#i need to watch it again just so i can ugly sob and find trauma catharsis again :'D

[one-winged-dreams]

And here comes the Belle soundtrack to come and obliterate me entirely

[tightjeansjavi]

The Menu | Part 5

“my body is a cage”

A/N: I wrote this in a matter of hours yesterday..and also decided to say fuck the canon timeline so <3

~word count: 4.6k~

Pairing | dark!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel promises that he can make your pain go away. He’s a man that never goes back on his word.

Warnings: trauma responses from SA (not by Joel) mildly descriptive flashback to SA, degrading language, hurt, comfort, dark!joel, protective!joel, he’s kinda shit at communicating, but he’s trying his best for you, softish!joel, talk of the past, angst, sprinkle of fluff, intense emotional feelings, you and Joel let your guard down around one another, age gap, (Joel is in his 40’s and reader is in her late 20’s. I played around with the canon timeline a bit) reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni!

A languid roll of condensation drips down the base of Joel’s glass that has long since been abandoned the second you fell to your knees in an unceremonious fashion between his parted thighs.

Acceptance already began to make its home again in your heart when you watched Joel slowly shake his head. It hurt, like all rejections do, but it stung a little deeper than you were willing to admit.

Joel Miller didn’t want you anymore. He’d forget about you when the dust would inevitably settle. He’d find someone else to bury his troubles into. It wouldn’t be you, and maybe that was for the better. Maybe the presence of Joel in your life was not a good thing.

It still hurts. No amount of whiskey-melded poker face could mask that.

The weight of his actions seemed to strike their mark along him as well. Another drop of moisture slid down the glass, pooling along the worn down coffee table. He blinked once, twice, swallowing the prominent lump growing in his throat. His pupils had blown wide like two shiny 8-balls. Fuck.

The blooming awkwardness reared its ugly head when a silent tear traveled down your cheekbone. Once the first one escaped, the flood gates opened.

His gut twisted and churned painfully like a stranded ship being tousled by an onslaught of unforgiving swells. He couldn’t tear his sights from your doe-eyed teary gaze. His own tears threatened to spill when you flinched from his right hand moving upwards towards your face.

His fingers quivered when they finally settled against your clammy skin. Joel Miller would never believe himself to be a gentle-touched man. Maybe a long time ago when the sun warmed his skin, and joyous laughter echoed in both ears, and his eyes were bright and full of life, but now? His kindness was reserved, locked away, buried six feet under the cold clutches of earth. The key was thrown away, forgotten and rusted away along with what remained of his tattered and bruised heart.

Here in his hold, your skin warm, soft beneath the rough calluses of his palm, he felt. He felt not just anger, but guilt, sadness, a newfound ache that was tangled up in that stupid four letter word that he would be damned to ever utter its existence again.

“Hey, it’s okay, Angel. It’s okay. You’re safe.” He reassured you, big brown eyes never leaving yours.

You had never heard this brutish man speak to you in such a sincerely soft way. There wasn’t an ilk of pity or condescendence in his tone. Nothing but concern, fear, a desperate need to ascend comfort in his words.

He was so..confusing.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, choking back a sob that died in your throat. “You—you should go, Joel.” You went to brush away his hand to crawl as far away from him as physically possible, but he wasn’t budging. He’d never leave.

“Hey, look at me.” He commanded softly. His other hand found purchase around the left side of your face. His movements were gentle and slow. He wanted to ground you, to keep your soul from being plucked up like a marionette. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You pushed and pulled against him, grinding your teeth together when he still sat unmoving. It was as if you were the unsuspecting bird, and he was the wet cement that would soon harden and fossilize around your body.

“Why?” You questioned. Your sadness had ebbed away and was quickly replaced with simmering frustration. “You don’t want me anymore, Joel. There’s nothing left for you here, so just—fuckin’ leave.” You snapped.

“Angel, I never said I didn’t want you anymore. Please stop fightin’ me. Please.” He pleaded, the rough pads of his thumbs swiped under your eyes, collecting the tears that pooled there while they awaited their time to fall.

“You didn’t need to say it, Joel. I could fuckin’ feel it.” You sniffled, falling back on your haunches in defeat.

“No, sweet girl. You’re mistaken. I swear. I’m shit at this. This whole..communicating thing has never been my forte. I’m sorry. I’m so—sorry. But somethin’ about this ain’t feel right. I—I don’t want to assume, but somethin’ happened to you. I know you don’t want to tell me, but maybe—”

“But maybe what, Joel? Why do you even care? Why all of a sudden—when you said yourself that I’m nothin’ but your whore on stilts. A tight hole to fuck whenever you please. What, did you have a sudden change of heart? Gonna manipulate me into believing that you actually care about me? Fuck you—”

“I swear on my daughters fuckin’ grave that I care about you. I am not manipulating you into believing anythin’ that is leaving my mouth, Angel. I am tellin’ you the truth. You mean somethin’ to me. Puttin’ it into words ain’t easy for a man like me, but you’re hurtin.’ You’re in pain, and I swear to god if some sick fuck put their hands on you, I’ll make sure they never see the light of day again.” He confessed fiercely.

He might as well get down on one knee and sign his life off to you in red ink. To ensure his promise to keep you safe and protected like he was some knight in shining armor.

Benji yanked you up by the scruff of your neck like you were some stray cat, or a tattered ragdoll. You felt like a bug at his mercy, awaiting a painful death of being squashed beneath a leather boot, split into a million pieces. You could hear his friends snickering in the back while they were still fisting their cocks like the disgusting hounds that they were. “Jus’ remember your place in this world, Angel. No matter what anyone tells you, you will be nothin’ but a come-stained, filthy whore. And when you return to him, like I know you will, he’ll toss you away like yesterday's trash. All men are the same, sweetheart. They don’t like it when another dog has been in their bitch.” He spat cruelly, a glob of saliva landing along your cheek.

“No, Joel. I’m nothin’ but a come-stained whore, and you’ll toss me away like yesterday’s trash.” You whispered solemnly, chin tilting downwards in disgust with what was instilled in you to be your true identity. Crestfallen tears were wept. Tears that trailed down your cheeks and rolled down the expanse of his bare wrists and forearms. Each teardrop that landed upon his skin sent his anger flaring upwards the way that smoke rises from a blazing fire.

“Who did this to you, Angel? Tell me his name, and I swear to you that I will make this all go away. Tell me the name of the man who laid his fuckin’ hands on you. Tell me, please. Please, Angel. I want to help you.” He was on the cusp of begging, hating the fear that began to douse the flames. The fear that maybe it was too late, and the damage was done already.

Your eyes slowly meet his, rimmed in red, skin puffy and dry. From just the look alone that you gave him, he knew who had done this to you. He knew the second your lips parted, and uttered the name that sent the beast inside of him awakening once more.

“Benji.”

The dam broke the moment his name left your lips; you crumbled. An echo of gut wrenching, broken sobs tumbled out of you as Joel scrambled to keep you together. He was on the floor with you now, cradling you in his arms while struggling to gather up the broken pieces figuratively scattered around him. It was as if you were loose grains of sand, and no matter how many times he scooped you up into his gentle palms, you kept slipping through the cracks.

You found yourself crawling into his lap, straddling his hips with your arms latched around his neck. You anchored yourself around him while his shirt soaked up your heavy flowing tears like a sponge. His arms were around you like a cage, comforting you the only way he knew how; through touch. One large hand came to cradle the back of your head, while the other rested along the curve of your spine, drawing soothing circles against your skin with the rough pads of his fingertips.

It’s okay, Angel. I have you. You’re safe. I promise.

and through your tears, and your aching, you wanted to believe him. But believing and trusting someone never came easy. Especially in this world. To throw all your eggs into one basket would be considered foolish. Since the night of the outbreak you had convinced yourself that you needed no one. Not a shoulder to cry on, or a friend to confide in. You hadn’t sought for human connection till you crossed paths with Joel Miller. And now you felt guilty for webbing him into your life. For making this mountain of a man feel.

Was it intentional? No. But sometimes we lose all sense of control and ultimately find ourselves giving into that thing that we fear the most. In all retrospect, you had tried to push Joel away from you, but he was a stubborn man. The most stubborn person you had ever met. A whole lotta bark and bite. Fearless until he gave into feeling. Unmoving until he began to feel for you. The girl that was just looking for a vice to fill a void, and instead found a man that would quite literally kill for you. He’d lasso the fucking moon and bring it down to you if you asked. He’d be your friend, your shoulder to cry on, your comfort in the odd hours of the night when the nightmares would creep in.

He’d be your laughter, your anger, your sadness. He’d be whatever the fuck you wanted him to be. That was the thing about men like Joel Miller, they were fiercely loyal to the ones they loved to the point where maybe he was the foolish one. Maybe he had bitten off more than he could chew. And if that were the case, he’d lick his wounds, convince himself that he was okay, and move on until his body would ultimately give way to the grief he carried day in, and day out.

“Will you let me take care of you, Angel?” He asked suddenly, so softly you could barely hear him through the thick of your messy tears.

“If you wish it.” You sniffled, cheek pressed firmly against the damp fabric of his shirt where your tears had soaked through.

He rumbled a sigh, nostrils flaring while he tilted his chin down to take a peek at your current state. He’d never seen you look so tiny, frail, curling into yourself like a mouse shriveling from a house cat on the prowl. His latent caretaker instincts were kicking into full drive after the dust had been blown off of them and wafted through the stagnant air.

“C’mon, sweet girl.” He urged in a gentle tone, strong arms tightening their hold around you while his hands gently hoisted you up by your thighs. His knees creaked and groaned from carrying the weight of himself and you to a standing position. You clung to him still in a koala like fashion.

“Where are you taking me?” You asked unsurely.

“Takin’ you to the bathroom so we can wash the pain away.” He replied quietly.

His footsteps are soft, yet calculated while his hands stay secured around your thighs. He uses his shoulder to push open your flimsy bathroom door. You find yourself sitting along the toliet seat, back resting against the wall with your hands in your lap. You begin to pick at the skin around your nails absentmindedly. You flinch slightly when the sharp edge of your nail tears through dry cuticle skin surrounding your thumb. The sting feels nice, calming in a sense.

Your eyes stay focused on the wall even when the shadow of his silhouette looms over you, and his warm palm suddenly engulfs your own.

“Don’t do that.” He whispers, brows furrowed when he notices the bead of blood on the side of your thumb. “You have beautiful hands, Angel. Don’t go’n ruin ‘em.” He means every word.

“I’m sorry.” Is all you can really say.

He slips his fingers through your own and you can feel every ridge and rough callus through his skin. His thumb strokes the outside of your hand in a tender sweep.

You want to cry, but you don’t. Instead you lean your head back against the wall and close your eyes while the sounds of the water sloshing into the tub drowns out your thoughts.

With his freehand he constantly checks the temperature of the water to make sure it’s not too hot, and not too cold. The last thing he wants to do is shock your system. He glances up at your face for a moment before he focuses on his blurry reflection in the rippling water.

How can I make her pain go away?

It's not something that will ever go away. It becomes bearable, but with time. All you can do is be there for her the best way that you can. He reminds himself.

“Angel.”

Your eyes snap open at the sound of his voice ringing in your ears.

So it wasn’t all a dream.

“Uh..the water should be good now. Do you want some privacy? I don’t—need to be in here with you..I understand if you—” he’s stumbling over his words more than he intended to, but this is uncharted territory for him, and he’s unsure.

“No.” You finally speak, “I want you to stay.”

He breathes; relieved for a moment. “Okay, I’ll stay. Do you..want some help?” He’s referring to your clothes and if you require assistance in undressing.

“Please.”

He nods reassuringly before standing up to his full height from where he was kneeling alongside the tub. “Arms up.” He softly requests while he reaches for the hem of your shirt.

Your body works strictly on autopilot, boneless as you lift your arms above your head so it’s easier for him to pull your shirt up.

His wounded knuckles brush gently against your sides when he begins to lift the fabric from your body slowly. Gooseflesh begins to rise when you're exposed to the room temperature air. Your hands instinctively move to cover your modesty and he pretends to not notice the way you immediately fold in on yourself.

It hurts him to see you in such a state as this, but his feelings do not matter, he reminds himself. Yours are far more important than his own.

He waits for your consent to pop the button of your jeans followed by the zipper. His eyes stay locked on your own when he begins to ease the worn denim down your thighs. There’s two gaping holes in the fabric around your knees that weren’t there before. He begins to feel the bile rise before he forces it back down.

You're trembling by the time he reaches for the elastic waistband of your tattered panties and he finds himself freezing in place when your hands snatch his wrists frantically.

“I won’t take them off, okay?” He reassures you. “I promise.”he adds for good measure.

You trust him, and that scares you, but it’s enough for you to release his wrists from your death grip.

“Turn around, please.” You croak out, still struggling to find your voice.

He doesn’t protest, or say mean things, or make you feel ten times smaller than you already felt. He obliges your request silently.

You wait until his back is facing you before you pull your panties down over your thighs. You catch a glimpse of a maroon saturated stain that will be forever tattooed in the flimsy fabric. You want to sob, but instead you drop the material to your ankles and discard them with the rest of your tattered clothing.

He doesn’t turn around to look at you until you give him permission. By that point you were already carefully lowering yourself into the tub. He finds you with your knees protectively tucked up to your chest, folded in on yourself. A dull, sullen look glossed over in your once vibrant irises. Your eyes cast down to your reflection before staring off into nothingness once more.

“Can..I get you anything? Are you hungry? I can whip you up some soup or somethin?’” He asks while lowering himself to sit alongside the tub. He doesn’t care that his lower back pinches a bit, or his knees creak, he just wants to be there for you in any way that he can.

“Just a cigarette would be nice.” You mumble out a reply. Your eyes meet his softened gaze for a moment with your chin resting along the dip of your knee. “He took the ones that you rolled me, along with the pills, and the pistol you lent me. I’m sorry, Joel. I—I’ll pay you back.”

“Hey, you don’t have to pay me back for any of that, okay? I don’t give a fuck about the pills, and I lent you the gun and cigarettes, Angel. Don’t worry about that, okay?” He reached into his back pocket, pulling out his own stash and a lighter. He leaned forward, placing the cigarette between your lips before he ignited the unlit end with the lighter.

You took a long drag, letting the smoke attack your lungs, and the nicotine ease your brain into relaxation, and calm your rising anxiety.

“Okay.” You finally speak, willing yourself to scoot closer towards the edge of the tub to ash the cigarette over the side.

“Tell me something that..makes you happy.” He catches you off guard while you take another long drag. You blow the smoke off to the side, creating a hazy cloud that soon dissipates.

“Something..that makes me happy?” You question apprehensively.

“Yes. Jus’ anythin’ that you can think of that makes you happy, Angel.” He rasps softly as he awaits your response.

“The rain. But specifically when it’s storming. I love that earthy smell after a storm. When everything smells fresh, clean, alive. I like the dreary days too. Where it rains from morning through the night. I like the sound it makes when raindrops land on the pavement, or roofs. I know it might sound silly, but when I was a kid I used to sit out on the driveway with some neighborhood friends and watch the storms roll in. Always found myself getting excited when the clouds grew darker and the wind picked up..that first flash of lighting, and rumbling thunder?” You trailed off, unsure if you said too much, or too little for his liking.

“Oh, yeah, I have to agree. Who doesn’t love a good heavy storm? Perfect sleepin’ weather too. Back in Texas we’d get some pretty wild storms out there. Flash floods and all that jazz. Didn’t matter to me cus’ I’d always sleep with the window open. My younger brother, Tommy, was afraid of thunderstorms, up until the point of me tellin’ him that we were always safe inside. Think he got over the fear by the time he was ten.” Joel found himself reminiscing on his childhood, and a simpler time that felt like a ghost to him now.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.” You ashed the cigarette over the side of the tub once more before offering it to him. He declined with a slight shake of his head. You need it more than I do.

“Yeah, he’s..well, I don’t know where he’s at. Left with the fireflies a few years back. Thought he could be a hero and save the world. I send him radio messages every now and then jus’ to check up on him.” He sighed softly. His arm came to rest along the side of the tub, palm resting upwards in case you needed to, or wanted to hold his hand.

“Do you miss him?” You asked, shifting closer to him.

You could visibly see him tense from your question. Tommy was a sore spot for him, a festering wound at times. He felt resentful after everything he had done for his younger brother. The sacrifices he made to keep both of them safe from harm. But deep down he knew he couldn’t stay mad at his kin forever, but he wasn’t ready to let that resentment go just yet. He still needed to heal.

“I miss him more than I’m willin’ to admit, Angel. Not sure if he really misses me all that much.” He shrugged indignantly. “What about you, do..you have any siblings?”

He realized then that he didn’t know much about you at all. He knew your name, and your body, but he wanted to know more about what you were like before the world went to shit.

“Nope. Only child. Mom and Dad tried for another, but some things just aren’t meant to be.” It was your turn to shrug now. He caught you eyeing his outstretched palm resting along the chipped porcelain. If he had the ability to read minds, he certainly was reading yours now.

“And..your parents?” He asked, assuming the inevitable answer.

“Both dead. Car crash a couple years before outbreak. I was too young to comprehend any of it. Grandparents took me in luckily. We pretty much lived in desolation out in the middle of nowhere after that. Not much civilization out in the sticks.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” His tone is soft, baritone deep and soothing. And truth be told, you’re still confused. You can’t help it especially when you know this is the same man that just hours ago was trying to bust down your door.

Joel Miller made your head spin.

“It’s alright, Joel. No need for you to be sorry. Life sucks sometimes. It’s just something I’ve come to accept.”

He nods affirmatively. Life does suck sometimes, ain’t that the truth.

“So, where exactly are you from then? South? Midwest? West?” He couldn’t help his curiosity to know more. He didn’t expect you to be an open book by any means, but he’d take anything you’d give him.

“Montana. Grandparents owned a horse ranch out there. Real peaceful, open country, fresh air.”

“Ah, so a real country girl then? Well, guess you and I are closer than we originally thought, huh? How’d you end up all the way in Boston?” He stretched his arm out slightly when it had grown stiff from the position it had been in.

“If you consider Texas and Montana to be close, then sure, cowboy.” There was a glimmer of sass in your tone. Just enough to cause his ears to perk up. “Honestly, after the outbreak, things just turned into one big blur for me. It’s like I had to grow up overnight. Grandpa taught me how to use a shotgun, killed my first infected shortly after that. Grandma was the first to fall, and Grandpa followed a year later. I stayed in the ranch for as long as I could, fendin’ for myself. Was only a matter of time before raiders became a problem, and I packed a bag, took a horse, and headed east.”

Joel was having a hard time comprehending just how young you truly were when the world as you knew it turned to shit. You were just a kid, a little girl fending for yourself. When he realized you were just about Sarah’s age, he didn’t know how to process that newfound information either.

“You were..just a kid when this all happened.” He nearly whispered in disbelief at the thought of a younger version of yourself, strapped with her grandpa's shotgun, and nothing but open country to trek through.

“I was.” You confirmed. “I’m sure this is just my brain blocking all the bad shit out, but I don’t remember much of what happened after I left the ranch. I guess it’s a miracle that I managed to survive this long. Guess my luck hasn’t run out entirely, huh?”

“No, it certainly hasn’t, Angel. You’ve managed to defy practically all the odds that were placed against you.”

You fall silent again, casting another look down at your reflection while the cigarette perched between middle and forefinger dies out. “What’s your favorite color, Joel?”

“Oh, so now we’re goin’ elementary?” He teases lightly in hopes to brighten your spirits just a tad. He’d kill a thousand men just to see you smile again. “I think I have to go with a shade of blue.” He decides.

“Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious, cowboy. You’re the one who started with the personal questions. I think knowing your favorite color is definitely considered a personal question.” You feel your lips twitch, almost as if they are trying to curve up into a smile, but it doesn’t quite happen. “And blue..like the sky?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, “blue like the ocean. But y’know..like all the shades. What about you, Angel? What’s your favorite color?”

“Purple.” “But not just any shade of purple. The kind that you can see in sunsets. It’s almost got like a pinkish hue to it? Or the purple in lavender fields. We had loads of it growing at the ranch.”

“Mm.” He hums thoughtfully, “Sunsets sure are pretty.” He’s far more relaxed now with his legs outstretched in front of him, and his chin resting along his bare bicep as he looks at you.

He asks you more questions, finding out that your favorite movies were arguably LOTR (unfortunately the third, and highly anticipated film never made it to the theaters; damn you cordyceps) and The Last Unicorn. He learned that your favorite drink of choice, before the outbreak, was either a virgin pina colada (because it tasted like the beach) or the classic kiddy cocktail; a childhood delicacy.

You learned that he and his younger brother Tommy, worked as contractors in Austin Texas, and that Joel used to be married..and he had a single daughter that he raised practically on his own. Her name was Sarah, and she died the night of the outbreak; Joel’s birthday. You also now know that his favorite movie was Curtis and Viper 2.

And through the midst of your back and forth domestic conversing, you find yourselves holding hands again. You’re not sure if he initiated it, or vice versa, but neither of you let go.

There was an unasked question that circled heavy in the air, like two vultures waiting to dive in for the kill. He could sense it just as much as you could. Addressing the elephant in the room was not going to be easy, but you were beginning to realize that Joel wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, you were shocked to find that he hadn’t climbed into that damn tub with you.

“Joel?” You ask suddenly, skin beginning to prune from being in the water for too long.

“Yes, Angel?” He’s hopeful, but realistic given the circumstances.

“Did you..mean what you said earlier? About..making this all go away?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate to answer. He was not the kind of man to go back on his word. “I will make sure that he pays for what he did to you, Angel. He’ll suffer, and I’ll make him wish he was never born.” Oh, he’d make him pay alright.

“Good. I want you to kill him, Joel. And I want to be there to see you do it. I want to be right there when he takes his last pathetic breath—” you don’t even realize how hard you're squeezing his hand in your grasp that his knuckles are beginning to turn white from the pressure.

“Of course I’ll kill him for you, Angel.” That wasn't even a request in his mind. Benji would die at the hands of Joel, and you would get to watch.

and then..you told him everything.

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[greatwyrmgold]

Hey I'm not trying to dogpile on you about your Pudding opinions (she's not for everyone), but there are some things I think aren't coming across well from her at this point to you & I'm hoping to get you to see why some people like her so much. Or at least to see how her writing is considered particularly well amongst side characters to what I think is a decent chunk of the fandom.

It's kind of hard to explain what I believe Oda is doing with Pudding without spoiling too much, but Pudding is not "just a plot device".

You might not have remembered, but Pudding's eye was established before we even met her in WCI. We first see her at the end of Fishman Island with her third eye out as Big Mom eats a dude up.

So Pudding's 3rd eye reveal didn't come out of nowhere nor was it shoehorned in. People who read/watched closely were able to piece together that was her so the notion of her hiding something was there from the start. Because of her color scheme I think it was even more obvious in the anime.

Also, I think Oda tried to connect WCI's "too good to be true" theme with his writing of Pudding which is why he opted to reveal her trauma & her "evil" persona when he did & why her shift is so sudden. It's supposed to seem out of nowhere & feel like literally breaking the rose tinted glass. Even people who were suspicious of her from the get go were really thrown off by it at the time it came out. I'm pretty sure If we knew Pudding was faking from the get go the reaction to her flip flopping wouldn't be seen so negatively nor would it seem like it was unearned.

Speaking of her trauma reveal.....It's really hard to go too into the 3rd eye thing without spoiling too much even for stuff beyond WCI, but I promise her getting terrorized for something so seemingly minuscule compared to the other weirdos of WCI is not just some last minute thing Oda gave her so she could have a sob story. Her 3rd eye isn't considered freaky because it's particularly ugly compared to other genetic variations, but because of the fact it's so rare. Again I don't want to spoil too much, but Pudding is basically an allegory for minorities. She's supposed to be one of the only people from the 3rd eye tribe. Very similar to how Robin was demonized for being the last of Ohara. The 3rd eye is also very plot relevant so no Pudding isn't just an obstacle for Sanji this arc nor is she just a love interest.

Lastly, Pudding is not only basically Sanji's dark mirror, but she personifies the themes of familial abuse WCI is all about. She is a look at what Sanji could've been had Reiju not helped him escape Germa. From her brief flashback you can see Pudding was most likely very sensitive & kind similar to Sanji at that age (the anime expands the flashback a bit more so you really feel how much the constant abuse hurt her. It was cruel.).

You should've already read the part where Brook overhears Big Mom asking Pudding if she "awakened" her 3rd eye yet, but Pudding is also a disappointment to her mother like Judge was to Sanji. Big Mom specifically had a 3rd eye child to be a tool to help her achieve her goal of attaining power similar to how Sanji was supposed to be a living weapon for Judge . They're both failed eugenics babies. Except she didn't get to leave her abusive family & her way of surviving was becoming whatever they needed of her & to act cruel to prevent people from attacking her anymore. It's heavily implied that Pudding most likely messed with the memories of the townsfolk so they would forget her 3rd eye even existed & if they were to find out all the adoration she's built up over the years would end in a snap because no one actually knows who Pudding is (maybe not even herself).

So Sanji calling her beautiful & making her weep might seem stupid, but that single act of kindness made Pudding face the reality that she was going to murder someone who was genuinely kind (because her mother had already convinced her he was just as cruel as everyone else in her life & wouldn't ever accept her for who she was) & didn't deserve it & she didn't actually want to do it. She was just trying to stay on her mother's good side to prevent anything bad happening to her. She never actually had the intense desire to murder him. Her cruel words weren't even really about him. Sanji was just who she decided to project all her hurt on because he needed to die anyways so why not take it out on the weirdo perv?

At the end of the day the entire Charlotte Family are just a bunch of abused kids who react to their environment differently & their "loyalty" to their mother doesn't really mean much at all to most. It can & does disappear the second they find love & acceptance outside of her. Pudding is not the first. We saw Praline who married Aladin gleefully tell her new husband she will happily betray her mother if he does too. Lola literally left & never looked back. Chiffon's allegiance is to her husband & the family she created.

Noticeably the only ones who seem to actually drink the Big Mom Kool aid are the strongest & most "useful" of the crew which Pudding kind of worked her way into those ranks, but as you can see by how empathetic they were to her "failure" at the altar her position as "favorite" was precarious at best. She lives in a constant state of one wrong move away from going back to being treated like shit.

So I don't really understand when anyone tries to say it makes no sense for her "loyalty" to her mother to get shaken up "just because a guy called her pretty" it's much more than that. Sanji calling her pretty didn't just stroke her ego it literally validated her right to be loved & accepted for the things she cannot nor shouldn't change about herself. Very similar to how Luffy constantly validates his crewmates btw.

You probably haven't seen much of him yet but she also has a lot of Parallels with her older brother Katakuri. You'll see more of him later in the arc, but he's also a great example of how abused children with visibly differences deal with the world around them & shape the way they carry themselves. Actually it's pretty crazy how similar they are tbh.

I don't expect everyone to love Pudding. I know she's not appealing to most, but I do think it's not fair to boil her down to just some 2dimensial sexist caricature because she really isn't. She's one of the best handled shonen love interests I've seen in a long time & an exemplary example of the themes of One Piece imo. Like I said in the beginning it's hard to go too into why people believe she's an amazingly written character, but what Oda does with her is pretty cool imo.

Also the rest of her journey this arc is just really fucking entertaining. Definitely one of the stand out characters.

You might not have remembered, but Pudding's eye was established before we even met her in WCI.

I don't think I ever said that her third eye itself came out of nowhere. I said her trauma around it did, which is separate from the eye's existence.

Also, I think Oda tried to connect WCI's "too good to be true" theme with his writing of Pudding which is why he opted to reveal her trauma & her "evil" persona when he did & why her shift is so sudden. It's supposed to seem out of nowhere & feel like literally breaking the rose tinted glass. ... I'm pretty sure If we knew Pudding was faking from the get go the reaction to her flip flopping wouldn't be seen so negatively nor would it seem like it was unearned.

So, first off, that's two separate plot twists. A plot twist that reveals a new peril and a plot twist that solves a known peril are very different things. One complicates or extends the story, the other simplifies or reduces it.

Second: You are right that revealing Pudding's intentions to the audience before Sanji found out about them would change the audience's reaction to that knowledge. It would change "nothing, then shock" to "suspense, then catharsis". It's like Alfred Hitchcock's bomb analogy. If we know a bomb is gonna go off in five minutes, we spend those five minutes in suspense, waiting in fear fro the other shoe to drop. If we don't know anything, all we get is a brief moment of shock when Pudding reveals that her loyalty to Big Mom can be broken with a couple nice words.

Third, you're right that if Oda had established Pudding better, her heel-face turn wouldn't feel unearned. But he didn't actually do that. I'm not giving Oda credit for stuff that he didn't write.

It's really hard to go too into the 3rd eye thing without spoiling too much even for stuff beyond WCI, but I promise her getting terrorized for something so seemingly minuscule compared to the other weirdos of WCI is not just some last minute thing Oda gave her so she could have a sob story. Her 3rd eye isn't considered freaky because it's particularly ugly compared to other genetic variations, but because of the fact it's so rare.

Franky's Popeye forearms are even rarer, and he doesn't have a complex around them. Same deal with Usopp's nose and Django's fungus goatee and that CP9 guy with a zipper mouth and sphere body. One Piece is not the kind of place where you can assume freaks feel freakish.

Also, I'm not giving Oda credit for stuff that he didn't write before it was important. A deus ex machina is still a deus ex machina if you explain it a hundred chapters later; it's defined not by whether the author understands why it happened, but whether the audience understands why it happened.

They're both failed eugenics babies.

I do like that parallel between Sanji and Pudding, but again, Pudding doesn't receive enough development to make it really work for me. Sanji got whole chapters of flashback detailing his childhood abuse at the hands of Papa Vinsmoke; Pudding got a couple panels of Mama asking whether she'd awakened her third-eye sight and a couple panels (mid-breakdown) speedrunning exposition for why she has a complex around that third eye.

If we pretend that One Piece is a historical document with some truth behind it, we can infer that Pudding's childhood was as bad as Sanji's. But it isn't, so inferring things that the story never tells us doesn't add much. "Pudding and Sanji bond over their similar childhoods" is a cool premise for a fanfic, but it's not supported by the actual text.

So Sanji calling her beautiful & making her weep might seem stupid, but that single act of kindness made Pudding face reality.

Okay, so there are two problems here. The first is that Pudding's abuse isn't the kind of thing one kind act should be able to reverse, the second is that calling her beautiful is a really weaksauce act of kindness.

The second point is pretty obvious. It's a compliment, and a shallow compliment at that, from a man she was looking forward to murdering just thirty seconds prior. I want to say that it makes Pudding look comically vain, but in reality it makes Pudding look like a character whose actions are dictated by an author. (Obviously all One Piece characters are that, but Oda usually hides it better.)

The first...I kinda want to get into the psychology of abuse and cults of personality, how abusers and cult leaders get people to stay even when that's obviously against their best interest. But I've already spent way more time on Charlotte Pudding Discourse than I want to, so I'll just note that if Big Mom's serious negativity didn't push her out, Sanji can't pull her out with mild positivity.

She never actually had the intense desire to murder him.

The text does not remotely support this. Pudding displays an intense desire to murder Sanji, on several occasions, in as many words, sometimes for no clearly-stated reason but sometimes because of obvious character flaws that would make most women want to murder him at least a little.

Incidentally, that's from one chapter before the wedding. That's the second chapter I checked, after the chapter where Pudding cried because Sanji complimented her eye.

You can say that Pudding doesn't actually want to kill Sanji, but you'd be arguing against both Pudding's own thoughts and the visual language used to communicate them. (You see those expressions Pudding is making in the shaded panels? Pudding isn't actually making them. They're conveying the tone of Pudding's thoughts in a medium without voice actors to provide an audible tone.)

I don't think it's impossible that Pudding would have thoughts like these while on a deeper level wanting to spare Sanji, but I also don't think that deeper level is supported by the text. It doesn't contradict anything Oda wrote, but it's also not part of what Oda wrote.

So I don't really understand when anyone tries to say it makes no sense for her "loyalty" to her mother to get shaken up "just because a guy called her pretty" it's much more than that. Sanji calling her pretty didn't just stroke her ego it literally validated her right to be loved & accepted for the things she cannot nor shouldn't change about herself. Very similar to how Luffy constantly validates his crewmates btw.

In theory, all of that is true. On paper—the actual black-and-white pages of One Piece, whether on faded issues of Shonen Jump or the crisp precision of digital displays—it isn't there.

Luffy doesn't convince Nami to turn on Arlong with one panel of grabbing the knife she's stabbing her shoulder with. Nami's time with Arlong gets two whole chapters, not a few panels flashing back to Arlong's treatment of Coco Village and Nami after she breaks down and asks for help. This moment gets all the time it needs—the time to establish why Nami is working for Arlong despite everything he does, the time to establish why Nami feels like she must carry this burden on her own, why Luffy finally convinces her to let him help.

Robin's "I want to live!" gets even more. Her childhood abuse isn't alluded to with a few red-flag comments and her maternal figure's general vibes; we get two-thirds of a volume devoted to her backstory, plus her time under Crocodile. Convincing Robin that she is loved and deserves that love takes half of the Enies Lobby arc. And, I cannot stress this enough, half of the setup did not take place after the moment it was setting up. The payoff comes after the setup.

Now, I don't expect Pudding's arc to get that much time. Sanji convincing Pudding that she can be loved isn't as important as Luffy's part in the Straw Hats' character arcs; Luffy is a more important character than Sanji and Pudding is way less important than any of the Straw hats. But it needed more time than it got.

We can logically piece together plausible explanations for how Sanji could convince Pudding to not kill him. But character arcs need to work emotionally, not just logically, because that emotion is what makes the audience care about the characters. Also, we either needed a better explanation of why Pudding would care about Sanji complimenting her third eye before he does that. I cannot overemphasize how much worse Pudding's arc is for having those flashbacks come so late.

[squishoffgrandmas-ex]

long post about Rebels and my personal trauma below cut. The episode was amazing, guys

I don’t think I have any words to say. The rebels ending mural has been my home screen for five years.

The music, the people, the story.

it’s all been a part of my life for so long now.

I was in 6th grade when the show ended, and I was going through a really hard time. And Rebels kept me going. The way Kanan and Hera looked at each, Ezra and sabines banter, chopper the war criminal, Zeb and how he seemed to lose all brain cells when in the same room as Ezra.

I remember how much I daydreamed, that summer. I remember coming up with this whole storyline of how things could go. I picked the legends planet Sarkhai as my theory, I remember that much.

Rebels and SWTOR were my rocks, back then.

Last episode, everyone was saying how much lighter Ahsoka looked, like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. And… I felt like that too. Like seeing her forge herself again healed some fractured piece of my heart with shining gold.

And now, seeing the moment that I’ve hoped and dreamed out for five years, it’s… it’s everything I could have hoped for.

it’s a little whisper to that lost and hurt girl, saying I know it hurts. But you always knew there would be an end to the suffering, and now that end is here.

I’ve come a long way since then. I’m on medication for my OCD, which finally got a diagnosis. I used to be so paranoid at the thought of someone slipping medication into my food or drink that I refused to eat.

I’m back in school. I transferred for seventh grade, and I still remember on the car ride home from the first meeting, I was dreaming again. Thinking about where Ezra was, and how Sabine would find him.

I made it to December before I stopped going to school.

But now I’m back, and I’m a senior in high school! And I’m in drivers ed and I own more than two pairs of clothes and I’m taking back more and more of my life every day!

this isn’t some ‘Rebels guided me through all this.’ If anything helped me move forward, it was Solar Ash.

But Rebels was the teddy bear and blanket while a storm raged outside.

I stopped engaging with Star Wars almost entirely for around a year and a half when I realized that I was getting unhealthily obsessed with it, that was how much I leaned on rebels.

In the end, what Rebels is to me, is a reminder that the child I was isn’t gone. That I’m different now, and older, but my childhood hopes and dreams are still a part of me, and they can still come true.

this is… something completely disjointed that I probably shouldn’t be putting on the internet for privacy reasons, but I just needed to share, to spill it all out into the abyss.

I broke down ugly sobbing when I saw the first trailer, because we were going to find Ezra and why was it live action, why now it wouldn’t be the same people and they all looked wrong and sounded different.

But then I watched the first episode. I curled up on the couch with my friend and we held on to each other and screamed with joy more than once.

I was terrified because it was different, it wasnt that dream that I had held onto through my pain. And… it’s different. But the same. Like I am.

[denimbex1986]

A little bit over a week ago, Netflix released their adaptation of David Nicholl’s book One Day. As a fan of the novel and the panned 2011 film, I knew what to expect from the story of Emma Morley and Dexter Mayhew, which One Day follows over the course of eighteen years. While it might come as a surprise to the critics, the film adaptation had the potential to make me weep back in the day. Alas: when I watched Netflix’s rendition, the tears didn’t come. There were a few, but they weren’t the guttural sobs that I’d expected. I had the same experience with All of Us Strangers and The Iron Claw too. But scroll X or TikTok, and you’ll find that it’s quite the opposite for most viewers of these sad-centric media, with people describing themselves as “traumatised for life” and “choking on [their] own tears” in response to One Day alone. Was it a ‘me’ problem? Or is it that misery porn is at such a saturation point that I simply can’t withstand anymore?

“The way the iron claw broke me is insane [sic] definitely ugly crying at the moment, ” reads a tweet about A24’s flick on the Von Erich brothers. “I’m dead inside” reads one in response to Andrew Haigh’s All of Us Strangers. It’s safe to say that misery porn not only has the desired effect, but that people gobble that up. There’s no better illustration of that than the sheer amount of it. As well as those mentioned, last year saw a renewed interest in Hanya Yanagihara’s novel A Little Life, and recently we’ve been blessed (or cursed) with films like The Whale, Past Lives, and Close. While Hollywood execs aren’t going to slap it on their films anytime soon, misery porn is now almost a genre in itself...

And all of this comes at a time when we’re not only recognising our society-wide penchant for “yearning”, but wondering what it is exactly that we’re yearning for. Happiness would be an obvious answer to that question if it weren’t for the popularity of films like The Iron Claw and All of Us Strangers. With them in mind, it seems what we’re looking for is the experience of feelings, no matter how positive, negative, or how extreme. Given we’re all a bit numb – big chunks of our existence being mediated by phones and computer screens – that makes sense.

Essentially, we’re at a kind of crossroads with the genre. Still, what is it about the people, like myself, that don’t get a kick out of misery porn anymore? Some say that not crying at films makes you a bit of a weirdo. Some say it means you’re depressed. I’d hazard a guess that it’s down to the fact that, as I get older, I’m increasingly aware of the fantasy element of what I’m viewing. In this sense, you could argue that misery porn capitalises on a vulnerable audience that has something of a sell-by date...

But the idea that misery porn finds an audience unified by their shared vulnerability does tap into something important: that there’s ethical considerations that come with the genre. It’s a rhetoric that all the chatter around A Little Life comes to time and time again. Namely, is it okay to use trauma as entertainment? Or is it veering on the voyeuristic side of things? It’s a hard line of argument to pursue – you start getting bogged down with whether anyone can tell someone else if their art is appropriate – but it’s arguable that there’s a time and a place for misery porn. A landmark work of the genre, for example, might be something like Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. That feels off the table in terms of its supposed “value” as misery porn, because it was so seminal in exploring women’s mental health. The same might go for something like Ava Duvernay’s limited series When They See Us, which dramatised the events surrounding the central park five. It’s horrible to watch, but we need to see that.

Beyond that – and this is most definitely a ‘me’ problem – there’s something annoying about the inherent competitiveness of misery porn. The hordes of tweets with suicidal ideation and increasingly obscure clips… They’re grating. As it is when someone obnoxiously sniffs during the final moments of The Iron Claw. That’s no-one’s fault, per say. Directors like Andrew Haigh don’t set out to have their work diluted into a clip from Fleabag and the girl loudly weeping in the cinema is probably just responding to the Letterbox-ification of cinema in a broader sense. You haven’t watched a film unless it’s been recorded on an app, given an arbitrary rating… And sobbed because of it.

Where does all of this leave us? One thing’s for sure, and that’s that I don’t think we’ll see the back of misery porn anytime soon. That’s okay, though. These conversations are a testament to the fact that we’re increasingly conscious of who’s benefiting from the exploration of these hard-to-swallow subjects. With that, we might usher in audiences that find value outside the things that pluck at their heartstrings. While their online reception obscures it, there’s so much radical loveliness in films like The Iron Claw and a TV series like One Day. Both, in fact, are unified by their endeavour to represent the afterlife, which I’d argue is worth more merit than how much they make you cry...'

[idv-ask-the-showman]

{The First Bloodshed} I made a somewhat long story of how Sanity was awakened within Flynn. is not that good tbh but MEH!! TW:- MENTION OF MURDER AND IMAGERY OF BLOOD, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!

Two years… two years ever since Flynn had lost his older brother Phineas after discovering his dead burned body inside the sauna. To this day he is unable to forget the horrific state his dear older brother was in when finding him… He can even still hear his own horrified scream inside his head to this day and then just passed out to only wake up to be told that it was way too late to save Phineas and he had passed away. He desperately wanted this to be a lie and even one of Phineas' pranks even tho it was not funny at all… he refused to believe he lost him doing that whole week and kept saying that he is still alive and he would walk into his room any second to surprise him and then he can just hit Phineas on the head for this sick prank.

…

But he was forced to finally give up and believe the harsh reality that his brother was no longer around anymore and he will never be able to see him again when he finally stand before his grave when Phineas’s funeral was being held.

His world was completely shattered and whatever was left of his old self suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a shallow shell of who he used to be, he wasn’t even able to let a sob or a voice out doing the funeral and just tearfully watch as the coffin slowly being covered by dirt and buried alongside the graves of his parents… he is now but an orphan… no parents nor a brother to be with him… part of him just really wanna now join his family and leave this world that not even worth living anymore.

That was until he looked around and saw HIM… Bernard Morton, behind the crowd, as he watches alongside them the end of Phineas Smith’s journey in life, unlike the rest of the people who are crying and sorrowing his passing. Bernard can only smile wickedly while trying to hide his ugly smile with his hand to act as if he is also sobbing but Flynn can see throw his acts.

The feeling of depression and wanting to disappear immediately been replaced by anger and revenge, he KNOWS that Bernard was for sure behind his brother’s death and it is not just a stupid accident of a broken door as many believed. He swore after that day he would get revenge on Bernard Morton, he would expose his crimes to the world even if it is the last thing he would do.

Yet it is easier said than done… he was but a 9-year-old back then and his words hold no meaning to the adults around him even if he would try and beg them to believe that Bernard was a murderer, they would only think he lost it after Phineas’s death and just send him to the asylum and he does not want that… so he just hold his tongue and acted as normal as he can and just do as the adults tell him from taking medication and visiting a therapist and all that stuff that hardly helped him heal from the trauma.

The years passed and he still can hear the voices that started to appear in his head one by one and each of them is worst than the other. Yet that didn’t stop him from acting to the point of mastering it and also looking into his brother’s death case and trying to frame Bernard for his crimes not only against his brother but everyone.

Flynn even managed to hire a private detective to help him but to only be disappointed by the way this private detective acted and even still treat him as a child even tho he paid him way more than needed to help him and yet it was clear he did not take the case seriously and only wanted the money and when Flynn confronted him about it the private detective only smirk and told Flynn he can and will throw him to the asylum… he even had the audacity to say “a murder or not, who would care about a stupid showman’s death that happens two years ago?”

That was the final straw for Flynn… a snap was heard within him and all the voices in his head suddenly went quiet and a new one that sounded more sadistic and joyful talked to him and just told him “If you want something done right, do it yourself~”… truly he can never trust anyone… and he can not risk going to the asylum when he still has unfinished business to do and so he just smiles to the detective and walked away.

—A Week Later: 2:45AM—

When the moonlight is covered by dark clouds and only a small part of it can light the sky bright. The detective that once threatened Flynn was walking back to his apartment yet it seem he was drunk and took a different longer route to his home in a dark alley within an abandoned area.

While walking in this dark alley, he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps coming forward towards him from the end of the long alley… it was a short figure of someone that wears a dark rope that cover his head and cloves with a white mask that covered their face as well. The detective was way too drunk to realize the danger and so he just called out for this person to approach him and that is what the unknown person just did. Slowly walked towards the detective only to soon started to dash fast towards him and pulled a big kitchen knife from god knows where and tried to stab the detective but the detective managed in the last second to avoid the attack when he saw the knife but still got injured.

That led to a heated fight, the unknown person started to attack fast and flexibly while the detective try to shoot them with his gun and yet it did not help he was drunk so he kept missing all the shots while the unknown person keeps landing hits on him.

Finally, the detectives managed to shoot the left arm of the unknown person that trying to kill him, leading them to almost scream in pain before holding it back. The detective takes advantage of this and hits the person on the face with their mask still on and which made the mask break and finally shows who keeps trying to kill him—

It was of course none other than Flynn Smith.

The fact it was Flynn, an 11-Year-old kid who he thought was but a crybaby who is unable to move from his brother’s death is the one that tried to kill him was enough to make him freeze in place in pure shock and Flynn just take this chance and attack and finally stab the detective in the chest and made him fall to the ground.

Before he know it he find himself keep stabbing the detective many times… 47 times… all the while a blank unreadable face was on his face.

Finally after awhile he stopped the stabbing and got up while panting heavily and just looked down at the corpse before him and then at the knife in his hand. He kept looking back and forth between those two to realize what he just did and slowly started to smile and an overwhelming feeling of joy yet confusion started to rise within him that he couldn’t help but let a huge screaming laughter that was more like a bloody scream then a laugh out in pure joy

“That was… FUN”

That was the first thing Flynn… no… Sanity said after finally being awakened and in control within Flynn's body. He enjoyed this way too much that he found it sad it had to end fast. Still, oh well~ at least it seems that this part of the town is so abandoned that nobody even heard all the commotion and screaming that was happening here so far he can make quick work on getting rid of the body or at least make it so it look like a dog attacks him or something.

And just like that… Sanity take care of the rest and manage to hide the body so well that to this day nobody able to find it at all and he make sure all evidence are destroyed that may link to him.

Of course, Flynn was not that happy with what he had done, he was not even sure what provoked him to do that or even think this was a good idea but he knew that he could only not just blame himself for this but also mainly blame the new voice that suddenly appeared within him that seems to be different from the rest given it has its own consciousness.

But one thing is for sure… this wouldn’t be the last time something like that would happen and only more victims would die by his hands if he is not careful with Sanity.

-End

(Fun fact:- the bullet that was shit at Flynn’s arm is still inside him to this day~)

[finalexit]

The Most Familiar Sound (A TanZen Fanfic)

As Tanjirou attempts to manage his trauma, Zenitsu finds the strength to comfort him in all the ways he wishes someone would do for him. When he least expects it, Tanjirou decides to return the favor, and together, they unravel Zenitsu's unsavory view of himself.

"There was no one in the world who would waste their time comforting someone as low as him."

Can also be read over at ao3!

There was nothing particularly special about that day, so Tanjirou’s abrupt silence seemed very out-of-place. While Tanjirou wasn’t speaking, though, Zenitsu could still hear him. His heart rate was faster than normal, even when taking into account their time actively fighting demons. The only times that his heart rate was that quick and that loud were when Nezuko was in immediate danger. So... that was worrying.

And it’s not just that his pulse was loud -- it was unbearable. The inescapable sound seemed to echo within the confines of Zenitsu’s head, trapping him in the assaultive wave of Tanjirou’s adrenaline. He felt his stomach turn, and he listened (with dread) as his own pulse began to join in with Tanjirou’s, discordant, asynchronous, too much.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. Normally, he wouldn’t be able to catch this crescendo of thrums until it was too late, until his head was aching and even the throbs would join in on the cacophony, leaving Zenitsu trembling, tearful, and often times incapacitated. He slowly let his breath pass back out, again through his teeth. Though he was somewhat (read as: very) used to passing out, he didn’t want to keep being a burden on the people around him. Again and again, he’d lose consciousness, and again and again, his teammates would have to pick up the pieces for him. Without him. But not anymore.

At least, he hoped not. As his heart rate slowed to something more gentle, more manageable, he noted that this situation wasn’t exactly dire. Tanjirou and Zenitsu were sitting side by side on the tatami in Hisa’s house after acquiring a new set of injuries that would need weeks to heal. So, if Zenitsu were to pass out, it’s not as if it would really matter. He took comfort in that thought, and his pulse finally reached normalcy. Things were fine. He was fine.

He turned his attention to Tanjirou, whose heart was still hammering in his chest. What’s his deal? Needless to say, it was unusual for anyone to be as overwhelmingly anxious as Zenitsu, and it was even more unusual that Zenitsu was the (relatively) relaxed one in literally any situation (because how relaxed can you really be when you’re never afforded a moment of silence?). He smiled at the role reversal, and, overcome with a misplaced sense of pride, clapped Tanjirou on the back, exclaiming, “What’s up, Ta • n • ji • ro • u?”

Because of this sudden positive spike in mood, he wrapped his arm around Tanjirou, expecting some reciprocation of affection. Or, much more realistically, some blanching in response to his touch. What he did not -- could not -- expect was Tanjirou’s shuddering breath as he turned toward Zenitsu and sobbed into his sleeve.

He tensed at this before gently, and awkwardly, patting Tanjirou lightly on the back. What the hell am I supposed to do??? What is this situation?? Zenitsu was usually (always) the most socially conscious person of the threesome, though that wasn’t saying much when his competition was (innocent, naïve, adorably oblivious) Tanjirou and (fucking insane) Inosuke. He was reasonably able to read the room, but that did not prepare him for this. He had never needed to console anyone before, and it’s not like he had any experience receiving that care, so he had no example for how to properly handle this. But… it was Tanjirou, and if anyone was deserving of some comforting, it was him. Of course, it was him.

“Hey… um. Are you okay?” Good. Simple. Easy. He could handle this.

He jumped as Tanjirou sobbed in response. Ok. Not good. Not simple. Not easy. He could not handle this. No, he had to. Tanjirou deserved someone who could handle this, and there was no one else here to be that for him.

“Talk to me.” He fully turned to Tanjirou, wrapping his other arm around him firmly. Gently. He hoped.

Tanjirou took another shuddering breath, attempting to gather himself, before giving up and burying his face in Zenitsu’s shoulder. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

Zenitsu snorted. “Seriously? This is ‘fine?’” He knew that laughing probably was not the right move here, but it was hard to resist. It would be like Zenitsu claiming that he was calm while perpetually being on the brink of an anxiety attack. Who would ever believe that?

Tanjirou sighed and pulled away, arms still clinging to Zenitsu, now able to look him in the eye. Zenitsu wished he hadn’t. He watched the tears fall away only to be replaced by an identical stream of more tears. He watched Tanjirou’s lip twitch, his face crumble, his hiccupping attempts at breathing normally. His stomach churned and nausea perched at the back of his throat. Since when was watching someone cry this painful? He sensed that his own eyes were threatening to gloss over, and he inhaled sharply. Hedid not want his own dam to burst. Not now. Not when Tanjirou needed him to be the rock for once.

He straightened his posture and blinked the tears away. Tanjirou, seeming not to have noticed this moment of weakness, glanced downward (thank god) and decided to chance another attempt at speaking.

“I really am okay. Nothing’s… nothing’s wrong. I just got a small cut and... blood -- human blood -- hurts.” He must’ve noticed Zenitsu’s eyebrow raise because he quickly continued on. “It’s, like. It just-- When I smell it, I panic. Sometimes it’s not that bad. Most of the time, I use Total Concentration Breathing and that centers me. But sometimes it doesn’t, and I’m back on the mountain running to my house, seeing the blood, seeing my family--”

His voice cracked, and he couldn’t suppress the onslaught of ensuing sobs. It was bordering on hysterical, which would’ve been more concerning had Tanjirou not reigned it back in as quickly as it had begun. “Seeing my family…”

“I know,” Zenitsu said, when Tanjirou gave no sign of continuing. He pulled him closer, as awkward as that felt, and rubbed his back. This was what he would want to be done for him. This was what he wanted to be done for him. He craved the proximity and warmth of another person, but he wished for it to be accompanied with gentleness instead of the aggression he’d usually receive close contact with. He resisted the impulse to whimper, as Tanjirou’s tears were still tugging at him, painfully close to ripping his heart right out of him. Instead, he rested one hand on Tanjirou’s head and laced his fingers slowly through his hair.

Zenitsu tried to think of other things he’d want done for him, other things he could do for Tanjirou in turn. What did he usually imagine? His grandpa hugging him closely? Check. Running his hands through his hair? Check. Telling him that things would be okay, that he would be okay, that he was okay the way he was (because “perfect” would be a huge stretch), that-

“Thank you,” Tanjirou said, barely above a whisper. Zenitsu could hear the grief clinging onto his words, dragging them down, filling them with a tearfulness that he was all too familiar with. Zenitsu nodded in response, though he wasn’t sure if Tanjirou could even tell.

“Of course… anytime. You’re always there for me, anyway.” He smiled, a private smile meant for no one’s eyes, as he recalled all of the times Tanjirou afforded him a small pat on the back whenever he was panicking. It didn’t always happen -- there wasn’t always time anyway -- so the times that it did occur, Zenitsu tried to soak it up. In those moments, he wanted to lean into Tanjirou, cling to his checkered sleeves, and let the tears fall as he would rest his head in the crook of his neck. Obviously, he could never do that, and he was beyond embarrassed each time the thought, that imagery, flickered behind his eyes. As nice as it was. As much calm as it brought him. As much as something inside of him needed desperately for it to happen.

Tanjirou broke away once again, this time with a relaxed smile on his face. Well that was quick. “Yeah. Yeah! You already know I’d do the same for you.”

He did not anticipate the violent clench of his stomach. He turned away, aware of how conspicuous this sudden change must’ve been. But he had to look away because he did not know how to stop himself from freezing over, how to stop the frost that originated in his ribcage from spreading elsewhere. Spreading everywhere. He was turning to ice inside and out, the muscles of his back (and legs and arms and chest and-) abnormally tensed, and he knew Tanjirou had probably already noticed… But he also did not know how to change that. The most he could manage by way of calming himself was a shallow breath, in and out, before his face was in his hands and tears were spilling over them.

Because he knew Tanjirou wouldn’t do the same for him. No one would. He could laugh at the absurdity of the notion, but the assertion was way too cruel. There was no one in the world who would waste their time comforting someone as low as him.

He tried, once more, to pull himself together but was startled by a nearby sound. What is that? Eyes still closed and still buried in his hands, he tried to locate the sound. It was close. It was loud. Oh, it’s a voice. With a jolt, he realized that it was his voice, and that he was sobbing. Not just sobbing but wailing. He listened as the cries clumsily raised in pitch over and over, cracking at each peak before dropping drastically again. It was chilling that something so ugly could be coming out of him. Horror crept over him as he noted the growing distance between himself and his crying. He was right there. But he was far away. He was sitting next to Tanjirou. But it wasn’t him sitting there, it was just someone who looked like him. What is going on?

Something about this was ironic, probably. This was the first time he’d ever gotten any respite from the din of sound that typically plagued him. He could hear his voice, yes, and he could hear Tanjirou saying something, but it was as if he was hearing everything from behind a thick wall of glass. And wasn’t that a sort of peace? Something he had always wanted, whether he admitted it to himself or not? He waited for relief to crash over him, to feel renewed by this newfound quiet, but part of him knew that he was awaiting something that would never come. Instead, the sense of eeriness that was already present seeped into him, dribbling into the crevices that existed between the plates of ice within him. Maybe this would be nice if it wasn’t so alien.

Then, all at once, it stopped. With Tanjirou’s warmth encasing him, he was forcibly dragged back into his own body, the ice falling away and crashing down at his feet almost instantly. He sat still for a moment while he tried to recover from the suddenness of the moment. It was hard to parse where he had just gone and how long it had been. It felt like he had been alone, locked away in some other dimension, for hours. But he got the sense that it had only been a few seconds or a few minutes at most. He kept his gaze lowered and locked on his hands in an effort to steady himself as he tried to gather the rest of the present situation. Like… why he was so wet (wow, he was drenched in sweat) or why he was shaking so severely (when was the last time he had trembled this much?) or why he-

“Hey, talk to me” He startled at Tanjirou’s voice. Right, Tanjirou was there. And Tanjirou was… at his side with his arms wrapped around his shoulders and his large sleeves blanketing him in an embrace. Huh? He blinked as he tried to process this. Huh? Another second passed, and he still didn’t quite underst-

“HUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH???????????”

Tanjirou jumped at the exclamation, eyes searching wildly for some reason Zenitsu would be screaming (not that he ever needed much of a reason). “What?? What’s wrong?? What happen-”

“YOU’RE HUGGING ME!”

Tanjirou hurriedly released his grip on Zenitsu. “Sorry!! You were just hugging me??? So I-”

“DON’T LET GO, IDIOT! HUG ME AGAIN!!!”

It was clear that Tanjirou probably would’ve preferred to back away slowly at this point, but he resumed his embrace, this time with some trepidation.

“HARDER!!!” With that, he tightened his hold. There was a moment of uncomfortable stillness wherein both held their position without even so much as a twitch. And then Zenitsu shifted in his arms, seemingly uncertain, before slowly returning the hug. He crept closer to gingerly rest his head on Tanjirou’s shoulder. Tanjirou had already pulled away once, and the idea that he would do something to make Tanjirou retract his warmth again was buzzing between his ears as he worked to restrain himself.

What he wanted to do was fling his arms around Tanjirou and just fall apart within the security of his presence because he knew he was always safe there. But that… who would want that from him? Who would even be able to tolerate that from him? He wanted this with too much fervor, and he had no choice but to reel it in because he was Zenitsu and if someone was willing to be there for him, he could not ruin it by being too much. By being himself. That was too much to ask anyone to sit through.

Once his head landed on Tanjirou’s shoulder, though, his resolve broke. Well... he was never under the illusion that he was strong, anyway. He let his body sink into Tanjirou, dig into him, and he briefly wondered how it would feel to melt into Tanjirou. To be part of him. To not be himself for even just a couple of minutes. Then he wouldn’t have to face the wall of sound that seemed to press into his ears, surrounding him on all sides. He imagined somehow extricating himself from this wall (if only it truly was tangible, perhaps he could’ve sliced his way out) and hearing nothing. Or whatever someone with a normal capacity for hearing would hear. Maybe his own breathing, the light breeze licking at their faces from the open door, the creak of the house settling every now and then…

As much as he wanted to immerse himself in this daydream, he felt that something vital was missing from it. He pondered over this, searching for what could possibly be lacking. What more would he need when all he ever wanted was to know what “silence” really meant? As he inhaled, breathing in the scent of Tanjirou’s freshly washed hair (in a totally normal way that wasn’t weird), he realized all at once what it was.

Tanjirou’s sound.

Right. Of course. It was hard to imagine living without Tanjirou’s sound now. He listened closer to the the gentle flow of Tanjirou’s blood in his veins, the rhythmic thump thump thump of his heart, the musicality of his thoughts (how was it possible for Tanjrou’s thoughts to harmonize so pleasantly when his own were so discordant?). Even when Tanjirou had been panicking, the melody of his nerves was almost beautiful in retrospect. It seemed laughable that he had been so overwhelmed by Tanjirou’s sonorous heartbeats earlier when he was now aching for it. He wanted to be consumed by it. Forget his previous fantasy -- his new ideal world was one inwhich Tanjirou’s sound was the only thing he could hear. That would be enough.

“You know how blood ‘hurts’ you? That’s how it is for me with hearing. But, like, with almost everything. It’s not any individual sound usually -- it’s just… There are so many sounds. It hurts.” He felt pathetic admitting this. He knew, he had always known, that he should only feel grateful for his heightened sense. What demon slayer wouldn’t want something that could afford them more awareness? Every possible advantage mattered when your enemies were often much stronger, faster, and more durable than you could ever hope to be. But he was a human before he was a demon slayer, if he could even call himself that, and he didn’t know any human strong enough to handle this without going insane. If there was ever a time before his hearing grew so sharp, too sharp, he didn’t remember it. But, whatever he was like then, his hearing had reduced him to the bundle of nerves that he was now.

“I should be able to handle it, but I can’t. Big surprise.” He chuckled bitterly at this before continuing, “It’s like… I know that no one else would be able to deal with this either, right? I mean, you’re not supposed to be able to hear every strand of hair raise on someone’s arm when they get chills, right? Or hear each individual muscle in someone’s body contract, right? But still, I-”

Tanjirou pulled away in surprise, perhaps to get a better look at Zenitsu’s face, but Zenitsu tugged him forward again. He knew that he must’ve been balling Tanjirou’s clothes in his fists by this point, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was unraveling in front of Tanjirou’s eyes, and he just didn’t care anymore. He didn’t need to be liked, he just needed to be held.

“Wait, you really hear all that?” Tanjirou had already given up on trying to look at Zenitsu face to face and had settled on patting his head lightly. “You really hear that much? All the time?” That sounded… devastating. Sure, Tanjirou had his sense of smell, but he didn’t necessarily mind its strength. When he was confronted with the familiar copper of blood or when an unpleasant odor clung to the air and every inhale through his nose polluted his mouth and lungs, it… sucked to say the least. But he could run away, theoretically. He could run away and smell something else, something pleasing or at the very least neutral. But could Zenitsu do the same?

“Is that why you’re always so....” Tanjirou paused, wondering how to put this delicately. He had never viewed Zenitsu as cowardly or weak, but it was beyond apparent that Zenitsu did, and he didn’t want to reinforce that. But it was true that Zenitsu was constantly anxious. “...on edge?” He felt the boy nod. “That sounds hard.” He winced at his own understatement but was met with a whimper from Zenitsu.

“It is,” he said, his voice fragile and so so quiet. When Zenitsu cried or worried aloud, it was usually ear-piercing at best, so this was new. Different. And, though it was considerably much easier on the ears, it was hard not to be concerned by the disparity. He wished, ardently, that he could jump into Zenitsu’s mind and see through his eyes. Listen through his ears. Tanjirou had always considered himself empathetic, and others’ emotions would typically be laid out in front of him as plainly as if their feelings had been written on their foreheads. But, if Zenitsu was struggling so much this whole time, and he had no idea, then he could only imagine what emotion could render Zenitsu so frighteningly quiet.

His chest tightened at the thought. He knew grief. He knew pain. He knew fear. While he was occasionally afforded brief reprieves from these things, they normally weighed heavily on him from the moment he woke up to the moment he drifted off to sleep. And sometimes even during sleep, when he’d watch grossly distorted versions of the one event he could never shake away. He wasn’t there when his family was slaughtered, and yet what occurred in his childhood home while he was away was all he could think of. It hurt that he couldn’t have been there with them. It was somewhat of a moot point considering he couldn’t reverse time and, even if he could, he most likely would’ve died among the rest of his family anyway. Except Nezuko. She would’ve been left alone, then, and that was the only thought that could convince him that dying that day wouldn’t have been preferable.

He shook the thought away. This was too dark. The point was… he knew grief and he knew pain and he knew fear. And yet, the thought of Zenitsu carrying similar baggage scared him. He could’ve been carrying something heavier. He could’ve been carrying it for longer. He could’ve even been carrying it alone, with no one there to share the load. He had Nezuko, and he had the comfort of knowing they could always, and would always, grieve together. Who did Zenitsu have?

“I’m so sorry. I wish I could take that away from you.” His lips pressed together, holding back everything he could say but shouldn’t. Like, if he could somehow switch senses with Zenitsu, smell for hearing, he would. Like, if he could go back in time, maybe instead of using that power to die alongside his family, he would instead use it to meet Zenitsu earlier and carry this burden with him. Like, if he could sit here cradling Zenitsu forever, he really would. And it felt so wrong that he could do none of these things. What use was any of his training if he couldn’t do something as simple and as necessary as that?

The two proceeded to say nothing in the coming minutes as Tanjirou found himself lost in thought, the only notable noise being the rustling of their clothes as they adjusted positions to hold each other closer. Zenitsu broke the silence by asking, “Do you know what you sound like?”

Tanjirou’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What he sounds like? “What do I sound like?” He didn’t quite understand what Zenitsu meant by this, but inquired all the same, figuring that Zenitsu’s answer would contextualize the question.

He didn’t expect the affection in Zenitsu’s voice as he said, “You sound like… a sunny day. Blue skies, fluffy white clouds, you know…” Tanjirou’s hearing was no match for Zenitsu’s, but he didn’t need heightened senses to hear the smile in Zenitsu’s voice. He suddenly was very grateful that they couldn’t see each other, as he could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and creeping along the rims of his ears. Though, he had to wonder if Zenitsu could hear even that?

He opened and shut his mouth a few times as he fished for an adequate reply, but Zenitsu saved him the trouble by continuing on. “That’s why… even though it hurts to hear so much all the time, I guess I’m actually kind of thankful for it too. Like, I knew I could trust you because all I had to do was listen, y’know?” Tanjirou smiled at the admission. He did know. It was the same for him. One sniff was enough to confirm that Zenitsu was kind and strong and intuitive and- But he had already told Zenitsu this months prior, and all he had received in response was, “No, I’m not strong. Don’t give me that,” so he wondered whether it was worth mentioning again or not. He decided that if it could soothe his friend at all, it would be worth it, and he relayed the message again.

He felt Zenitsu’s back stiffen at his words, which hadn’t been entirely unexpected. He recalled the prior experience, wherein Zenitsu’s demeanor had taken a dramatic shift. He hadn’t understood why then, and he couldn’t say he really understood why now either.

“Please. Not right now.” Zenitsu’s posture seemed to slowly relax again, slumping forward into Tanjirou. “Don’t lie. Just-”

Tanjirou ripped Zenitsu away from him, and he realized that it was probably a bit too forceful when he saw Zenitsu wince at the contact. But his heart was speeding up and he felt like he had to do something because how could Zenitsu really think this is a lie? He had always suspected that Zenitsu’s self-esteem was low, but it seemed bizarre that he could genuinely have absolutely no faith in himself. “I would never lie, Zenitsu! Not about this or about anything else! Isn’t that obvious?” He noted that maybe he was being too loud.

He stared intently at Zenitsu as he awaited an answer, though it was clear Zenitsu didn’t have one prepared. His lip quivered, and Tanjirou felt his stomach sink as Zenitsu’s face fell. He marveled at how far down a stomach could fall. There it was, by his feet, There it was, disappearing into the earth below. There it was, steadily making its way to the earth’s core -- all occurring as Zenitsu spoke his next words.

“Stop, seriously… I know already. I know what kind of person I am.” Again, that bitter laugh along with an irritatingly dismissive tone. Something about this was just so wrong. Why was Zenitsu putting on a front all of a sudden? And why did it hurt so much more that Tanjirou could see through it clear as day. There was nothing Zenitsu could do to mask the fragility of his voice except hope that it wouldn’t break, and something about that made Tanjirou’s throat tighten.

“I don’t know why you’re friends with me, or if you even consider me a friend, but I already know what I’m like. And I’m not… any of the things you say that I am. Maybe you’re just being nice? You’re the kindest person I know, so I guess it does kinda make sense that you would say all that. But I don’t get why you’re going out of your way to comfort me. That’s too nice. You don’t have to push yourself.” The dismissal was gone from his tone, replaced with… was it sadness? Shame? Tanjirou sensed some longing too, though that seemed out of place amongst the array of emotional wounds, all of which were raw and greatly needing someone to tend to them.

“It just… Please don’t anymore. All it does is hurt because I know it’s not real.” Zenitsu had scooted backwards, away from him, by this point, so he looked down at his now empty hands. Guilt over the rashness of his initial reaction weighed on him, gluing his legs to the floor beneath him. It had startled him, at first, to be confronted with the possibility that his friend thought so low of him that he’d mistrust his words. But he realized, then, that it wasn’t him Zenitsu thought poorly of. It was Zenitsu himself.

He watched tear drops land on the back of hands, but he didn’t attempt to stop them. How could he have been so blind -- so stupid -- to not see it until now? Zenitsu didn’t just have poor self-esteem. He didn’t just underestimate his abilities. He hated himself. He couldn’t imagine a world wherein someone would truly value him. Every time he rushed to Tanjirou’s side for protection, it was because he could not fathom even the slightest possibility that he might be competent despite how many demons he had proven himself capable of defeating.

Something about this hurt worse than Zenitsu freezing up or crying in his arms. If Zenitsu really believed these things about himself, and likely believed it for much longer than Tanjirou had known him, was there anything he could do? What, really, could be said to change Zenitsu’s mind when he was clearly so resolute and so resigned to this image of himself. There was so much powerlessness there, and it was choking Tanjirou into silence. He thought that he had left this feeling behind, that as long as he worked hard, there wasn’t any situation he couldn’t surmount. It was something he held onto during the most challenging battles, yet it was quietly dissipating between his fingers now. How could life-threatening situations feel so easy when compared to what should’ve been a simple talk with a friend? How?

He had to remind himself that it wasn’t a matter of whether he could or couldn’t -- he had to reach Zenitsu. His friend was shouldering such a dark inner world, and there was no way he was going to leave him in there alone. He grabbed both of Zenitsu’s hands in his, and searched his eyes. Zenitsu’s gaze wouldn’t meet his, though, so he urged, “Look at me,” to which Zenitsu acquiesced. It made something in his chest squeeze to see the fear and the overwhelming shame behind his friend’s eyes. What did the world do to him? And what could he do to make up for it?

“Zenitsu, even if you don’t believe that you’re a admirable person, please at least believe that I would never lie to you. I can’t make you see yourself differently - I know that. I know that’s too much to ask of you right now. I just need you to trust in my honesty. And if you can’t then…” He paused for a moment, racking his brain, before delightedly exclaiming, “Wait! Sometimes, if I hone in on someone’s scent, I can tell if they’re being truthful or not. Can you do that with your hearing?” Zenitsu nodded hesitantly. “Then, listen to me, and you can judge for yourself whether or not I’m lying, okay?” Zenitsu nodded once again, and Tanjirou breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that he wasn’t lying, and soon Zenitsu would know too.

“I’ll start by saying that we are friends. I considered you a friend ever since you protected Nezuko’s box… And I really do believe that you’re strong -- I’ve seen enough to prove that to be true. And… funny! And smart! And really really brave!” He had worked himself into a frenzy, his speech coming much faster and louder, and he was making no effort to stop himself from beaming. Zenitsu’s face, on the other hand, was almost comically downtrodden, practically screaming “Stop messing with me,” though he had enough restraint to let Tanjirou continue without interruption.

“I really mean it! I mean, when you think about it, bravery isn’t about not being afraid. It’s about being afraid and doing what you need to do anyway. You’ve been terrified for so long, right? And yet you’ve trained, and you’ve become a demon slayer, and you’ve done so many missions already. Isn’t that impressive in its own way? When fear is constantly telling you to run and hide instead?” Tanjirou watched Zenitsu react to this and, while he still clearly wasn’t convinced, he did seem to be taking Tanjirou’s words into more careful consideration.

“Okay. But I still don’t get why you’re going so far for me. Why did you hug me… why did you let me hug you?” He could tell Zenitsu was asking this in earnest, and Tanjirou wanted to respond in kind, but he was just so confused. What did he even mean? Why did he hug him? What else would he have had him do? Tanjirou supposed that he could’ve fed him some onigiri like the first -- second -- time they met. Should he have done that? But didn’t Zenitsu tell him to keep hugging him? So then… Huh?

“You wanted a hug, and I wanted to hug you? And before that, when I was upset, I wanted a hug, and I’m guessing you wanted to hug me? Isn’t that normal?” Was he missing something?

“You wanted to hug me?”

“Yes.”

“You swear?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t out of obligation?”

“It was not.”

“Pity?”

“No.”

Zenitsu looked about as mind-boggled as Tanjirou felt by this point. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

Zenitsu opened his mouth to answer but hesitated. Tanjirou watched the progression of emotions on his face -- the sadness, the disgust (why disgust?), the attempt to recollect himself, the inevitable return to sadness. Now that he knew there was more to Zenitsu than he had previously known, he was tuned in. It was perplexing to him that his sharp nose and intuition could’ve somehow missed all of this to begin with. But, he considered the very real possibility that it was only so apparent now because Zenitsu was no longer hiding it. Whatever the reason, he was glad to understand more about his friend. Even if that meant feeling his insides contort in commiseration each time he had to confront the fact that Zenitsu was just a tumultuous ball of self-hatred.

“It is hard to believe, yeah. I don’t really know how to explain it. But I know you’re telling the truth -- I don’t have to listen for it. I trust that you’re being honest. I guess it’s just weird, you know? It feels weird to be held like that after not being held for 16 years.”

Tanjirou blinked. Wait. But “Aren’t you 16?”

“Yeah.”

“And you haven’t been held like that in 16 years?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m the first one?”

“From what I can remember at least.”

“HUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH???????????????” Tossing all etiquette aside, he grasped his friend and roughly pulled him into an embrace, all but dragging the boy into his lap. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?? We have to make up for all the lost time!!”

Zenitsu snorted at that. “Do you know how much we’d have to hug to do that?”

“I’ll do it.” He nodded to himself. “No matter how much!”

He sensed his friend tensing up against him once again, huffing a laugh into his neck. With some uncertainty, he asked, “But seriously… Would you- Can I ask you for a hug sometimes? Not a lot! Just sometimes. Occasionally. Every once in a-”

“Of course, Zenitsu. Ask me for a hug anytime. You don’t have to hold back.” He thought better of this before adding, “Well, if we’re fighting a demon, maybe don’t. But, any other time.”

“Then can we just stay like this for a while longer?”

Tanjirou felt a smile emerge. “Yeah. No problem.”

“And umm... can I cry?”

It was Tanjirou’s turn to snort. “Since when do you ask for permission?” He felt Zenitsu giggling at this, at the irony of such a question. He couldn’t stop himself from joining in, at first doing his best to contain it to a chuckle, but almost immediately failing. He threw his head back and laughed openly, Zenitsu’s snickering only egging it on. They sat there, holding each other, shaking against one another with unrestrained mirth, for way too long. Every time it would die down, one of them would inevitably succumb to another fit of giggles, and the other would laugh along.

Once the laughter died down for good, Zenitsu sighed and drooped onto Tanjirou, finally seeming to relax. The hilarity of the moment prior stood in stark contrast to the howling that began then. Much like earlier, Zenitsu’s cries were loud and so pained. He closed his eyes as he listened to his friend and felt the sound reverberate through his body until it felt as if he might be the one hollering instead. He wanted to cry as that familiar desire to take Zenitsu’s pain away returned. When he paused, though, he recalled Zenitsu’s words. That Tanjirou sounded like a sunny day. That he was glad he had his heightened sense of hearing for that reason. The heartfelt sentiment that he didn’t want this to be taken away from him.

Maybe he didn’t need to take anything away from Zenitsu. Maybe it was enough to be sitting in each other’s arms. Maybe it was enough that Zenitsu finally believed there was someone on this earth he would hold him like this. Maybe it was enough that they could carry their burdens together.

He let a tear drop onto Zenitsu’s shoulder as a smile spread across his face. Yeah. There was no maybe. This was enough.

[hieludoboi]

In Our Next Life

A/n- I really should be writing my Daichi series but I got the idea to write this after reading the most recent chapter of BNHA

A/n- Damn, this is kinda a little bit of word vomit, but like that’s okay :’)

Pairing- Dabi/Fem!Reader

Summary-If not in this life, then the next, right?

Warnings- Abuse, Major Character Death, Endeavor, a little bid of blood? pretty violent, fighting and war, SPOILERS FOR MY HERO ACADEMIA CHAPTER 290

Y/n hated hero society. That much she knew. She often wondered how life was before quirks came to be. As a little girl, she would sit between her grandmother’s legs, mouth open in awe as stories of a time not her own were recounted to her, becoming reality on the tongue of her dreams. She wished she had been born in those times. No quirk, no corruption, no child soldiers… Y/n would often sit and wonder if maybe life could have been different in those times. Maybe her mother would have cared, would have loved her, and nurtured her instead of forcing her to grow her quirk until she became an unrecognizable monster when she looked in the mirror.

“We’ll prove ‘em wrong. Right, Touya?” Y/n mumbled to herself, her fingers clutching onto the small wooden frame that sat on her nightstand. She would become the hero her mother never could and avenge Touya. She would do anything for him.

———————————————

“Momma! Momma, I can’t!” Y/n screamed, face twisted in agony as the scarlet flames scorched at her face and skin, charring the flesh that was desperately trying to regenerate. Her hands fisted as much as they could into loose concrete, her delicate nails splintering against grey floors of stone and splattering them cherry red. She could barely see, the world around her blanketed in white except for his warm puddles of eyes.

 Touya was being restrained by Y/n’s mother, his legs kicking and thrashing about as he tried to claw his way out of the woman’s vice-like grip. Touya’s wailing and Y/n’s guttural screams joined each other’s in harmony, producing an ugly duet. It was dissonant, clashing against each other as it got swept up in swarming summer winds. Y/n wondered if this was what hell felt like. A never-ending inferno of red’s and oranges, mocking a pretty sunset with its demonic hues. She wondered if Touya’s sobs would play on repeat in her head for the rest of her life…

“Stop! Enji! Stop!” Y/n had got lost amongst the wires of time, not realizing that Fuyumi had run to get Rei in the disarray of chaos that they had trapped her in. And suddenly the flames had stopped, and Rei was kneeling beside her, letting frost roam over the charred body of the ten-year-old girl before her. A head of white was all she could see for a moment, and then Touya’s graying head popped up from behind his mother’s shoulder, begging to be let closer.

 Brown and blue, those hues brought so much comfort to her.Rei wiped her eyes, gently cradling Y/n and Touya’s bodies against her chest, enveloping them in a sheet of frost and comfort. It took a moment, but Y/n’s quirk eventually kicked in on its own, regenerating skin cells and tissue, restoring lost hair and patches of skin. At that point, Y/n knew that hell was Enji Todoroki.

————————————

“I’m sorry. He’s gone…” Fuyumi and Natsuo were the ones to give her the news. First, Rei was taken away, then Touya? God, Y/n was having the worst year of her life. She should have cried, she wanted to, and though her face contorted and her body heaved and shook with sobs, tears never fell. Tear ducts. They were the one thing that she could never regenerate.

Natsuo had held her as she sobbed into his shoulder, Fuyumi somewhere in the kitchen preparing a meal for them. Though they loved their brother dearly, they knew that Y/n and Touya’s connection went beyond theirs. They shared pain, abuse, and trauma that no one in their home could ever begin to comprehend.

“Please. Please take care of Shouto. He’ll do the same thing to him, and-” Y/n could feel the bile rising in her throat, burning her esophagus as she ran to the restroom. Her mother had died long ago in battle, and though she was free from their clutches, even though she was now alone to do what she pleased, the cinders of dully lit embers still prickled her skin. No amount of regeneration could get rid of the subtle scars that sat atop her skin, the burns from both Enji's and Touya’s flames being too much for her body to ever begin to handle.

—————————————-

Being a hero should have been the last thing she wanted to be, but here she was, hero suit and all, sat in a plush and comfy chair as she explained the basics of her quirk to the man who had been interviewing her. After all these years, she was sitting at Endeavor’s office, applying to work under his agency. Ironic, right?

“And this quirk is called Regen, right?” Y/n looked up from where her eyes had been focused on the subtle burn scars that still sat on her skin.

“Right. It allows me to manipulate blood flow, organs, etcetera, etcetera. If the human body makes it, or if it’s part of the human body, I can manipulate it. To activate it, I need to get at least four beats of a person’s pulse. Once I do that, I can manipulate their blood flow and organs. So I can either use them as puppets, or shut down their organs, but mostly I just restrict oxygen and blood flow enough to knock them out. I had to work really hard to be able to get it to do that, but my area of specialty is regeneration. I can do it to my body or someone else’s,” Y/n explained, a fake and yet oddly pleasant smile on her face.

“Any weaknesses or limitations?” The interviewer asked, nose buried in his notebook as he jotted down little notes.

“Well, my quirk subtly wastes away the inside of my body. I won’t age on the outside, but my insides age with every minute that I use this quirk. So I’m a little frail, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Injuries by fire or heat also seem to be the one thing I can never fully heal. Oh and I think it’s worth mentioning that I can never fully heal ailments in one sitting. I can do the heavy work, or begin the process of healing bigger injuries, but if I try and heal all ailments and injuries at once, it will kill me.” Y/n explained, motioning to the subtle burns all across her body.The interviewer nodded, jotting down a note or two. Before she knew it, she was stepping out of his office, stumbling into an all too familiar, broad chest. 

Quickly, she shoved the man away, her body beginning to tremble as the soles of her feet planted themselves firmly onto the carpeted ground, forcing her to face her hell. Looking up, she stared into cold, blue eyes. They weren’t warm; they weren’t comforting. They weren’t Touya.

“Ah, Y/n. It’s nice to see you here…” Enji’s voice was stiff, strained, and very obviously uncomfortable. Y/n couldn’t help but stare at the massive scar that was etched across one side of his face. He seemed different. Not just in appearance, but something within him had changed.

Enji cleared his throat, reaching his hand out to shake Y/n’s hand. And before she could stop herself, she flinched. Not just a little flinch, but a jump. Her eyes were wide and torn with fear, her body curling into itself as a small shriek threatened to jump from the confines of her throat. The burns across her body seemed to sear all over again, and she could faintly catch a whiff of charred flesh. Enji stopped in his tracks, retracting his hand and instead shoving them into his pockets.

“Uhm, what brings you here?” Enji asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. Y/n took a deep breath, straightening out the wrinkles in her suit before forcing herself to meet Enji’s guilty gaze. Why was she here? She could have gone with the brutally honest and therapeutic reason. She could be here to face her abuser and find some sort of closure, maybe even become number one while at his agency and drive him insane, do something to avenge Touya, or.

“Well, I figured since I already know you and you were sort of my mentor, what better place to apply than here, right?” Y/n bit the inside of her cheek, her nails digging tiny crescents into the palms of her hands behind her back. She sounded so unsure, so pitiful and… Scared.

“Right, well, I’ll be sure to approve your application then. Uhm, I’ll see you around,” Y/n nodded, watching as Enji walked off, leaving her to stare at his back. Had she made the right decision? Lord, she hoped so.

——————————

“Y/n?” Y/n spun around, the confused look on her face dropping as soon as she made eye contact with Shouto. The boy hadn’t changed much since she had last seen him. Yet, he looked so, disappointed? Disillusioned?

“Shou! I didn’t think you’d be interning here!” Y/n exclaimed, scarred hands clutching onto loads of paperwork. Shouto frowned, taking a step towards her and gently touching the faint scars on her hands with delicate fingertips. Y/n took in a breath, not realizing she had been holding it until Shouto pulled away.

“I didn’t think you’d be working here, Nee-chan…” Y/n gasped, the oxygen getting stuck in her throat. It had been years since Shouto had called her his Ne-chan. Had she failed him?

“Shouto…” Y/n trailed off, sad eyes averting from the first year’s fierce gaze.

“We’re having dinner tonight, a few friends of mine are going. Fuyumi and Natsuo wouldn’t mind seeing you,” Shouto mumbled before walking away, leaving Y/n to stare once again at someone’s back. Had she made the wrong choice?

———————————————

Y/n had spent way too much time getting ready for this family dinner situation. This would be the first time in years that should be setting foot into the Todoroki household. She never realized just how much fear it could bring her. But this time would be different, she told herself as she pulled on a yellow knitted sweater. Natsuo would be there, and so would Fuyumi and Shouto. They would be eating dinner, not training.And so with a deep breath, Y/n forced herself to walk outside and drive herself to the Todoroki residence. Things were different now. She was grown, a pro hero climbing the ranks at a rapid pace. She had to be over it at this point, right?

She should have known. Standing at the front door felt more daunting than it was. Her body seemed to tremble with each breath she took. All she could see was fire, all she could hear were screams, and all she could feel was the stinging feel of flames against her already marred flesh. This was her hell.She was half expecting Rei to open the door when she knocked. And sure enough, she was met by a pair of warm brown eyes and a head of white hair. Natsuo. Y/n could feel her body stiffen, turning to stone against her will. She had severely overestimated herself.

Dinner was anything but smooth. Fuyumi was trying, lord was she trying. It was a tense night, with Y/n sitting between Fuyumi and Natsuo, a comforting hand wrapped around her unsteady hand beneath the table. Fuyumi had always been very kind to her.

“So how’d you do it?” Fuyumi and Y/n looked up, their eyes focusing on Natsuo, who was spitting venom at Enji. Natsuo looked like a cobra, hood raised, and ready to strike. Enji stared at Natsuo with a confused look, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. “How’d you manage to get Y/n into your agency? She hates you and everything about you, so how’d you do it?” Natsuo spat, brown eyes turning into pits of coal as he stared Enji down. Y/n felt herself grow cold, the pair of chopsticks damn near breaking in her iron tight grip.

“What’s he talking about?” Y/n looked up, her e/c eyes following each and every one of Bakugo, Midoriya’s, and Shouto’s movements as he explained what he could remember to them.

“Natsuo…” Fuyumi trailed off, a soft voice of warning between the two heated males. Y/n sighed through her nose before letting go of Fuyumi’s hand.

“It makes no sense. He’s the reason for all her burns. They were so severe that she couldn’t even regenerate the skin back to normal! Her tear ducts are gone and her lungs will never be the same from all the smoke she’s had to inhale! It makes no sense, Fuyumi!” Natsuo yelled, tears pricking at his eyes.

“Natsuo, I joined on my own. No one forced me. I had my reasons.” Y/n stated, looking away from Natsuo’s hurt eyes. Maybe she had made the wrong choice.

“He’s the reason Touya’s dead! How could you work with him!?” Y/n flinched, her body becoming a statue, the chopsticks falling from her hands and clanging against the glass plate beneath her.

“Natsuo!” Fuyumi yelled, eyes widening as Y/n abruptly stood up. She looked sickly, a pale and grey undertone taking quite the liking to her face. The entire table watched as she stumbled to the front door, struggling to pull on her shoes.

She left before anyone could say goodbye, shoving her body into the car that almost felt too small for her, yet she couldn’t leave. It felt like something was tying her to the house, and she hated it. Taking a deep breath, she opened her car door, relishing in the way the crisp air filled her damaged lungs. It wouldn’t hurt to go back, right?

Stepping out of the car, she ambled towards the courtyard, her eyes darting from area to area. It wasn’t all bad. She had made some good memories with Touya there. Like the time Enji wasn’t able to take his usual Sunday’s off to torment Touya and her. She and Touya had played hide and seek with Fuyumi in the courtyard for what felt like hours, playful grins adorning their round faces as they stumbled around the pillars and grass. Y/n and Touya were six at that time.

Finally, Y/n was standing in the middle of the courtyard, staring at the stone floors that had shattered her fingernails so many times. Wincing, Y/n brought her fingers to her lips, chewing on the tips of her nails and tasting the familiar metallic twang of blood on her tongue. When she pulled her fingers away, they were fine. There was no blood, no splintering, nothing.It took longer than she expected, wandering around the area and remembering key details of her life with every corner she walked into. And then she fell, tripping over a stray water bottle and landing hands first into the center of the courtyard, her eyes focusing in on the giant cherry tree just on the other side of the stone floor.

“We’ll be the best heroes! You can control the enemy like puppets! And I’ll scare them with my fire!” Touya declared, bright blue eyes sparkling with stars plucked from the heavens. Y/n nodded, a determined smile on her face. They were sat on the floor, their bodies bruised and sore from the sparring they had been forced to do earlier. Her s/c hands cupped Touya’s face, working hard to clear the bruises along his eyes and cheeks. “And I’ll never have to worry about getting hurt when I’m with you! Ever!” Touya said a closed-eyed grin on his face. They would never have to worry as long as they had each other. “Thank you, oh, and here!” Touya pulled away from Y/n as soon as she put her hands in her lap, quickly scurrying over to the cherry tree behind him to pluck a sakura that had fallen to the ground.

“Momma says that sakuras mean new beginnings or something like that! I just think they’re pretty! You’re pretty too. Hey! Maybe your hero name could be Sakura! Because you’re pretty, and you can heal people, and people can start again when they heal!” Touya exclaimed, stumbling over his words as he focused on tucking the Sakura behind her ear so the flower stuck out a bit. Y/n giggled, nodding at his suggestion. She would do anything Touya asked.

She hadn’t even noticed she was sobbing until she felt a pair of arms wrapping around her body. And for a split second, she thought the feeling of raindrops running down the apples of her cheeks were tears. When had it started to rain?

“Let’s go inside, yeah? Dad and the kids went to go help Natsuo. He left a little bit ago.” Fuyumi explained, helping Y/n stand from the cold concrete floor. Y/n sniffled, nodding her head. And as they made their way into the living room, Y/n finally felt a little at peace. She was grown now, a pro hero who could finally fight for herself. For the first time since she had walked into that courtyard, she left without any scars, any fears. She walked in on her own, did what she wanted, and left. Maybe, just maybe, that courtyard couldn’t control her any longer.

———————————

Y/n hated hero society. She knew that now more than ever. Here she was, fighting a war alongside child soldiers who were too young to be risking their lives for some ‘glory filled’ death. She was tired, so, so tired. Her muscles felt like they were wasting away with each breath she took. Her arms and hands were sore from being stretched out for so long. She was past her limit, controlling up to five villains with one hand, working her hardest to help heal five other heroes as they constantly hurt themselves with her other hands.

“Renge! You’re needed upfront, we’ll handle things here!” Y/n looked around, wondering exactly who had given her the command but couldn’t find the person to who the voice belonged too. She could only see the confident faces of her peers as she one by one let her enemies and allies go. Shouto was up front, so were his friends. Y/n took a deep breath. They weren’t too far from the front lines, and she was lucky enough to have been given a lift by some winged hero. She took her time in the air to heal herself, just a bit. She was going to die in the battle, that much she knew. She might as well die looking good, right?

“Come dance with your son in hell!!” Nothing. Nothing could have prepared her for the voice that rung through her ears, piercing her brain and heart in just one second. It had been ages since she had heard that voice. But he was dead. Stumbling as she jumped off of the other pro hero, she slowly walked to stand beside Shouto. And sure enough, there he was. His face was maimed, held together by staples and purple flesh, blue eyes resembling the marina trenches, his lips twisted in some crazed grin. It couldn’t be. Someone had to be posing as him. Touya was dead, he had been dead for years. Touya wouldn’t be a murderer, this wasn’t Touya. Y/n bit down on her lip, wincing as she tasted the blood that began to trickle down into her mouth. She was a hero now, and her priority was to help her comrades, not reminisce or let her past emotions get into the way. Even if it was Touya, it wasn’t the Touya she knew.

Y/n didn’t allow herself to think, her vision going spotty and body going hot as her hands stretched in front of her. She had felt his pulse enough times, and if it was him, he would bend to her will. But still, she hoped that his body would move on its own, she hoped that he wouldn’t succumb to her quirk. She hoped it was someone else.

Dabi felt himself going insane as he stared down his father and brother. He had wanted this for years, and now, here they were. Enji could finally pay for what he had done. Amongst the chaos, he failed to notice the way his body went rigid, a familiar cold grip wrapping around his veins. Where had he felt this before?

Dabi gritted his teeth, straining against the non-existent wires coiling around his veins, restricting his movements, and using him as a puppet. Vague memories of a childhood lost to trauma encircled his mind, and his vision seemed to be going spotty. But it couldn’t be. Not her, not Y/n. Dabi grunted, his knees hitting the ground as he turned to stare to the right. Sure enough, there she was, her costume ripped, her face bruised and bloody, her muscles wasting away behind the latex that wrapped around her body.

Her eyes were wild, seemingly blank as she focused in on his body. He had only seen that fear cross her gaze when she looked at his father, so why was she looking at him like that? Yet still, he found himself walking towards her slowly slumping figure. The closer he got, the more clearly he could hear the sobs that left her lips. She hadn’t changed, her skin just as scarred, her eyes just as empty and fearful. She couldn’t bring herself to hurt him, and he knew it.

Grinning to himself, Dabi chuckled, catching her gaze and watching as she tried to remain indifferent.

“Your cries give you away, doll,” Dabi chuckled, the sound raspy and cold. Y/n flinched before closing her eyes and attempting to steady herself. “I missed you, y’know?” Dabi took a step towards her, blinking in surprise when he realized she wasn’t using her quirk on him. “I know all your weaknesses, I know the ins and outs of your quirk, and you’re letting me go?” Dabi mused, his burnt hand coming up to cup the side of her face. Y/n felt the sob rip painfully from her chest as she leaned into the touch, bringing up her maimed hand to clasp onto his.

“He really did a number on you, huh, Y/n?” Dabi said softly, his gaze becoming tender for just a moment before returning to its piercing and frosted state. Y/n nodded her head, letting her body fall against his chest, wrapping her arms around his disfigured body. Dabi grunted, eyes wide in shock, his knees buckling beneath him. They fell onto the rubble beneath their feet, knees bruising against crumbled buildings and twisted metal poles.

“You’re alive…” Y/n choked the words out through her sobs. Her hands gripping onto his shoulders, not willing to let him go. She couldn’t lose him, not now that he had finally come back. Dabi stiffened, his arms slowly wrapping around her shaking form. They sat like that for a moment, trembling against one another, against the mess of the surrounding city.

Finally, Y/n pulled away, her unsteady hands cupping Dabi’s face, her worried eyes studying his face and twisting in heartbreak. Why was she looking at him like that?

Y/n pushed Dabi away, her chest violently rising and falling, her breaths feeling like hornet stings inside her lungs and throat. His eyes were no longer warm, they were void of emotion; they were filled with hunger, a hunger she hadn’t seen in years. This wasn’t Touya. Y/n took shaky breaths. Her eyes screwed shut as she tried to convince herself that the man in front of her wasn’t the boy she had fallen in love with all those years ago.

Dabi felt his breath catch in his throat, his hand extending towards her before falling to his side. Why was she scared? She knew it was him, right?

“Y/n, it’s me. It’s Touya…” Dabi croaked, his eyes filling with pain as he crawled towards her. Y/n shook her head vigorously, shuffling back anytime he tried to come close to her.

“Stop it. You’re not Touya!” Y/n flinched at the scream that tore through her lips, not expecting the words to fly from her chest in the way they did. “T-Touya wanted to be a hero! Touya wanted to save people. He loved his baby brother, Touya, Touya wasn’t some sort of monster!” Y/n spat, the venom dripping from her words and splattering against Dabi’s eardrums.

“I did what I had to do!” Dabi yelled back, his eyes wide and filled with hurt. How could she say that about him? “I was willing to do whatever it took to show the world what he had done to me- to us!” Dabi explained, his voice wavering as he knelt among jutting pieces of cement and debris.

Y/n let her back rest against a random piece of wall, her chest heaving as her lungs struggled to obtain air. She had overworked herself. Her lungs were practically disintegrating. She was tired, and her body could no longer move. On the inside, she had the organs of a ninety-year-old. This was it for her, and she knew it. But at least she got some closure, right? Through her lidded eyes, she watched as Dabi rushed towards her, blue eyes filled with worry, and maybe even warmth.

“Hey, hey! No! You can’t go on and give up! You have to beat that bastard at his own game, remember? Become number one, drive him insane!” Dabi explained as he scooped up her limp body in his arms. Y/n blinked, her eyes cold and slowly dimming.

“We. We were supposed to do that…” Y/n whispered, her hand weakly reaching up to try and hold his face before meekly falling onto his chest. Dabi took an unsteady breath, taking hold of her cold hand and pressing it to his cheek. “I hope, that in our next lives, we’re able to live the life we always wanted…” Y/n mumbled, her fingers finding purchase on his pulse. Dabi blinked, eyes going wide as soon as he realized what she was doing.

“Stop it- stop! You’re going to die!” Dabi yelled, his voice cracking as she restricted his movements with her quirk.“I was going to die anyway. I knew this would be my final battle, Dabi, so let me die looking at the Touya I knew, and not you.” Y/n mumbled. Dabi could feel the way his sobs racked his body. Her face and body beginning to grow pale, her eyes tired and almost dead as she poured what was left of her into his recovery.

A weak smile grew on Y/n’s face as she watched the burns on his body begin to heal, the staples falling off one by one as his skin slowly began to go back to normal. The flesh beneath her fingers grew soft, the color returning to its pale and rosy state.

“Could you imagine how different our lives could be?” Y/n whispered, a sad smile on her face as she watched the patches beneath Dabi’s eyes disappear. “Sakura and Touya, pro heroes, working side by side… Y’know, I never felt like I could take that hero name. I settled with Renge. Sakuras symbolize starting anew, remember? I never felt like I could start again. I felt, that after Touya died, I had to grow through mud,” Y/n explained, her chest rattling with stinging wheezes, her face growing gaunt and grey.

Dabi took a shuddering breath, his hand gripping onto Y/n’s free hand, nodding along to the words that weakly slipped from her lips, getting lost in the chaos around their bodies. 

“I’m right here, Y/n. Touya’s here…” Dabi sobbed, pulling her body closer to his, willing her to see him for who he was, for who she knew him to be. Y/n shook her head, the hurt in her eyes eminent despite the way they shrouded with death.

“You only look like Touya,” Y/n murmured, flinching as droplets began to fall onto her cheeks. She looked up at him with a feeble gaze, watching as the tears collected in Dabi’s eyes before dripping down his face. Frowning, Y/n attempted to brush away his tears with her thinning hand. Dabi sniffled, looking down at her body as it wasted away in his arms. His eyes held yearning, an agony that only they knew existed. And for a moment, they even seemed tender as he stared down at her. For a moment, Touya was there.

“In our next life, Touya…” Y/n rasped, her hand falling to her side, her eyes dimming until there was nothing left. Touya could feel the way his body broke down, the agonizing screams ripping past the confines of his throat and getting lost in the battle behind them. He could feel the tears rushing down his cheeks, dripping down his chin and filling the dips in her now scrawny face. Her chest shuddered one last time, her final breath raking past her lungs and dissipating into the wind.

He stayed there for what felt like hours, curled around her body. She was thin, pale and so, so utterly broken. Touya couldn’t help but wonder how they had gotten to this point, what their life could have been like if he had just gone to her, looked for her. In his quest to destroy his father, he had lost sight of himself, and ultimately let his ambitions get the best of him.

Touya took a deep breath, harshly wiping the tears off of his face. He gave Y/n’s hand one last squeeze, gently laying her body amongst the mounds of rubble where someone was sure to find her. He could only hope that they would meet again.

“In our next life, Y/n…”

[inlovewithhisblueeyes]

Stuck in Your Head

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader

Word Count: ~2.7K

Warnings: Descriptive Depressive Episode and Discussions about Prescription Medications (specifically missing doses and having side effects)

A/N: This is my first time writing RPF so I decided to stick with something I know well. I substituted my own best friend’s name in so I didn’t have to deal with the pesky acronyms cluttering the story. 

Buried underneath the covers, you were safe even though sleep continued to elude you. The chill of the morning was unable to pierce the walls of your blanket fortress. While the soft pitter-pattering of rain on your window would normally be able to lull you to dreamland, you were left to watch the rise and fall of the fabric.

Early daylight had danced its way across the room a millennia ago. No matter how deep you burrowed into your little nest, the light would seep through. So you tucked your head underneath your pillow and fought the urge to continuously check your phone. Watching time tick past would only make these growing frustrations and anxieties worse.

You remained curled up with your knees close to your chest, willing your hands to stop their shaking. All those exercises you had been taught in therapy seemed fruitless. Nothing could alleviate this numbness that had settled in your bones. Time continued to pass as you laid there, only daring to leave your bed’s warm embrace when your bladder was screaming in agony.

The spot where you laid never had to the time to cool. You were always sucked right back to it in record time like every episode before. Brain fog would cause the same thing every time. The days would seem to just blend into one another, a cycle of light and shadows that would chase each other around the ceiling. You would have no idea if you took your meds, what day it was, or even the last time you ate. Time would be nonexistent in your little blanketed world.

A soft vzzzzt came from outside your safe zone. Moving your hand slightly, you could just barely feel the vibrations of your phone. You paused as you tried to decide if you had enough energy to answer. It was most likely unimportant, another robocall about some silly matter. Sighing heavily, you drew your hand back to its previous position.

Silence fell over the room once more and you breathed a sigh of relief. You forced your eyes shut in hopes that you could finally sleep. Not more than a few moments passed before the quiet was broken yet again. The soft vzzzzt returned, requiring you to begrudgingly open your eyes. You hissed as you slowly rolled over, just enough to reach over and drag your phone under the covers with you.

You flipped your phone over as your best friend’s face filled up the screen. You know you should answer it, but you didn’t want to worry her. Ariel has enough going on without you dragging her into your shit. You quickly shot off one of those automated responses saying you’re busy and you’ll call back later before declining the call.

Carefully shoving your phone back out from under your blanket pile, you tried once more to adjust and get comfy. Finally, it seemed that the sleep you craved is upon you. You yawned before nestling your head deeper into your pillow and letting your eyes fall shut.

You woke up sometime later and noticed that the bedroom is almost completely dark. You dare to glance at your phone and it’s only 6 pm. Stiff limbs quickly made themselves known as you tried to stretch. They crack and pop as you finally moved them, each crying out desperately for motion.

Slowly you sit up and allow yourself to slip out from your burrito. Every movement feels as if you’re wading through an endless pool of molasses. You rise to feet carefully and your knees buckle as they wake up to support you. Ambling towards the kitchen, you tried to scrounge up the desire for anything other than a few mints.

Your pickings are rather slim. Even then everything would take longer than you know you have the energy to stand for. Huffing as you grabbed handful of mints before you make your back to bed. You crawled back into bed, grabbing your laptop in hopes you can find someway to pass the next round of sleepless.

Popping a mint in your mouth and scrolling through the various entertainment options, you happened across a show you know very well. Another time you might have smiled at your luck. Of course it recommends something that he was in. Rolling over to grab your phone, you unlock it to check what time it is over there.

2 am the clock answered. You swallowed the lump in your throat, remembering what he said last time.

“I don’t care what time it is. If you need me, call. I’d do anything for you. “

You glance at the clock once more and you lose your nerve.

“He’s halfway across the world right now and under enough stress. You’ll talk to him again when Friday comes around” you rationalize internally, “That’s more than 3 days away. You’ll be back to your usual by then. You always are.”

You shake your head and push the phone off the bed. Tucking an arm under your head and curling your knees to your chest, placing your laptop on top of them. You settle in with Forensic Files, hoping that Peter Thomas’s voice will eventually get you more sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come. You’ve lost count of how many episodes of Forensic Files that you’ve watched. All of them have blurred together. Once again the sun’s rays slowly painted your room in an array of reds, oranges, and finally yellows. Two more rounds of soft vzzzzt that go unanswered cause you to retreat back under the blankets once more.

For how long you remain there is unknown. All you known is that you’re forced to get up by your throbbing bladder. Then you’re back in your bed, curled up around a pillow and begging for sleep to come. Your body is sore, your mind is all fogged up, and by the time you do feel sleepy, the sun must be high in the sky.

Here's to another day of waking up after the sun has set. Daylight Savings Time is a bitch. There’s no use in checking your phone. You stretched and tried to sum up the strength to move your feet, knowing you need to at least try to make your way to the kitchen. Each step causes a shooting pain in your underused appendages.

Leaning against the counter, you grabbed a package of Cup Ramen from the cabinet. Not the healthiest choice, but the one that will take the shortest amount of time to cook. Adding the water and setting it in the microwave is the easiest part; having the strength to wait the 3 minutes to cook is the hardest.

Anxiety seeps in as you watched the timer go down. Tapping your fingers against your thigh, you tried to pass the time without throwing yourself into an anxiety attack. Finally, the microwave beeps and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. You opened the microwave and quickly stirred the contents of the cup together.

You make the trip back to the bed that’s been calling your name since you left. Although you’re not hungry, you have to try to eat. You ate earlier right?....Your stomach hadn’t give any indication of hunger. You ate as much as you could stomach before leaving the unfinished meal beside your bed.

Grabbing your laptop, you scrolled through for something, anything to distract you. In a moment of clarity, you remembered that last time he mentioned a nature documentary which he said you should watch. You found it easily and turned it on, curling your body around your laptop. In your bones, the numbness reared it’s ugly head once more.

The animals in documentary didn’t cause you to laugh at their antics like they usually would. You had to pause it. You felt like you were drowning in this void. What once might have been enough to drag you out of the darkness, no longer could do so. You had been doing so well; going to your appointments and working on coping with your trauma only for the empty pit to gobble you up once more.

Screwing your eyes shut as you take in one shaky breath after the other. Whatever strength that was left in your tired limbs, you willed to help get you through. You needed to be fine, he needed you to be fine. Every inch of you shook with hurt and sorrow as sleep waded in and out of your mind. It took forever to succumb.

A gentle chime woke you from your fitful sleep. You laid underneath your mountain of blankets and watched the gentle rise and fall that came with every breath you took. You blinked a few times as you attempted to stretch out your body. The chime had stopped by the time you were finally able to peak your head from where it was tangled in your cocoon.

The noise had emanated from your laptop. You inwardly curses yourself because you only know what that means. You left yourself logged into Skype and you reached a hand over to check who called. However, as soon as you did, the chime started up again, his name flashed on your screen.

A sob threatened to break loose from your lips.  It couldn’t have been Friday already. Skype dates only happened on Friday and Saturdays, that was your routine. You glanced around your room and contemplated slamming your laptop closed. Based on the colors of the sun that painted your bedroom’s walls, it was early, much too early for his call.

Deep down you knew he would keep calling until you responded and as much as it pained you to do so, you had to give into him. You moved the cursor to hover over the accept button. With a deep breath, you clicked accept. You waited for the swoosh that always came before his face filled the screen.

You couldn’t face him like this. He didn’t deserve this. Your stomach was already upset, it didn’t need your anxiety making it worse. Burying your face in your hands, you heard the tell-tale noise that the call connected.

“Darling, there you are,” he exclaimed.

You had no choice but to peek between your fingers to see his smiling face. He looked so happy and full of light. You couldn’t dare to bring him down from his high. He was worthy of so much more, someone who wasn’t empty. Surely he could see that.

“As much as I’d love to talk your lovely hands, I’d rather talk to that face of yours.”

“Hen-“ Your voice cracked from not being used in so long.

“Please,” He begged.

Every inch of your body quaked, the inevitable was here. He would see you, see how broken and lost you were, and wouldn’t be able to take it. The expiration date for your time together was today.

“Please, sweetheart.” He tried again, his voice no louder than a whisper.

You shook your head in silent agreement to his plea. Trembling, your hands pealed away from your face and finally you saw your boyfriend’s face fully. Messy curls were strewn across his forehead and there was an inkling of stubble making an appearance on his face. His eyes were bright and warm as always. You could just barely make out the brown amongst the blue at the top of his left eye.

“There you are,” Henry murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

“Hen-“

“Shhhh... I know it’s not Friday but I wanted to see you. Ariel was worried. I was worried.”

“I’m so sorry-” You started as you felt tears beginning to form in the corners of your eyes.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, love. I’m happy to see your face. I would ask how you are, but I think I know. Have you been taking your meds?”

“I don’t remember. All I know my stomach is a bit upset,” you whispered as the first hot tears rolled down your cheeks.

“I’d reckon it’s been a few days then,” Henry sighed, ”Do you think could get up and make some green tea? That’s always helped in the past.”

You groaned, flopping backwards onto your bed. A few moments pass by in silence as you weighed your options.

“I can try.”

“That’s all I’m asking for, sweetheart,” admitted the blue eyed man,” How about you bring me with you?”

You nodded slowly. Henry was always good at reading you. It seemed that regardless of the distance between the two of you and the blurriness of the camera, his skill hadn’t waned. He knew you so well and right now you were thankful for that. There was so much you couldn’t say right now, you didn’t have the energy nor the clarity to do so.

Stretching your arms above your head, you winced at the stiffness in them. You had to do this, you had to fight that little voice in your head. You carefully moved yourself to the edge the bed. Taking a much needed deep breath, you forced your aching body to sit up. Gently, after a few moments, you maneuvered yourself to stand on your feet.

You glanced over at your computer screen and saw nothing but pride and encouragement in his blue eyes. It gave you the required push to grab your laptop and make your way towards the kitchen, tired body be damned. Normally, you feel safe and content in the silence with him. The freezing emptiness that had made it’s home amongst your bones and mortal flesh flourished in it.

“How’s filming going?” You croaked.

Henry was quick to fill the crushing silence “Remember that scene I mentioned to you last time…” His hearty timbre warming the outermost parts of your mind. Puttering around the kitchen, you put the kettle on and grabbed your favorite mug while listening. He could be speaking about blue-footed boobies and you would still be rapt.

Sooner than you would of liked, the kettle sung it’s annoying little tune. Carefully, you snatched it off the stove and poured into the waiting mug. You dropped the teabag in and leaned up against the counter. Glancing over at the computer, you saw Henry watching you with a smile on his face.

“Good job, sweetheart,” Henry beamed.

You tried to blink away the tears that remained in your eyes. “I boiled water. Nothing too special about that.”

“You know what I mean.”

Shakily setting the down the mug, you forced yourself to take some deep breaths, but it does nothing to stop the onslaught of tears. They blazed in hot trails down your cheeks.

“My brain doesn’t work, Hen. The fog sets in and it’s like I can’t do the simplest tasks. I can’t even just go through the motions,” You sobbed

“Oh, darling,” his voice barely a whisper and your gaze remained on the floor, arms wrapped around your quaking form.

“Nothing’s working…. I’m so tired of feeling like this. I don’t even feel alive anymore. Just empty and cold all the time.”

Silence fell over the two of you once again; only being pierced by your shuddering breaths as you tried regain control. It took a few moments to calm yourself. You brushed away the remaining tears and finally glance up at him.

“I’m sorry,” You murmured.

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to apologize. I know you’re struggling. I’m worried about you being all alone right now with everything that’s going on,” Henry admitted,” How about you ask Ariel to come stay with you? Just until I finish filming.”

“I…I can do that.”

“I want you to know you don’t have to stick to our schedule. I know you like the consistency it brings, but I don’t mind if you call other times, love. I’d be happy to hear your voice more often.”

Nodding your head, you grabbed your abandoned tea and took a sip. “I love you, Henry.”

“I love you too. We’re in this together, us against the problem.”

Somehow his words seemed to pierce at the remaining chill in your body. He was exactly what you needed, your lighthouse in the storm. No matter how far apart you may be, you’ll always find your way back to his loving embrace.

[holy-stevie]

We weren’t anything

Pairing: Andy Barber x Reader, Ransom Drysdale x Reader (past) 

Summary: You bump into Ransom ten years after he broke your heart. 

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, a few swear words? 

Word Count: 1.4k 

a/n: this is a very long awaited sequel to this and im sorry it took so long! 

Masterlist

The alarm drones on in the early morning quietness, making you groan and turn over to shove your face into your pillow. Who thought that waking up early was ever a good idea?

“C’mon it’s time to adult.” A deep voice says in your ear, a gentle warm hand brushing through your hair to rouse you. You’re almost purring at the feeling, a sleepy smile rousing on your face as you hear rushed footsteps.

“3...2...1” You count down making the deep voice chuckle as he watches the toddler climb up onto the bed.

“Mommy wake up!” You peak an eye open at the small giggle, meeting the beautiful smile of your 3-year-old daughter, Rosie. When she sees your eyes open she shuffles until you move to accommodate her in your arms, her small body snuggling into yours. You send a knowing glance over her head at your husband, Andy Barber.

You had met the handsome lawyer almost eight years ago now, married him six years ago and gave birth to your first child three years ago. He knew every detail of your past and present, knowing all of your facial expressions to a tee. The two of you had healed past traumas together and worked to become the best parents for your little Rosie, to become the best partners for each other.

“Mommy c’monnnnn, it’s shopping day!” She says as she pokes your eyes to open them again, you grin and lean up to kiss her little fingers making her giggle.

“Guess it’s time for all of us to get up huh?” Andy says before scooping up Rosie and standing from the bed, their laughs making you giggle before getting up yourself.

~

“Mommy can I get cookies?” Rosie asks from your side, you check your list in your hand before sighing and looking down at her cute pout.

“Fine baby but don’t tell daddy cause he’ll eat them.” You say playfully and pinch her cheek lightly, causing her to giggle and run ahead of your shopping cart to the aisle she knows all to well. When you turn into the aisle you feel the breath leave your lungs and your heart drop in your chest.

“Here you go kid.” He says, the tall handsome man says as he hands your daughter her favourite packet of cookies with a smile. You feel panic gripping at your throat, but you swallow it down when Rosie turns to you with a excited smile.

“Mommy I got them!” She squeals making the man turn to look at you. His bright blue eyes widen as his mouth drops open slightly, you try not to read into his reaction for too long before turning back to your daughter.

“Put them in the cart baby.” You say sweetly before taking a deep breath and looking back up at him.

“Ransom.” You speak, your hands gripping the shopping cart tighter as his wicked blue eyes study you. You wish you could say he didn’t look good, but that would be a straight out lie. His hair was gelled back neatly and his body was still as strong and dominating as it was almost a decade ago.

“Y/n..” He says, a soft smile lighting his face as he steps closer, the light catching on the gold band wrapped around his left ring finger. A daunting reminder of the heartbreak you suffered.

“And mini Y/n?” He asks looking down at the small girl clinging to your leg, her pink poka dot dress matching the small pink bows in her soft brown hair. You look down at your baby girl, her soft cheeks and beautiful ocean eyes that she had inherited from her father. You couldn’t love anything more then you love her.

“My name is Rosie!” She giggles at the strange man who knows her mother, holding her hand out politely for him to shake. Much to your surprise he squats down and presses a small kiss to her tiny hand, making the little girl giggle and blush. Don’t fall for it kid.

“Rosie, we need to go baby.” You mumble, Ransoms head snapping up to yours as you shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. Rosie pouts but says goodbye like the good little girl she is before moving to stand by your side again, her hand clutching your wrist until you unwind your fingers so she can hold them.

“Wait Y/n, go to dinner with me tonight?” He asks as he stands up again, a hopeful smile rising on his face making your anger spark.

“What makes you think I’d say yes?” You bite out, he flinches back slightly and clenches his jaw. You scoff at his lack of reply before grabbing the shopping cart and heading towards the registers, reminding yourself to come back with Andy later.

“Y/n!” You sigh and close your eyes, the buckles for your daughters’ seat click together as you open your eyes in irritation. Turning around you see Ransom jogging towards your car, you quickly slide your phone out of your pocket and hand it to Rosie, knowing this conversation was about to get ugly.

“What Drysdale?” You mumble out as you close the car door, observing your little girl to try to calm down the raging emotions racing through you.

“One dinner, we need to talk. Please.” He begs, lifting a hand to run through his hair that had been messed up slightly from his run to your car.

“No.” You curtly reply, hand slipping to your door handle ready to leave him behind for good.

“Please wait.” He says, hand grabbing your wrist lightly to stop you. You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes on the window in front of you.

“We need to talk about it.” He says quietly, trying to worm his way in again to have you under his finger. You knew that was exactly what he was doing, and you wouldn’t let it.

“What do you want me to say huh?” You’re almost shaking from the anger running through you as you remember that night, sobbing on the cold wet ground all alone where he left you.

“To just-”

“To what Ransom? I haven’t heard anything from you in almost 10 years, why now.” You interrupt him.

“You were the one who left! You disappeared, and I couldn’t find you, I wanted to find you.” He says as he takes a step closer to you, you stare at his face in your car windows reflection before your eyes flick to look into your own. The anger and tears overcome you as you turn towards him with a heartbroken glare.

“Do not pull that shit on me Drysdale. You did this to us! You married my best friend while fucking me behind her back, YOU made me sit there and watch the person I love marry someone else.” He flinches at the tears that fall from your eyes as you point at him several times, the soul wrecking sadness that you had spent years burying was slipping out of your control. He opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off with a shake of your head.

“You broke my fucking heart. So no, you don’t get to come back into my life like this, I can’t take it.” You’re looking at your shoes as you say this, the lump in your throat making your words crack. He moves to touch you before you take a step back, your hand opening the driver’s door of your car.

“We were never going to be anything, so don’t bother trying to reconnect that bridge. I have a husband who loves me, I have a beautiful daughter and a normal, happy life. I don’t want or need to see you ever again Ransom.” You don’t give him a chance to respond, slamming the car door in his face and frantically backing out of the parking spot. You don’t look back at his slumped shoulders and heartbroken expression, not looking back until you are pulling into the familiar driveway.

Rosie doesn’t waste a second to unbuckle herself and race inside to her father, leaving you to press your forehead against the steering wheel for a few minutes to recollect yourself before entering the house. A flood of gratitude runs through you as you watch the love of your life bounce on the couch with his daughter, their laughter flooding the room with the love and happiness that you craved every day.

And when his calming ocean eyes met yours, laughter lines making his eyes crinkle in a way that he complains about, but you adore, you don’t stop the sweet smile that grows on your face. Joining the two of them on the couch with a pillow thrown at Andy’s chest, you feel the anger and the sadness mellow out. Your small family complete once again, a echoing blissful sound of laughter coursing through your heart.

taglist: @scarletsoldierrr​ @chrisevans-imagines​ @patzammit​ @onetwo3000​ @yoncevans​ @harrysthiccthighss​ @sleepycevans​ @adriannajackson​ @donutloverxo​ @cloudninevans​ @smyfmj​ 

[toukenramblings]

Nightmares: Yagen Toushirou, Fudou Yukimitsu, Taikogane Sadamune

This is actually very interesting, digging into Sada-chan’s mind like this.

Warnings: Suicide, burns, blood, bodily harm, trauma because Yagen and Fudou have so much. Sada-chan being a sad baby pls hug all of the tantous.

Yagen Toushirou

Yagen’s dreams are full of fire. They’re not of him burning like Honebami’s, but more so of the burning of people he cares for, the people he tries to protect the most. Ichigo, brothers, friends, you his master. Watching them waste away in a fire and there is nothing he can do to save them.

Oh but the ones that hurt Yagen the most are when he can feel himself cutting open the stomach of someone he is meant to protect, organs and blood spilling out on to the ground below. Nobunaga had done so with him once. Gods forbid himself from hurting another like that.

Honnouji haunts him yes, of course it would. The fires, the screams, the pain, the sorrow, the lives he had to end. He awakens with a silent scream whenever that happens, tears budding at the corner of his eyes. He would like to wake up his brother but he is asleep, he won’t want to disturb him.

Then there are the nightmares that center around you, his master. If you and Yagen are particularly close during this time, he imagines himself driving his own blade into your form. His hands against yours, almost leading you into doing the dastardly deed. It is when he is waking up from that nightmare does he come to visit you, making sure that you are alive and breathing. He doesn’t mean to wake you if it happens, but when you do, Yagen will hesitate for a moment.

“Can...I come in?” he would question, and when you do, you two sit in silence for a moment. Yagen doesn’t know what to say, his lips tightened into a straight line, fangs chewing on his lower lip. You can see the bags under his eyes and when you ask what is wrong, it takes a moment for him to answer. “Nightmare.” his words are soft and simple. He won’t ask for much comfort, but your presence is good enough. Maybe he’ll hold your hand and feel your pulse, to confirm that you’re alive. Maybe he doesn’t need words to tell you what is going on through is mind, perhaps a touch is enough.

Maybe in the morning and in the following days, he’ll hesitate to touch you. Maybe he’ll keep an eye out for you, almost terrified whenever something sharp was in your line or vision. Yagen will watch you like a hawk but he wouldn’t want to overstep his boundaries. You know that he is doing this because of his nightmare and when you two talk it out, it’ll be fine in the end. He’ll worry but he knows you can take care of yourself.

Alternatively, Yagen will take a walk to clear his mind. Sometimes he will talk with Ichi-nii, telling him of his worries and his fears. Of his hands against the hilt of his own blade, dragging it oh so slow across the skin of his family, as they scream in horror and terror. 

His shoulders will shake, tears held back, Ichi-nii or one of his other brothers will hold him close, running a hand through is hair and telling him it’s okay to cry.

His sobs are soft as he is, quiet as the morning dew. Shoulders shaking, his heart stopping for a moment. He lets out his cries, his shudders, his fears, hoping that they will be lighter.

Yagen will be fine in the end, sure the nightmares are just that. Nightmares. They won’t hurt him, they are not physical beings that could rend him apart. But it does not change the fact even he fears them.

Fudou Yukimitsu

Fudou doesn’t know if the alcohol he drinks helps bring on the damn things or makes them go away or whatever the hell. He just knows that whenever those damn nightmares come, he wakes up with the most horrendous of screams in his solo room, the scent of alcohol replacing the scent of burning flesh and wood. He’ll immediately reach for the bottle again, hoping to drown out his worries and sorrows.

It’s a cycle. Drinking to forget the nightmares and day-mares that haunt him, of the failure that he is. Those screams and the patronizing chide of Hasebe or other swords, it eats away at him.

If you and Fudou are close, he will wander his way into your room or office, reeking of alcohol but for once not at all super drunk? His head is pounding as you look him in the eyes, red and puffy from crying. Fudou doesn’t know why the hell he’s here, but he just wanted someone to...talk to?

He collapses in front of you, tears fully falling down his face now. It’s heart wrenching to say the least. It’s ugly sobbing, loud and snot everywhere. He clings on to you, to the point fabric may rip. THe only thing you can do right now is to hug his shaking body, rub circles into his back and shush him, comfort him as best as you can. He doesn’t know where to go, who to turn to. Sure Odagumi are an idea but if you two are close, the first person he thinks of is you. 

Fudou would begin to apologize once he had calmed down, apologizing for being so weak, so useless of a sword to you. He would say those through his tears, laughing at himself and his shortcomings. You have to gently wipe them away, assuring him that those are not true. Fudou is Fudou, he is not and will never be useless.

If Fudou does not go to you, the first thing that comes to his mind is the rest of the Odagumi. He’ll stumble into one of their rooms (most likely Hasebe as he has a solo room and he doesn’t wanna disturb the rest of the Toushirous and Samonjis) and will wake him up, sobbing all the while. Hasebe will freeze for a moment, before bringing Fudou into a strange sideways hug. 

Fudou doesn’t know how long he can keep this up. These nightmares of a fire, or of failing the people around him. He wants to be stronger because of this, it hurts him so much that he wants to shrivel up and die like Nobunaga had. A part of him wants to join them, to throw himself into a fire and be with the master he loves - unable to ever return the favor.

The next morning, Fudou is a lot more quiet than normal. If you two are close, Fudou will be almost rivaling Hasebe in staying by your side. Yes Fudou will still be drinking to chase away the nightmares but it’s not as much as he normally drinks. HAsebe will find it odd that Fudou is hovering around you, silently yes, and somewhat still at a distance but Fudou is watching out for you more and he cannot complain.

Fudou will talk about his nightmares to you, or Hasebe, or whomever, but they’re jumbled through is sobs and cries. Give him a minute to compose himself, he’ll be alright in the end but patience is key.

When Fudou has had enough of these damn nightmares, the first thing he will do is barge into your office, a confident yet terrified sort of look on his face, courage in his eyes. “Uh.... Well... You'see, there's something....” pls cherish him im so proud of my baby boi

Taikogane Sadamune

Sada-chan’s nightmares don’t come as often as like Yagen or Fudou. While those two will have them much more frequently, and they are beyond violent, Sada-chan’s creep up on him. They start off fine and then creep into unsettling and terrifying. Yes Sada-chan does wake up with a start and sometimes a scream, with tears streaming down his eyes, but he won’t hesitate to seek someone out.

Like Yagen, he will try not to disturb the rest of the Dategumi sleeping in his room. If you and Taikogane are close during this time, he won’t hesitate to see you out, running into your room or office where you are, knocking on the door - quiet and reserved, different from the norm. When he does enter the room, there is a forced smile to his lips, big and proud - yet not reaching his eyes.

He will plop himself down beside you, silent for a moment, unable to look you in the eye before leaning against you. He will begin shaking lightly during this time, trying to keep his tears in, it won’t look cool if he starts to cry! “Master...am I annoying?”

One of Taikogane’s biggest fears (other than to be forgotten like Micchan) is more or less being a burden to everyone. He is hyper-active, a showstopper, proud of himself, but sometimes he wonder if that’s too much for the people around him. Yes he fears the rest of the Dategumi dying or hurt but Gods forbid the dreams where he thinks everyone hates him. Perhaps it’s a childish fear, but he cannot help but worry about it.

Hug him during this time, gently assure him that you love him dearly (platonic or familial) soothe his worries as much as you can dear Saniwa.

If Sada-chan does end up waking the Dategumi from his screams, they jolt awake immediately. It is Micchan is is awake first then Tsurumaru with Ookurikara very close behind. They will ask what is wrong and though Taikogane will try to play it off, smiling all the while - it is Tsurumaru who brings Sada-chan into his arms first. In a way, they all take turns hugging the boy, calming him down. Kara-chan will give him soft sideways hugs, no teasing for Kuri today, Taikogane more importante. 

Those dreams where everyone leaves him, tells him to his face that he should not be here, or snide comments, they hurt Sada-chan’s pride. He can only bounce back so much after all. His energy is finite despite how boundlessly adorably bouncing he is. He worries that he may be forgotten like Micchan one day, but he worries the most about if he’s annoying or not.

Those are the nights when each of the Dategumi will also take turns cuddling him, rocking him to sleep. Most of the time the duty falls on to Micchan and Tsurumaru, sometimes Ookurikara will do so in his own way - taking Sada-chan out for a walk to clear his eyes and give him some choice words about his worries.

In the morning after and maybe a couple of days after that, Taikogane will be much more subdued. He will be a lil bit more quiet than normal, preferring to stay near you or the Dategumi instead of interacting with everyone else.

But slowly does Sada-chan come outta his shell, the boundless energy he’s known for coming back. He’s doing his best because of the people he loves and the people that love him back!

[iamcayc]

Sounds of Gojo | Chapter 15: Playful

A/N: Ooooh my lord, I'm sorry for the delay in posting!

Here's some sweet smut for you all <3

🚨 TW 🚨 This chapter starts with some flashbacks to Kaya's personal trauma, so references of sexual assault, death, neglect ahead

-

Cigarettes and rum. The pungent smells of both stick your nostrils while you fingers race across the ivory keys.

You can’t hear anything, not even your own heartbeat.

Your parents watch in the distance, haughty smiles taunting you as you struggle to keep up with a metronome waving frantically from its perch on the grand piano. The living room is drenched in harsh, white light, cleaning all the color out of the room except for the ruby puddle surrounding Alexander’s limp body on the floor.

You want to scream, but a palm I’m all too familiar with covers you mouth with its pair gropes my breast.

Tears stream down your cheeks and your breath comes in sobs.

“That’s it, sweetheart, stay focused on the music.” His voice is raspy and thick with intent as he palms your breast hard.

“Good girl, Kaya…”

Your heart thunders in your chest as his hand goes lower, pulling the hem of your uniform skirt up your thighs. Every ounce of you begs your body to fight back, to scream, to do anything but freeze and let this all happen again.

“… Kaya.”

Your breaths come in faster, shorter. Alexander starts to decay in front of your eyes while your parents turn their backs to you. His hand cups your mound and a strangled sob finally breaks past your lips.

“Kaya!”

You start to shake, your body trembling.

“Kaya!”

Satoru’s beautiful blue eyes are wide and dark with worry as he looms over you, his thumbs swiping tears from your wet cheeks. You inhale a slow, shaky breath that still sounds like a sob as the nightmare recedes back into the hole it’s claimed in your memory. He mutters a curse before lying back down, pulling you against his chest tightly, his face pressed against your hair as his hands rub your back slowly… soothingly.

“It was just a bad dream, kitten,” he murmurs.

Rationally, you know this. Especially since this particular nightmare pops up every so often just to remind you that you’ve lived though something extraordinarily traumatic.

But that doesn’t stop you from suffering the panic attack aftershocks for a few days.

The rational part of your brain knows that what happened to Alexander wasn’t your fault.

Just like the rational part of your brain knows that your abuser can’t hurt you anymore.

It’s just that the irrational, shattered, fucked up part of your brain seems to be in the driver’s seat right now and you can’t figure out how to say any of this without sounding like a complete fucking lunatic—

Large hands with familiar callouses cup your cheeks and force you to look in his aquamarine eyes.

“Breathe with me, Kaya.” He inhales slowly before holding the breath for a few seconds. You make a lame attempt to do the same, except it comes in like a sharp gasp and your chest wants to burst from having to hold it in while managing your racing heart.

Satoru exhales slowly, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with the gentlest touch. You mimic him, the exhale going a little more smoothly than the inhale.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs before repeating the exercise.

You mind calms as you breath with him, focusing on the feel of his skin against yours and the lessening pressure in your chest as the panic seeps back into the night. How many years have you spent lying in bed, smothered in your emotions until they decided to give up on you? Too many, honestly.

And now, knowing how utterly safe you feel with a man who has yet to reject you and your baggage, you’re at a loss.

Once your heart slows and the sobs turn into hiccups, you pry yourself free of his hands and slip out of the bed to wash your face. You don’t dwell on the fact that Satoru just witnessed a solid ugly cry, complete with snot. Instead, you splash some cool water on your flushed skin and pad back to the bed after blowing your nose for good measure.

You almost turn on your side to hide, but the giant in your bed snakes his arms around your middle and pulls you over to face him again.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” you mumble after a moment. Satoru frowns and gently flicks the tip of your nose.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Want to talk about it?”

He’s asking you honestly, which is refreshing. Most just badger you until you tell them, but there’s a stronger foundation of trust with Satoru, more so than you had even felt with Zeyan.

“It’s a variation of the same dream I have every year on my birthday.” You start picking at invisible lint on the linens. “Sometimes it’s just a flashback, but foggy, more distant. Sometimes, it’s all the worst parts of my trauma smashed together until I’m lost in it. Tonight, it was the latter.”

He keeps quiet, his fingers trailing along the edges of your body gently. The smell of his sleepy fragrance continues to ground you in the moment, rather than getting lost in the memories.

“I kept feeling his hands on me.” Satoru’s fingers pause on your hip. “My parents just watched me struggle to play while he kept touching me. Alexander was on the floor bleeding out—decomposing as my parents ignored me. I couldn’t get any part of my body to move, I couldn’t stop him, again.”

You suck in a shuddering breath and snuggle up closer to his body, startling him. He recovers quickly, snaking his arm around your waist and working his thigh between your legs to close up any gaps between the two of you. Your body responds automatically to the pure intimacy of the position sending heat through your core, your nerves alert and lust yawning despite the early-morning hour.

“But you woke me up before it got any worse,” you murmur against his chest. His fingers sketch nonsense against the skin beneath your tank top, every stroke feeding a sense of need you didn’t expect after such an intense dream. “So, thank you for that.”

Shifting your hips, you ply a bit of friction to your clit against his thigh. A lick of pleasure flares in your belly at the contact, a flare that kindles something stronger when Satoru’s hips flex into your stomach, his cock hard and needy. He releases a shaky breath as his hands become more insistent: the left pulls you in for a hungry kiss while the right guides your hips into a slow, steady, sultry grind against his thigh. You pull at his lower lip with your teeth, instincts taking over as you melt into the pure pleasure coursing through you. Your mind stops considering the dream and your birthday; instead, you lose yourself in the building frenzy between the two of you.

Your hands come into play, weaving your fingers into his hair and nudging his body on top of your, the feel of his weight as comforting as it is intoxicating. Satoru moans into your mouth as your grip tightens in his hair, pulling at the strands just enough to lace the pleasure he feels while grinding his cock against your mound with a sting of pain. Still, you can sense his hesitation in his languid motions.

As his tongue laves against your neck, you arch up against his chest, reaching down to grip his shaft with a firm hand. His lips separate from your skin with a gasp.

“Stop holding back with me,” you pant, stroking his cock slowly. He rises up on his palms, his head hanging to watch you work his throbbing, leaking manhood. After a second, his hips start to match your pace, pumping to meet your hand as he chases the sensation.

“I don’t—fuck… I don’t want to trigger you.” Your hand tightens. He groans and pumps against your hand harder. “Goddamn, you feel so fucking good.”

Leaning forward, you nip at his earlobe and rub the weeping head of head of his cock against your drenched cunt. He hisses a breath as you work the slick along his shaft.

“I need you, Toru.” His pace quickens but you let go of his cock to get his attention. Aqua eyes with pupils blown with lust find yours. “All I ever want is for you to fuck me and make me yours, over and over again. Please.”

He practically snarls at you as he hooks one of your legs over his arm, his large palm gripping your ass cheek and spreading your pussy wide open as he sheathes himself in you. You both cry out at the feeling, his balls slapping against your ass and the wet, indecent sounds of him thrusting into you filling the night. You will never get enough of feeling him inside of you, against you, on top of you. Sweat-slick skin gliding against each other as you buck your hips to meet his—you just fucking need to feel him deeper, harder.

Fuck. The way his cock stretches your tight pussy sends you higher than any drug or spirit could.

Your lips claim his. Calloused hands spread your legs even wider. Your bodies do everything they fucking can to just meld into one being. Rational thoughts are so far out the window they might as well be in space. All that’s left is the feeling of you milking his cock and his lips nipping—sucking marks all over your skin.

The keening cry you make as your vision bursts into white and incinerating desire floods your body is met with a drawn out groan that pitches higher as he cums with you, pumping his sticky mess into you in an erratic but hard rhythm.

Pure, primal satisfaction settles into your body as you run your hands through Satoru’s damp hair, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. He makes no moves to shift his position, even as he shudders from the hypersensitivity of his cock as you adjust your hips to avoid that gods-awful cramp that tries to separate your pelvic bones from the rest of your body. His gaze locks with yours as you stare up at him with half-lidded eyes.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks, still breathless. His fingers brush limp curls from your face.

“This.” You feel no hesitation as you answer. His mouth quirks into a smile.

“You want to spend your birthday with my soft cock plugging our cum inside you?”

Wrinkling your nose, you flick him mercilessly between the eyes. “No! Jesus, why are you like this? I meant, I want to just be with you today!”

Annoyed by the ruined moment, you jab his side as extra punishment. He squawks, as per usual, and rolls off of you to avoid the next attack. You glance at the clock as you scuttle towards the bathroom; it’s just after 4 AM. A disgusting hour to be awake.

Satoru joins you after a moment, both of you cleaning up quietly before he playfully ushers you back into the bed, curling up around you before you can try and put on a new pair of panties or even a shirt.

“I’m all yours,” he murmurs against your shoulder before kissing it gently. “For as long as you want me to be, kitten.”

Your stomach jolts, warmth blooming in your chest as butterflies take flight in your gut. You lace your fingers with his, nestling into his embrace further instead of responding verbally. You know he didn’t mean within the limitations of today; he meant for the long-haul—the conversation you two dance around like idiots and never really hash out the details.

His slow, even breaths lull you back to a dreamless sleep before your brain can run away with this new information.

-

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re like a cat?” Satoru asks as you yawn for the tenth time on the train. You’re thankful that the route to Shimokitazawa is fairly direct from Yoyogi, though you continue to wish Natsumi opened one of her cafés closer to your apartment so you didn’t have to haul your ass so far when you want some of her famous French toast.

He pulls you closer to his chest, your back all but sealed against him on the crowded train. You know he’s being sweet to cover up the territorial nonsense kicking up against the wandering eyes around you, but in a weird way, you find it flattering.

“All the time.” You glance up at him, catching a glimmer of blue beneath the retro sunglasses from the first time you met. “Kento points it out all the time, to the point that nearly all the gifts he gives me are cat-themed. And it’s no surprise that Yaga made Apollo a cat, either. I’d get some serious side-eye for yawning all the time or asking to take breaks to nap during our training sessions when I was younger.”

A sky-blue eye winks at you from beneath the sunglasses and it pairs up with the Grin. “But you’re my sleepy lil’ pussy, aren’t you?”

“Seriously?”

The Grin widens and the arm curled around your waist shifts, his fingers slipping under the boxy sweater to make contact with the bare skin of your stomach. It’s an innocuous touch, but your body instantly responds with a flare of want and a rush of pleasure at his attention.

It’s annoying how quickly he can get you going.

“I bet I can get you purring right now, too.” His fingers trail along your stomach lightly, the lack of pressure but obvious intent doing exactly what he wants them to: make you wet. “Maybe I ought to give it a try, seeing as you’ve got every guy’s attention right now.”

He’s not wrong. Most of the men on the train have been eyeing you since you stepped on, even though you had Satoru hot on your ass—not to mention most of the men are with their partners or far too old for the attention to be anything but creepy. But, the quiet, wild side of you can’t help but bask in the attention. It’s not like you’re an exhibitionist. No, you’re just petty enough to want to make all the women staring daggers at you insanely jealous for stealing the attention of all the men on the train and call the hottest one of them all yours.

You cock your head to the side, exposing the side of your neck—and the vicious hickie he left there this morning. You can’t see his eyes, but his fingers dare to slip lower on your abdomen, skirting the waistband of your leggings. His cock presses against your lower back with pride as he brings his lips over the bruised skin with a sultry smile.

“Now, that’s not fair, kitten.” He chuckles against your neck just as his fingers slip beneath your leggings, tugging playfully at the band of your thong so the friction taunts your clit just right. “You know I’m weak against seeing all my marks on your gorgeous body, especially your neck.”

“What are you going to do about it?” you taunt, your eyes glancing at the station announcement. A smirk pulls at your lips as you press back against him, earning a rumbling growl and a nip to your neck.

“I have half a mind to warp us out of here and show you exactly what I plan to do about it,” he retorts with a low voice. Fluttering your eyelashes, you snatch his sunglasses, slip them on and dart out of the train just as the doors open to your stop.

You laugh at his yelp of surprise as you dodge and weave through the busy station towards the exit. This playfulness—your instinct says to brush it off as a fluke, a spur of the moment kind of thing, but you know that isn’t really true. You’ve always been playful, even as a kid.

It just got buried beneath the bullshit somewhere along the way.

Not just because of Alexander; though, yeah, he was a big dump of emotional shit.

Just life.

College.

Work.

And, of course, avoiding anything that threatens the tiny semblance of peace you’ve found after stitching yourself back together.

You know you’re at the disadvantage, what with Satoru’s height giving him a bird’s-eye view of your moves, making it easier for him to warp to you. But you still run off, dodging the tourists and locals alike as you rush towards the café. You can feel his aura blur and solidify as he warps tiny steps to close the gap, but you can see the Sleepy Sheep Café sign getting closer and the training you pushed through with Maki and Kento pays off with a final sprint towards the door.

“Got ya!” he shouts as he reappears in front of you so your only choice is to run into his arms.

A peal of laughter bubbles out of you as he spins the two of you away from the door, somehow avoiding the curious on-lookers. He starts laughing with you as he finally sets you down, stealing his sunglasses back before kissing you soundly.

“When did you get so fast?” He pulls out your inhaler from your bag, priming it for you as you catch your breath.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you huff, mostly because your lungs are on fire. “I’ve always been fast.”

He gives you a look that you ignore as you suck in the medication, holding your breath while holding his stare. After a second, he shakes his head and starts to usher you inside the café; the scent of fresh baked goods hits you like a delightful ton of bricks. You release a slow, steady breath and steel yourself to deal with the ogling girls at the hostess station.

“Welcome in, sir!” the faux-blonde chirps, promptly ignoring you. Unruffled, you look around the café for the head of curls you know is here somewhere while Satoru asks politely for a table for two. It’s only when you’re being led to a table near the kitchen that you hear Natsumi giving directions in the back, her no-nonsense tone making you smile.

“Here is your seat, miss,” the hostess says crisply, indicating the chair right next to the kitchen’s doors—one of the worst seats in the house. A weary sigh escapes as you pull out the chair, making a mental note to start looking for restaurants with male hosts.

“I thought I heard your laugh earlier.”

Natsumi appears from the kitchen, her expressive face set in a deep frown as she takes in the table, especially your seat. Her sharp eyes pin down the hostess, who stares at her, wide-eyed.

“I’d love to know why you sat my best friend and her boyfriend at the worst table in the café on her birthday, of all days.” Satoru watches the exchange with keen interest, chin resting on the heel of his palm as the hostess’s eyes dart between you, him, and Natsumi. You almost feel bad, except that your pity won’t save her from Natsumi’s wrath.

“I-I didn’t realize… I didn’t k-know she…” the girl stammers, eyes landing on Satoru as if he’s going to swoop in and save her from her own petty grave.

“Yeah, I gathered you weren’t using your brain so much as your eyes,” Natsumi drawls. She takes the menus and your hand, pulling you along as she leads you back up to the front. “I’ll be taking care of them. Get back up front and let the others know that Kaya Nissen is a VIP from here on out, you hear me? Pull this petty shit again and you’ll be fired on the spot.”

Your new table is at the very front, by the main windows. Natsumi places the menus on the same side of the four-top, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table with a sigh.

“Sorry about that. If I’d have known your sorcerer is such a chick-magnet, I’d have warned the girls ahead of time.” She pulls her hair up into a messy bun before fixing her eyes on Satoru, assessing him in that intimidating, quiet manner that tends to make men squirm.

You wave her apology away. “I’m used to it when going out with him. Besides, you had no idea I’d show up today, of all days.”

Her eyes land back on you, brow raised. “True. I can’t say I’m not stunned to see you out and about today, let alone hear you actually laugh like that.” She glances at Satoru. “Kaya’s laugh is most-recognized part of her. Ken and I could find her in a crowded mall instantly growing up.”

He looks at you, tucking a stubborn curl behind your ear to expose the blush creeping up your cheeks. “Today is only the second time I’ve heard it.”

“You’re definitely hotter than Man-Bun,” Natsumi notes, completely redirecting the conversation. You and Satoru turn to her, blinking in surprise. You had completely forgotten about that weird run-in at the bar. “What was his name again?”

“Geto.” Satoru goes still for the smallest second before relaxing back into the chair again, draping his arm casually along the back of your chair. You put your hand on his thigh, feeling the hidden tension in the muscle there. “Sorry, I forgot to mention this last night. We went out with Kento a few nights ago and this Geto guy started making a pass—”

“A very lame, chauvinistic pass,” Natsumi interrupts.

You roll your eyes and push on. “Yes, yes, a very blatant pass at me. Ken stepped in but he made a comment about you, so I got a bit defensive.”

“What she really means is she got pissed and put him in his place in the greatest way.” Natsumi snickers as she remembers the night, which surprises you considering how many shots of tequila she’d had that night. “Took his shot of Jameson like a fucking champ and told him that you’d ruined her for all other men.”

Satoru grins at that, his brow arching with smug interest. You sigh, silently cursing Natsumi for giving him something to hold over you for the foreseeable future.

“Right, and then I compelled him to forget me.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully as he listens, probably thinking about how likely it was that your compulsion actually worked. “But Ken wouldn’t explain how he knew him, or how Geto knows you.”

He shrugs, running his other hand through his white locks idly. “We were close back when we were in high school, you could say we were best friends. Then, we grew up and started down different paths. He’s a teacher at Kyoto Jujutsu Tech, their principal’s right hand goon, really. I’m surprised he was in Tokyo at all, though.”

“I didn’t see anyone else with him that night,” you recall, leaning back against Satoru’s arm as you try to remember that night. You certainly remember puking your guts up when you got back home thanks to the Jameson.

“Hmm. All the same, try to avoid being alone with him, yeah?” He looks down at you, his smile bright but tense at the corners. “If he finds out that we’re together, his interest in you will only get more problematic.”

“Sounds like a dick,” Natsumi points out, crossing her arms. Satoru chuckles as he nods in agreement.

“More or less.” He leans forward, his smile a little brighter, a little less forced. “Now, I heard you have the best French toast in Tokyo.”

You watch the pair of them discuss the best toppings for French toast with a soft smile, the kernel of concern you’d felt when talking about Geto forgotten as you fall back into the blissful bubble that’s become your birthday. Even when Sumi grills Satoru about his salary, apartment, and all the standard points a best friend hits to make sure their other half is well-taken care of, you can’t help but feel like you’re in a dream; when was the last time you laughed this freely, this often?

He dips his head to steal a kiss when Natsumi leaves to prepare the food. You feel his smile against your lips as you automatically let the kiss linger on, the hand you’ve kept on his thigh slipping higher along his inseam.

“I’ve ruined you for all other men, huh?” he teases. His breath warms your cheeks as he nuzzles your neck, no fucks given about the other people in the café watching you two with interest. The hand draped across the back of your chair moves up into your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp expertly and doing some ridiculous things to your nerve endings.

“I knew you’d latch onto that,” you reply, a little too breathlessly than you’d have liked. You palm the growing bulge in his pants once before leaning away and poking him in the chest to keep him at bay. “Behave. We need food and then we can pick this back up later, deal?”

His blue eyes simmer as he looks at you over the rims of his glasses. “Deal.”

-

Being warped to his apartment the moment you step into the empty alley by the café doesn’t surprise you in the least.

Getting stripped naked and pressed up against the floor to ceiling window of his apartment while he eats you out from behind surprises the fuck out of you.

The noises he makes as his tongue works your clit makes your knees buckle. Your palms flatten against the glass, everything about the situation fogging your head with lust. The idea of being seen—your desire to be seen in such a lewd, exposed position short-circuiting your reason. He works a finger into your hole, the invasion pulling a low moan from you as your legs widen for him instantly at the pressure.

“I love the way you respond to me,” he chuckles as he kisses the small of your back, just above your ass. Another finger slips into you, his pace steady and slow. “My sweet, needy kitten.”

“Toru, please. Please don’t stop,” you whine as you flex your hips back to meet his fingers.

He rises to his feet, his fingers never stopping while his other hand smacks the rounded cheek of your ass sharply. “I have no intention of stopping, sweetheart. This is what you deserve after teasing me all day with that sweet ass in those leggings. Not to mention getting me worked up on the train, or while your best friend interrogated me over brunch.”

He spanks you again, making you whimper and clench at his fingers. “Besides, it’s my kitten’s birthday and she wants to spend it with me. That means spoiling her rotten so she can’t think about anything but how much I’ve ruined her for other men, right?”

You’re never going to live that one down.

Your retort dies in your throat as he pushes a third finger into you, sharp words melting in a drawn out moan. Three sharp thrusts push you harder against the window before his fingers are replaced with his tongue—fuck. You love the way his tongue dives into your dripping cunt, laving at your interior walls with a hunger you hope never leaves him.

“O-oh, fuck. Oh, fuck!” His tongue drags over your tight asshole as his finger slip back into you. “Toru, Toru, Toru!”

The sensation of his tongue prodding your puckered hole combined with the pads of his callouses massaging your fucking G-spot has you seeing stars, the edge of your climax right there. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

I need more.

“That’s it, kitten. Cum all over my fingers.” He bites the swell of your ass. “Cum for me, babygirl. Do that, and I’ll give your pussy exactly what it wants.”

His voice is your undoing. The low gravel tones pushing you over the edge, your walls clenching wildly at his fingers as your words become a slur of his name and—fuckfuckfuck.

Chest heaving, you ride out your orgasm on his fingers and acknowledge the relentless need still churning in your core. You look at him from over your shoulder, eyes half-lidded and pupils blown. He’s still fully dressed and it’s a problem.

“Toru, fuck me, please,” you beg breathlessly.

His lips tip up into a grin as he starts shedding his clothes faster than you’d ever seen to date before he crowds you up against the window again, your ass smearing your slick all over his cock as he kisses you hungrily. Fingers pull your hair back, giving him better access to your mouth as the broad head of his cock pushes into you, the stretch blissful. He groans into your mouth as you reflexively squeeze his cock with your pussy, his hips rolling steadily into yours to get as deep as he possibly can.

“You feel fucking perfect,” he moans, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as his hips thrust into you at a steady, deep pace. “I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I constantly want you. I’m fucking addicted to you, the way you feel, the sound of that fucking gorgeous laugh.”

His teeth nip at your neck, making you whimper and arch your back, getting his cock even deeper. His hands work your tits, pinching at your dusky nipples in time with his thrusts. You’re a live wire; nothing but sensory overload registers in your brain as he fucks you better than you’ve ever been fucked in your life. The wet sounds of your bodies joining together echo in your ears, mingling with his grunts and moans as he plays your body like an instrument, pulling whimpers and gasps and cries from you in a raw and wild symphony.

“You’re fucking mine, and I want everyone to see you come apart on my cock.” His pace shifts into a steady pounding as he pushes your torso against the cold glass. The change in temperature on your skin makes your pussy clench his cock. “That’s my babygirl. Cum on this throbbing cock.”

You were close before but as his fingers slip between your swollen cleft to rub your juices over your clit, a strangled scream leaves your throat as you tumble head-first into another orgasm, your body spasming against the cold window and his sweat-covered chest. Praise drips from his lips like honey as he grips your hips with his large hands and pulls you back to meet his cock faster and faster. He ruts into you mercilessly, the pressure of another climax building in your core.

“B-baby, please… fuck, oh god.” Putting words together isn’t working. “I’m… fuck! Toru, I’m going to—”

His shallow pants match yours as he works your clit with his fingers again. You scream just as your knees finally give out, but you don’t hit the floor. Instead, you collapse onto his bed thanks to a perfectly timed warp, his hips never stopping their rhythm as he overstimulates the fuck out of you. Like animals in heat, the two of you are a pile of grunts and whimpers, his cock urging you on to gush all over him. Just the thought of it—good fucking gods, you need to give him that. You know that’s what he’s after, why he isn’t stopping.

Another scream rips from your throat as all the stimulation finally breaks you. Tremors shake your body as he half-groans, half-yells your name like a holy litany, pumping his own release into you before you both collapse into a still-connected heap.

It feels like it’s taking years for basic communication to come back to you. Your thundering pulse all you can hear as it matches Satoru’s, his heartbeat pounding against your shoulder blade from where he still lies, catching his breath.

“Well,” he pants, “that confirms it.”

It’s ridiculous, how much effort it takes you to reply, “Confirms what?”

“You’ve ruined me for all other women.”

You know your heart would leap if you had the energy to let it. Instead, you let out a weak laugh and lace your fingers with his, the sentiment acknowledged with his hand squeezing yours.

“Another thing.” He rolls off of you, pushing you over gently onto your back while he remains propped up on his elbow. Aquamarine eyes shine brightly as he presses a sweet, slow kiss to your lips. If time stopped—hell, if the world fucking ended right now, you would die happier than you’ve felt in over a decade. That truth settles deep into your bones as you memorize his face in this moment, a moment you know both his walls and yours a nothing but a memory of a past life. When they finally crumbled, it’s hard to pinpoint; all you know is that this is the clearest you’ve ever seen Satoru Gojo and it’s the clearest he’s ever seen you.

“What?” He smiles and lets his lips barely brush against yours.

“Happy birthday.”

[enternalempires]

What She Learned

Jasonette fic, a lil hurt/death, a lil romance, and I like it so... (also can someone please explain to me how to add the thing that I can make it so yo guys can click ‘read more’ instead of being forced to scroll past the whole thing???)

7-years-old and Marinette is told by one Chloe Bourgeois that she will never be worth anything in life, because ugly little girls like her don’t deserve attention. She’s pushed to the ground but she does not cry at her split knees or the scraps stinging on her palms; she stands up and she doesn’t talk back but she returns from school to a warm house and caring parents.

Her soulmate mark appears a month later and her bully spends a month sneering at the Phoenix resting against the inside of her wrist, dancing in reds and darkness and resurrection.

A week later, she learns that there are more important people to listen to than those who make her cry at 8 in the morning.

9-years-old and Marinette thinks that the blonde mayor’s daughter is the worst person she will have the unfortunate chance to meet. She gets insulted and glared at and has a hard time making friends but she is strong and she is kind and she will continue to stand even if she doesn’t know how important it is to get up after you fall.

She’s having dreams of dark streets and color nights; of dark gargoyles hanging off buildings, dirty-faced children, a city drowned in fear. She sees the face of a dizzy woman and an angry man and she wakes up terrified because there are bruises on a body that is not her own and the ache of an empty stomach underneath their palms. When she looks into a mirror there is a boy with a too-serious expression for such a young face and eyes blue enough to drown her in the sadness there.

She learns that there are some children out there who never had the chance to learn kindness before they learned how to survive.

10-years-old and Marinette is shoved into a row of lockers by a boy she doesn’t recognize, her pink dress and pigtails sneered at until tears fill her eyes. She doesn’t know how to defend herself  but she tries until she’s shoved onto the school’s grimy floor and breaks a finger trying to catch herself.

She does not cry, she does not say sorry, she does not think that it is fair for her teacher to say, “Boys will be boys,” instead of “I’m sorry you got hurt on my watch.” She will continue to stand up for herself even after a broken wrist.

She asks her parents about the nightmares, about the boy with blue eyes and an empty stomach; they tell her about her soulmate and they tell her that one day, she is going to meet him and love him how their parents loved each other.

13-years old and Marinette does not understand the word sacrifice but she is about to learn. She flinches at the sight of magic-tainted earrings and feels her fingertips run cold with insecurity— because she never wanted this, she didn’t want to be a hero and she didn’t want to be in charge of saving people when, in the past, she never knew how to save herself.

It has been a year and she starts to see flashes of a man in black and a large house that feels too clean to be tainted, too open to be safe. She sees the reflection of a boy in red, green, and yellow and feels the comfort of the heavy books underneath his fingers.

He never got the chance to be smart before, never got the right education, never learned something unless it helped him stay alive— and she goes to sleep smiling because even though he’s not quite happy, at least he’s safe.

15-years-old and Marinette is dreaming of a man in green and purple and she’s sobbing because— he’s getting hurt and she’s watching from his eyes and she can’t do anything about it. He cries out for his father, for the man promised to be there, and he dies alone and staring at a bloody crowbar, his blue eyes going dull in the reflection of his own blood.

She wakes up screaming and feeling empty and with the Phoenix on her wrist looking like nothing more than a pile of ash, red feathers and glowing eyes going blurry and dark. There is not enough light in the world to make her chest hurt any less and her parents hold her as she cries but don’t speak; there is nothing that could be said to comfort someone in the face of a loss like this.

She learns what it is like to be alone for the first time in her life and she no longer knows how to dream.

17-years-old and Marinette is standing at the bottom of the Eiffel tower, ruination around her, swirling and teetering on the edge of death, surrounding her like a wet blanket, the water of horror digging deep into her bones. She has watched her comrades die for her and she has watched them protect her with everything in them, believing that she will win. Believing that she will bring them back— and she does, and they’re safe, but nothing can change the fact that she will always remember what her loved one’s looked like dead, empty eyes staring right at her.

She did not win against Hawkmoth, not really, not when she has lost so much. She casts her cure and she returns home with the two recovered miraculouses, a heavy heart, and enough trauma to last a lifetime.

She knew what it felt like to mourn someone she never met but now she learns how it feels to grieve two people at once, even when they are still alive.

19-years-old and Marinette is staring at the fire that consumed the bakery, her home, her parents. She saw too many horrible, traumatic things that it takes a couple seconds to register that this is it, they’re not coming back. Because yes, she has seen the world end but no, the world did not end. She is used to being able to fix things that are broken in a way that makes sure they never broke but this is not one of those things and her parents are not some of the people whose lives she has the luxury of saving.

She is desperate to run and she is desperate to fight but there is no longer a battle in Paris. Her instincts tell her to go, go, run, don’t look back and don’t think about the bodies left behind, so she does and she ends up in Gotham and she ends up looking at familiar gargoyles and familiar streets and feels an ache so wide inside her heart she’s surprised it’s still beating.

She owns a small bakery on the corner of crime alley that is the only neutral ground in seemingly all of Gotham and she learns how to bake without crying at the scent of baked bread, turning her grief into comfort as she’s surrounded by her parent’s smell and memories of her childhood— she shares that comfort with any kids who come in looking for a safe place to spend the night.

21-years-old and Marinette has built herself a home; the building is old but warm and drenched in magic. She found all the other Miraculous boxes and lets the Kwamis roam free inside of her apartment, there’s over a hundred of them in total but she bonded with them all and, in return, they love her. She is the Guardian; both a monster and a protector at once.

The kids flock to her like moths to a flame and over the years she has gained all of their trust. She asks for nothing in return when she gives them food and medicine and a warm place to sleep. There’s magic on the doors that lead to rooms full of bunk beds and closets with food and medical supplies and sleeping bags and all is welcome— the kids know about the Kwamis and they know that she is safe, in a world that has taught them to fear everything, she is safe.

They call her the Guardian or Lady luck and she learns how to have a family again without being terrified of losing them.

23-years-old and Marinette has just saved one of her kids from Scarecrow. It is not the first time and it will not be the last. There are those that are terrified of her, gang leaders and villains that won’t step foot onto her land— but these are her kids, these are her people, this is her home and she will not feel guilty for protecting them.

She is polite to Batman and the other vigilantes, she has made friends with the Sirens, and she knows her way around Gotham and she knows when there is a problem that needs to be solved. She does not know what to make of Red Hood or the dreams that come with him or how her fingers tremble when one of the older kids comes through the bakery’s doors with a crowbar tucked under her arm.

She does not know how to make her mind any lighter, she does not know how to get rid of the darkness but she learns that there is such a thing as healing with time.

24-years-old and Marinette comes home from patrol and finds her balcony’s doors open and the living room smelling like blood. She sees Red Hood’s eyes for the first time and she does not cry, she does not fall, and she does not flinch. They are blue and more angry than sad and guilty— so, so guilty— but she knows them well. Her wrist burns and the Phoenix rises again from the ashes, and she no longer feels so alone.

She patches Hood— Jason, his name is Jason— up and she still does not fall over but her knees are weak, so very weak because he’s here and he’s alive and oh my God. She does not ask about the bullet wound but she asks about the sickly and tainted magic clinging to his skin. He tells her about waking up in the Lazarus Pit and when asked, she tells him about a boy in white and the moon cracked in half in the sky.

They do not know each other’s past well, they do not know so many things but they know that they don’t want to lose each other again. They do not know what to do next but she learns not to question it because her soulmate is alive and that’s good enough for her.

26-years-old and Marinette is getting married under a sky full of stars and the hands in hers are warm and there’s nothing cold about her life. She has her home, she has her kids and bakery and she has her Kwamis. She has Jason and he isn’t gentle but he is kind and he knows how to hold her just right when she feels like falling apart. She is kind and soft and knows how to hold him when he feels like the madness is getting worse again.

She is happy for one of the first times in years and she knows that, despite it all, she’d go through it again if it meant she could end up here; happy in her husband's arms and cheeks hurting from smiling so wide.

She has learned a lot and she’s not even 30, but she has learned how to love and how to be loved and how to always get up when she falls. She knows how to stand, feet firmly planted into the ground, and she knows how to not let herself get blown over when things get too hard.

But if she did happen to let herself fall?

Well, now there’s someone there to catch her.

[herohotline]

It’s Gonna Be Okay (It Has To)

Izuku Midoriya x Reader

A/N: because apparently I can only write dark shit if Deku is involved

Request from Ao3:  Can I get an Izuku x Reader? Reader is another student with a weaker quirk(they can heal others, but in order to do so they must take on the wound themself, maybe?) Maybe kinda the “Are you crazy? You almost lost your life!” prompt.

Warnings: Descriptions of gore, trauma, angst. Also some dadzawa because I’m weak

Like many quirks, yours had an upside and a downside to it. Your parents called you blessed to have such a quirk; as if you were some sort of angel. You didn’t really agree with that phrasing- and you soon had to run away from your parent's eager hands so they stopped abusing your quirk. You took refuge in U.A- once you barely passed the exam you explained your situation to the teachers, they were quick to take you in. Aizawa had interestingly enough decided to house you- but he made it quite clear that even though you were in his class he wouldn’t be playing favorites and you would be graded fairly. 

Your quirk is simple enough. You have the ability to heal others completely, but it might cost you your own life. You take their pain and transfer it to yourself- sometimes it’s not a big deal, and sometimes it is. For instance, you are not allergic to peanuts, but if someone else is and starts to choke from the effects, you can easily snatch that away and save their life while having no real consequences yourself because your body is not allergic to peanuts. 

Your parents thought of you as a lifesaver; anytime they were presented with discomfort, they demanded their angel take it from them. Not only was this abusing your quirk, but it was abusing you in the process. You had since learned from Aizawa housing you that you are not required to heal anything and anyone- you have a choice in the matter. 

Today, you made a rather… drastic choice. 

It was a completely normal day. You, Midoriya, and Uraraka had been traveling Musutafu for fun when you had heard about a villain attack nearby. Of course, your blood boiled at the thought of another villainous attack, but you knew that you were still in training and going in to help was the last thing anyone needed right now. Convincing Midoriya was difficult- in the end, you weren’t even able to win- but you made a compromise. 

You’d go look at the damage, and once the villains were dealt with, you’d help with damage control and any civilians that needed a hand after the attack. That sounded fair enough. 

When you arrived at the scene, everything was pretty much taken care of, to your relief. There was some rubble and people needed help getting out from under them, so Izuku and Uraraka used their abilities to help while you observed from the background. Your quirk wasn’t exactly useful in this area, but you could help with any minor injuries people may have. 

As you look around the area, you notice something moving from underneath all the rubble. At first, you think it’s a civilian, but claws snatch out from the rocks and the nails make angry marks as the thing pushes itself up from the boulders. 

You freeze in shock. It’s a Nomu- of course it is, when is it not? 

“Deku!!” 

You scream, your vocal cords shredding as you do. It’s not enough time- you were too late with your warning as you watch Midoriya get pummeled into the ground by the Nomu. You can hear everything-

Midoriya and Uraraka’s screams, the heroes nearby telling everyone to evacuate, the vibrations in the ground as people run and scatter. 

You don’t even get a choice to run in and help- a hero scoops you up in his arms and runs away with you. He can't get very far until the Nomu has clawed his back- the whole thing looks like an insane, mutated bird. It has fierce wings, but the most threatening thing about it is its strong legs with talons that are sharp as knives and several inches long. He picks the hero up with the talons, flying him up into the air before swinging and dropping him onto the ground below. It all happens right in front of you- 

The blood. The limbs, the guts… flying everywhere- what used to be a man is scattered in several disgusting pieces- all over you, all over the concrete, all over all over all over- 

Your scream is bloodcurdling. 

Uraraka scoops you up as you scream, and you’re vaguely aware that she’s taking you somewhere, but you don’t know where. You don’t stop screaming, you don’t stop crying- you don’t stop because you can’t. All you can see is blood, blood, blood, and it makes you want to vomit. 

Uraraka keeps running. 

Eventually, the chaos ends, but you’re unsure exactly when. You don’t know how long it’s been, you don’t know if you’re even alive, really, but police cars and their sirens fill your senses as well as the ambulances. Your friend places you in one before quickly running off again, and you don’t even get to say anything. 

Can you say anything?

There’s doctors, nurses- people, they’re all just people in uniform- checking your vitals and asking you questions you can’t answer. You feel partially numb, partially scared and partially frozen. You sit there and let them do what they need to do, but they don’t do a good job. Nothing will help the white noise in your ears and the pictures in your head and how your body just won’t stop shaking. 

As you stare at all the damage the Nomu caused, there’s a stretcher being carried into another ambulance. You can barely see who it is from your spot, but there’s a glimpse of green hair. Your stomach flips when you think about who it could be.

You don’t ask the doctors for permission. You know that nothing is wrong with you, nothing but your head, so you tear out all the wires they put in you and jump out of the vehicle. You don’t listen to them calling out for you as you rush toward the stretcher, breaking your way through the several men in white that surround him- Midoriya. 

He’s covered in bruises, scrapes, and gashes. There are three gnarly, ugly tears on his side that look like the very definition of worrying. The voice you couldn’t find before suddenly comes back. “Will he make it?” You look at the doctors. 

“Please get out of the way!” 

“No!” You scream, holding onto Midoriya’s stretcher with all your strength. “Is he going to live?!” 

“We don’t know-”

Not good enough. 

“Okay, okay,” you breathe shakily, looking down at Midoriya. He’s barely lucid, you can tell- his eyes are open and unfocused, looking in several different directions in a haze. Tears run down your cheeks and snot down your nose as you grab his face with shaky hands. “Okay, Midoriya. Listen to me- okay? Listen. You’re gonna be okay, I swear- I swear you’re gonna be okay. Everything is going to be okay.” 

Your hand drifts down to the torn-up flesh on his side. You can do this- you know you can do this. It’s just as easy as taking a paper cut. 

Another shaky breath leaves you as you sob, preparing yourself for the pain- and then you activate your quirk. 

---

You hate the color white. 

It’s not even a color- it’s meaningless and void of anything real. It’s the beginning of color but isn’t a color itself. It is ugly and dark in your opinion. 

When you wake up, you’re surrounded by that non-color. It’s all white- the walls, the ceiling, the bedsheets, and your gown. You know where you are immediately. Only a hospital can bring you such dread. 

No one is in the room at the moment and you’re glad. It gives you a moment to think about what happened. There’s a burning sensation on your waist, something that hurts more than you think you’re processing at the moment- you’re probably drugged. Sloppy and heavy hands lift up your bedsheets and your gown, revealing the fresh, dark scar. It hugs your entire waist, curling around you as if it were a curse. 

But you think it’s a blessing. You saved Midoriya, right? God, please- he’s still alive, right? 

Alone in the hospital, you cry again. It’s silent, the tears leaving in streams but you don’t have the energy to sob. You lean back into the uncomfortable, stiff pillows on your bed and let yourself sink into the mattress. Tears fall into your ears and your hair, but that’s okay. 

You’re alive- Midoriya is alive. He has to be. 

---

The next time you wake up, you’re not alone. 

There’s a doctor on one side of your bed, her hands on you and doing something you don’t really know. On the other side, there’s a familiar shade of green sitting on a plastic chair. They’re both talking but it’s all muffled in your ears- you’re too drowsy to fully grasp what you’re seeing and what they’re saying. 

But the green- it makes your heart feel warm. 

“Deku,” you whisper. 

And then you fall unconscious again. 

--- 

You’re a lot more lucid when you wake up next. You’re once again alone in your little hospital room, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Soon, the door straight in front of you opens, several people walking in at once. They’re doing their best to be quiet as they walk around your bed and you can’t help but smile. 

“Hey, guys,” you croak- your throat more dry and hoarse than you realized.

Midoriya, Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki… and surprisingly, but maybe not so much, Aizawa. 

“___!” Uraraka speaks first, a hand slapping over her mouth as she gasps. “You’re-” her eyes are already watering, “you’re awake!” 

You give her a sad, broken smile- but before anyone else can say anything you watch as Aizawa makes his way over to the front of the bed. He stands right next to you, his eyes boring holes as he reaches forward and grabs at your forehead with his hand. 

Something that’s meant to be threatening, but he’s much too gentle for the message to really stick. 

“What were you thinking?” He asks.

“I wasn’t,” you tell him honestly, looking your teacher- your parental figure- in the eye as you speak. “I was scared. I was really, really scared, and I made a choice. But I’m not sorry.” Maybe you haven’t had a lot of time to fully process what happened- what consequences your choices might have- but this you are sure about. Your lip quivers slightly as you try to take a deep breath, holding Aizawa’s wrist gently and taking his hand off your head. “But I am sorry for worrying you.” 

It’s silent for a long moment- the tension was tight enough to wrap around your throat and it’s hard to breathe, but eventually, it loosens as Aizawa’s tense shoulders sag and he huffs. He turns on his heel, heading right for the door. “Come on. Let’s give them some privacy,” he says, a hand reaching out toward Uraraka’s back and gently pushing her toward the door. Iida silently waves as he leaves alongside Todoroki, and then the door shuts- silence once again coming in waves as you sit alone with Midoriya for the first time. 

“...You’re not sorry?” He asks, a hand grabbing the foot of the bed. You can see how it shakes. 

You know it might not be what he wants to hear, but it’s the truth. Your eyes fall to your lap as you tug on the scratchy blankets with your fingers. “I’m not.” You tell him. “...You were dying.”

“So were you!” He suddenly yells and his expression flashes to an angry one as he frowns. “You… you were dying! And it was my fault!” 

“It wasn’t!” You yell back at him. “It was my choice!” 

“Well, you shouldn’t have made it! You- you weren’t in the right mind to make a choice like that!” 

“But I did!” Your voice raises again- there’s a frantic pounding in your chest and you’re sure Midoriya can hear it through the heart monitor. 

You don’t want him to be angry at you- you don’t want to fight. You just wanted to make it better. 

“I made my choice, and I- I’m sorry it hurt you, Midoriya,” you keep fighting back your tears as you stutter along with your words. It’s hard- your eyes are stinging like crazy- but you don’t want to cry in front of him. You don’t want to make it worse. “I’m sorry I made you sad… I just… At that moment- I couldn't bear it. I couldn’t do it again- I couldn’t watch another person die. I didn’t want you to die!” 

Quickly you use your hands to cover your face as you start hyperventilating. The tears come in bursts, and you can’t help it, so you try to wipe them away and cover them up. The beeping from the monitor is driving you crazy. 

You feel something touch your wrist, and then fully grab it, pulling your hand away. Midoriya is by your side now, his eyes wet and his lips wobbly as he grabs your other wrist. He pulls them up to his lips, closing his eyes and placing your hands against his mouth as he stands there. You watch him with wide eyes, your breathing still coming out in funny waves, but it slowly starts to even out as Midoriya continues to calmly stand next to you. 

“___,” He finally speaks. It’s squeaky and quiet- he clears his throat to try again as he finally opens his eyes and looks at you. “___, thank you… Thank you for helping me… But you have to be more careful, alright?” Midoriya’s hand reaches out, cupping your cheek and wiping away the tears that lie there. “Cause… cause I don’t want you to die either, okay? So please- please be more careful.” 

“You too, okay?” You bite your lip. “No more going into fights. We… We don't do anything until we’re called in. If there’s an attack somewhere… you don’t do anything until we graduate. Okay?” 

Midoriya clicks his tongue, giving you a watery smile as he shakes his head. “I guess that’s fair, huh?” You smile back and nod, and as Midoriya lets go of your wrists you place a hand on top of the one on your cheek. 

You’re alive- Midoriya is alive. Things are okay.

Things will be okay.

[janekfan]

Choke

Prompt from @taylortut's blog! “...I always think about both jon’s hand and his time in the buried right after getting TWO RIBS pulled out. burns get infected very very easily, which i’m sure he’d push off as nothing until he couldn’t anymore, who knows if he even went to the ER when it first happened? and lung problems can arise from blunt trauma and say, dirt in the lungs?”

<3

Heaving for breath that never reached his lungs and made the empty spot where his ribs used to be ache, Jon watched Basira spirit Daisy away from him as though he was the danger, as though his presence, his Knowing, his hunger, was going to take more from her than the Buried. He’d barely gotten a chance to see with his own two eyes that Daisy was alive and well, or at least as well as she could be given the circumstances, before he was left behind.

Sighing, he plucked at his jumper with his one good hand, holding the other close to his body in an unconscious effort to protect it. He was damp and filthy, streaked with earth and sweat and stinking of fear and grime. He coughed, the clot of muck stopping up his throat didn’t want to move, and while he was on his feet so soon after the Boneturner had his way with him, the agony was sharp and insistent, greedily demanding his attention.

Alright. No coughing for a while if he could help it.

Exhaustion, like a wave, rolled over him, and the tide of it threatened to tug him to the floor as his knees went weak and his sight went black. Without truly thinking, he caught himself on the wall, shaky and unbalanced, sliding down just a few centimeters and pressing his hot face against the cool surface.

“Need a, need a lie down.”

Murmured to no one, Jon moved forward on unsteady legs, taking ages to reach the room where his meagre belongings were stored, sitting heavily in a desk chair before his limbs gave out completely. He was panting. Shallow. Painful. Skin itching and prickling with dirt and the phantom sensation of pressure and he pulled off his clothes, petrichor blossoming in the small room enough to make him gag on the scent of it, to drop them as far from the cot as he could reach. When he touched his shaky fingers to his forehead, they came away muddy and as much as he wanted to change into the softest clothes he had and collapse right there, he needed something of a wash. A cat bath would have to do because there was no way he’d make it back to his feet a second time.

It took several tries, his injured hand was beginning to make itself known in earnest, to open one of the bottles of water he kept and pour some out on a flannel without making an even larger mess, folding it smaller on every pass over his soiled, scarred skin. Logically, he Knew, it took only minutes, but by the time he deemed himself clean enough, Jon was struggling to keep going, tears of frustration and pain squeezing between tightly closed lids despite his best attempts to stifle himself. He selected another cloth, dropping the last one with his clothes, and soaked it liberally before scrubbing it through his already disheveled hair, finger combing what he could to get it as orderly as possible. Finally, he was able to crawl his way to the cot, wrung out and so weary the effort to breathe almost didn’t seem worth it.

Whether through mercy or exhaustion, he didn’t dream.

Hunger, deep inside where he couldn’t reach, woke him late in the day and he spent a long time reigning it in to a manageable level where it didn’t consume his every thought. Jon rubbed at his chest; it felt too heavy, a full feeling that reminded him of the Buried, of being crushed on all sides, except this time he was alone, no one was there to speak with him, to keep him grounded when the panic began to set in. Profoundly, he missed Daisy even though he wouldn’t wish this back upon her for anything and as he suffocated the Eye fed off fear of his own making, draining what little strength he’d managed to shore up for himself until he was a hollow, empty thing.

And still, Jon was on his own, even as he sought the comforting presence of Martin who he Knew was still in the Archives somewhere, he couldn’t focus long enough to calm down and find him. He curled up, tight, small, caging his face behind a clawed hand, lungs working like a bellows and doing absolutely nothing.

Help.

Who would help you?

I can’t breathe.

Then you can’t hurt people anymore.

I need help. Please. Please.

Please.

When the coughing began it was hard and harsh, and he was unable to stop, stomach roiling, the nausea flooding his mouth with salt while he fumbled for a bin, grabbing it in time to lose the churning combination of bile and mud.

Hurts.

Hurts.

The Beholding rippled, an emotion pretending to be mirth, oily and disgusting, oozed just beneath the surface of his skin as he begged to be allowed to stop until finally he was left coiled around the bin, one arm pressing so tightly into his belly he thought he might be ill again. A sob dropped from his lips, tears slipped off the end of his nose and he cried and cried with such force he didn’t notice when his consciousness fled.

This time when he blinked awake, dizzy and disoriented, Jon let himself lay in his discomfort, turning his thoughts towards Daisy and hoping, praying, she wasn’t experiencing the same symptoms. Or at the very least, Basira was able to handle it. He refused to Know, instead he drifted, the Eye feeding him bits of random information he never asked for while he planned his next course of action.

He needed a proper wash. To rewrap his hand. To get back to work figuring this thing out. Work would take his mind off the ache in his chest. That would be. That would be good. Staggering to bare feet, Jon limped his way to the restroom, ignoring the way the halls shifted and swam. He’d feel better after he cleaned up. Startled at his reflection in the mirror, Jon ran the pads of his quaking fingers along his jaw. His face was streaked in sludge, the shadows under his eyes like bruises, and his dark skin was ashen, the old scars standing out as if to remind him he would be forever marked. Ugly. Unwanted. The sheen of sweat on his forehead was a surprise, he’d been trembling with cold this whole time, so off balance he was afraid if he removed his hand from the sink he wouldn’t be able to stay standing.

“Okay, Jon.” Gingerly he unraveled the dirty bandages from around his hand and fingers, wincing at the angry, red surface. Days in the dirt hadn’t done the newly healed skin of his palm any favors. Hissing through his teeth when he ran it under lukewarm water, Jon closed his eyes against the sting, moving as quickly as possible so he could get back to his desk and sit down.

The next few days? dragged on and on, the chill sunk deep into his aching bones so persistent he’d taken to wearing an old jumper Martin left behind in a drawer. Curled up in his chair, bad leg stretched out on a stack of file folders, Jon snuggled as deep as he could into the well worn yarn imagining he was held within warm arms instead before the cruelty of the Beholding reminded him to stop daydreaming and get to work. He wasn’t well, found it harder and harder to focus when compounded by the gnawing hunger in the back of his mind. Jon was counting the beat of his pulse throbbing through his burned hand when he heard the creak of a door down the hall. Basira, he Knew, scrambling upright and only swaying for a moment before following the tug of want.

“Jon.” Of course she would notice him coming, he wasn’t exactly fit for spycraft at the moment. She was collecting a few things and cramming them impatiently into a bag. Eager to get away from this place. Eager to get away from him.

“How’s Daisy?” Immediately, he grasped his throat with trembling fingers. How was this his voice? Raspy and painful and rough with the remains of mud he knew only existed in his imagination. He’d checked. He coughed. Stopped as soon as possible if only to prevent an untimely collapse to his knees, head spinning so much he had to close his eyes against it briefly. Basira had yet to look at him, the tense line of her shoulders the only indication that she was even aware he was still there.

“Fine.” The relief filling him up was sweeter than the oxygen he craved and helped push away the Dark that kept trying to overtake his vision, at least for a moment. Daisy was fine. He. He’d helped someone, he’d saved someone. “She has a long way to go.”

“Ah, of course.” It hurt to speak, but that was okay. Daisy was okay.

“Jon.”

“Yes?” He perked up, eager to provide anything she might need, anything at all to make sure they were alright.

“I think it would be best if you stopped trying to contact us.” Suddenly, it was very cold, it cut straight to the center of him, clutching his heart in an icey fist. His ignored messages and calls made more sense now. He felt foolish. He should have known.

“Ah.” But he understood. Basira was likely going through a lot trying to help Daisy recover.

“Maybe if you’d gotten to her sooner?” Guilt swept him up, made it harder to breathe. He couldn’t fault her; he’d been struggling with that himself. “She just. She needs time right now. Just until she gets back on her feet.”

“Of, of course!” He chuffed, it was that or he would cry and that wouldn’t help either of them. “I. Of course. Take all the time you need.” Basira still hadn’t spared him a glance, lingering only for a second with her fingers gripping the door frame.

“Right then.”

And Jon was alone.

Jon wasn’t getting any better and if anything, was becoming worse and the sudden, intrusive Knowledge that he would need a live statement to heal on his own at this point made him ill. There was too much wrong all at once and the old ones weren’t enough, keeping him just on the right side of vertical, caught in between conscious and unconscious and barely able to keep moving. He Knew he was intensely feverish (39.7 the Eye helpfully provided), Knew his hand had become infected. Even Knew he had pneumonia and Knew there was nothing he could do about it.

He wouldn’t die.

Of course not. Couldn’t take the easy road for once.

At least he didn’t think he would anyway and the Eye had no opinions about that, content to prod him up, up, up to find statements, reading himself hoarse through bouts of coughing so taxing he’d come to only to find himself on the floor, fallen out of his chair. Pathetic. He was pathetic and he was glad there was nobody around to see him mope. He’d lost count of the number of times he woke amongst piles of folders between the stacks, tugging random statements off the bottom shelves and hoping one day he’d just choke on them instead of staggering upright. There wasn’t a place on him that didn’t hurt and more often than not his voice barely rose above a sob, whole minutes of eldritch tape consisted of him crying into his folded arms.

When finally he was forced to stop moving because of the pain, the breathlessness, the dizziness, Jon found himself cradling his phone in hand, scrolling through contacts, some of whom were gone and others who wanted nothing to do with him He found himself reading old messages and listening to old voicemails. The only one he had from Martin was one telling him to stop seeking him out.

“Stop looking for me.” Jon let his cheek collide with the papers on his desk, phone pressed to his ear, slipping back and forth between asleep and awake. “G’bye, Jon.” And again. “G’bye, Jon.”

“G’bye, Jon.”

If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine it was a late night. That Martin had stopped by with a final cup of tea for him before heading home, reminding him not to work through until morning. That he could hear Tim and Sasha laughing somewhere in the Archives at no doubt a horrible joke.

“G’bye, Jon.”

That Martin smiled that warm smile just for him and how did he not notice it before when he’d still had a chance at humanity.

“G’bye, Jon.” The phone slid out of his fingers and he pulled in a ragged breath of stale air that smelled like paper and ink and the dirt he couldn’t scrub out of his skin no matter how hard he tried.

“G’bye, Martin.”

“Stop pushing me.”

“Walk faster then.”

“Daisy. I’m sorry, I wanted you to get the rest you needed.” Basira stopped, gripped her narrow shoulders. “To figure out how to go forward.”

“So you told him to not to contact us?” Daisy shoved forward, legs tiring so quickly she was furious.

“Daisy--”

“He pulled me out of the Buried. You could have at least checked on him.” Terse silence filled the air between them until they reached the Archives.

“It’s like a bomb went off.” Daisy shot her a look but couldn’t help but agree. Papers, files, statements, old tapes littered the floor with no reason that she could discern. What was Jon doing down here? It smelled stale, musty, heavy, sick she realized.

“This way.”

They found him hunched over his desk, turned away from them, asleep or worse, and surrounded by the scent of infection and illness such that Daisy had to cover her nose and inhale through her mouth until she acclimated.

“Jon?” Carefully, slowly, gently she laid a hand on his shoulder and grimaced at the searing heat and his poorly dressed burn. If not for his avatar status he would surely be gone. Face flushed and slick with sweat, he was burning up under her palm when she brushed limp gray strands away from his forehead. When he breathed, so fast, so shallow, there was a crackling like dry leaves. “He needs to go to hospital.”

“What about--?”

“I don’t think a statement is going to fix this.” Maybe that’s why this place was such a mess. “Call, I’ll see if I can get him up and awake.”

Someone was calling for him from far, far away and it took all he had left to follow it back to where everything echoed with pain.

Her voice was familiar, comforting and horrifying in the same moment.

“Daisy?” Oh God he couldn’t breathe and he knew they had to be back in that coffin, he’d screwed it up, gone wrong somewhere and now they were both here drowning together in the black. Trapped. He was trapped in here. Daisy was trapped in here and calling his name.

Trappedtrappedtrapped.

“Jon, hey, shh.” This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she had to do this for him, she needed someone stronger. Someone who wasn’t him, who wasn’t a monster, who wasn’t, wasn’t-- “You’re alright. You need to breathe, Jon.”

How?

How?

When there was a boa constrictor wrapped around his chest, squeezing him like a vice. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. Someone was touching him and it hurt, skin on fire, burning, blazing, blistering like his hand, his hand, his hand where Jude. The Desolation. Burning. He didn’t know where he found the breath to cry out and could barely understand himself as he begged and begged and begged for her to please, please, please

“stop hurting me.”

“Hush, hush, okay. Okay, Jon.” They shouldn’t have to do this. Deal with him like this. Panting, a mess of tears and soil and pain. “Okay, Jon. Okay. You’re alright.”

He wasn’t.

How was any of this alright?

Daisy held Jon’s thin hand, rubbing her thumb over the back of it, charting the delicate, human bones and sinew, and purposefully blocking out the medical chatter humming in the background.

Stop hurting me.

The way he said it. Pleading and so small.

Hopeless.

Because they would never stop, would they?

“Mr. Sims?” The voice of the paramedic cut into her thoughts. “Mr. Sims? Can you open your eyes for me?” Daisy glanced up at Jon’s face, watched his throat work and his mouth twist beneath the uneven fogging of the oxygen mask. When his lashes fluttered she caught a glimpse of glazed brown, deep and unfocused, but received praise for his attempt. Good. He deserved praise from somebody. His fingers spasmed in her hold, he swallowed with a heavy click in his throat, chest stuttering, tears slipping into the damp hair at his temples. “Do you know how long he’s been ill?” She shook her head, not even sure herself how many days it had been since stumbling out of that coffin herself.

After that it was all a bit of a blur until Basira found her in the waiting room, guiding her by the elbow to a room smelling of antiseptic where Jon lay small in the bed, made smaller by the lines and cords and machines.

“Overnight for observation, fluids, and antibiotics.”

“They ask questions?” Daisy dropped gratefully into the chair beside him, running her fingertips over the crisp bandages swallowing up his wounded hand. He still smelled sickly, hot and sweaty, but also of the inoffensive soap the nurse had washed his hair with and when she stroked through his curls they were smooth and clean.

“I implied it was genetic?” She chuckled at that. “I don’t think they believed me.”

“He should have been able to call us.”

“Mm.”

“I’m serious, Basira.” The stubble on his cheek was scratchy under her palm, skin hot, face slack and lined deep with exhaustion. “We. We have to look out for each other, best we can.”

“B’sira, you, you don’t.” Jon couldn’t speak and stumble along beside her, still found it hard to catch his breath or stop coughing once started.

“I do, Jon.” Clipped, but he was too tired to analyze it any further than that. “Daisy made me promise to get you settled in. We’ll be coming back in the morning.” When he tripped she was there to catch him up again before he hit the floor. Making doubly sure he could change into soft clothes for sleep without falling over, Basira left briefly to gather supplies, laying them out on the desk within easy reach.

“Thank you.” Still whispery, completely done in from the short cab ride here, Jon dutifully held his hand out for the prescribed medications, sipping from the bottle she pressed into his grip afterwards.

“Should do you for tonight.”

“I. Yes. I’ll be fine.”

“There are a few statements, water--it best be gone by tomorrow, Jon. The rest of your medications, phone, inhaler. Something to help you rest if it doesn’t come quickly.”

“Thank you.” So scolded, he hung his head, knowing better than to argue against sleep. Trying to stay out of the way and he’d ended up being a bigger problem than before.

“If you need anything--”

“I won’t. I promise.” Her warning to stop contacting them sat heavy in his stomach and stopped up his throat with emotion. When she sighed heavily he was caught off guard, risking a glance to see Basira holding her head. “Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that you couldn’t ask for help.”

“N’no! I--” in his haste to reassure, Jon found himself instead bent double around his hacking, taking a measured sip from the bottle Basira shoved at him again. “I know, you. I understand.”

“Well. She’s doing better. We’ll be back, like I told you earlier.” She held out Martin’s jumper, the last item in the bag from the hospital, and he took it reverently. “If you need anything, Jon. Please call.”

“Thank you, Basira.” Like before, she didn’t turn away from the door, pausing instead to take a deep breath.

“Get some rest, Jon.”

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Ninety

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

May 26th, 2001

Emile watched as Remy practically crumpled into the backseat of the car. Emile risked sitting down next to him, eyeing the parking lot uncertainly. Remy’s mother had seemed to be successfully scared off by Emile’s dad threatening to fight against her over Remy. But Emile didn’t know how long that fear might stay before she’d change her mind and go back to stalking Remy.

Hesitantly, Emile grabbed Remy’s hand. Remy held it back in a death grip, eyes not seeing anything. Emile’s mother leaned into the car and said, “Your father and I can drive the cars back, honey, you just make sure Remy is all right.”

Emile nodded, eyes going back to Remy worriedly. His eyes had closed and his chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm, so hopefully he could sleep the shock off. He had no doubt their next conversation would be long and somewhat painful, but right now, he just needed Remy to be okay.

  August 30th, 2003

Emile walked into their house only to hear sniffling coming from the kitchen, and he was immediately on alert. “Rem?” he called out, rushing to the kitchen.

“Oh, hey, Emile,” Remy said, dabbing at his eyes with a tissue before sniffling again. “How was work?”

“Are you okay?!” Emile asked, looking Remy over and finding no physical injuries. If Remy’s mother had somehow found them...

“I’m fine, Emile. Just got off a call with your parents,” Remy said.

“My parents?” Emile asked. His mind was racing. How soon he could interrogate them, establish boundaries, whether or not he needed to reevaluate their relationship, and how close they were...

“Yeah. They said they were proud of me,” Remy said with a watery laugh. “I just...started crying uncontrollably. I didn’t know how to handle it.”

Emile’s heart slowed in it’s hammering, but his mind was still working at what felt like a million miles an hour. “You promise that’s all it is?” Emile asked. “Just happy tears?”

“Just happy tears,” Remy reassured Emile with a smile. “I feel a million times better than I did this morning, and I didn’t even need cheering up.”

“Well, that’s good,” Emile said, sagging a little in relief. “I was really worried. I know you’ve been having nightmares.”

Remy blew out a breath. “Yeah,” he said, glancing away from Emile. “Still sorry about waking you up so often.”

“Rem, if you’re in trouble, I’d rather know than be left oblivious,” Emile said, placing his hand over one of Remy’s.

Remy mumbled something unintelligible and Emile frowned. “What was that?”

“I was just wondering if...” Remy trailed off. “You know what? I know the answer to that already, and I don’t want to hear it coming from your mouth.”

“Oh, then it has something to do with therapy,” Emile laughed. When Remy didn’t, Emile paused. “Have you been having more nightmares than you’ve been letting on?”

Remy sighed. “You’re too good at shrinking my head, mio amore, you really need to learn how not to do that.”

“I don’t think it’s shrinking your head, I think it’s just knowing you for a long time,” Emile said with a half-hearted shrug. “But Rem...”

“No.”

“I just think—”

“—No.”

“If you’re having nightmares more often than I’m waking up, you really should talk to a th—”

“I’m not talking to a therapist, Emile!” Remy exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “I’m perfectly healthy on my own! Do I always do everything right? No! Do I still have issues about where I came from? Sure! But that doesn’t mean I need therapy!”

“If you’re having nightmares to the point of consistent loss of sleep, I would argue otherwise,” Emile said simply.

Remy growled and grumbled into the counter. “Why is it the day that I decide to test out not going to the shop and leaving August in charge that you do this?”

“Because today’s the day I realize that you’ve been holding back on me about your mental health,” Emile said, crossing his arms. “I would argue this with you regardless of what day it was, had I known this was what was happening.”

“Which is why I didn’t tell you,” Remy said, looking up at Emile.

Emile worked at keeping his anger in check. Remy didn’t do well with anger. He knew this. He needed to go with the gentle approach. “Remy. Do you see me recommending you go to a therapist as a breach of trust? Be honest.”

Remy looked away from Emile. Paced the length of the kitchen twice. Turned and looked back at Emile, with a recognizable fire in his eyes that Emile hadn’t seen before. Remy’s gaze bore a striking resemblance to his mother’s in that instance. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because while therapy is just for help working through whatever problems someone might have, the fact remains that if they’re asking for help, they’re not strong enough to handle that problem on their own. And I can handle my parents on my own just fine. Sure, I sometimes have nightmares. And yes, that’s a little more often than I told you. But it’s nothing that I can’t handle, that I can’t get through on my own. I can function with it. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Rem, ‘fine’ would be having an occasional nightmare, but being able to go back to sleep afterward, because it was just a dream. ‘Fine’ would be getting triggered but being able to work through the trauma and avoiding a flashback, however narrowly. ‘Fine’ would be acknowledging your parents hurt you, but not being afraid that they could hurt you anymore. And you do none of those things. You stay up for hours on end after waking up from nightmares, you get stuck in flashbacks for hours or even days, and you exhibit such strong hypervigilance it’s a wonder you sleep at all at night. You are not ‘fine.’” Emile shook his head. “I understand it’s important for you to be self-sufficient, but wouldn’t you be more self-sufficient if you could handle your trauma symptoms?”

“It’s not that bad, Emile! You’re exaggerating things!” Remy exclaimed, crossing his arms with fingers digging into flesh.

Emile took a breath and said, “Are you saying that because you believe it, or are you saying it because that’s what your parents told you?”

Remy looked at him with such betrayal in his eyes, that Emile wished he could take the question back. But he knew it needed to be said. It needed to be answered. Remy needed to acknowledge where this was stemming from, and Emile needed to know whether or not he needed to press further.

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” Remy said in a soft, fragile voice, and Emile instantly understood one wrong step and Remy would lash out violently. “It wasn’t as bad as I made it out to be. I wasn’t exaggerating, but I never brought up the good sides of the relationship, as well. You only ever saw the ugly parts.”

“But the good parts don’t negate the ugly parts, Rem. If they hurt you, whether or not you can handle that on your own, whether or not they were also kind, you need to understand that they hurt you. There’s not some secret law where you have to have this amount of trauma and be short this amount of love to consider yourself abused, or traumatized, or whatever you want to call yourself,” Emile pointed out.

“I don’t need therapy, Emile!” Remy snapped and Emile held his hands up in surrender. “I don’t need it! I don’t need it!”

“I’m not saying you need it, I’m saying you could benefit from it. There’s a difference. You’re not going to die if you don’t get therapy. So you don’t necessarily need it. But it would definitely make your load a lot lighter, and while I won’t leave you if you don’t go to therapy, if this persists I’d recommend you get a second opinion, like from Toby. Because I worry about you, Rem. A lot.” Remy was seething, and Emile took a breath. “Now I don’t want a fight on this, so I’m going to be stepping away.”

“No!” Remy barked. “No, we need to talk about this!”

“Maybe so,” Emile allowed. “But you’re very worked up right now, and I don’t want us to devolve into shouting.”

“I’m ‘worked up’?! I’m ‘worked up’?! You have a funny way of saying fucking furious!” Remy exclaimed. Emile jumped and Remy froze, the flush in his face draining away as his eyes widened. “Oh, God. I’m becoming my mother.”

“Hence why I recommend therapy,” Emile weakly joked.

Remy didn’t seem to hear Emile. He was muttering to himself, unintelligible words before he dashed past Emile, grabbed his coat, and ran out the front door. Emile’s blood ran cold. “Rem?” he asked, rushing after Remy. “Rem, hold up!”

But Emile calling out to Remy only seemed to make Remy run faster. Emile slowed, quickly running out of breath but following behind Remy at a slower pace. He could wait out Remy’s running and catch up to him when Remy grew winded, or else he could call Bernie and ask him to keep an eye out for any panicked blonds muttering senselessly in the street.

Emile got all the way to the heart of the city before he lost sight of Remy. He looked around, trying to figure out which way Remy would have gone. Not Sleep Easy, they both knew Emile would check there first. Not the homeless shelter, because Remy didn’t go there this worked up. Emile ran a hand through his hair. He needed to know Remy wasn’t going to do anything drastic, but he needed to know where Remy was in order to make sure of that.

Quickly, Emile snatched his cell phone out of his pocket, dialling Remy’s number. It rang out. Emile swore and dialled again. This time he was sent to voicemail after one ring. “Rem...please. Talk to me,” Emile begged into the phone. “I’m not mad, I promise. I’m worried.”

Emile swallowed. He went to the park, knowing Remy sometimes found solitude there. He looked around in a frenzy, but couldn’t see Remy. He walked further in, heading to the bridge over the small creek. Remy was sitting on the handrail on the bridge, staring at the water. “Rem?” Emile asked, walking up to Remy.

“It should be deeper,” Remy said. “I wish it were deeper.”

Emile’s heart crawled its way into his throat. “Why?”

Remy choked on a sob, biting his knuckle. “Because then I could be swept away and never risk hurting you again.”

“Is this in a, ‘I want to die’ way or in a ‘I need to do damage control’ way?” Emile asked.

“I don’t know,” Remy said. He stared at the ring on his finger, and started twisting it off. “I don’t deserve—”

Emile’s hands darted out, and he held Remy still. “No. Rem, don’t you dare,” he hissed, a renewed anger flaring up. At who, he wasn’t entirely sure. “You don’t get to do that in the heat of the moment. If you calm down and you still want to call off the engagement, well. We’ll talk about it. But this? Is unacceptable.”

Remy shook, but when Emile let Remy go he replaced the ring. “I don’t want to hurt you, Emile,” he whispered.

“You didn’t. You startled me a little, but you didn’t hurt me,” Emile said softly.

“I don’t want to be my mother,” Remy continued. “I don’t.”

“The fact that you’re recognizing those patterns and trying to fix it, albeit in the wrong way, shows me that, Rem,” Emile said. “You’re not your mother.”

“I’m not seeing a therapist,” Remy muttered. “I can’t see a therapist.”

“Okay, that’s okay,” Emile placated. “I’m not requiring you to see one. I’ll even stop recommending it for a while if that helps.”

Remy still couldn’t meet Emile in the eyes. “Sorry. I won’t remember this tomorrow,” he said. “I can already tell.”

“That’s fine,” Emile said. “Will you get down now?”

Remy nodded, doing an about-face and sliding off the bridge’s handrail. Emile wrapped Remy in a gentle but firm hug. “Don’t scare me like that again, please,” he murmured.

Again, Remy nodded. Robotic, but real enough that Emile couldn’t have known Remy wasn’t actually agreeing had they just met. Remy was completely dissociated. “Come on, honey. Let’s go home,” Emile recommended.

Remy let Emile exit the hug and wrap an arm around his shoulders. Emile led Remy on the walk home, during which Remy just stared at the roads in front of them. Emile’s heart was hammering. He needed to talk to Remy about what he had done today. The yelling, the stubbornness, the attempt to get their engagement called off. But he knew that had to wait. Remy wasn’t in a state to talk about anything for at least an hour. Emile just hoped that he would know how to bring it up sometime soon.