't be here twenty four seven. And that's when they'd make their move. When they know I'm not here. And I can't take that chance.”

She rubs the back of her hand along his jaw. The top knuckle of her index finger skimming over the scar underneath his right eye.

“You deserve better than that,” he says, as he struggles to contain the emotion that chokes at him. “So does the baby. You deserve better than this life. Better than me.”

She pushes his face towards her and silences him with a kiss. “Stop that,” she gently orders. “You're perfect for us. We're safe with you. I never doubt that. I never will.”

He manages a smile and lifts his head kisses her softly. One on the lips,  then the tip of her nose, followed by her forehead.

“Where will we go?” she asks, when he settles his head back onto the cushion. Her fingers now move to the chain around his neck, the pad of her index digit running along it.  

“Colorado.”

“You actually want to throw yourself into that? You really want to subject yourself to my family?”

“I would be nice to have a family. Outside of the three of us.”

“We have Nik. And the rest of the team.”

“That's a fucked of vision you have of a family.”

“Like I've said. You've never met my brothers. You might meet them and wonder what the fuck you were ever thinking. What kind of fresh hell you ever got yourself into.”

“They can't be that bad. And you need to go home. Your mom misses you. And I know you miss her. And your step dad.”

“I don't miss them enough to force you to be somewhere you don't want to be.”

“I'd follow you to the ends of the earth. You know that. It's what you practically did for me.”

“This isn't a competition, Tyler. You don't have to do something because you feel you have something to make up for. I didn't come here and stay here because you forced me to. I came here because you needed me. And I stayed because I love you.”

He smirks “Not to mention I knocked you up.”

“A surprising little turn of events, but yes. That too.”

“A good surprise,” the smile is softer now. “A very good surprise.”

“We could always go to New York City,” she muses, sighing wistfully at her memories of the Big Apple.

“Isn't that where Crocodile Dundee ended up? Isn't one Aussie enough?”

“Hmmm...yeah...you might be too much for even them to handle,” she teases. “There's always Boston. Boston was nice. Chicago wasn't bad. Or Texas. I enjoyed Houston, actually.”

“We could also move to Canada,” he suggests.

“Won't work. You hate hockey.”

“It's not that I hate it. I think it's stupid.”

“Bite your goddamn tongue, Tyler Rake. How dare you.”

“I also hate that shit that you tried to feed me once. With the french fries and the gravy and the pretend cheese.”

“That wasn't pretend cheese. It was cheese curds. Very much real cheese. And poutine is a delicacy, I will have you know. Just because you can be an uncultured swine...”

He chuckles, then wrapping an arm around her waist, hoists her up on top of him. His hands on her thighs as she straddles his hips.

“There's always the west coast,” she says, as runs his hands along over her knees and up her legs. “I didn't mind Seattle. They have great coffee. California would probably be the best fit for you. There's lots of beautiful beaches. You do love to surf.”

“Colorado,” he insists, his hands settling on her hips.

“There's mountains. And snow. You need beaches. The ocean. Surfing.”

“I don't need those things. I can live without those.”

“San Francisco is supposed to be nice. I've never been there but I hear it's decent. And they apparently have a good football team.”

“Let's not start that argument again, love. That is not fucking football. And I already said it. Colorado.”

“Los Angeles.”

He shakes his head. “Colorado.”

“San Diego.”

“Nope. Colorado,” he slowly stresses the word.

She sighs. “Why do you always have to be such a stubborn little shit?”

“Because I can. Because you let me get away with it. Because you love me enough not to strangle for me it.”

“Not yet anyway,” she leans down to kiss him, her hair falling over both of them,  brushing against his chest when she sits back up. “I know you think this is what I want. Going back there. But you don't have to do this.”

“I don't think it's what you want. I know it's what you need.”

“Since when did you become an expert on what I need?”

“You seemed to think I was an expert at knowing what you needed half an hour ago,” he teases, and then winces and laughs when she grabs the part of his beard under his chin and yanks. “Actually, I think I proved I'm an expert. At least at those things.”

“You're like a fourteen year old boy. Mind always in the gutter.”

“You blame me? You're sitting on me. Naked.”

“You put me here. And then you complain? That's fucking rude.”

Curling an arm around her, he unceremoniously drops her onto her back. “That better?” he asks, a hand on the floor beside her head as he bends down to kiss her.

“Much better,” she says against his lips, and then sighs into the kiss.

He pulls back to look at her. Giving her a wink. “Colorado.”

“You are an insufferable bastard, Tyler Rake.”

“I am,” he agrees. “But you love me.”

She smiles up at him. “Only on days that end in Y.”

“That's good enough,” he declares, and kisses her once more. Longer this time. More passionate. Pulling away with a wide grin. “Colorado.”

“You can be a real annoying little bastard,” she teases, as she pushes his hair out of his eyes “You always have to have the last word?”

“Always,” he says, giving her a wink and then kissing his way down her entire body.

No more words are needed.

[n-stxlgia]

TOUCH STARVED [1]

Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 3k

Overall Warnings: Heavy SMUT, language, violence.

IN WORDS ALONE the pain was intolerable. The sensation running along the inner side of your skull was slowly driving you into insanity and it was accumulated from a single smell alone. The one smell that had been driving you insane for weeks.

The smell of which came from your neighbour, Peter Benjamin Parker. The eighteen-year-old boy with bright brown eyes, thick curly locks and impeccable skin. The eighteen-year-old boy who was as innocent as the desert flower. The eighteen-year-old boy who constantly gave off the smell of heat.

And not just any kind of heat, he radiated sexual frustration, and it was driving you up the wall. You hadn't lived next to the Male for long, and at first, it wasn't something you noticed. But as the time dragged on and you started to become more aware of the teen living on the other side your wall, the scent somewhat got stronger.

And as it occurred, this is where most days you would find yourself; curled up in a ball under your heavy quilt trying to ignore the fact that right beside you there was a perfectly reachable teenage boy jacking himself off to videos that swam among the internet. Everything about your senses became heightened as the sound of his jean zipper sliding open rang the bells in your head, noting to yourself to either evacuate the apartment for the next hour or try to deal with it.

Now, any normal person would go completely clueless to such, but not you. It was either a gift or a curse, you were still trying to decipher, that you could hear every slick movement of his hand sliding up and down his shaft, his jagged breathing and high pitched whimpers, followed by the occasional grunt or moan. You could smell the scent of sweat mixed with pure arousal pouring out of him and when he was finished you could practically taste his seed. It was unbearable.

You weren't sure where the unintentional 'skill' had adapted from, but ever since hitting puberty, it's like your senses had become more heightened. Your sex drive was already high, but hearing Peter every day was only pushing the meter further into the red zone.

Aside from the senses, there was also another reason as to why at times you had found yourself intentionally listening in. You weren't some creep, as weird as it did sound, but hearing him bring himself pleasure was almost grounding.

Early into your teenage years, you were diagnosed with Panic Disorder. After your parents and younger brother were killed in a cargo ship accident while you were away on a school trip your life had been flipped completely on its side. Of course, you'd been to therapy, and they'd prescripted you with drugs and other counselling sessions, but you had already figured out what would keep you in the real world long enough for the uncomfortable surge to pass over. The only problem was, the thing that did keep you grounded wasn't priced leisurely.

You'd struggled with relationships because it was every three days or 72 hours in which you needed dosage of something to take your mind away from going completely insane. Every partner you'd been with didn't exactly like the idea of having to fuck for hours on end just to satisfy your jumbled thoughts. Although you could say with pride that you had tried as hard as possible to maintain a normal relationship life, not much had prevailed.

So now this was where you rather pathetically found yourself, listening to a boy, in which you had only spoken to a handful of times, milk himself until he finally collapsed into an abyss of sleep. All so you didn't lose your mind completely.

The one thing you found rather comical was the shift in Peter. You had been observing him, which was already out of the ordinary, but you had noticed the way he was in and out of the bedroom. Outside, he was so shy, sweet, reasonably quite other than around his close friend Ned Leeds. He wasn't great with girls, of what you knew, and was definitely a virgin. The way he touched himself so vividly, almost scared to push the boundaries, it was so obvious. But you could see, hear and smell the way he was frustrated. He was ready, almost desperate to lose it, drop his V card and forget about it, but it was finding the right person that was the problem. You could feel the hot tension rise every time something remotely sexual would be broadcast through the TV or just the way he looked at other women. And then in the bedroom, it was a whole new novel. It was his time to what he wanted, no more embarrassment because he presumed no one in the world knew what he was doing.

But boy wasn't he wrong.

The idea had sparked in your head months back, but thinking about it made your head spin. You and Peter hadn't spoken much, but there had been a moment where you had wondered if he was naturally attracted to you. Peter gave off the vibe, only visible to eyes as keen as your own, that he would probably fuck anything that moved if he had the chance. You were a woman willing to give up your time and need to him, but it was letting him know that. How where you to show him that you wanted him... Needed him badly. You didn't want to scare him off by coming on too harsh because there was one other thing about Peter that maybe even he didn't know. Peter was clueless when it came to sex.

Watching porn doesn't make you some kind of expert, you had to live it out in order to learn. He was just unaware of that so far.

On the other hand, Peter was just living his life as normal as any other teenage boy. He went out during the day, hung around with friends, on a Friday he would go to the old Pizza Palace just across the road from his apartment complex, before coming home to catch up on whatever TV show was trending, head to bed, masturbate if he was in the mood and then fall asleep before waking up and repeating. Oh, and let's not forget about the whole secret identity situation.

At night there would be times where he wouldn't be home until late, but that usually wouldn't come in the way of his nightly schedule. There hadn't been much crime around New York since the Avengers took refuge.

However, over the last three months, there had been a minor change to Peter's routine. Every night, specifically on a Wednesday, he would see you hanging around the building, and of course being a teenager, would try and make a good impression without even speaking. Because that was always an excellent plan. At first, he hadn't really acknowledged your existence, but after three weeks of you moving in he saw you almost everywhere. He felt like a moth drawn to a beacon of light when he was remotely close to you. He'd never known when to use the phrase drop-dead gorgeous until he caught your eye for the first time on a Friday evening. You were stunning. And he lived right next door to you.

Unlike Peter, you didn't really have a routine. You could arrive home at any point, and he would always try to be there at the front door to catch your eye. He had tried to start a conversation without even speaking, but of course, you didn't catch the message, because usually, one would have to pipe up in order to get talking. You looked like a fun person, and he wanted to get to know you. From what he knew you were the same age, attending different colleges across town.

He'd been thinking about making the first move for weeks, thinking that maybe he had a chance at getting to know you. But every opportunity boat so far had sunk right at his feet. However, tonight was the night.

It was rare that Peter wouldn't finish a whole Pizza on a Friday night, as he lived alone and had no one else to share it with. But, maybe this evening things could change. He'd been home around an hour, the leftover pizza beginning to turn cold as he sat and contemplated his plan further. But time was running out, it wouldn't be long before you were in bed and he'd have to wait another week to make a move again.

So, here goes nothing.

Picking up the pizza he slipped on some shoes, specifically his favourite grey Nike shoes his aunt had bought him for Christmas two years ago. He was out the door in a flash, but it felt like years before he was at yours. The door frame between your apartment and Peter's where inches apart, he didn't have to walk far before he was right in front of number 23. Your apartment.

The teen swallowed, thumb rubbing over the cardboard case of the pizza box in his hand as he raised the other to knock on the door. He was here now no point in hesitating.

*KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK*

Your head snapped to the door upon hearing the three knocks against the frame. Strange. You never got any visitors.

Standing up wearily you turned the volume down on the TV, moving the blanket onto the back of the couch and strolling over to the door. Unfortunately, your apartment door didn't have a peephole, so you had to bravely unlock and twist the handle praying there wasn't a serial killer right in front of you.

To your surprise, it was quite the opposite.

"Peter?" you smiled awkwardly, opening the door a little wider. Peter was standing right outside your door and you were trying to calm the blush in your cheeks. "What, uh, what are you doing here?"

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. How was he messing up now? He'd come this far. Then he saw your eyes glance down to the box in his hand and he wanted to scream. You looked back up, waiting for a response, the tension in the air getting thicker.

"I, uh, I have this Pizza," he shifted the box lightly in his hand, "and I didn't really want it to go to waste, because you know it's really good Pizza, and, uh, wasting it would be like... Not good... So, I was wondering if you maybe, you don't have to, wanted... Some..." Peter stumbled out his words nervously, feeling like a total idiot as he watched your brow raise in confusion.

You'd just ate and you really weren't hungry... But fuck it this was your chance, and he was offering you free food.

"Sure, I'd love some, if you say it's really good" you smiled, nodding as you stood to the side, "do you uh, wanna come in?"

"Yes" Peter nodded eagerly, before realising the bluntness in his words and backtracking, "I mean uh, if that's okay with you"

"Yes, that's fine" you giggled under your breath, watching as he slowly took a step forward and your head dipped to the ground as he walked past. You'd caught the odd scent of Peter when you passed his apartment in a morning, but smelling him up close, the scent all so much stronger was almost enough to knock you off your feet. He smelled so sweet, yet it was a strong and bold scent that made your senses tingle and goosebumps rise on the shell of your arms.

You shut the door once he was halfway down the hallway, looking around nervously to the living room and then back at you.

"There's some room of the coffee table, do you uh, want anything to drink?" you smiled nervously, rubbing your sweaty palms down the side of your legs.

"Uh, water please." You nodded, before speeding off into the kitchen. It all felt so weird now. When he was behind the wall it was fine, you had no correlation of his knowing or understanding the way you were attracted to him. But now it was face to face out in the open and if you slipped up there was the danger of him realising.

Peter slipped off his shoes at the wall as he waited for you, perching himself on the edge of the couch and placing the half-empty Pizza box on the coffee table. He looked up to see you were also watching some re-runs of Rick and Morty, bringing a small smile to his face. At least you had something to talk about.

"One water"

Peter's head turned sharply to see you carefully wondering back into the living room carrying two full glasses of water in your hands. He smiled, taking it off you gently as you got closer, lighting brushing fingers. He realised then that your hands were cold but soft. He couldn't help but quickly glance at the way your fingers curled around the glass, the way they dipped and stretched, small drops of water falling over the skin.

"Thanks" he tilts the glass gently before bringing it to his lips to take a sip. You probably filled the glass a little too much, causing some of the water to drop down his chin, but god that was a powerful and unintentional turn on. You didn't mean to, but you couldn't pull your stare from the droplet running down past his sharp jawline and diverting down his throat. It moved and split as his throat bobbed with every gulp, before eventually running out of momentum and stopping at his shirt line.

"So, uh," Peter begins, snapping your attention back to his face and away from his neck as he places the glass down beside the Pizza box, "you're new to the building, right?"

"Well, kind of" you shrug, "I've been here just over three months" you smiled awkwardly. Of course, Peter already knew that, but he needed to start the conversation with something.

"You could have picked any apartment complex in New York and you came here?" Peter quizzed with a smirk, shifting his feet around on your fluffy carpet.

"Well," you sighed, shoving your hands into your pockets and taking a seat on the couch opposite him, "it was here or my friend's apartment and she lives in Orlando. Plus, this was the only thing I could get on the budget" you sighed, "it'll do for now" you smiled with another shrug. Peter nodded along with you.

"So you planning on moving any time soon?"

"Not really, I kinda like it here" you looked around the rather dimly lit living room, the only source of light coming from the lamp in the corner and the TV screen. "It's small but cosy" you gestured around the room. The rooms were built back to back, although your's was decorated a little differently compared to Peter's they were almost identical. Removing the wall your beds would be head to head. Because the rooms were so small there was only room for one actual living room and then the kitchen and the bathroom.

"I think I'd struggle to fill like, a huge apartment"

"Yeah" Peter agreed, "the views nice here too"

"Oh, yeah can't forget about that" you agreed, looking over to the two french doors behind you.

The evening was spent well, you really got to know Peter on a more personal level. You learned about the accident with his uncle, and then about how he moved away when his Aunt found a new partner, of course leaving out the fact that he had become an Avenger bla bla bla. But he had learned about you too; about your family and what it was like living alone for the first few months and of course leaving out the Panic Disorder etc.

The pizza had ended up being left to turn cold and soon ended up in the bin. Now you were joint in the hallway, opening the door for Peter and allowing him to step out into the hallway.

"Thanks for the Pizza, even though we didn't actually-"

"Yeah, sorry I uh-"

"N-no, it's fine, maybe some other time?" you smiled, kneading your hands together at your waist.

"Yeah, that would be great" he smiled a little more confidently this time.

"What, uh, what are you doing tomorrow night?"

"Nothing that I can think of..."

"... Do you maybe wanna come over again?" you pressed your lips together, heart pounding.

"Of course" he nodded, "I mean, yeah sounds great"

"Awesome"

"Yeah..."

Silence fell for a second, but you weren't going to let it prolonge.

"I'll uh, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yep"

"Okay..."

"Okay..."

"Bye Peter..."

"Bye Y/N..."

Peter smiled one last time before the door closed and he wandered off back to his apartment next door. You breathed in and out slowly trying to calm your racing heart, overflowing with the excitement of seeing him again.

It was practically destined that you were going to have your way with him sooner or later...

[chelledoggo]

[Fanfic] Rainbow Rhythm [101 Dalmatian Street]

genre: one-shot, slice of life

age rating: all ages

content warnings: mildly touches on feelings of depression/anxiety

summary: After a diagnosis from “Dr. Mum,” Dante is coaxed into attending one of Deepak’s Rainbow Rhythm breath classes to help him cope with his anxiety.

“Remind me again why you've got me up at nearly 7 in the morning,” the black-furred goth dalmatian groaned.

“Dr. Mum's orders, Dante,” replied Dylan. “She said your blood pressure is way too high for a pup your age. You need to get that stress level down.”

“Yeah, bro,” chimed Dolly. “Ya gotta learn to chillaaaaax~ The bags under your eyes are looking even baggier than usual!”

“You try to 'chillax' when the CONSTANT THREAT OF TOTAL GLOBAL ANNIHILATION IS CONSTANTLY LOOMING OVER YOU,” Dante retorted. “Also, don't diss my bags. I'm quite proud of them, thank you. They're a symbol of my diligence.”

“Just try to go into this with an open mind, Dante,” Dylan pleaded. “Besides, Deepak's been wanting you to attend one of his Rainbow Rhythm breath classes for ages. At least do it to make him happy. Just this once?”

“Yeah, Dante,” Dolly added, playfully poking at her goth brother's chest. “We know you've got a heart in there, no matter how cynical you try to act.”

Dante sighed in relent. “Whatever...”

The three elder pups walked out into the backyard, where Deepak had everything set up. Several of their siblings were seated on yoga mats, softly chatting among each other under the morning sun while they waited for the class to begin.

Deepak, who was meditating to himself while waiting for everyone to arrive, opened one eye to see his three older siblings walking up to the class. The yin-yang puppy's face lit up at the sight of his gloomy brother Dante. Deepak quickly got up from his seat to give his brother a hug, at which the goth's face recoiled.

“Oh, Dante,” Deepak murmured enthusiastically. “Namaste, brother! I'm so pleased that you've decided to join us today!”

“Mum made him,” snarked Dolly.

“Dolly!” Dylan quietly scolded through his teeth as he nudged his sister.

Dante sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Well,” Deepak chuckled, “Regardless of why you're attending, I'm just glad to see you here, Dante. I'm certain a Rainbow Rhythm meditation session will do your body, mind, and spirit a world of good.”

“If you say so,” Dante sighed.

The goth pup slowly walked over to a free mat in the back row and slouched down. Dylan and Dolly took their seats on the mats on either side of him and flashed him a sincere grin. Dante sighed and blew one of his floppy ears away from his face.

Suddenly, the sound of finger cymbals broke the soft murmuring of conversation as the pups all looked up in attention at Deepak.

“Good morning, dear siblings,” Deepak greeted softly as he placed his front paws together. “Namaste.”

“Namasteeee!” Echoed a cheerful chorus of pups, causing Dante to roll his tired eyes.

“Inside of every living creature,” Deepak began, “there is a beautiful rainbow; Seven points of light and energy that charge different aspects of ourselves. We call these points the chakras, and when they are properly balanced and energized, we will feel peace and harmony flow throughout our being.”

Dante made a quiet attempt to get up, but Dylan gently pulled him back by his collar.

“C'mon, man,” Dante whispered. “I can't deal with all this hippy-dippy rainbow talk.”

“You're gonna have to,” Dylan replied quietly, “Or Mum's not gonna let you go to any more Cats' Canal gigs. Besides, you'll let down poor Deepak if you leave now.”

Dante groaned and sat back down. Thankfully, Deepak was too deep into his introduction speech to notice the gloomy pup had tried to leave.

“We'll start by closing the eyes...” Deepak instructed.

All the pups, including the reluctant Dante, closed their eyes.

“...And...breathe...” Deepak continued, as he gently chimed his finger cymbals together.

The class slowly inhaled together in unison at the sound of the cymbals. Deepak then chimed them again, signaling for the class to exhale. A few silent minutes were spent getting the class into the rhythm of the breathing before their instructor moved onto the guided visualization.

“Imagine yourself being surrounded by a bright, warm, beautiful rainbow,” Deepak murmured. “See every color in your mind, as brightly and vividly as you can.”

Ughhh...okay, Dante thought to himself, Rainbow...one of those ugly bright things that shows up after a perfectly good rainstorm...how do those look again?

Dante's mind managed to conjure up a fairly vivid rainbow.

Yuck. I'm starting to gross myself out. But, there it is.

“Now that you can see this vibrant rainbow in your mind,” Deepak continued, “Focus on the color red. See a bright glowing red surrounding you. Red is connected to the root chakra, located at the base of the spine, just before the tail. This chakra connects us to the earth and keeps us grounded, even in the most difficult times. Repeat to yourself: 'I am safe. I am grounded. I will survive.'”

Fine, Dante thought to himself with a sigh. I'm...safe. I'm...grounded. I will..survive...Survive the END OF THE WORLD WHO AM I KIDDING NO ONE IS GOING TO SURVIVE WE'RE ALL DONE FOR--

Dante began hyperventilating and whimpering as he panicked inside his own head.

Dolly opened one eye and looked over at him, then began gently rubbing his back.

“Shhh...It's okay, buddy,” she whispered. “Bring it back in. Just breeeeathe, bro.”

“R-right...” Dante stuttered, sucking in a deep breath and closing his eyes to try and relax again.

“Now,” Deepak instructed, “Envision the color orange surrounding you. Orange is connected to the sacral chakra, located in the lower belly. This chakra allows us to observe our emotions and how they affect us, as well as those around us. Repeat to yourself: 'I am aware of how I feel. I am emotionally balanced. I am in touch with my feelings.'”

Dante returned to his thoughts.

I am...ugh...aware of how I feel...I am emotionally balanced...I am...in touch with...my feelings?...R-really? Am I? Do I ever really feel anything? Besides constant existential dread, that is. I really am messed up, aren't I?

Dante's body was twitching in his seat as his face winced in stress.

Dylan peeked over at his stressed out brother.

“You got this, Dante,” he whispered to the goth. “Keep your breathing steady. Whatever you're feeling, just let it pass by.”

Dante steadied himself and brought his posture back up, once again trying to reel his thoughts back in.

“Next,” Deepak continued, “Imagine yourself surrounded by the color yellow. This is the color connected to the solar plexus chakra, located below the ribcage. This chakra is associated with confidence and self-esteem, and grants us a feeling of control over our lives. Repeat to yourself: 'I am confident. I am worthy. I am in control.'”

I'm...confident...Wait, am I confident? Do I have any control over my life? I mean...I spend pretty much every waking moment of my life thinking about our inevitable demise. Could I focus on anything else if I tried? Is worrying all I'm good for?

Dante became aware of himself beginning to tense up.

N-no...I'm just gonna have to make myself focus...Otherwise I'm just gonna get all worked up again...What was it he said to repeat?...Oh, right...I am confident...I am worthy...I am in control...Yeah...That's right...Just gotta keep telling myself that...

Dante continued repeating the mantra in his head in a genuine effort to get into the right mindset. He started to feel his muscles loosing up a little, but he still had to try to push back any nagging notions that he might fall back apart at any moment.

“Now, imagine the color green,” Deepak said soothingly. “This color is associated with the heart chakra, located in the center of the chest. This chakra is associated with love for ourselves and all living things in the universe, and connects the top and bottom three chakras. As you focus on this point, repeat this to yourself: 'I love my family. I love all living beings. I love myself.' Feel the sensation of love radiating within you and without you.”

Dante stifled back a cynical chuckle. At this point he'd figured he should try to take this seriously, even if it did sound way too cutesy for his tastes.

Alright...I...I love my family...Yeah. I...I really do love my family, don't I? I mean...they don't really get me most of the time, but they put up with me anyway. They put up with me constantly panicking and feeling bad about myself. They don't see me as the lost cause that I see myself as. I guess Dolly and Dylan making me come to this...weird rainbow class thing...just proves how much they care about me.

Dante smiled a tiny bit at the thought of it.

Guess I should try to be a little easier on myself, huh? If not for me, then for them.

He continued repeating the rest of the mantra in his head, really trying to “feel” every word of it. He really was starting to relax a little bit more, much to his surprise.

“Now, picture a light blue surrounding you,” Deepak instructed. “This is the color connected to the throat chakra. This chakra controls our ability to communicate our truth, not only with others, but also within ourselves. Repeat to yourself: 'I know my truth. I will accept my truth. I will be honest with myself and others.'”

'My truth?' What even is 'my truth?' That the world is going to crumble around me and everyone I love any day now? Or am I just anticipating it? Am I just looking for ways the world will end? ...Well, no duh. Of course I am. I keep looking for signs of the apocalypse until it drives me crazy. That's why my stupid blood pressure's so high. The truth is that I  don't need to be doing this to myself and that it's only hurting me and making my folks worry about me.

Dante heaved a sigh.

Guess I should work on that...For them...

“And now we move on,” continued Deepak, “and picture a deep indigo around us. This is the color of the third-eye chakra, located on the brow, which controls our intuition and awareness. Repeat to yourself: 'I know what is. I accept the world as it is right now. I am present in the moment.'”

Okay...I know what is...That the world's currently not ending and there's nothing I can do about it. I accept the world as it is right now...Not ended. Not yet. I am present in the moment...'Present'...How do I be 'present?'

Dante tried to examine the current moment. His breathing was still slow and steady, in time with his siblings on either side of him. He observed the smell of morning grass as the wind gently blew drops of cool dew onto his feet. He listened to the natural ambiance of birds tweeting and bugs chirping mixed with the far-off sounds of the busy streets.

This is...actually kinda nice...I guess...

“And finally,” Deepak spoke softly, “picture a violet light in your mind. This is the color associated with the crown chakra, located at the top of your head. This chakra connects us to our higher self, to the universe...It grants us peace and oneness with all of existence. Repeat to yourself: 'I breathe love and light. I am at peace with the universe. I am at peace with myself.'”

Dante heaved a heavy sigh. This was going to be the hardest thing to convince himself of.

Okay...I...I breathe...love and light...Yeah...I am...at peace with...the universe...Right...I am...at peace with...myself...

Dante felt a strange feeling run up his spine.

Oh Dog...Don't tell me I'm actually starting to believe this...Heh...

Dante began sniffling, and soon felt tears begin running down his face as he began to quietly sob. He felt something lifting off of him, as if years of built-up tension had been released from his body.

He smiled peacefully as he continued sobbing. For the first time in a long time, he really did feel relaxed.

He felt Dolly and Dylan softly rub his back as he wept.

OhDogTheyNoticedIWasCryingOhDogI'llNeverLiveItDown...

Part of him didn't really care, though. He was too busy basking in this strange new blissful sensation.

Deepak also took notice of his brother's emotional release. He didn't want to bring attention to him, so he addressed the class.

“Let's just allow ourselves to be present in this peaceful feeling for a while,” he whispered.

There were a few moments of silence, save for Dante's soft weeping, which eventually quieted down. Afterwards, Deepak guided the class back through the spectrum of colors backwards to bring them back to normal awareness.

Dante's eyes slowly opened to see most of the pups had dispersed, except for Dolly, Dylan, and Deepak.

“Hnnng....Oh Dog...” Dante groaned in embarrassment.

“How you feelin, buddy?” Dolly asked with a gentle smile.

Dante quickly put on the best attempt at a stoic expression that he could muster.

“I'm fine...” he grumbled, trying to look uninterested.

“Hey,” Dylan said comfortingly. “We're all really proud of you, y'know.”

“Yeah...Whatever...” Dante sighed.

His eyes suddenly drifted downward to meet Deepak's. The young yogi pup looked up at his brother with wide, glistening eyes and a warm smile as his tail wagged.

Dante cleared his throat and looked off into the distance.

“It was, um...Pretty nice, I guess...” Dante mumbled sheepishly. “Pretty, um...relaxing...You did a good job, Deepak.”

“You did a good job, brother,” Deepak replied. “I've never seen you so at peace before...and so in touch with your emotions, too! This is a big step for you, Dante!”

The tiny puppy wrapped his arms around his goth brother and pulled himself in for a hug.

Dante couldn't help but grin a bit, in spite of himself.

“Will you be joining us again next week?” Deepak asked as he looked up hopefully at Dante.

Dante gave his little bro a small, yet genuine smile.

“Heh...I guess I can make it...” he replied with a chuckle.

Dolly and Dylan joined in on the brothers' hug.

Dante closed his eyes and sighed, enjoying the warmth of his siblings' embrace.

This...was peace.

[pandoraborn]

Holy shit if you’re still taking prompts can we get anti slowly wearing henrik down with conditioning, watching him get more and more addicted to Anti. I love the rise in hypno content lately!

Henrik’s lost count of the days. He’s lost count of how many times he’s been completely drained of energy, only to sleep and wake up refreshed, for Anti to repeat the process. Nothing but days of constant static and humming, with some children’s lullaby playing in the background.

He must be getting changed in between; he’s noticing different outfits on Chase, as well as himself. It’s hard to focus on clothes when his mind is white noise and static, and he can’t remember five minutes ago.

Oh, it also hurts. Everything aches. The static is agony, and his dreams are nothing but lightning strikes and gruesome pain that tears his very atoms to shreds. Henrik can’t tell anymore if he’s screaming or if he’s dreaming, because reality around him is nothing but a warped Escher painting; up is left and down is miles upon lightyears away. He wonders if he’s been twisted inside out too.

Followed by the pain though, like clockwork, is a soothing sensation. Something gentle, to ease the pain. Nothing stops hurting though, but it’s like gentle, warm water being used for healing. Easing his tense muscles, relaxing the various cramps and bruises that’ve formed. Where did they come from? What he assaulted by Anti?

That name almost sounds foreign on his lips. But... yes. He’s with Anti, he’s starting to remember. Anti and...what was his name again?

“His name is Chase.”

The voice that responds is hovering somewhere nearby. Henrik tries to focus his gaze, but all he can see are blurred shapes that are almost too dim to make out.

Chase, yes. He knows that name. A faint memory; himself with Chase. Talking about...something. He can’t remember anymore. He can see Chase so vividly though. He knows Chase.

“Chase submitted to me so easily, doctor. He didn’t want to hurt either, he wanted the pain to stop. Don’t you want it to stop?”

Pain? Oh yeah, there’s pain. There’s so much pain he can’t feel anything anymore. He’s too numb, too tired, too worn out by all the torment. He wants it to stop. Yes, he wants it to end.

“I can make it end for you. You won’t have to feel anything anymore. Not from me. I’ll take care of you, just like I take care of Chase. You’ll be the best puppet.”

Has he been speaking the whole time? He doesn’t remember saying anything. He tries to focus on the shapes around him, but he can only make out a heavily blurred face before him. It’s now Henrik notices the hand in his hair too. Oh, that feels nice.

“I...don’t want...”

He doesn’t want to be a puppet, he just wants the agony to stop. The torture, the tears, the sadness, all of it. He wants it to go away. He wants to be left alone with nothing but this floating, peaceful sensation, free of anything bad.

“I don’t want....puppet.”

“Silly doctor. You’ll be at peace. Nothing but peace, and bliss. Nothing but happiness, all you have to do is say yes, and you’ll be more free than you ever have been. Chase craves the peace. You’ve seen him at his happiest, don’t you want that for yourself?”

Yes.

No.

Yes.

...yes.

“Then it’s all yours. Just call me by the one name I want to hear most, and you know what that is.” The hand in Henrik’s hair tightens, almost tugging. It’s a warning, he knows, but Henrik’s distracted by the overwhelming relaxation coursing through him. He’s familiar with this massage; it’s easing the pain even more. No pain, just peace, just as Anti promised.

No, not Anti.

“Master.”

Tag list:

 @weirdmixofweirdness @egopocalypse, @immcgill @skyewardlight @sibling-ursidae @colorbanditsneverdye @mysterio-is-the-truth @alphaqwerty7 @ari-trash @sarinoxious @10th-no-name-person @southerndragontamer @scubacatwoman @lower-your-expectationss @anonymous--person @supercoolness @scarlet-mangata