#so much hurt and angst

[hinamie]

all i have left

[sp0o0kylights]

I keep seeing gif sets and photos of Steve's injuries from fighting the bats and I keep thinking someone should write a fanfic where he successfully defends everyone in that scene and then just *drops.*

He's done. Taken out. Needs serious medical care and cannot be easily moved. Is trying to keep a straight face but keeps hissing through his teeth, voice breaking, whining and wiggling away when people try to touch him.

Cue Robin and Nancy setting out to figure out how the hell to get out (and get Steve help) while Eddie is left behind.

With Steve.

In the Upside Version of Steve's house.

Alone.

For a long ass time.

Then Steve starts admitting things to him and Eddie thinks it's a good distraction at first until he slowly realizes that these are Steve's confessions.

His promises to the kids and Robin that he's now passing on to Eddie, because Steve thinks he's going to die.

And that Eddie cannot, will not, let him.

Even if he has to fight Steve himself on the matter.

[parasolladyansy]

TW: angst, some blood (also PLA spoilers)

From @waywardstation’s “It’s Nothing Personal, It’s Just Business”

What started off as a collection of sketches turned into this short, sketchy comic based on the climax & cool down of the story (the latter being the part I reread the most). I really love genuinely good men who end up being a found father to someone who needs help, & just about every fic Wayward made about Ingo & Akari does just that.

When I played Legends Arceus, I think I might’ve had the Volo twist spoiled for me? I can’t remember. It made me wonder if I could’ve, as Ingo does in the story, see him for what he was. Wayward very astutely points out how his behavior is very predatory; that alone tells me I probably would’ve been unnerved at least.

Meanwhile, Mizumi probably would’ve been taken by surprise as Akari was in the story (maybe?) - an idea to explore at another time!

[marisashinx]

Silver often forgets what happened in dreams when he wakes up...

[stealingyourbones]

Out of all of the people The Ghost King Phantom expected to relate to, it definitely wasn’t the scrawny red headed photographer of the Daily Planet. Jimmy Olsen has gotten so many temporary superpowers over his time being Superman’s friend. Hell, he once gained a 4th dimensional being’s reality warping abilities when he was given said dimensional being’s powers during a fight. Sure there’s a dozen or so heroes with the same amount of powers he has, but none as suddenly granted to them as a all powerful god that can relate to a teenager.

[2aceofspades]

TW: Blood/Injury, Implied Death

_______________________________________________

With you

Lil one-shot I guess...??

_______________________________________________

After the dust cleared, it was dead silent. The air was thick with moisture from the dark clouds looming above them all. Someone, probably Raphael, yelled out something Two didn't quite process, his ears still ringing as his vision slowly cleared.

A faint blue glow flickered in the near distance, not too far from where Two was slumped on the ground. More muffled shouts rang out as Two attempted to collect himself, staggering to his feet and trudging over to the source of-

No.

Just the image alone was enough to bring Two collapsing back to his knees. Stupid, he thought.

"H-hey..." One's weak voice just barely got through to Two, snapping him right out of his thoughts.

He stared down at the dimming blue glow, watching it flicker and fade in and out. How the hell are you still here, breathing?

His thoughts became flooded in his head, even more so as he felt his arms cradle his brother's near-lifeless body.

"Did we win?"

Two felt his jaw clench at One's question, feeling frighteningly close to grinding his teeth until they were flat.

Did we win?

The question echoed in Two’s head, as if that would better help him process this moment. In any other instance, he would have deflected and scoffed at such an empty, meaningless question. Did it matter? he thought as he titled his head up, looking around briefly at the wasteland that surrounded them. It was over, that much was apparent.

"Yes,” he huffed, looking down at his brother in his arms as he continued, “Now, shut it and save your strength. Your heart-"

"I know," One croaked out in between a few sputtering breaths, interrupting Two in more ways than one. Two tried to ignore the cast-off of blood coming from his brother's mouth, despising the sickening feeling settling in his stomach as it hit his chin. One smiled weakly up at his brother, his eyes dull and unfocused.

How dare you, Two thought to himself.

His eyes flickered from One's exposed heart, bleeding out and hardly beating, and back to his brother’s face. His brother looked beaten, bloody...broken. It wasn't a look he saw from him often, if at all. It was that damn smile that he watched waver as One's heart beat softer and softer. What cruel irony, Two couldn't help but think, a metaphorical expression brought to life by his stupid, thoughtless, idiotic brother.

Two could still fix this. Even as he held his brother tighter against his own plastron and felt his shirt get soaked by the horrid mix of blood and empyrean; he thought to himself how he'd be the one to fix this.

There was no other choice left.

“Good…” One let out the softest of chuckles, “…we…we can s-start over.”

Something in Two’s own chest faltered, even just briefly. It was enough to shut out the feeling of One’s pathetic coughs and wheezes against him. He watched how One's eyes dulled further, his gaze wandering away from Two's face.

Starting over? That wasn’t ever an option, not one that Two had ever weighed in his mind. He wasn’t sure if that was even an option now. After everything he had done, everything he sacrificed, worked for…his brother still wanted to burn it, bury everything down and out of Two’s reach. One wanted this win, he wanted the impossible.

“Impossible…” Two muttered under his breath.

He heard yet another faint chuckle. And then the dense silence that followed.

_______________________________________________

~bonus doodles~

(':

[saenda]

“And at the end of the silky black strands, glossy and smooth, is the coral bead. Xie Lian reaches for it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. A thrill shivers through him to know he has the matching bead tied up in his own hair, out of sight.

He chances a peek at Hua Cheng’s face. The Ghost King is watching him with an unreadable expression. His emotions are carefully cloaked in derision. Ah, but there’s that flicker in his eye—a sort of wonder. It’s familiar, and Xie Lian’s heart throbs with hope.”

We Sleep, but we Fail to Dream, by @allthedeadliedown

GUYS, GUYS THIS FIC IS AMAZING, I SWEAR 😭😭😭😭😭 GOSH, I’M ALWAYS SO IN AWE BY WHAT HAPPENS, I’M CRYING!!!

Do yourself a huge favour and go read it if you haven’t already!

[celesterayel]

goodbyes & waiting | luke castellan

pairing : luke castellan x aphrodite!reader

request: happy holidays! could you write a luke x aphrodite reader? (maybe with angst?) <3

IN WHICH — there are the moments you shared and the sadness that came after.

"trust that you betrayed, confusing that still lingers. you took everything I loved and crushed it in between your fingers" - o.r.

w.c. 1k

warning(s) : lots and lots of angst ゜✭・.

✩ ‧₊˚ author's note this act hurt me so much in the feelings. I've never written something so angst, hope you enjoy it tho, love :)

your heart didn’t hurt, it burned.

you wished you could tear the wretched thing out and never feel anything again but it remained there, silently killing you from the inside out. in your palm lay a small pendant, not the prettiest thing by any means and resembling more like something you’d find at a second-hand store. the chain was thin and dull but at the center lay a small heart of twine and charms. your finger brushed over it, as if attempting to soothe your own heart, a manifestation of your pain literally.

god, you wanted to burn it to the ground. you wanted to scream so loudly and raw that you’d scream your vocal cords out of your throat. you wanted to scream at the gods–fuck them and fuck the fates��and most of all, at him.

had it meant nothing to him? this…whatever it was between you two? how could he have left you so brutally? without a second thought.

the pendant burned in your hand but you’d sooner kill yourself than part with it. it was the last thing you had of luke castellan. the boy who had loved you at your lowest, who once would have rather burned the world than let it hurt you. but he had hurt you and with the blow of godliness that ran in his blood.

you never did see it coming.

✩ ‧₊˚

you had first arrived at camp a year before percy jackson appeared. no sooner than you did, were you claimed by your mother, the goddess aphrodite. and unlike how the poets and half bloods describe it, children of aphrodite were not all inherently blessed with grand beauty. rather you were made to be beautiful in the way extraordinary things are: ingrained into the brain like a itch in a way so profound.

something about you entranced others, maybe the way you spoke or how you approached everyone like they were someone you had known since forever, you were just always a shining light for others to flock too. something so incredibly enchanting, gentle like the breeze of the camp waters. 

luke was the first person to approach you after being claimed, the same boyish smile you’d later fall in love with on his face. 

“the names luke castellan. yours?” he breathed out, something about the way he looked at you like you were every enchanting thing in the form of a person made your heart sing. 

you knew that your heart would belong to him every moment after. 

something in the way he looked at you like you were his forever after made you feel complete. like you weren’t so alone in this world made of monsters and man, godless beings of hunger and pain. and it seemed like he knew it too because there was a knowing in his eyes, a connection between you too that would hurt for every lifetime and the next. 

you and luke only grew closer after and where you went he followed. where he strayed, you wandered. secrets moments shared beneath candlelights with his hands on your waist and yours bunched in his hair. 

“your my forever, you know that right?” he’d whisper against your lips, trying to breathe you in like you’d disappear from his arms. 

you’d just kiss him harder like his words could burn themselves to your lips. like he could burn himself into your very being and never leave you. one day you’d tell him he’d already had.

moments by the lakes where he’d hold you against him and you’d rest on his shoulder like it was the only place you’d ever need. trinkets you’d find when you’d go exploring with the littlest campers that you gifted to him and he kept like they were the grandest of treasures. times when he’d cry into your shoulder and you’d just hold him all the more closer like you could take the pain. the pendant he had spent months and late nights learning to craft from hand to give you. you planned out your future together late, late into the night when you couldn’t sleep: maybe someday he’d whisk you away to visit paris or to see the great big apple–only later you’d go without him. 

holding you so tightly, he’d ask, “where would you want to go if we ever leave here?”

“anywhere you go.” the late nights near the lakes always made it seem like your cocoon, a safe haven from everything else. nights like these only made you fall in love with him more. 

“yes, but if you could pick anywhere, where would you want me to take you, “ he huffed out, chuckling. 

you grab his hands and press a kiss to his lips, tasting freedom and fire all in one breath. kissing luke was always electric, every want and lightning burn in one breath, one touch. 

you leaned back, before contemplatingly saying, “i’ve always wanted to go to see the city lights in the big apple.”

“i’ll take you one day.” it was a promise. a future for you both. 

“i’ll hold you to that.”

✩ ‧₊˚

but it never did happen.

✩ ‧₊˚

you remember the scream you felt bottled in your throat when you found out what had happened. the looks the others had given you when percy told you what luke had done. why he wasn't here with you guys. why he wasn’t here with you.

the betrayal hurt more than anything you had ever felt. parts of the pieces of the future you had made crumbling as quickly as you both had made it. the trinkets you had given him were gone just as he was.

as the months passed, here you stayed as the others left. hoping that by some miracle, your golden boy would return to you. that'd he'd come back ready to make good on his promise. he’d return to the lake where you had once built your future but he never did and the scream in your throat never left.

you promised me, luke.

footsteps approached you and there at the bottom of the hermes cabin stood percy jackson, “y/n, it’s time to go.” 

he looked at the pendant in your hands before giving you a sad smile. he knew your history and your pain–once upon a time, luke had been his first real friend.

you wiped the tears that had fallen down your cheeks and slipped the necklace back onto your neck. you couldn’t bear to part with it, not even after all this time, after all these moments. 

you looked behind you to the cabin one last time—breathing in the old memories and letting them go one last time—before you turned back around. 

“let’s go.” 

in the end, your golden boy had been far too much like his father and you were the one to be left waiting.

[justaz]

"you're not a sorcerer. i would know" oh fuck oh fuick of uvkkk he fully believed he and merlin were equals, they were friends, they had no secrets, they knew each other completely and utterly, the good and the bad. arthur finding out his best friend has been lying and hiding for years and nothing he knew was true. god fuck ogoofu fukckkk

[saffusthings]

You Know You're My Saving Grace

oscar piastri x personal assistant!reader

summary: the one where he comes when she calls. word count: 17.6k (i'm so sorry) warnings: descriptions and talks of abuse, trauma, disassociation, shock, other abuse aftermath, please don't read if any of this stuff is not the vibe, whump, poorly editing writing a/n: this is my first time doing something like this, so comments/feedback would be much appreciated! and let me if anyone wants a part two, bc i'm kinda getting the vibes for a multi-part fic lol

The sound of his ringtone feels louder and louder until finally, Oscar realizes it’s not just in his dream. Blearily, he blinks awake, before reaching across the bed to pick up his phone to check who the hell decided it was a good idea to call him in the middle of the night.

“…Hello?” he asks, voice heavy with sleep. Oscar is a man who knows the value of good sleep - he can’t imagine who’d be calling him at this hour.

He squints, vision bleary from his state of half-wakefulness. Huh? If the car had an issue or if he had a meeting, couldn’t she just wait until morning to brief him?

“Hello? A- Are you there?” she asks, voice hushed.

“Yeah, I’m here. What is it?” Oscar says with a yawn, now more awake, and propped up on his elbow in the bed. He reaches around, turning the bedside lamp on.

“I’m really sorry to disturb you but-”

Her hushed voice is interrupted by the sound of shouting in the background. When the booming voice finally stops, it’s punctuated with the sound of something shattering.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Oscar says quickly, his tone no longer groggy as his mind begins to put the pieces together. 

“Are you alright? Where are you right now?” Oscar asks firmly.

“Shit- I’m sorry, but-” And something else shatters. Suddenly her voice becomes a lot more hushed and a lot more hurried.

“Are you safe right now?” He sits up fully in bed now. He gets out of the bed and heads over to the window, looking down at the sidewalk below to check to see if her car’s here by any chance. No such luck.

“Can you come pick me up? It’s kind of an emergency.”

“Okay, take deep breaths. In and out,” he says, trying to keep her as calm as possible. “Now, where are you?” He haphazardly shoves his head into the first shirt he finds, before slipping into his shoes and swiping up his keys. Once he has the address, he’s quick to run from his apartment to his parked car.

“I’m on my way, so don’t hang up on me, okay?”

“Y- Yes, yeah.”

“Good,” Oscar replies, making sure to keep his voice steady, acting as the levelheaded one. “I’ll keep you talking until I get there, okay?”

“I- I’m not sure I understand, Sir.”

“I need you to stay on the line for me so that I can hear you and keep you safe,” Oscar instructs her, peeling out of the parking lot and speeding through the empty streets.

“I- I’m okay,” she tries in a delayed attempt to reassure him. She’s his assistant, after all - she’s the one meant to be helping him. Though she’s only a year younger than him, she always strives to fulfill her role well, and tries to give her 110%.

Oscar lets out a sigh as he keeps driving. “…Just, stay with me, okay? I should be there in a few minutes.”

There’s some more yelling going on in the background, and it seems marginally closer now. Her throat feels so tight that she doesn’t even register her boss’s voice through the phone.

Oscar immediately calls out her name, his tone sounding a bit more sharp as he raises his voice a bit. He needs her to focus on his voice. 

“Hey, talk to me, are you there?”

“Y- Yes.” Her voice shakes when she speaks.

“Now I need you to do something for me, can you do that?”

“I need you to get yourself into a room, any room, and lock the door, okay?” Oscar says, searching for her address amongst the row of houses lining the block. Different homes line the quiet suburban street, darkened windows and porch lights indicative of their sleeping residents.

“I’m in the corner of my bedroom,” she informs him. “I can’t lock the door or-”

“Okay, that’s fine. Now I want you to just stay there, don’t move and stay on the line, I’m almost there, okay?” he reassures. Why won’t this car go any fucking faster? 

Finally, he slides into the parking right outside the house. He gets out of his car, and heads up the driveway and to the front door.

“Be careful-” she warns, and that’s all he hears before he hears a shout, and then the line goes dead.

“No, no, no, no,” Oscar mutters to himself, his heart rate increasing and his pace quickens as he runs up to the front door. He tries the door handle, before realizing it’s locked. Without thinking, he steps back, before ramming his body against the door in an attempt to force it open. It budges, but only slightly. It does however seem to attract attention, as the yelling emanating from inside seems to come to a halt.

Oscar steps back again, taking in a deep breath. Years of physical conditioning and resistance training means he’s strong enough to break the door down, but he’d probably wake the whole neighborhood up if he does. So, not efficient.

He quickly scans the windows on the first floor, before he spots a small window on the side of the house. Though it's hard to tell in the dark, its position raises his hopes that maybe luck will be on his side. Without wasting another second, he walks over to the window and tries to push it open. It slides open silently, and Oscar quickly pulls himself up and into the house. 

He keeps his movements quiet and careful, eyes scanning the house that’s engulfed in darkness.

It’s then that he’s met with the realization that there’s not one, but two shouting voices - but none of them seem to be the familiar voice of his assistant.

Where the hell is she?

Oscar’s heart begins beating even louder. They don’t know he’s here, but he can still hear shouting from upstairs. Keeping his footsteps light, Oscar slowly heads up the stairs, stopping to listen for anything before proceeding further.

He hears the sound of something thump against the wall with force. 

Oscar winces as he hears it again, feeling his adrenaline spike. Exhales leave his lips in the form of carefully controlled puffs as he forces his heartbeat under control. Worst-case scenarios flash in his mind, and then he’s quickly taking the stairs two steps at a time as he makes his way to the upstairs hallway.

Halfway up the stairs, she pauses to listen, he finally hears the sound of twin pairs of footsteps retreating. As he cautiously walks through the hallway, the shouting gradually gets louder as he begins to approach its source. He finally comes to a stop in front of a door, which has faint light spilling from underneath it. Risking being discovered by an unfamiliar face, he whispers, “Hey, you in there?” He reaches for the door handle and tries to push it open.

He sighs in relief as the door opens, as his eyes quickly adjust to the dark. Scanning the room, his gaze finally falls on her, still sitting in the corner. The shadows only reveal her silhouette, but he knows it’s her. Oscar quickly walks into the room, over to her, and crouches down to her level.

There’s a shattered lamp nearby, pieces scattered on the floor. She’s sitting in the corner, curled into herself, her head tucked in.

He sits down right in front of her, placing a hand on her knee. “Hey,” he says, his voice gentle and soft. “It’s me. I’m here now.”

She’s trembling when he approaches. Barely concealed cuts and bruises litter her body - deep purple blooms and angry white scratches peeking out from beneath sleeves and her collar and the rest of her exposed skin. He looks closer to see whether the mark around her wrist is really the print of a hand, but the sleeve of her shirt conceals the rest of it, leaving him uncertain.

His eyes roam over her now visible injuries. The sight alone is almost enough to make him forget where they are, but reality persists. He squeezes her knee gently.

Startled at the touch, she jerks her head up with wide, wild eyes. 

He came.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, trying to get her to focus on him. “Look at me. I’m here now,” he says, his tone gentle. He carefully moves his hand to cradle her face, tilting it up as his eyes search hers.

“Hey.” Her voice comes out shakier than Oscar is used to.

The sight of her is jarring - the shivering woman crouched before him looks nothing like the coworker he saw mere hours ago. His eyes move over her face again, taking in every little detail, his eyes lingering on the cut near the corner of her lip for a millisecond longer than usual. 

“Can you stand?” She nods rapidly, even as her legs shake. 

“Alright, come on,” he says, now standing up and holding a hand out for her to take. As soon as her fingers touch his, he feels like all sorts of red alerts go off in his head - she’s cold.

He can easily pull her to her feet with just a light tug, as he helps her up from the corner she was huddling in. He keeps a gentle grip on her as he looks her over again. Now that she’s in a standing position, he notices how her shoulders slump forward, as if she’s instinctively doing whatever she can to make herself smaller. He can only assume it’s because she’s trying to make herself less visible, as if she’s scared of being seen. Or worse.

“Can you walk?” he asks again, gently.

Seeing her boss, seeing Oscar here - feels surreal. 

He notices how she’s still refusing to look him in the eye, as if on instinct. Instead, her eyes are focused anywhere but on his face.

“Hey, eyes on me,” he says, lifting a hand to gently grip her chin and turn her face to his. Suddenly brought back to some semblance of focus, she quickly nods. It feels easier than words at the moment.

Now that her eyes are on him, he takes advantage, as he attempts to assess her state. Her eyes are wide, and he can see the slightest shaking in her hands. 

“You’re freezing,” is the first thing he says, noticing how cold her skin feels against his palms.

“They’ll come back,” she rambles hurriedly. “They’ll come back and they’ll-“

He can hear the rising panic in her voice, as he tries to think of a way to calm her down. 

“Hey, hey,” he whispers firmly, his hand moving to her arm, giving it a slight squeeze to get her to listen to him. “They’re not gonna come back. I’m here, okay?”

The sound of distantly approaching footsteps interrupts him, accompanied by hushed voices. Oscar’s eyes widen in alarm, as every part of him goes rigid. Those must be the people she was referring to earlier, and he’ll be damned if they come back here. His hands instinctively move to her back now, as he pushes her behind him. He shakes his head as he moves so that he’s blocking her completely from their view. His mind works quickly, as he tries to think of a way out of here.

“Be quiet,” he tells her, his voice hushed. “I’m gonna get us out of here, okay?”

She nods silently.

Oscar then starts going over all the potential exits in his head - the windows, stairway, the front door. He knows that the window is too small, and the front door would have them walking right into them. 

That only left the stairs. Shit.

He turns around partially so that he’s facing her again, his eyes flickering over her quickly to check for any new injuries.

“You’re able to run?” he confirms, his voice hushed to keep it from being overheard. She nods rapidly in agreement, desperate to do anything to make the dream of getting out of here come true.

That’s good enough for him, as he gently grabs her wrist and pulls her behind him. Frankly, the man has no idea what he’ll do if she’s not able to keep up, but he sneaks over to the bedroom door, quietly opening it so that he can peek out.

She listens for a moment. “They’re downstairs. In the room right under this one.”

A small plan starts coming up in his mind, as his expression morphs into something more serious. 

“Okay,” he starts, as he takes a glance back at the stairs. “When I say ‘go’, I want you to run down the stairs. Go, and don’t stop. I’ll be behind you, okay?”

When she shoots him a wary look, he’s quick to project that collected, self-assured image that he’s well known for.

“Just trust me.”

He can hear the footsteps in the room down below moving around, as the voices get slightly clearer, meaning they’re getting closer to the stairs.

She swallows hard. It does nothing to quiet the loud hammering of her heart in her chest. He sees the look in her eyes, and he can clearly tell how terrified she is. It’s up to him to gently push her in the direction of the door. 

“It’ll be okay - trust me,” he says softly, hoping it's enough to reassure her for this moment as he readies himself at the bedroom door.

He can hear the voices more distinctly now, and his pulse spikes up anxiously. He’s got to do this right, otherwise they’ll never have another chance. For a moment, everything falls silent, and the only thing either of them can hear is their own heartbeats as it threatens to beat out of their very chests. They wait there, poised to leave, their breaths held.

“Okay, go,” he says firmly, as he practically throws her out of the bedroom door and into the hallway.

He’s out right behind her, running down the hallway. He can already hear the voices in the room below turning to confusion as they hear footsteps. It’s in that moment that he realizes that he’s still gripping her wrist, and he mentally berates himself that that’s the only thing he can do. 

It feels like everything is moving in slow motion as they bolt down the rest of the stairs. She can feel her legs and her heart is hammering in her chest and she’s not sure she’s ever been so afraid in her life. But Oscar Piastri is here, and he acts like he knows what he’s doing, and so she does the scary thing and follows his lead.

Despite how hard they’re running, it still feels like they’re not moving fast enough, as he can hear the sound of the door down below swinging open. His grip on her wrist tightens as he practically yanks her to the front door, throwing it open with his free hand. Desperation fueling his every move, he pushes her out and follows right behind her, fighting every urge to look back. 

He’s never been more thankful to see the sleek metal of his car as he practically pulls her over to it. Throwing the passenger door open, he gently shoves her into the passenger seat and shuts the door behind her. Instincts override all else as hops into the driver’s side of the car, starting his engine.

Everything’s in flashes - Oscar’s grip yanking her along, the hard pavement beneath her feet, the night wind whipping in her hair, the rapid thumping of her frenzied heart.

He can barely focus on anything besides getting the hell away from that house, as he pulls the car out, driving as carefully as he can without drawing attention to them. Now that they’re seated, she finally takes a few shaky breaths, trying to allow her brain a moment of reprieve so that it can catch up.

He glances over at her. In the artificial lighting of the car. There’s a beat of silence throughout the car, no noise other than the sound of the engine, until he speaks up,

“You okay?”

She nods dazedly. His eyes move back to the road as he grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his eyes not leaving the road. He takes another left turn. 

“Yeah,” she breathes. Her voice still doesn’t sound like her usual self when she speaks, but Oscar is glad that she’s at least saying something. 

Having a moment to breath turns out to be both a blessing and a curse as her thoughts begin to run haywire. God, why did she bring him into this whole mess? She had tried calling the McLaren front desk but no one answered, and so Oscar’s was really the only other option whose number she knew by heart.

He takes another glance at her, noting her fidgety hands, and his tone softens again as finally catches his breath. 

“Can I see your hands?”

“M- My hands?” She looks up at him with wide eyes.

His eyes linger on her face for another second, taking in the wide-eyed, somewhat startled expression. 

“Yeah, your hands,” he clarifies, his tone a bit more gentle. “Lemme see ‘em, yeah?”

She nods once in quick agreement, but is so out of it that she forgets to actually give him her hands. He reaches over, gently taking one of her hands in his much larger ones. He runs his thumb over her fingers and knuckles, taking a closer look at her hands now.  They’re shaking violently in his grip, though that’s probably from the adrenaline and panic rushing through her body right now. His face falls the moment his eyes land on several of her knuckles. Some are badly bruised, and some more have small scrapes and cuts on them. He’s actually surprised that there’s no blood. 

He gently runs his thumb over the scraped knuckles, his fingers slightly curling around her hand.

“Ouch,” she says, voice sounding more faraway than it should. “I think that hurts.”

“Yeah, I’d say it hurts,” he responds gently, still continuing to gently run his thumb over the scraped knuckles on her hands. It then that he spots a nasty bruise on the back of her hand, which is in stark contrast to the surrounding skin. 

His eyes narrow when he sees the obvious shape of a handprint.

Coming to the same realization, she steals her hand away, tucking it back into its sleeve. Since when is the car so cold? He glances over at her, but her eyes are averted from him, looking out the window. 

There’s an unsettling feeling in his chest when she tucks her hand into her sleeve, as if she’s trying to hide it, and he knows why.

She holds her hands tightly together, as if desperately trying to warm them. Or to stop them from shaking. It’s unclear which of those it is.

Perhaps it’s both.

Oscar lets out a quiet sigh of relief when they arrive at his street, but he’s still focused on her. 

He takes one hand off the wheel. 

“Hey - listen to me, alright? We’re here now, and it’s gonna be okay,” he says as he tries to park the car. “That’s all you need to focus on, okay?”

“My heart…” she trails off. “It’s beating really fast.”

Instead, he responds with a soft, “Yeah, I know. I know. You’ll be okay, though, alright?” 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, alright?” he says, his other hand still on her shoulder. 

“We’re gonna get out of the car, and I’m gonna take you upstairs, and we’ll get you all settled, yeah? And we’ll get some ice and stuff on those hands of yours, and we’ll just take it easy, yeah?”

Directions help thought. The way he talks her through it… it gives her things to focus on, details to center her attention toward. She nods, looking up at him.

“Let’s go,” he offers gently. 

She nods, allowing him to guide her. It feels a little bit like a lighthouse in a storm - your sole light, sole direction in the midst of the chaos and turmoil of everything else. She looks up dazedly at her lighthouse as he pulls her gently out of the car. 

Her lighthouse happens to have kind brown eyes.

He manages to unlock the door and push it open, and he holds it open for her to enter in before him. “Don’t go anywhere yet, alright? We gotta get some ice and antiseptic on those hands of yours first.”

“It’s nice,” she comments softly, looking around. She's been here before, of course - bringing him files he forgot late at night, waking him up when he overslept for a meeting, delivering his trainer-approved meals for the week so he can stock up his fridge. 

But never like this. She’s only ever been here as his personal assistant, not like… this.

Surveying the room, she notices things she hadn’t had the time to notice before. His apartment is more just plain simple then it is minimalist, but there’s still the odd touches here and there to make the place more personable. Throw blankets folded haphazardly on couches, potted plants stacked into a bookshelf by the window, a stereotypical wall of photos - there’s bits of Oscar’s touch scattered across the space. The air itself smells like dishwasher steam and some warm candle she can’t discern the name of.

He smiles, gently squeezing her wrist, tugging her to make her follow him to the bathroom. The light flicks on as they walk into the bathroom together, and he immediately steers her over to the small sink. 

Shades of charcoal contrast with white porcelain, making up the picture of the bathroom. There’s a hand towel hanging embroidered with a little whale on it, and a ‘rustic’ looking soap dispenser that turns out to be plastic upon closer inspection. As she notices the cool overhead lights, she feels warm hands guide her to stand in front of the sink, before gently letting go of her wrist so he can reach over to pull out the first-aid kit that’s likely been sitting there since his mother snuck it into his things. 

“Keep your hands up underneath the faucet,” he instructs, opening the box and quickly finding the antiseptic before turning his attention back to her. She audibly grimaces at the feeling of the freezing water seeping into her skin. The water pressure falls against her bruises and washes into the small cuts littered about her hands as well.

“Shit-” she winces.

He gently wraps a hand around her wrist again, tilting her hand from side to side to get the water flowing over all the scraped and cut parts of her hand. 

She immediately goes to pull her hands away from the stream of water, but his grip around her wrist doesn’t let her pull back by much.

“It’s too much, please, s’too much-“

The movement that she makes to pull away has his grip on her hand tightening slightly to keep her still, not letting her jerk her hand away like her instincts want her to. 

“Hey, hey, no,” he says, his tone still soft and gentle. “I know it hurts, but I gotta do this, alright?” 

His hand continues to hold hers in place, the water continuing to run over her cuts and scrapes. She whimpers in pain, still fighting him to pull her hand away. The unwanted tightening of his grip also reminds her of the events of tonight - a person’s hold on her that won’t go away even when she tries.

Immediately, her body responds by trying to pull back even more.

His eyes widen when she suddenly jerks back to pull her wrist back hard, as if she’s trying to fight him away. Instinctively, his other hand goes to gently grip the underside of her forearm, in an attempt to get her to stay still. 

“Hey - hey, we’ve gotta stay still, alright?”

“Let go of me,” she thrashes, trying to peel his hand off her. “Get your hands off me!”

Her struggle has his concerned expression growing more and more worried. He’s trying to calm her down, he really is, but the cuts need to be cleaned, so he has no choice but to tighten his grip on her. 

“You need to stay still,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady as she continues to struggle. “I need to get your hands cleaned and antiseptic on them, alright? You’re making this more difficult-”

“Stop!” she practically shrieks, voice hoarse. She scrambles away from him, prying his fingers off her in her panic and backing against the wall of the bathroom like a frightened animal. “Don’t touch me!“

When she finally manages to jerk her hands out of his grasp and back up against the wall, he can practically feel a pit form in his stomach. He immediately holds his hands up, as if in surrender, but still takes a step towards her.

“Stop! Stop!” she cries. “P- Please, please don’t do this.”

Caught off guard, his eyes widen and he holds his hands up again, simultaneously taking small, careful steps towards her. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells her, keeping his voice soft and gentle, but firm enough that it’d incline her to believe him.

She can feel her heart pounding in her chest, her lungs gasping in quick bursts of air. Her chest is heaving wildly as she struggles to just breathe and her eyes are wild as they dart around the room, refusing to focus on anything. 

When Oscar looks at her - wild eyes, flushed skin, and frantic breathing - it’s difficult for him to not go over to her to hug her, to comfort her in some way, but he’s afraid of spooking her even further than she already is.

“Hey,” he says again, trying to get her attention again. “Hey, look at me, okay?”

He waits for her eyes to shift towards him, which takes longer than he’d like it to, but he can’t push her. Her panic is high and he has to take this carefully and gently. 

“I’m not going to hurt you. Alright? I swear. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe, alright? You’re safe.”

Her eyes flicker towards him again, and he takes another step towards her, only for her to jerk away again and press more firmly against the wall. Her irises reflect an even greater degree of panic now, and the pit in his stomach deepens. 

“Hey,” he says again, a bit more firm this time. “Hey, look at me. I need you to trust me, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”

He takes another step towards her again, trying to keep his stature as non threatening as possible, while keeping his tone firm, but gentle. 

He wants to reach out and pull her into a hug. He wants to wrap his arms around her and soothe her, and promise her that he’ll keep her safe. But she’s pressed so hard against the wall like she’s trying to fuse with it, that he doesn’t want to risk sending her into a panic attack by touching her.

“Alright,” he murmurs, as he takes another step closer, closing the distance further. “I’m gonna try something, alright?”

He waits for her to respond, but all she does is look at him, wide eyed. He takes that as permission enough to continue, and slowly reaches out, gently gripping her wrists.

She clenches her eyes shut, trying to fight her breathing into control. He tries not to use his full grip on her as he gently takes hold of her wrists, but the way she turns her head away, as if she’s bracing herself for something, as if she’s scared he’s going to hurt her, makes that tightness in his stomach worsen.

She nods, a tad slower this time. Her heart is still thudding against her rib cage, but warm, honey-brown eyes meet hers.

He takes a deep breath, the kind that’s meant to release some of that live wire feeling from his muscles, his thumbs still soothingly stroking the inside of her hands as he speaks. “I’m not going to hurt you, alright?” he says again, his tone quiet, but firm. “I need to get your hands cleaned. D’you trust me?”

A beat of silence.

“I’m gonna bring you to the sink, alright?” he asks quietly, continuing to state his actions aloud in advance. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I just need to clean your hands because there’s blood all over them. You trust me?”

After a moment of her eyes flitting across his face, she gives him an almost imperceptible nod. Despite the firm grip around her wrists, she focuses on remembering that this is Oscar.

Oscar Piastri.

The same Oscar that ran late to meetings because he kept stopping to pet street cats while they were in Jeddah.

That Oscar.

Careful not to let go of her or make any sudden movements, he slowly starts to tug her towards the row of sinks, taking baby steps so as to not startle her again.

He takes careful note of how she responds when he phrases it as a question - like she’s somewhat included in the decision-making process, that it’s not just being done to her. He can see that maybe some of the tension in her body has left her and she’s not as taut as she had been against the wall, but something in his gut tells him they’re far from being out of the woods yet, and he needs to proceed carefully.

“We’re here,” he says quietly, as they reach the sink. He turns on the water, making sure it’s warm, but not too hot, before he looks towards her again. 

She’s still breathing pretty heavily, but her panicked eyes have cleared somewhat, as if she’s not quite as panicked as she was before. 

“We gotta get your hands cleaned up, alright?” he says again, as he turns to look back at her. “Will you let me clean your hands?”

Slowly, her face turns towards him, her eyes still a bit out of focus. He swallows hard. “Hey,” he says, his tone gentle and quiet. “I’m gonna touch your hand now, alright?”

She moves her head in a single nod, and it’s all he needs, and he slowly eases one of her wrists from his grip. He gently, slowly, carefully turns one of her hands so that her palm is facing up, so he can start cleaning the blood off of it.

“W- Will…?” she tries to ask, but her voice comes out shaky and hoarse.

“Will it hurt?” he asks, finishing her question for her. At her slow nod, he gently shakes his head no, as he continues to hold her wrist with one hand, and starts softly wiping the blood away from her injured hand using a clean bit of tissue with the other. 

“No, I’m being very careful,” he assures her, his tone soothing. “I’m very gentle, I won’t hurt you, yeah?”

She watches carefully as he works. He’s surprisingly careful and gentle, taking care to pay attention to each and every part. The lighting of the bathroom paints him as a portrait, his eyebrows scrunched, his lips pressed together in concentration. Smooth fingers delicately dance across the skin of her hands, wiping them with feather light touches.

He can feel her gaze on him as he works at gently wiping the blood off her hands, keeping his pace slow and steady. Each movement is careful and precise, and he does his best not to hurt her more than she probably already is as he cleans the blood and dirt off her skin. He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to distract her, but every so often, his gaze sneaks up to glance at her face anyway.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into the late hours of the night, sat atop the surface of his bathroom sink. “For coming tonight.” Oscar had never even considered a universe where he didn’t. Of course he’d be there. “Of course, anytime," he tells her. “But you know you don’t have to thank me.”

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand, she doesn’t know that she’s so much more than just his assistant, and that he cares more about her than just as the person who brings him his coffee and files his paperwork.

He mutters under his breath, his hand holding her chin. “You’re not just my assistant, alright? You’re so much more than that, you’ve always been more than that to me.”

Her brows furrow, trying to understand. “I mean, I’d like to think we’ve become friendly over the past two years-“

Friendly. Friendly. It’s so much more than that. 

“Friendly,” he laughs, practically mocking the word. “That’s not even close to what I mean, and I don’t think you’re stupid enough to not know that.”

“Unless you’re trying to call me stupid, I’m not sure I’m understanding what you’re saying.”

“You’re not stupid,” he sighs. “I’m trying to tell you that I care about you much more than just my assistant. How do you not get that?”

There’s a beat of silence where she tries to process the words, turning them over in her mind as she analyzes them. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, her tone polite. “That’s kind of you to say.”

Kind to say? Kind? 

It feels dismissive, like she doesn’t quite believe him. But the truth is - he’s not being kind, he’s trying to tell her the goddamn truth, and she doesn’t believe him.

Her eyes scan his face, looking for any indication that he isn’t being truthful. She knows his tells by now - almost two years of paying attention to him when he lies to get out of an interview or when he fibs about how late he’ll be to the meeting. She knows these habits of his, his little quirks. 

She knows him. 

He nods, his eyes holding her gaze. 

The fog of night settles around them like a haze, silent and ever present. Looking at his face, pale skin reflecting moonlight and irises dark with exhaustion, he appears like a dream. When he’s stood before her like this, after everything that unfolded tonight, time seems to transcend reality. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, throwing her arms around him. She almost doesn’t care that her dislocated shoulder is screaming in pain - she adjusts it marginally to make it a bit more comfortable. She hugs him in gratitude, eyes closed so the tears of relief don’t slip out.

He freezes as soon as her arms go around him, stunned, but his body quickly catches up to his mind. His arms wrap around her immediately, like it’s an instinct. One of his hands slides gently up her back to rest against the back of her head, holding her to him. “You don’t have to thank me,” he manages to gasp out, his words choked, as he tightens his grip on her.

When she goes to pull away, it’s almost like he’s acting on autopilot, like his body is just moving on its own, without regard for reason. He gently grasps her arm again, his fingers wrapping lightly around her wrist, and he gently pulls her back towards him, his other hand resting gently but firmly against her hip.

Oh.

He has her against his chest again, her smaller frame held against his, and his brain registers just how good this feels, how right it feels - having her in his arms like this.

If she could just get her heart, that has randomly decided to beat out of her chest, to calm down, then maybe she’d be able to speak. She’s breathing fast, her heart beating a mile a minute against his chest.

Then, he does the stupidest thing in the whole world when she starts to speak, something he’s been silently wanting to do for months now. He bends down, ignoring her starting words, ignoring absolutely everything but the fact that he wants to do this, and finally closes the rest of the gap between them. His lips press against hers, silencing the rest of the words she’d been saying.

She’s stunned. Her brain is somehow working both too fast and not at all at the same time. What the fuck just happened?

She freezes in place, completely still.

He freezes as soon as he breaks the kiss, realizing in a flash that he just kissed her. His assistant. 

He kissed her. He had kissed the woman who basically helped run his entire life for the last two years, the woman who probably had no idea how he feels about her, and still thinks they’re just boss and assistant. Perhaps not his best work. 

His brain scrambles, trying to come up with some sort of an explanation, anything to justify what he just did.

Immediately, he’s desperate to hear her voice, to prove to him somehow that he hasn’t just ruined everything. He needs her to say something that will indicate that things won’t be horribly, terribly awkward between them after this.

She tries her hardest to come up with something to say – she really does. But she keeps coming up empty. So instead, she follows the next impulse her brain comes up with: she pulls him closer by the shirt and kisses him.

Oh. He sure as hell wasn’t expecting that. 

For a single beat, he’s frozen, stunned, like his mind can’t really comprehend what’s happening. Then, all at once, his whole body reacts. He responds in record time, calloused hands cradling both sides of her face as he kisses her back. He kisses her with fervor, with a passion that he’d been holding back for months, ever since he realized that he had feelings for her. The kiss is desperate, as if he’s afraid he’s going to never be able to kiss her again, as if this is his one and only chance at having her like this, in his arms, against his body.

She pulls away out of her body’s need for oxygen. Stupid oxygen.

When she does pull away, she looks up at him, tentative, hesitant – she both needs to and is scared to see how he will react.

He groans as she pulls away from him, and his lips automatically try to follow hers as she moves, as if he’s unwilling to let her move away from him, as if he needs her to always be this close to him. When she finally does move away from him, his arms automatically loosen their grip around her, though his hands stay on her. He looks down at her, his breathing coming in short pants, and he can’t help the look of awe that appears on his face.

She ends up being the first to speak. “That was-“

His brain automatically tries to finish her sentence for her - he’s spent so long with her, working with her, that it’s almost second nature to him now, to try and finish her sentences when she can’t find the words. 

“A mistake?” he supplies, his tone suddenly hesitant as he watches her. Part of him knows that it’s true, that this shouldn’t have happened, that he shouldn’t have kissed her. 

Another part of him doesn’t give a damn.

“Oh.” Truthfully, that wasn’t what she was going to say. In fact, if it were up to her, there was a high likelihood that she would have said it was nice. Really nice.

She had never kissed anyone before, but if every kiss was just as spectacular for everyone as this one was for her, then she could certainly see the appeal. That certainly doesn’t seem to be the case for Oscar, however.

Subconsciously, she pulls back, away from him.

“No,” he says, his hands immediately moving to grab her again, to stop her from pulling away. He gently tightens his grip on her, wrapping his arms around her, and pulls her back against his body. 

“It’s just that-“ he starts again, trying to find the right words, “You’re, well, you’re my assistant. You work for me.”

“Yeah,” she breathes half-heartedly. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

Oscar can hear the resignation in her voice, the disappointment. He hates that he put it there, but he can’t help the feeling of relief that washes through him as he realizes just how okay she is with the fact that he’s her boss. 

“I’m just saying that it’s-“

His brain scrambles for the words again, his mind trying to think of some sort of excuse, some sort of reason why she, his assistant, is here in his arms, why he’s holding her against him.

“It’s alright,” she says, trying to steady her voice as she slinks out of his arms. “I understand, it was a mistake for you.“

“No, it wasn’t a mistake!” he protests, his tone sounding more insistent than he’d intended it to. He mentally smacks himself - he’s the one who started telling her that it was a mistake, why in hell is he sounding so mad now that she’s agreeing with him?

He reaches out, wrapping a large, strong hand around her wrist.

“I’m trying to explain myself and I’m doing a shit job at it, aren’t I?” he says, his voice half amused and half frustrated.

“Yeah,” she laughs lightly, breaking some of the awkward tension. “Yeah, you kinda are.”

Some of the tension between them does ease - her laughter is a good sign, he thinks. She’s relaxed enough to laugh with him, and so he can breathe a little easier.

“It’s just-“ he starts, trying to think of the best way to try and explain. He can’t say I’ve had feelings for you for months because he’s not sure she feels the same way.

She watches him fumble over his words for a minute, first trying this sentence then that. After a moment, some deity has mercy on him, and she decides to help him out a little.

Her hand, gentle, barely there - goes to rest on his shoulder. She’d squeeze his shoulder reassuringly if everything wasn’t broken or bruised right now. Instead, she settles for rubbing it gently up and down against his arm.

“Breathe. Tell me what’s going on in your head,” she offers gently, her kind eyes looking up at his. 

She’s the only one who knows him like this, he thinks. The only person in the world who would know when and how to give him a moment to collect his thoughts, knows how he prefers green tea or energy drinks instead of coffee, knows what his tells are.

He looks at her and finds the same kind face that become an integral part of his life and function over the last two years. Sure, it looks a bit different, with the cut on her lip and the bruise peeking out of her hairline - but the face is the same one that’s been unbearably patient with him on hard days but also kept his ego in check on the good days.

God, the timing may be awful, but… it’s her.

Her hand, small and gentle, rests gently on his shoulder, rubbing it up and down to help soothe him and calm his mind, and it works. 

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he gathers his thoughts - he has to tell her something, something that’ll let her know that what just happened was more than just some sort of a “mistake”, that there was something behind it.

“Talk to me,” she prompts him quietly.

He takes another deep breath, opening his eyes to look down at her. Her hand is still on his shoulder and he lets the feel of it ground him. He hesitates for a beat - he isn’t sure how she’ll react to what he has to say - but he has to say something, and so he decides to just speak and not think. 

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he says, making sure to keep his tone firm, like what he’s saying is absolute fact.

“Okay,” she acknowledges, tone carefully neutral. There’s a pause there, a moment for him to think. A small, kind smile appears on her face, trying to reassure him. She can clearly see there’s something else he’s trying to say - he’s just having trouble finding the words.

“C’mon, you know the drill. Talk to me, even if it’s messy. And then…” she takes a deep breath, as if to steady herself. “And then we can figure it out from there.”

It’s what they always do - whenever he’s excited about an idea or rambling about a theory or trying to figure something out, this is what they do. She lets him ramble to her about it, no matter how disorganized or chaotic or downright crazy he feels he sounds. And then, they parse through the craziness together. It’s gotten to the point where people around the paddock joke that she’s the one who can understand what he’s saying when he’s like this - Lando will often drag Oscar over to her office before a meeting to have his ideas “translated from yapanese” for the team to understand.

He looks down at her, at that kind, familiar smile of hers, and he feels something in his chest relax and loosen. He knows how this works, how they work, and he lets himself fall into the familiar rhythm of it all, even if this is different than every other time they’ve discussed ideas or ranted about something - this is foreign territory, and that makes this all the more scary. 

He takes another deep breath, looking down at her, and he just… speaks.

“That thing that just happened,” he starts, his voice still firm and insistent, even though his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. He looks down at her, and he makes sure that she’s not just hearing his words, but also listening to them.

“It wasn’t a mistake. It was…“

He hesitates again, struggling to find the best words to explain why he did what he did.

“It was…?” she tries to prompt. However, she’d be lying if she said her heart wasn’t also frozen in anticipation.

“…A confession.”

He says the word with such finality, as if now that the word has been spoken, it’s the absolute truth - as if it can’t be denied. 

“A… confession?”

Her question makes him falter - he can’t quite read her tone, can’t figure out what that question means. 

She can’t be that stupid, he thinks - she’s smart, one of the smartest people he knows - there’s no way she’d be that confused by the concept of someone confessing to someone else, so he can only assume that she’s asking him why he’s confessing.

Instead, what she does say comes completely out of left field for him. 

“Look, it’s been a long night, and…” she trails off. It seems it’s her turn to search for the right words now. “And I get it. People do weird things when emotions or adrenaline is running high. I get it, I do.”

There’s a pause before she continues, finally settling on what it is she’s trying to say. “So I’d understand if that’s what this is. Was. Is. Whatever.”

His brain stalls when she speaks. 

No, he thinks, no. That’s not what this is, this isn’t just some sort of “adrenaline rush”, this has been building up between them for at least a few months now, if not longer. 

He stares at her, frozen as he tries to figure out what to say - how does he convince her that this is more than just a stupid thing caused by adrenaline?

“I- I’m giving you that out, I guess,” she finally says. “If that’s what you’re looking for.”

God, why the hell does it feel like her heart has suddenly forgotten how to do its job, beating irregularly instead?

She’s giving him an out - she’s saying that if he wants to just sweep this whole thing under some rug, she’ll believe him. She’ll believe him if he says it was just a moment of “weakness” or “high emotions”. That maybe that’s all it really was.

God above, that’s the last thing he wants - he’s spent the last month trying to keep his hands to himself, trying to keep his feelings in check…

“Hey,” she calls softly. Her voice sounds a lot less scared, a lot less uncertain than she feels. “I need you to talk to me, yeah?”

He looks down at her - her tone is still gentle and reassuring, telling him that she’s open to listen to him, that she wants to listen to what he has to say. It takes a lot for her to speak this clearly and calmly, especially given everything that’s happened, he imagines. 

He reaches up and gently wraps his fingers around her wrist again - he needs to touch her, needs to feel her, needs to know that this is actually happening, that this isn’t some weird fever dream. She winces as his fingers wrap perfectly around the hand shaped bruise that’s already developing around her wrist. She tries to bite back the grimace before it slips out, but it’s still there. He instantly notices her wince, her grimace barely suppressed, and his hold loosens on her wrist almost instantly. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly, his eyes scanning over the bruise that’s already forming around her wrist, anger flaring through him as he looks at the angry, dark mark. He gently prods at the bruise, testing to see just how bad it is.

“It- Shit- It’s okay, I should’ve been more careful.”

His jaw clenches when she winces again when he pushes against the bruise, and all he wants to do is go find her parents and beat the ever-loving crap out of them for having the audacity to put their hands on her like this. 

He’s careful when his fingers brush over the bruise, his touch light as his fingers ghost over the injury.

“…You were saying something?”

Damn. 

She’s so damn calm at the moment, and it’s making this all the more difficult for him. It would be easier if she was crying or yelling, because he knows how to handle those outbursts, but damn, she’s so put together right now. 

His gaze softens as he looks down at her, his hand moving from her wrist to cup her face. 

“You have to know,” he says softly, his voice steady, “that wasn’t a mistake.”

She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her eyes look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate.

He knows that he should probably take a step back, give her some space as he tries to find the right words to help her understand, but he just can’t make himself do it. He keeps his hand on her face, thumb gently stroking over her cheek. 

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he repeats again, his voice still soft and firm. “It wasn’t an adrenaline rush. It wasn’t a-“

He almost says he didn’t mean to do it, but the words feel like a lie. And he’s tired of lying.

“I- I’ve wanted to do it longer than I can remember,” he admits, his voice quiet. “And I don’t know if that makes me a horrible person or not, but that’s the truth.”

He watches her face, searching for a reaction, trying to figure out how she’s processing all of this. He hates the fact that she’s so stoic, so neutral - it’s not her. She’s expressive and animated and she’s always letting him know what she’s thinking. 

She leans a little bit closer to him. Her eyes flit upwards, meeting his, before looking back down again, to where they’re both standing just inches apart from each other. They’re now standing so close to each other that she can feel his warm breath mingle with her own.

Then, she kisses him.

He’s frozen when he feels her breath ghost over his lips. 

He’s not expecting her to kiss him, not after everything he’s just said. He’s expecting, if anything, for her to step back, to tell him to give her a minute to cool down. But, when her lips brush against his, it takes him a few seconds to register what’s happening. Once his brain does catch up, his reaction is immediate. His hand gently grabs her face, pulling her back in as he kisses her back.

The initial kiss this time is awkward, hesitant, clumsy. It has all the trademarks of someone who hasn’t really done this before. But it works nonetheless.

Her soft lips brush against his – once, twice. Right after is when she finally puts her poor heart out of its misery, and tilts her face ever so slightly so she can press her lips against his, her eyes falling closed.

The feeling of her lips against his is like electricity - he feels goosebumps erupt on his skin, and he lets out a low sound from the back of his throat as he responds to the kiss. He gently cups her face, tilting her face up more, wanting more - needing more contact, needing to feel her and taste her.

She can taste him. He tastes like saliva and jaffa cakes and that little bit of toothpaste from when he probably brushed before bed. It’s so uniquely him that she fears she could get high on it.

The sound she makes when he deepens the kiss a little, his tongue slipping into her mouth, is a muffled thing, almost a whine. His brain is struggling to process everything that’s happening - it almost feels like he’s drowning in her, slowly drowning in everything that’s her. When they finally pull apart for air, their gazes are immediately drawn to one another.

His hand lingers on her face, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip - he can’t help the way his eyes are glued to her face. He tries to sort through the thoughts in his head, but most of his brain is just completely shut down right now, trying to process the fact that she kissed him. 

She was the one that kissed him - she initiated, she made the first move.

“That was…” she trails off, breathless. Something akin to molecules of light dance in chest thrumming in her veins and tickling her fingertips.

He nods slowly, his lips curving into a small smile before he lets out a soft huff. “I didn’t expect you to make the first move," he admits, his voice quiet. “I actually thought you’d be mad as hell.”

“I kissed you back before too,” she reminds him.

He lets out a soft huff of laughter, his smile widening. 

His gaze is still focused on her face, and his thumb brushes over her jawline in a soft, soothing gesture. 

“That you did,” he agrees softly. “Why?”

“Honestly?” she asks.

“Honestly,” he affirms, his smile still on his face, his gaze still on her. He gently grabs her chin to ensure that she’s looking at him as he waits for her response - and so he can look at her.

“Because when you kissed me I was caught off guard, and so I just froze like an idiot,” she rambles. She takes a deep breath, trying to be a bit more calm and collected. “Because it felt like the right thing to do. And honestly?” she pauses. “Because it felt really, really nice.”

The confession makes his smile widen into a grin. 

“Oh did it now?” he asks, his voice quiet. His tone is teasing, almost sly as his hand moves from her chin to her neck, his hand wrapping gently around it. 

“It felt nice?” he repeats, his thumb gently stroking over her pulse point.

She hums thoughtfully. “Enough that I did it again.”

“You did,” he says, his grin never leaving his face. 

He takes a step closer, his hand on her neck gently pulling her closer, his body now pressed against hers. “I think you need more experience though,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. “You should probably… practice. Frequently, if possible.”

“Yeah? You think so?” Her smile is small and weak, but it’s there.

“Oh absolutely,” he agrees. He loves the fact that he’s the one who’s making her smile when a minute ago, she was trying so damn hard to stop crying. 

“I think it’ll help you… perfect your technique,” he says, his voice quiet as he moves his hand from her neck to her hair, playing with the strands of hair. She shuts him with another kiss - this time, her lips lock firmly against his, her hands splayed out flat against his chest.

This one takes his breath away.

His response to the kiss is immediate, nearly automatic. His hand in her hair moves to her waist, pulling her closer as her hands make contact with his chest. He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat - almost a moan - as she kisses him, as she’s pressed up against him. 

“…How’s that for technique?”

His brain takes a few seconds to turn itself back on - he’s practically stupid after that kiss - but he eventually manages to put together a response. He lets out a soft laugh, his hand moving from her waist to her hip, holding her close against him. 

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, his voice slightly rough. “That’s a good technique, yeah. But I think you might need a few more… practice rounds. To truly get a feel for it.”

“Oh? Sounds serious.”

“Very serious,” he says, his voice still hushed, his fingers now tracing soft lines up and down her hip. “It’s important to be well-practiced in this skill.”

His hand moves from her hip to wrap around her waist, grabbing her more intently, his hand spanning the entire width of her waist. 

“And I don’t mind providing the… equipment you’ll need for more practice.”

“Hmm,” she hums, pretending to consider it. “I could be talked into that. Maybe over coffee…?”

His grip on her waist tightens - just briefly, just for a moment - at her words. His brain is struggling to put words together right now, and the idea of coffee with her doesn’t help. He’s trying to get his head to stop spinning, and the last thing he wants to do is say something stupid, but all he can think about is her - the feel of her, the taste of her lips. 

“Yeah,” he manages, his voice still hushed. “Yeah, coffee. Coffee sounds nice.”

She gives him a small smile. It's faint, but at least it's there.

Standing close to him, she lets her bods lean in against him. Her head falls against his chest as the two stand there in his bathroom. Silence envelopes them, allowing her a moment to breathe. It's been a whirlwind of a night, with both highs and lows.

He lets her lean against him, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her tight against him, his other hand moving to gently cup the back of her head, his fingers gently stroking her hair. 

He’s silent as well, his chin resting on her forehead as his hand strokes her hair. He’s not thinking, not really. He’s just existing, just… feeling the comfortable weight of her against him.

“Sit down on the counter, yeah?” he says, his voice still soft. “And take your shirt off, I need to see the damage.”

"No." 

His hand that’s been gently stroking her hair stills at her response. “Why not?” he asks, his voice still soft and gentle. “I won’t hurt you, I just want to check you over.”

"I'm not taking my shirt off," her voice shakes. Oh, right. 

He realizes the issue. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on her face. “But I’ll have to patch you up, and I can’t do that with your shirt on. Just your top half, yeah? I won’t look at anything else.”

"I..." her voice quivers, as she tries to think of a way out.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed or scared,” he says quietly. “It’s just me. There’s nothing I haven’t seen,” he assures her. “I just want to fix you up a bit. That’s it. I won’t look anywhere else.”

"It- It's not that..." she eventually stammers out.

“Then what is it?” he asks, his voice still soft and gentle. “You can tell me.”

"I, uhm, can't?" she says awkwardly so it almost sounds like a question.

“You… can’t?” he asks, a frown settling on his face as he tries to work out what she means. “What do you mean, ‘you can’t’?”

"My left shou-" she grimaces in anticipation of what she's about to tell him. Fuck this.

His frown deepens at her grimace - a sense of foreboding and worry sets in. “What’s wrong with your left shoulder?” he asks quietly, dread already building inside of him.

"My left shoulder," she tries again. "I can't, uh, move it much."

It's dislocated, she should tell him, but she can't seem to bring herself to say the words.

His heart nearly stops in his chest at her words. God, what have her parents done to her?

He tries to keep his voice calm and even when he responds, but it’s a struggle. “You can’t move your left shoulder at all?” he asks quietly.

"Just this-" she says, demonstrating by moving her arm about four, maybe five inches off her side. She winces when her shoulder screams in protest.

“Your shoulder is dislocated, yeah?” he asks, trying to keep the worry and dread out of his voice. “That’s why you can’t move it?”

"Yeah," she answers..

“How do you know it’s dislocated?” he asks quietly, his voice still steady.

“Not my first rodeo,” she says, an attempt at humor to break the tension. He desperately wants to ask who did it, what happened. He doesn’t want to press her for the details now, when she’s in enough pain as it is. 

He’s silent for a moment, trying to figure out the best strategy to take her hoodie and shirt off. 

“Alright,” he says eventually, his voice soft. “I’m going to take your hoodie off, yeah?”

Hesitantly, she nods.

He hesitates for a moment himself, worried that he’ll do more damage to her shoulder - but there’s no way around it. 

He gently grabs the hem of her hoodie, and starts to carefully pull it over her head. A slight gasp escapes his throat as soon as her bare arms and collarbone are revealed.

“Ahh!” She bites her lip, trying to muffle the sound as white hot pain shoots up through her shoulder at being moved.

His hands release the hoodie and pull back the minute he hears her gasp, his jaw clenching to stop himself from swearing. His eyes roam over her collarbone and arm, taking in the deep bruises and angry red scratches. 

She’s biting her lip so hard she’s worried it’ll split open again. Fuck, moving that shoulder hurts. She’s trying her best to contain it, but hot tears prick at her eyes.

Oscar’s gone concerningly still in front of her.

The moment the hoodie finally comes off and he’s left with the full view of her body, the breath gets stuck in his lungs. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t bruises and scratches and scars. God, the sight of it feels like a damn sucker punch to the chest.

He wants to say something, anything - but he’s so incredibly angry that words just don’t come. He’s paralyzed by anger for a moment, before he’s able to pull himself together - but the fury is still there. The sight of her bruised, cut and beaten body in front of him, her arms covered in scratches, her collarbone a mess of deep purple, and her lip split… it’s a rage he’s never really experienced in his life. He has to take a deep breath to keep himself composed. 

Once it’s finally off, she lets go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Immediately, her gaze goes to Oscar’s face to note his reaction.

He does his best to keep his face neutral, although his expression still betrays a hint of anger and outrage. He doesn’t want her to know how much it all angers him - because, knowing her, she’d try to say it wasn’t as bad as it looks or that it’s not a big deal. 

But to him it is. It’s the biggest deal in the world.

She sits before him now in just a bra and pants, and his eyes take the opportunity to scan over the upper half of her body. He takes note of each detail - the bruise beneath her hair line, her split lip, the one around her wrist. 

Scanning lower he finds more. When he finally takes a look at her torso, he has to try and force himself not to visibly react.

It isn’t easy.

There’s a nasty bruise on one side of her collarbone, he briefly wonders how much force it actually takes to bruise a person’s collarbone. He sees the shoulder he’d reset for her - it looks sore still, but it seems to be doing marginally better. 

But what his gaze lingers on is the parts he didn’t get to see before - the deep blue mark that blooms on the left side of her rib, the deep red scratches on her side and her forearm that were previously concealed by the hoodie. 

He lets his eyes linger over each bruise or injury that he finds. Every single one of them makes him angry again - that somebody put their hands on her body, left their mark on her skin, hurt her.

She can feel her heart rate spike when he moves closer, but she does her best to stay perfectly still for him. Seeing the way she tenses up and her heart-rate increases, he knows that she’s scared. 

This is why I hate your parents so much.

“Lean back on the counter,” he instructs, his voice still soft. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She pulls in a tight breath, like both inhaling and exhaling hurt too much with the pain shooting through her arm. 

He’s completely focused on her - all he cares about right now is getting her shoulder back in the right place and getting her patched up. He watches as she struggles to breathe through the pain, and it hurts him. It hurts him that he can’t do anything to help her, that he can’t take the pain away. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says quietly, both for his benefit and hers. “Just lean back for me, yeah? Don’t worry about anything else. Just let me look.”

She leans back - gradually, as if it hurts her to move every centimeter. A shaky exhale finally escapes her once she’s leaned all the way back.

He takes a moment to survey her collarbone - it’s even more bruised up than he had originally thought. His eyes linger on one particular spot that looks an awful mix of pinks and deep purples, and he wants to rage until his vocal cords give out. But she needs him to be calm and logical right now, so he pushes down the anger as much as he can. 

His eyes next move to her shoulder, and he grimaces slightly. The joint is visibly swollen, and it’s clearly out of place. A wave of nausea overtakes him as he thinks about how much pain she’ll be in when he moves it. 

“I’m gonna have to move it into the right place,” he says quietly. “It’s going to hurt - but try and relax for me, yeah?”

Nodding, she takes a shaky breath. It’s then that she speaks up, voice strained.

“Could you… could you talk?”

He’s a little surprised by her request, but he understands why she wants it. Any sort of distraction will take her mind off the pain, so that’s exactly what he’ll do - he’ll talk. “Yeah,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on her face. “What d’you want me to talk about, exactly?”

“Anything,” she mumbles. “Just… Just talk.”

He hates that he’s about to cause her even more pain, but he knows there’s no way around it. The longer they wait, the more it’ll hurt in the end. 

One of his hands reaches out and cups her cheek, gently stroking her bruised skin. “I’m going to count from one to three, yeah?” he tells her, his voice still quiet. “And on three, I’m going to move your shoulder back into place. Ready?”

She nods.

“Okay, here we go,” he says, his voice still soothing. 

He places his other hand on her upper arm to get a good grip.

“One,” he begins slowly, his eyes fixed on her. “Two…” 

He notices the way she’s tensed up against the counter, bracing herself for the pain. “Relax,” he instructs quietly, his thumb rubbing her cheek. “Just listen to my voice. Don’t think about anything else. One more counting till three, and then it’ll be done. Deep breath. Ready?”

Once he’s satisfied that he’s given her enough time to mentally prepare, and now it’s time to finally deal with her shoulder. 

“Just listen to my voice,” he tells her again, his hand still gently stroking her cheek. “Okay, one… two-“

She nods. She’s just begun to inhale, when-

Without any further warning, the muscles in his arm tense as pushes her shoulder back into place.

“Shit!”

He’s never heard her scream like that before. His heart clenches in his chest at the pain she’s in, the way she’s screaming, the way he’s caused her even more pain. 

“I know, I know it hurts but it’s done now,” he says quickly, keeping his voice soft. “It’s over, okay? You’re okay. Just breathe.”

She chokes out a dry sob, until it finally devolves into short whimpers of pain. He hates this so much. He hates the fact that her shoulder is in so much pain, that she’s sobbing, that he had to be the cause of it. 

“You’re okay,” he repeats again, trying to reassure her. “It’s over now. I know it hurts, but it’ll get better. I promise.”

She falls limp against him from the exertion, as the whimpers meld more into soft murmurs, her breath hitching as her body adjusts to the relocation of the joint.

As her body slumps against his, he brings his other arm around her, gently guiding her into his chest. He holds her against him, hoping that the physical contact will reassure her. 

“You’re okay,” he repeats again, speaking into her hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just breathe for me.”

She continues to whimper in pain, the soft whimpers being the only sound in the bathroom. Oscar feels as a few stray tears fall against the fabric of his shirt, wetting it.

His heart clenches in his chest at the feel of her tears. He can’t even begin to imagine how much pain she’s in. 

“I know it hurts,” he repeats quietly, bringing one of his hands up to gently pet her hair. “I know it hurts, love. But it’s almost over, I promise. You’re doing so good. Just breathe for me, yeah?”

She gives him a weak nod. Feeling a bit more settled at that, she resumes leaning against him. Eyelids droop, heavy with exhaustion - it has been a long night.

He feels the way she’s gradually going limp in his arms. He understands that she’s been through enough tonight. “Let’s at least get you seated, yeah?” He suggests quietly. “You look tired. We need to get you taken care of and then you can rest, alright?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, nodding into his chest.

Her voice is soft when she speaks, like a cool balm. “I am sorry.”

He almost laughs at the absurdity of that statement. 

“Don’t apologize,” he replies, shaking his head. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“For throwing this all on you, I mean. I… I should’ve thought twice before putting all this on you – I know it’s a lot. I didn’t mean to bring you into this mess when I called you tonight, and that’s on me,” she explains.

How is she even worried about him right now? How? He almost wants to laugh, she’s so ridiculous. “Don’t you dare apologize,” he mutters, gently tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Don’t- I- God, you have absolutely no reason to apologize, alright? So just... stop.”

“You’re upset,” she replies, observant. “Maybe I’d even say angry, if I didn’t know you any better.

He tries to find an argument against her claims - he tries hard. He tries to deny it, at least a little bit, to make himself seem better somehow. But he can’t, and she’s too observant to let him slip one past her anyway. “Maybe angry is a generous assessment,” he admits, his jaw clenching again.

Her eyes are drawn to his face, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I’m pissed,” he finally responds, his voice still somewhat restrained. “God, I’m pissed. I’m angry. At them - at your parents.” His eyes dart to hers to check her reaction, to see if he’s crossed a line.

“You have no idea how angry I am, actually,” he continues, his frustration rising more and more by the second. “I am… furious. They laid a fuckin’ hand on you.”

She listens to him while she reaches out to gently clasp his hand in her own, bringing it closer to her, guiding him to rest his palm in the space between her fractured collarbone and where her bra covers her chest. His hand is placed directly over where her beating heart lies. 

“Do you feel that?” she asks softly, looking up at him.

He nods wordlessly, his anger and frustration momentarily subsiding to give way to the feeling of her heart beating. Her pulse is thumping against his palm, her heart racing beneath the skin of her chest, and all he can do is watch her intently.

“I’m here,” she whispers, brushing a loose lock of hair back from his forehead. “I’m alive, I’m okay.”

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the moment she touches him. His shoulders sag as he lets out a breath, his hand gently rubbing the skin where her heart beats as if it would help soothe his temper. 

“You’re not okay,” he replies quietly. “You’re... the opposite of okay, Y/N. I don’t know why you’re trying to pretend like you are.”

“I’m alive,” she counters gently. He wants to argue - he wants to tell her that being alive doesn’t mean being okay. He wants to insist that she’s not okay, to try and convince her that she’s been hurt, that she-

But he knows that it’s a pointless exercise. She clearly refuses to admit there’s a problem. Instead, he shakes his head in frustration before gently shifting his hand to graze her injured ribs. 

“You’ve made your point, Oscar,” she concedes quietly, wincing at the contact - a very real reminder of the damage done.

He knows he’s won the argument, but he doesn’t quite feel victorious. 

“So why are you still pretending like you’re okay?” he asks, shifting to sit on the bed next to her. 

“I felt bad for making you worry. I feel relatively okay, I mean.” She pauses for a moment, and her voice gets quieter.

“When I called you tonight…” The way she suddenly drops her voice has his jaw clenching again. 

“What about it?” he asks, trying to keep his voice patient. It’s like he wants to hear what she has to say but is also dreading the answer at the same time.

“When I called you tonight…” she says, trying desperately to make sure her voice doesn’t shake. “It was because I thought I was going to die.”

There. It’s out in the open now.

“I called the front desk at MTC first, and then my friends, but it’s the middle of the night, so naturally, they didn’t pick up. Yours is the only other number I know off by heart.” She exhales, letting out a soft chuckle. “I guess I’ve had to call you so much for work that dialing your number was muscle memory.”

She takes a deep shaky breath, before continuing. “So yes, I know things are bad. God, you don’t think I know that? Of course I do. But right now I find it hard to throw myself a pity party when I’m so fucking grateful to be alive, to have gotten out, to be here.” With you. To be here with you, she was going to say.

“So, there it is,” she mumbles. It’s there, out in the open for him to hear and dissect and know. The confession is a lot to take in, especially coming from her. She’s always so collected, so composed, so good at keeping a cool head. He takes a moment to try and process everything she’s just told him, his mind struggling to grasp the reality of it all. 

“You-” he begins, still struggling to find the right words. How do you tell someone that you’re glad they’re not dead?

He eventually settles for reaching forward and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her to him gently for a careful hug. 

“I..“ he begins, stumbling over his own words as he struggles to get his mind to form a coherent sentence. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m so goddamn glad you’re here,” he finally manages to say, resting his forehead against hers.

Foreheads touching, his face so close to hers… the moment is quiet and intimate. It makes her glad she’s alive, that she didn’t die before she could experience this with him, that she’s here with him now. Her eyes are closed but a few tears of relief slip past anyways. The feeling of her tears against his skin nearly breaks him in half, and it’s everything he can do to reign in his own emotions right now. Just hold it together for her. That’s all he has to do - just hold it together long enough for her. 

“Hey, hey,” he whispers as her tears wet his skin. “You’re safe now. I’m... I’m here, and you’re safe.”

“God, I was so scared, Oscar,” she cries quietly, shaking against him. Her words and her sobs send a sharp stab of pain through his heart, his arms clenching a little more, holding her a little tighter. 

“I know, I know,” he mutters, his own voice shaking as he fights to maintain his composure. He can’t break down when he needs to be strong for her. “But it’s okay. You’re here, and you’re okay, and you’re safe.”

It takes a few minutes of reassurance before he feels like her crying is slowing. Her body is still shuddering in his arms though, and he lets her cling to him, letting her bury her face in his shoulder. His hand finds its way to the back of her head and he runs his fingers through her hair, trying to provide any comfort he can.

Finally, once she settles, her sniffles tapering off into what resembles normal breathing, Oscar tilts her head up to look at him. He notes the exhaustion in her face, in her body. It’s been a long night, for both of them.

“You need sleep,” he mutters quietly, his hand still tangled in her hair.

“Can’t,” she mumbles, giving him a small, lazy smile. “My really hot nurse won’t let me rest until he’s patched me up or something.” He rolls his eyes affectionately at her, unable to help a smile rise to his lips at her comment. 

“Very funny,” he mutters, shifting his hand around to rub her jaw gently between his fingers. “Let’s get you cleaned up, smartass.”

“Least m’your smartass,” she mumbles under her breath, before carefully sitting herself upright again so that he can finally finish patching her up.

“You think I’d let anyone else call me a hot nurse?” he retorts, pushing himself up and standing in front of her. He takes a moment to study her body – all of her body – in front of him, trying to take stock of the damage.

“Would you?” she asks curiously, her head tilted drowsily.

His eyes take in the way she looks; disheveled, he concludes. Her hair is completely ruffled, the skin of her stomach littered with scratch marks and bruises, and god, those dark blue marks on her chest and collarbones - he has to push down the anger that threatens to rise to the surface again. 

“No,” he replies after a moment, his eyes roaming over her body again. “Absolutely not.”

“Yeah?” she smiles softly, a glimmer of something sparkling in her eyes before she tilts her head back, closing them. He continues to work on her when he hears her mumbling.

“I think I like that.”

“Which part?” he asks, his voice soft as he wipes at a particularly bad-looking scratch. “Me not letting anyone else call me a hot nurse, or the fact that you’re the only one who does?” he teases a little as he continues to gently clean her.

She winces at the feeling of antiseptic against her cuts.

“Hmm, both,” she hums.

His heart leaps at her words, a little thrill of excitement rushing through his gut. He tries to hide the way his cheeks warm at that, busying his hands with  cleaning a particularly ugly scratch on her collarbone. “And what if I also said you’re the only one I’d call my smartass?”

She audibly hisses at that one, her collarbone sensitive from the fracture. Trying to relax a bit, she focuses her mind back to his question. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” he hums in agreement, gently pressing another piece of gauze against the cut. 

“I’ll be your smartass if you’ll be my dumbass,” she offers.

He actually laughs at that, a bright sound in the dark room. “I’m a dumbass, huh?” he asks, looking up from his work to smirk at her.

“My dumbass,” she corrects, “if this deal of ours works out.”

 A small, happy smile rises to his lips at her words. 

“Your dumbass,” he echoes, his heart fluttering again. 

Your dumbass. 

He could probably get used to that. He continues to work over her skin gently, carefully cleaning each bruise and scratch.  “You know I don’t like sharing, right?” he says after a minute, breaking the silence with a hint of possessiveness in his tone. His face is twisted in careful concentration as he works, only pausing to smile or laugh or react to her comments.

She likes his smile, she decides. And perhaps his hair, too.

“Good,” she replies. “Me neither.”

 “Goodnight” he says quietly, before slowly taking a step back and switching off the lights. He heads towards the door, quietly switching off a bedside lamp on the way out. 

“If you need anything, just let me know,” he says, pausing by the door to throw a glance over his shoulder. 

“…Osc?” she squeaks out, voice small. At the sight of Oscar about to go, leaving her on her own in this dark and foreign room - even if it is Oscar’s -  has her heart beating a little harder in her chest. After everything that happened tonight, being left like this has something resembling fear melting her chest like hot wax.

This room is dark and foreign to her - she doesn’t have the layout memorized, or the exits, or hell, even the light switches. Which means that if she were to be in danger again–

“Yeah?” he prompts gently, his voice quiet in the dark.

“Do you…” she hesitates, before finally deciding to just do it. “…Could you stay?”

He pauses for a moment, the request taking him a little by surprise. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice quiet. “Of course I can stay.”

The anticipatory tightness in her chest loosens a bit at that.

He walks around to the other side of the bed before slowly slipping under the covers next to her. He tries not to think about the feel of her body heat next to his, as he adjusts his position slightly to try and give her as much space as possible.

She lays there for an unknown amount of time, but sleep eludes her. For some unknown reason, despite having the longest night of her life and being exhausted beyond belief, her body feels as taught as a live wire.

Still, she tries to even her breathing as a sleeping person would, making an effort not to keep shifting around. There’s a high probability Oscar’s asleep, and she doesn’t want to disturb him.

Oscar is, in fact, not asleep. 

He’s acutely aware of her body next to his, every little movement, twitch and twist of her body. She’s trying to stay as still as possible, and for a minute he wants to point out that she doesn’t have to, that she can make herself comfortable - but then she lets out a small sigh of frustration, and he decides to say something instead. “Can’t sleep?” he dares to whisper, breaking the silence.

She freezes at the sound of his voice. Shit.

“Yeah,” she admits, voice small. “You?”

He gives a small shake of his head, keeping his voice low like . 

“Nah,” he says, his voice a little groggy, “I’m awake.”

For a long moment, silence falls between them again. He can literally feel how tense she is.

After a long moment passes, she asks, “Why?”

That actually gets a small snort out of him. “Could ask you the same question,” he retorts quietly, shifting slightly in the bed. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Unh unh,” she tuts in denial. “I asked first.”

He chuckles quietly at her response. “Can’t shut my brain off,” he finally relents, keeping his voice quiet as he tries to answer her question. The comfort of night embracing them like a favorite blanket has a way of loosening people’s tongues. “Too much thinking going on up there right now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before he speaks again, his voice soft and gentle. “Can I ask you something?”

She hums drowsily, granting him permission.

He hesitates for a moment, trying to find the right words to phrase his question. “Why did you ask me to stay?” he finally asks, not sure whether he’ll get an honest answer from her or not.

“You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“I won’t think it’s stupid,” he reassures her quietly, shifting in the bed next to hers. “Just… tell me, alright? Please?”

She’s grateful she’s still turned away from him at this point.

“It just…” she trails off awkwardly, unsure how to explain. “I dunno. Just thinking about being here, on my own, after everything that happened at home…”

She shrugs. “Even thinking about it made me feel… kinda like antsy? I don’t know how to explain.” She huffs in frustration, trying and failing to find words that sound more coherent than whatever the hell this response has been so far.

“You… you make that go quiet.” She mumbles quietly. And then, even quieter: “You feel like… like safe, I guess.”

Oh.

He’s honestly a little stunned, at both her admission and her choice of words. 

You make that go quiet.

You feel like safe. 

After silence takes the place of any audible response from him, she painstakingly makes the effort to turn over so that she can face him in the dark.

“Is that… weird?” she asks nervously.

“No,” he rushes to reassure her, his voice quiet and a little strangled with emotion. “No, it’s not - I just…”

He trails off for a moment, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I just wasn’t expecting that to be your answer,” he admits hoarsely.

“Oh,” she replies dumbly.

He’s glad he’s lying in the dark right now. 

She’s turned over to face him, and the thought that she’s laying a mere few inches away from him, with a bruised and battered body and telling him that he’s her comfort, is both the most amazing thing he’s ever heard and also so painful his chest physically aches. 

He clenches a fist around the sheets.

“You want to know what I’m thinking?” he finally asks, taking the opportunity to shift the conversation away from her question.

“Always.”

“That if I ever met your parents,” he finally admits, his voice pained and his breath hot against her neck, “I’d probably break their goddamn jaws.”

She winces at his words. She turns away from him.

He immediately grimaces at her reaction, sitting up slightly in the bed as he sees her turn away from him. “No, don’t turn away,” he says quickly, his hand reaching out reflexively to grasp at her nearest arm.

He gives her arm a little shake. “Hey. Look at me,” he instructs, his voice low.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she replies coldly.

He falters for a moment, taken aback by the coldness in her voice. “And why’s that?” he questions, still reeling from her immediate retreat.

“Because I am tired,” she deadpans.

There’s a long moment of stunned silence as he processes her response, and then she hears his bed creaking faintly before his voice rings out in the dark. 

“Come here,” he orders quietly.

“Why should I?”

“Because I said so,” he replies, his voice still quiet. 

He shifts on the bed, moving closer to her. “Come here,” he says again, a hint of gentle firmness in his voice. Disguising it as stretching, she moves marginally closer to him. The second she shifts closer to him, he takes action, moving until he’s directly behind her. He scoots closer to her, his body curled protectively around hers, and wraps an arm around her torso. 

“There,” he murmurs. “That’s better, right?”

She lets out a small huff. Just because being in his arms is surprisingly warm and comfortable and soothing doesn’t mean she’ll just forget what he said about her parents.

“It’s… fine,” she lies through her teeth. He needs to know that the matter isn’t resolved that easily.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it is,” he replies sarcastically, not falling for her half hearted attempt at indifference. 

“I know -” he lets out a quiet huff, his arm tightening around her before he even speaks. “- sorry for saying that. I didn’t mean to…”

“I- “

For once, he’s at a loss for words, his thoughts swirling around in his head. 

He did mean the words. They were true for a reason, after all. 

“Don’t -” he finally tells her. “- Don’t you dare feel sorry for them, you hear me? Just- just don’t, alright?” He shifts, moving his face away from her neck to speak. “You don’t need to feel guilty at all for the way they’ve treated you, and for the shit they’ve put you through,” he says fiercely.

She sighs exasperatedly, letting her eyes fall short for a moment. 

He knows she’s not as receptive as he’d hoped, but he can’t stop himself from spitting out the next few words like a curse. “I don’t care that they’re ‘family’, or that they’re your parents - because they’re abusing you. They’re hurting you in the name of ‘tough love’ or whatever shitty reason parents think they have for treating their kid like that,” he all but growls out in the dark.

After a beat of silence, she asks quietly, “…Would you ever like to hear me say that about your own parents?”

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Once, twice, and maybe even three times, until finally, he manages to force out a response. “…That’s not the same,” he tries, and immediately wishes he had just kept his mouth shut. He sighs, swallowing hard before mumbling out a confession - “It’s just…“

He presses his face into her neck again, his breath coming in heavy, uneven puffs as he struggles to keep himself together. “They’re supposed to protect you, goddammit,” he grits out against her skin.

“Yeah,” she agrees softly.

“They’re supposed to care about you,” he all but mumbles into her skin, his fingers tracing circles mindlessly against her stomach as the angry words spill out. 

“Okay.”

“It’s not ‘okay’,” he grits out. 

He tightens his arm around her, shifting slightly until he’s got a thigh over her legs as if he’s holding her in place. 

“You’re not the one who’s wrong here,” he adds, frustrated with the fact that she’s the one who’s bruised but he’s the one who’s getting choked up.

“Let it out,” she encourages softly, gently stroking her thumb across his cheekbone.

Goddamn it. Something about the way she says it, like she’d be willing to share the burden of the sky if that’s what he needs - it gets to him. He’s trying to be the strong one here, the one who’s supposed to be protecting her - not the one on the verge of a goddamn breakdown. But she’s just too damn sweet. 

He lets out a quiet huff and buries his face in her neck again. “Okay,” she agrees. “Whatever you need.”

“Stop with the agreement thing,” he mumbles into her skin, his voice frustrated even though it’s lacking the edge from before and more filled with emotion. 

He swallows hard, his hand tightening momentarily on her stomach. He’s angry at himself for so many reasons.

He’s angry that she got hurt and he can’t take away her pain. He’s angry that he’s got a goddamn lump in his throat right now because he can’t handle seeing her hurt. He’s angry that he’s the one getting emotional when she’s the one who’s supposed to be falling apart. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” she coos softly, using her hand to gently guide his face out of the crook of her neck so she can actually look at him. “What is it? What’s going on in that head of yours, hmm?”

Those eyes are really going to be the death of him. He swallows hard, shifting slightly so he’s facing her a little better. 

“I’m not supposed to be the one falling apart right now,” he admits, his voice coming out quiet - so quiet that he almost hopes she misses it. “It’s not… it’s not going how its supposed to go.”

“Oh?”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, his fingers tapping uselessly against her stomach.

“It’s not going how it’s supposed to - you’re supposed to be the one falling apart, and I’m supposed to be the one picking up the pieces,” he mumbles out, his voice still quiet. 

“But now I’m the one on the verge of losing it, and you’re being annoyingly sweet and supportive and nice and I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

“Okay,” she tells him, her voice all level and sure and reassuring. “Okay, that’s okay.”

He takes a shaky breath, and it’s taking everything in his power to not bury his face back into the crook of her neck because the feel of her skin against his might actually help. 

“No-“ he shakes his head, his voice quiet again. “It’s not. It’s not okay. You’re supposed to be the one falling apart right now, but I’ve got… I’ve got this damn knot in my throat and I can’t tell if it’s anger or guilt or something else-“

“Breathe, Oscar. You gotta breathe for me, okay?” she says, gently rubbing her palm up and down his sternum in what she hopes is a soothing motion.

She doesn’t know that the gentle touch against his skin is a little too much right now, the feel of her palm across his bare skin and her voice in his ear and just the sight of her looking at him with that kind look in her eyes is making his head spin. 

But he does as she says - tries to steady his breathing, letting it out in slow, even puffs as her palm moves up and down his chest. “There we go,” she says, giving him a drowsy smile. “Just like that, yeah? You’re doing so well f’me.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, clenching his jaw for a moment because of the way her words make something in him flutter. “That’s not helping,” he grits out, his voice coming out a little rough as he takes another slow, shaky breath.

“Alright,” she says, her hand stopping its movements. “Okay, I’ll back off.”

“No, no-“ He shakes his head quickly, his fingers grabbing her wrist to bring her hand back down against his chest. 

“Just- Keep going,” he says, his voice coming out gruff and quiet. “Don’t- don’t stop that, just-“

He swallows hard, closing his eyes for a moment. She can probably tell he’s still a little shaky, but she listens to him as her palm tentatively starts moving over his chest again, and she lets out a soft exhale. He closes his eyes when he feels her hand on his chest, a slow exhale of breath leaving his lips involuntarily as her palm glides across his skin. 

He lets go of her wrist and moves closer, his head dropping against her shoulder, and mumbling into her skin. “M’sorry. I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “This is dumb. I’m freaking out over nothing.”

“Is that what you would tell me if the roles were reversed?”

“No,” he responds, almost immediately. 

He would tell her that she had every right to feel what she felt, and he would pull her close and tell her that she should let him help carry the burden, and he would do anything to keep that sweet, broken look off her face.

“Then I need you to believe me when I say – I get it. I understand why you’re freaking out – anyone in your position would. You can’t be calm and collected 100% of the time, and no one expects you to. No one.” 

Her hand traces broad strokes around his body - across his chest, over his shoulder, up to his cheekbone. She finds herself playing with the locks of hair that keep flopping onto his forehead.

He tries to steady his breathing as her hand continues to glide gently over his body, the touch of her fingers against his skin and the feel of her body so close to his is making his head spin all over again. He feels himself shiver as her fingers brush over his cheek and through his hair, leaning into the touch. “How are you always so goddamn patient with me,” he grumbles, lifting his head slightly to look at her.

She shrugs.

In the sacredness of whatever this bubble is that exists here and now, the words slip past her lips before she can even think of stopping them.

“It’s like breathing.”

She’s really going to be the death of him one day. The fact that she doesn’t even need to think about it just makes him want to pull her close even more and press messy, thankful kisses against her skin. He swallows back the urge instead, trying to regain some of his composure. He lifts his head, taking her in as she continues to gently trace her fingertips over his face.

“You’re thinking something,” she notes, fighting back a yawn.

Her words drag his attention back up to her face, and he can’t help a small, lopsided smile at the fact that she’s tired right now because of how well she knows him. 

“Is it that obvious?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe not to other people. But to me it is.” She gives him a small smile. “My whole life revolves around knowing you.”

He’s almost certain that he stops breathing for a moment, because her words are like a punch to the chest for multiple different reasons. Of course he knows how much of her work life centers around him, but it's the way she says it.

It means that she knows him better than anyone.

And, when paired with the fact that she’s half-naked - in his clothes, no less - and just inches away from him right now it just makes it even harder to control that flutter in his chest.

She brings him back to the present. “But I need you to talk to me,” she says, tentatively trying out the pet name again after he’d said no earlier. “Need you to tell me what you’re thinking so we can figure this out, yeah?

He pauses for a moment, then speaks, his voice low and coming out a little grumbly.

“If I tell you, you’re not going to like it.”

“Maybe. But keeping it in will only make it worse, won’t it?” she smiles sadly.

She waits for him to continue, her fingers slowly tracing the skin of his jaw. She can basically see the thoughts rushing through his head. He leans into the touch a little more than he means to, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to get the words out. 

“It’s just…” he repeats, his voice coming out gruff as he swallows again. “It was so hard to stay calm, alright? I was trying so fuckin’ hard to stay calm, but Christ, you just…” 

He takes a shaky breath. Before he can continue, she speaks.

“You did so well. You kept your cool, you were exactly what I needed when I called you to come get me tonight.”

“Oscar, you need to get it out of your system. I know you’re angry. Your allowed to be, as long as…” she pauses, taking a steadying breath. “Just… talk to me.”

He glances at her again, gauging how she’s reacting before he continues. He takes a shaky breath, swallowing hard. 

“It’s just…” he repeats, his voice coming out barely a whisper now. “When I saw you… and all the… the marks, and the cuts, and the… the scratches-“

He breaks off abruptly, trying to regain control of his breathing. His fingers start tapping restlessly against her stomach again, trying to soothe himself. 

“It just made me so… angry. And the fact that they left these goddamn marks on you- goddammit, you don’t understand how hard I had to resist just punching a wall right then and there.”

She nods in understanding, tucking herself a bit closer to him by leaning her forehead against his chest.

He lets out a shaky breath as she leans against his chest, his arms instantly wrapping around her, pulling her close - his grip isn’t hard enough to hurt her, but it’s tight enough that he has her completely pressed against his body. One hand comes up, reaching up to grab gently at her hair, guiding her even closer to him.

“I’m sorry I put you through that,” she mumbles, voice weary, against the fabric of his shirt.

He makes an instant noise of protest at the apology, shaking his head. 

“No,” he says, almost sternly. “No, don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, alright? None of it is your fault. ”

The emotions that have been curling in his gut like a hot coil fuel the stem of his words. “They’re idiots,” he continues, the word spoken fiercely. “They have no idea how goddamn lucky they are to have you as a daughter, and even less of an idea about what they’ve just done to you.” 

His hand in her hair continues to brush through it, almost on autopilot, trying to soothe her and him. Oscar is surprised when instead of staying silent or outright refuting what he’s said, he finds her mumbling against his chest.

“I guess so.”

He glances down at her when he hears her speak up, a little surprised to actually hear that she agrees with him. He pauses, then continues combing through her hair - she hasn’t complained yet, so he doesn’t stop. 

“You guess so?” he says, gently pushing her. “You guess so? You’re so goddamn good, you have any idea how many people would kill for someone like you?”

“It's not that big a deal,” she murmurs.

“It is,” he shoots back immediately, a fierce bite to his tone. “It is a big deal. Don’t- don’t do that, alright? Don’t try to brush it off and pretend like you’re not the best thing that’s ever happened to me - to anyone.”

“I’m your assistant,” she says with a small smile, as she tries to stifle a yawn. With each blink she sees less and less of Oscar’s silhouette in the dark of the room, her eyelids heavy with sleep as she’s trying her best to stay awake to listen to what he has to say.

Oscar’s jaw clenches at the sound of her holding back a yawn - she’s probably exhausted and in some kind of pain, and that’s not even considering the emotional trauma she’s just been through tonight - and yet here she is, still trying to stay awake. 

He glances down, noticing her eyes keep drifting closed, and he lets out a huff. “You’re much more than my assistant,” he mutters. “More than I deserve.”

He looks down to see what she has to say in response.

Only to find her fast asleep, passed out from exhaustion.

The warm cocoon of Oscar’s arm, the steady lull of his heartbeat, and the rhythmic feeling of his fingers running through her hair was enough to help her loosen up enough to finally fall asleep, it seems.

He looks down at her with a little smile - even asleep, she still looks like a goddamn angel. 

He’s not expecting to sleep any time soon, he’s had enough caffeine on top of the adrenaline still pumping for him to be completely wired. So instead he just holds her - her face pressed in between his chest and shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, his eyes focused on the ceiling.

Part 2

a/n: if you stayed this far, thank you so much! i'd love to hear what you thought of it :) and credit to @saradika-graphics for the lovely dividers!!

[loveforsatoru]

Lots of things remind you of Satoru. The color blue, sweets, the evening just before the sun sets and the skies grow dark. Quite frankly, everything reminds you of him. Wherever you look, he’d always be there. You love him so much it makes you sick.

He deserved it, though. He was a good man, the best you’ve ever known. The least anyone could give him was love– and god did you give him more than enough to satisfy his soul for this lifetime and the ones to come. Because he, for someone who often thought logically and did not put much attention onto what happens after death, always knew that he would be yours and you would be his, everywhere out there in this infinite universe, even if he cannot hold you in all of them.

Just like now as you stand over his grave with an emotionless face and tears running down your cheeks, an umbrella over your head to shield you from the pouring rain which mirrors your tears, reminding you that the world moves on despite your inability to do the same.

Your days have blended together like a never ending loop since his death. You live the same thing over and over and over. Grief, tears, mourning, sadness. You wish you could forget the image of his severed body laying on the ground, covered in blood. It doesn’t feel real. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just a bad dream and you’ll wake up soon, hopefully.

You’ve been standing here in the empty cemetery for hours. You haven’t eaten, haven’t slept, or uttered a single word. What’s the point? He’s not here to listen anymore.

You discard the umbrella, letting the rain soak you entirely, and sit in front of where he’s buried.

Satoru Gojo; loving teacher and husband. 1989-2018.

You gently trace your fingers over the engraved words, the same way you would over his cheeks when he’d come home from missions and fall right into your embrace– the place he always craved to be, where he should be right now.

During the entire fight, the only thing on his mind was you. You, you, you, you. And how badly he wanted to get it over with just so he could hold you and leave everything else behind.

He planned to retire after this final battle, so he could finally live a life of peace. Move away from Tokyo, perhaps to somewhere up in the countryside where the loudest sound in the morning would be that of chirping birds. He would go wherever the wind could take him as long as you were there, too. Without you, he’d feel like nothing.

It’s ironic, really. You’re the one who has to learn to live without him.

Part of you is expecting him to appear from thin air and wipe your tears away, telling you he’s here and he won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

The final conversation with him was one you didn’t want to have. You waited outside the door while he spoke to Yuji, listening to every word before the younger boy left.

“Those kids won’t forget you, you know,” You say as you settle onto his lap and his hands find home on your waist.

“Yeah, but sometimes it feels that way,” He sighs, “Whatever happens, I’ll just have to accept it.”

You hum in response as he holds onto you a little tighter than usual and buries his face in your neck, drowning himself in you.

You let him do as he pleases, knowing you could never push him away even if you tried.

“You’re a little off,” You say softly. “Is everything okay?” You stare into his eyes, hoping to find some sort of warmth and reassurance amidst the clouds that swarm in them.

Of course it’s not. You can sense the little bit of doubt that radiates off of him. He wasn't the type to question his own abilities, but there’s a lot on the line, a lot to lose, a lot of you that he doesn’t want to let go of.

“You think so?” He tries to mask it with his usual tone. You can see right through it. “I’m a-okay. Don’t worry so much, sweetheart. You know me.”

“I do know you and that’s why I know you’re not a-okay. Talk to me, Satoru. Please.”

If this were any other day, he would, but it’s not. He just wants to hold and kiss you for as long as he can. He knows he might not be able to again.

“Let’s just stay here a little while. Forget about everything else for now,” He presses his lips against your temple and they linger for too long.

You huff in defeat and nod, because as much as you want to deny it, the impending feeling of doom won’t allow you.

“Okay.. but promise me you’ll be alright.”

It’s too much to ask for. He can’t make you a promise he can’t keep. You’re his wife, the love of his life. It would kill him even more to die knowing he broke the last promise he ever made you.

Instead, he pulls away to admire every detail of your face without a word.

“Promise me,” You repeat, “Promise me you’ll be okay, Satoru. I need to hear you say it.”

Your desperation is like a knife to his heart, but he can’t do that for you. This is the one thing he has to deny you no matter how badly he wants to bring you closer and say it’ll all be fine.

He hides his forming tears away with a chuckle, but there’s no humor behind it and kisses you like it’s the last time he will. It was. He remembers the way your lips taste even in death.

Sometimes, you can still hear his voice and the sound of his laughter rings in your ears. Nowadays, that’s the only thing that brings joy into your days. You don’t know yourself anymore. A part of you died with him and you’re afraid you’ll never be able to get it back.

You remember the way he smelt and the way his eyes would crinkle when he would smile a little too hard– mostly at you and your corny jokes that he found hilarious. The way he’d sing in the shower and hug you from behind before fully drying off while you prepared dinner because he knew it’d annoy you, but your scolds were never serious. He could tell with the way the corner of your lips threatened to curl upwards.

All of these cherished moments and many others have now become memories to remember him by. The day you forget any of it is the day you die, with your last request being to be buried right beside him.

Repeated sobs escape your once sealed shut lips. You cry and dig your hands into the muddy grass below you, clawing and clawing to seemingly reach the core of the earth and bring him back, but it won’t. Nothing will. You can’t do anything to bring him back and it rips you apart at the very center of your heart.

You’ll look for him in the skies, the wind, the trees, the color blue, sweets, the evening just before the sun sets and the skies grow dark, and anything and everything else. Until one day, your time will also come and you’ll be reunited once again.

But for now, all you can do is cry. And you do, everyday without fail because any life would be better than one without him.

[ddocson]

Hi ranchers community ............... i am thinking about them

[elsecrytt]

so i had a thought.

what if 236 is actually jujutsu tech propaganda?

mei mei is broadcasting this entire thing, right? what better way to protect gojo from bounty hunters etc., than convince the entire world that he's already dead?

the final battle happened offscreen, with significantly less fanfare. gojo rescued megumi, defeated sukuna. the day was saved.

at a cost.

gojo gave up everything - at least, everything he valued. the six eyes, his abilities as a sorcerer. he assumed that would make him a normal man, and he was right -

what he didn't realize was that it would also make him blind.

so now... you live in a nice apartment complex. a guy moves in next to you.

you can't help but notice he happens to be blind - at least, he's wearing a blindfold, uses a cane, but he's often swearing and stumbling through his porch, over his entryway. he is very, very blind.

you, wondering what the fuck up is with your obviously blind neighbor who seems to have no sense of self-preservation.

he walks into objects all the time, especially hitting his head on things, since he's so tall. forgets his cane when going out. the dude just left his door open the other day, like, WIDE OPEN, who DOES that?

helping gojo learn, not only how to be human, but how to be disabled. how to not be disgusted with being disabled.

gojo learning that being blind isn't the end of his life, nor the end of his happiness - life is still worth living, even without one of his senses.

helping gojo mourn his lost sense while still finding things to enjoy. gojo who learns to cook by taste, by feeling heat or texture, with your help. gojo learning to organize things so he always knows where they are from memory.

bringing gojo audiobook versions of your favorite stories even if he teases you for your taste. he listens to them when he has nothing to do, which is most of the time, now.

he goes out on walks all the time because he doesn't have a job, you learn. while it's nice to not have to work, you can tell he comes from money, his life comes with a gaping hole inside it, one that isn't entirely explained by the blindness.

gojo who's overstimulated all the time because he no longer has infinity as a barrier, but somehow also as touch-starved as ever, alone in a foreign country away from all his students and colleagues.

gojo, who has only ever done Big Things with his life, who has only ever been an Important Person doing world changing things, now, just an ordinary guy.

he barely cares what happens to himself now. it's not that he wants to die, or anything. it's just that he doesn't have a reason to live.

and that wouldn't change overnight. not with cooking lessons or audiobooks or friendly greetings whenever you see him by the door. not with smiles or waves (he can't see them) or a braille rubik's cube you find online (how did he solve it in under a minute??) or karaoke (he has an AMAZING singing voice, and he knows so many songs better than you do?).

it wouldn't change overnight, because nothing worthwhile forms in a day, or two, or even a week or a month.

but gojo's life doesn't have to be amazing a day after he's gone blind. or a week. or a month. it's okay if it's difficult, he learns, it's okay if he hates it, hates himself, hates every choice that brought him here, even if he would never take it back.

it's okay. it gets better. with you there? it's getting better.

[autisticlancemcclain]

this is how it continued

———

This is how it ends.

———

This is how it ends.

———

This is how it ends.

———

This is how it ends.

———

Lance tries for weeks to make it end.

The words crawl up like bile in the back of his throat. Keith, he tries to say, time and time again, we need to talk. And when he manages to push through the stinging burn and say them, breath turning to dust in his lungs, Keith crooks his finger under Lance’s chin and meets Lance’s eyes and replies, just as quietly, Of course, sweetheart. What’s wrong?

And every time Lance is faced with the softness in his dark eyes, the steady way he holds his gaze. And every time something inside him cracks, desperate and howling and selfish after being deprived so long, and his bravery dries up like a tiny stream in the summer heat. And instead of saying When did you start loving me, Keith, ‘cause you woke up one day and decided we’d been together for ages and everyone thinks you’re crazy his chin trembles and his eyes burn and he cries, again, and tells Keith of the months without him.

Every day I’m sorry I left you behind, Keith whispers into the heat of Lance’s skin, and every time in response Lance knows, I do not deserve this from you. And the desperate howling selfish part of him grows stronger and stronger.

Lance needs to make it end.

———

He cannot make it end publicly.

It’s too…messy for that. It has been too long now. He hasn’t counted the days but he knows what it looks like right before Keith screams himself awake, now, knows how to press his cold hands to the side of his neck and the curve of his ribs to startle his dream-self into thinking kinder thoughts. He knows how the chip on Keith’s right front tooth feels on his tongue, his knuckles, his shoulder. He knows that Keith showers with his eyes shut out of years of habit of showering in the dark and fearing the sting of the soap.

Rarely do they stop at a hotel. Usually they sleep in shifts, staying in space for days at a time instead of resting every night. It’s horrible and cramped and makes everyone cranky, but it brings them home faster. After everyone is fed up of air travel, which never takes long, they often stop somewhere small and uninhabited and out of the way – a moon, a burgeoning planet, a long-abandoned one. Whatever is closest. On those nights, the nine of them, plus the animals, will stretch and enjoy the fresh air, if there is any, maybe watch a setting sun. And then they will make a fire and cook rations or a real meal, if they can find ingredients and Hunk or Lance have the energy. And after everyone has eaten and conversations have long begun to slow, after teeth have been brushed and faces have been washed, after their friends have nodded off one by one, Keith will push their bedrolls together to make one, spread a blanket over the two of them, and hold Lance close; without question, without hesitation. And he will be out in moments, gently snoring along to whatever alien crickets are crooning into the night, and Lance will trace the shape of his face under the light of the dying embers and forget to be guilty. He will feel safe in Keith’s hold like he does not feel anywhere else and his feet will be warmed between Keith’s thighs. He will fall asleep with a smile on his face.

———

Five months into their journey, Coran says: “I have an announcement to make.”

“What’s up?” Pidge asks, swinging her feet from where she sits sideways in her chair, hair a mess, face buried in the not-quite-DS they found a few planets back. Lance smiles and rolls his eyes.

“In the next quintaint, we will be approaching Deruyn. The Deruy were close friends of the Alteans, eons ago, and the Chancellor has extended to me an invitation to reacquaint ourselves. If you’re all amenable, my dears, we have been invited to stay in the guest wing of her royal quarters for a week.”

Lance straightens up, rubber band ball he was toying with slipping from his grasp. He hears it bounce several times behind him before an abrupt stop, and then a very angry moo. He winces.

“Sorry, Kaltenecker.”

She huffs, clearly still miffed.

Everyone is talking over each other, eyes bright and excited through their video connections. Coran looks pleased, watching them all chatter. Lance catches his eye and smiles at him.

A whole week in a royal wing…and a real royal wing! Nothing like the paladin quarters they lived in on the Castle. They bedrooms will be huge, probably; fancy and ornate. Maybe a canopy bed and pillows comfier than Lance can even fathom.

And baths. Lance hopes there are big, deep baths he can almost swim in.

“You look dreamy.”

Keith’s amused voice startles him out of his daydreaming, although he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed. Everyone else is still chattering on, bubbling with excitement — no one is looking at him.

“I am,” Lance admits. He puts a hand to his forehead and sighs, more dramatically than necessary, pleased when it brings the expected reaction of Keith’s fond little smile. “There might be baths, Keith. Real baths. And oils and soaps and soft towels. And pillows! And a queen-sized bed!”

Keith’s smile turns teasing. “What you need is an Alaskan king.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Keith’s laugh has gotten rumblier since his space whale growth spurt, that’s the only way Lance can explain it. It’s softer and darker and suggests smile lines around his eyes he didn’t have before. Every time Lance looks at them he imagines them getting deeper and wider.

“Been a while since we’ve been somewhere with a real bed, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Gotta make sure they don’t book us two separate rooms again,” Keith huffs, crease appearing between his eyebrows. “I still don’t know what that was about.”

Lance’s mouth goes dry.

I do, he should be saying. I know exactly why there were two separate rooms booked for us. In fact I can guarantee it will happen again.

But he is a coward. And the words die somewhere in his belly, before they can come anywhere near his throat.

———

It takes time to reach Deruyn. Some of this is because Shiro read the map backwards and set them back two days. (“I’m dyslexic!” he had defended, to their booing and whining. “There is not booing and whining to dyslexia! Do you boo and whine a lisp? No! Let me live!”)

By the time they finally manage to drag their poor, exhausted Lions to the sizeable planet, everyone’s excitement is so palpable Lance doesn’t need an emotional bond to feel it.

“Fresh air,” sighs Allura.

“Good food,” seconds Hunk.

“People to talk to that aren’t you fools,” agrees Pidge.

“A mattress,” Keith adds, and shoots Lance a wink.

Despite himself and rolling mess of feeling in his stomach, Lance flushes.

Coran accepts a call as soon as they’re within radio range, greeting a narrow-faced, pink-skinned woman who must be the Chancellor. Immediately they delve into a conversation that Lance doesn’t even pretend to follow. He recognizes Coran’s tone from the many times his mother would strike up a conversation with an aunt or uncle or any guest at all as they were leaving the house — this conversation could be hours long. His eyes glaze over, sliding away from his Lion’s display to take in the planet in front of him.

Deluyn is large, that much is obvious. It’s hard to scale something with such magnitude when it’s so close to your face, but if Lance had to guess, he would place it somewhere between Jupiter and the Balmera. It has no rings but the whole planet seems to glow, slightly, although Lance can see no clear source for it. The colours visible from orbit are entirely alien to him, so he’s not sure what is water, if anything is, but from the angry look of the planet’s poles, the dark green things are clouds.

What feels like a million hours later, but it probably only around fifteen minutes, there’s a click as the Chancellor and Coran end their call, and they are urged forward into landing. As they get closer to the landing strip, Lance notices dozens of children sprinting along the barrier, holding signs and flags and cheering. He grins, twisting his hands tighter around Red’s controls, hanging back just slightly from formation to give himself space to move. Then he yanks the controls to the side, feeling Red roar as she whips around in a tight circle, flames rolling down her back. The children jump up and down, fists raised, mouths open in shouts of joy. Several of their grownups watch with wide grins, too, necks craned to watch Lance spin around.

He pulls back into formation after a couple of tricks, sliding smoothly in between Black and Blue. His heart rate ticks up, and suddenly his undersuit feels tight, itchy. He squirms in his seat. When Shiro’s face pops up to relay landing instructions he flinches, and immediately hates himself for the hurt look that eclipses his friend’s face.

“…Lance?” Shiro asks softly, confusion lining his voice. He looks like a kicked puppy. Lance is a monster.

“I’m just jumpy, I’m just jumpy,” he assures, forcing a smile and holding it there until Shiro’s shoulders relax. “You know. So excited to see where we’ll be staying.”

“Yeah, me too! Coran even said they have this massive sauna they’re really famous for. I can’t wait. I miss what saunas do for my skin. And, plus, having our own rooms will be nice.” His excited grin turns sly. “Well, most of us will have our own room.”

Lance’s heart pounds for a totally different reason. “Okay thanks Shiro bye —”

He reaches to cut the connection but Shiro stops him, laughing.

“No, no, wait, I’ve got landing instructions. Their staff is limited so we gotta go one at a time, okay, stay in your Lion once you’re parked in case you need to adjust…”

Thankfully it’s nothing too complicated. Keith lands first, and Lance next to him, then Pidge, then Allura, then Hunk. Once they’re all parked and confirmed by ground control, they’re cleared it exit, none of them taking their time.

Well, everyone else disembarks pretty fast. Kaltenecker remains and stubborn pain in the ass as usual, and Lance is stuck trying desperately to drag an 800 something pound cow that has absolutely no desire to work with him. “Kallie,” he begs, tugging uselessly on her leash, “you dumb ass fucking animal. Please. I am begging you. I put up with your farts in the cabin for days on end, which has got to be shaving years off my life. The food I feed you could be better but in all fairness, I’m getting the same slop you are, so. Maybe cut me some slack.”

She doesn’t even moo at him.

Lance tries bribery.

“Say, you want good food? I bet they have good food on this planet. Nice, sweet, fresh grass. You love grass. You want grass? Please come on, Kallie. Everyone else has already left and I’m going to die of embarrassment if I’m the last paladin left, doing the walk of shame with his stubborn cow behind him. The jokes will write themselves. I’ll have to quit and join a travelling circus, and then who will put up with you? Remember that Allura wants to turn you into hamburgers.”

Clearly hamburgers were the wrong thing to mention, because if cows can glare, Kaltenecker does. She even has the audacity to huff her cow breath at him and drag them both further into Red. Red, who is a traitor, does absolutely nothing to help and is in fact laughing herself sick, loudly, in Lance’s mind.

“I shoulda left you in that damn mall,” Lance grumbles, not meaning it. He sighs and collapses against his cow’s side, closing his eyes. Just his luck. The rest of his friends are gallivanting about a fancy-dancy castle as guests of honour, and Lance is babysitting a methane machine. “I’m gonna have to sleep here tonight, aren’t I.”

“Well, I hope not.”

Lance yelps, jumping to his feet. Unfortunately, in his haste, his boot hooks around Kaltenecker’s hoof, and since she is still unmoving, he goes sprawling. Fortunately, Keith got stranded in a space whale for two years and took Prince Charming classes, or something, so he catches him.

“You’re such a nervous wreck,” Keith says fondly, leaning down to kiss him instead of letting Lance stand like a normal person. (Not. That Lance. Is necessarily complaining. But for prosperity’s sake, and everything, keeping a man in a dip for too long is just undignified, Keith, you should know that, you graduated top of your class from Fairytale University. So. Pull yourself together.)

“Am not,” Lance protests. He sighs as Keith adjusts his hold on him, patting around blindly until he finds the edge of Keith’s braid and undoing it. He slides his hands in that thick hair with a relish as soon as it’s free, making Keith chuckle (but, wisely, not say anything, because the one and only time he commented Lance avoided him for two days out of pure embarrassment).

“I sent the rest of the team on when you didn’t come out. Figured Kaltenecker was giving you trouble.” He meets Lance’s eyes and grins, dark eyes mischievous and sparkling, and Lance is seriously going to walk off a bridge because who authorized that, who, who approved the combination of big dark eyes and a crooked grin and a face that promises trouble. Huh? The fuck’s up with that. “Figured I could help.”

Lance manages to find a shred of dignity within himself and steps slightly away. “That’s great, Noble Kent, but last I checked you couldn’t drag an 800 pound heifer either, so.”

Keith nods. “‘Course not. Brought Kosmo. Here, boy.”

The wolf poofs to existence at Keith’s side, barking excitedly. He bounds up to Lance first, expecting his usual barrage of kisses and head scratches (which he gets), then gets all shy as he walks over to his crush. Kaltenecker looks over at him and no lie rolls her eyes, looking away again. Kosmo, however, is undeterred, barking happily before blipping them both out of existence.

“She is never gonna love you, dude,” Keith says, shaking his head.

Lance snorts, taking Keith’s offered hand and heading down Red’s ramp (finally). “Wouldn’t it be weirder if she did? I think we’d have to break them up. Like, ethically.”

“Could be a Donkey and Dragon situation.”

“Shut up. It ruins my perception of you every time I’m reminded you’ve seen Shrek.”

“You’re perception of me,” Keith repeats, musing. His right eyebrow twitches, and it’s too small to see at arm’s distance, but Lance knows a tiny scar ripples there, from when he was fourteen and got it pierced in defiance of Shiro. “What is your perception of me?”

Lance keeps himself steady. He puts one foot in front of the other and keeps his left hand held in Keith’s. There is nothing interrogating in Keith’s tone, he reminds himself, although maybe there should be. When he looks up Keith’s eyes are open and curious and something else he doesn’t know how to name.

“You’re honest,” he says quietly. He means to say more, has a list he could probably recite bullet by bullet, but he doesn’t.

“Honest,” Keith mutters to himself. “Huh.”

Lance swallows. He doesn’t know how he could possibly explain the weight to that. Keith is committed and brave and talented and beautiful. But more than that he is truthful. Does he see? Does he know?

An empty landing pad passes remarkably slowly when two people walk in silence. There are crafts of all kinds and tarmac upon tarmac. Eventually, though, they start walking somewhere a little more crowded; thin, reedy people resembling the Chancellor waving to them as they pass. Lance would stop to ask for directions, but the giant castle is kind of hard to miss, so they just walk in the direction of it hope their armour will do the talking for them.

Keith catches a richly dyed ribbon blowing by as they pass through a crowded market, trapping the fine thing between his fingers as it passes between them. It’s a strange and familiar colour, walking the line between indigo and deep violet. He glances around for a stall that might be selling them, and when he can’t find one, he turns to Lance and says, “Hold out your arm.”

Lance does. Carefully, Keith unlatches his vambrace, tucking it under his arm, then peels up his undersuit to lay bare his wrist. His tongue sticks out of his mouth slightly in concentration as he ties it among Lance’s dozens of string bracelets, right above his blue Moana watch still counting the hours back home.

“There,” he says proudly. “Looks good on you.”

Lance reaches up and kisses him until neither of them can breathe.

———

They know they will be teased when they finally meet with their friends at the castle.

“Let’s not,” Keith suggests, nodding at the guards who move to let them past.

“I’ll find out where our room is?” Lance says.

Keith nods. “Yeah, we’ll need that.”

“‘Kay, wait here. Don’t be obvious, or Allura will smell drama and come running.”

He’s jinxed them by saying anything at all — no sooner do the words leave his lips does Keith tense up, screwing up his face in an attempt to appear neutral but resembling instead someone who is trying very hard not to sneeze. Lance manages not to laugh, squeezing his hand once before darting off, choosing a random corridor and going with it.

Thankfully, he manages to find a person who holds a clipboard and walks with a purpose, so he assumes they know what they’re doing. Double thankfully, they do, and not only direct him to their rooms but press a labeled map into his hands. It even has a schedule on the back for mealtimes and room cleaning, which is something Lance totally forgot existed. He runs back to Keith quickly, careful to avoid the kitchen and the armoury — places he’s sure his friends will be.

Keith is earnestly inspecting a mounted sword on the wall when Lance returns. His nose is maybe an inch from the polished blade, probably less, honestly. Lance bites his lip to hold down a snicker and takes a picture, intending blackmail, but it ends up being the perfect shot — his hair is slightly wavy from the braid he wore earlier, and there’s a cute scrunch to his nose, not to mention his squinted eyes like he’s wishing for reading glasses. It becomes Lance’s background almost without him meaning to.

“C’mon, nerd,” he calls, smiling as Keith startles. “I got a map and someone is gonna meet us there with a key. I wanna check it out, get a move on.”

Keith does indeed hurry over. “I’m so glad they got it right this time. One room! No need to debate over it.”

Lance falters. He’d been so caught up in the excitement of the room and then Kaltenecker and then…Keith, he forgot. They’re not what Keith thinks they are, what Lance has been pretended to be.

“Right,” he manages, mouth suddenly dry. He desperately tries to shove the enthusiasm back in his voice, forcing his face into a smile when Keith looks back. “Right, yeah, that’s so much less of a pain.”

There is indeed someone with a key when they get to the room. The door is light, in both colour and material, and although his feelings are still heavy and conflicting, his excitement wins out. Keith takes the key, thanking the attendant, and a small voice in the back of Lance’s mind whispers this could be them some day, on Earth, with a key of their own. He does his best to ignore it.

“Ready?” Keith asks.

“Please oh please let the bed be bigger than Red’s cabin,” he responds.

Keith snorts. Slowly, out of what must be a desire to torture Lance, he slides the key into the lock and turns it. Lance doesn’t hesitate before shoving it open.

“It is bigger than the cabin!” he shouts, and wastes no time running up and onto it.

He practically sinks into the mattress, so soft it’s like it’s made of hopes and dreams. The blankets are the fluffiest things he’s ever felt in his life. And the space — he stretches out as far as he can, fingers to toes, and not a single limb comes even close to the edge of the bed.

The mattress dips beside him, and a hand slides along the back of his neck.

“This is you before you notice the big canopy.”

Lance lifts his head immediately. He fights back a very undignified squeal when he does, indeed, see a gossamer blue canopy hanging softly from the high ceilings.

“And the windows too, sweetheart. Floor to ceiling, like you like ‘em.”

Lance scrambles to his knees to check. They are. And the view is breathtaking.

“And the bathtub? Is it huge and clawfooted?”

Keith ducks his head, smiling, and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll go check, you grandma. You take your armour off.”

He listens for Keith’s footsteps, waits for them to go from carpet to tile, waits for the “Yep! Claw foot!”, waits for the sound of rushing taps even though he didn’t ask, even though Keith didn’t offer. He turns on his back and stares as the canopy, inspecting the padded wooden roof structure from which the gauzy curtains hang, tracing its sturdy edges and even corners.

Keith makes him feel so warm.

He’s felt a lot of cold, in a lot of places, for a lot of his life. Part of it is the stupid anaemia that he gets to live with. Part of it is stuff he doesn’t like to think about. But Keith comes in with his warm hands and warm smile and stupid big warm heart, and Lance is thawed in every frozen inch of him. It’s good. It’s so good.

He wants it so desperately.

He comes when Keith calls, stripping his armour along the way. Keith is waiting for him in the bath when he gets there — and it is huge, close enough for them to both sit comfortably without brushing so much as a toe against each other, but of course Lance settles his spine against the curve of Keith’s chest the second he slips inside the steaming water. The room smells of sandalwood and lilac.

“You are so important to me,” Keith murmurs, seemingly at random, pressing his lips along Lance’s stretched neck, following the arch of it as he tips his head back to rest on Keith’s shoulder.

Lance’s breath sighs out of him, rising and mixing with the steam. He lifts a shaking hand to twine it to Keith’s, squeezing. Their joined hands are wet against his chest. Together they rise, up and down, up and down, up and down, with every shaky breath.

———

They giggle like teenagers, sneaking into the kitchen well after dark and well after most of the castle has finally gone to bed.

Neither has wanted to face the team’s teasing just yet, or even the team at all, really. Their room can’t be called a room so much as a small apartment — bookshelves lining the wall that Keith had been eyeing for hours, a massive wardrobe, a beautiful velvet sofa, even a small icebox. Neither of them have said it but it feels, implicitly, like their own little space, their own little commune, beyond the privacy of a hotel room. It feels like somewhere they could live. They’re billions of miles away from Earth and anywhere Lance could consider home, but it’s nice to pretend, and neither of them is ready to hop back into reality — or Hunk’s roasting — quite yet.

(It is not what Lance’s mind is pretending. In no world could they ever live in a castle like this. It is foolish to spend his time fantasizing about a future they will probably never have, a home they will never build. The guards stationed at every door should break Lance’s fantasy. But he has always been very, very good at pretending.)

“Just grab some of everything,” he whispers to Keith. “We have actual room cleaning, remember? We can have some dirty dishes, no one will mind.”

“There’s certainly space for it,” Keith agrees.

In minutes the two of them have piled almost more than they can carry. They’re much slower on the walk back, but no less giddy. As soon as the door is locked shut behind them, they’re sat on the bed, even though eating on a bed is disgusting and usually Lance would never permit it, and stuffing their faces.

“Oh my God, this thing tastes like strawberries. Here, try.” Keith holds up a juicy looking silver fruit, Lance leans over to bite it. It does taste like strawberry. He dusts off his hands and crawls over to chase the taste off Keith’s tongue.

“Strawberries get you going?” Keith mumbles, and Lance grins and says, “Something like that.”

They have more food than they can possibly eat and they eat until they can barely move. The rest they wrap up and stick in the icebox.

He can feel Keith falling asleep, head getting heavier, so he pats him gently on the hip and whispers, “Come on, get up, at least get ready first. Wash your face.”

Keith groans. He squishes his face further into Lance’s belly, making him squirm and laugh, and mutters something he can barely here. “Hnnngh. You first. I’ll catch up.”

“You’ll fall asleep,” Lance scolds, but he gets up first anyway. When he glances behind him he sees that Keith has at least managed to put one foot on the ground, so maybe he really will get up and put some pyjamas on.

Lance snorts. Yeah, right.

He takes his time and pokes around the bathroom, having been too preoccupied to do so beforehand. There’s a stack of fluffy towels and cloths on a shelf, and even a couple rough ones for exfoliating. In a cupboard lies dozens of soaps and oils and creams and a million other things, labelled in that same holographic translator stuff the Olkarions use so Lance can read them easily. He is impressed by the wide range of selection — he’s been slowly rebuilding his skincare collection, and will indeed be looting at least half of these bottles to complete it. There’s enough stuff here to do a whole soak. Nice.

Then he turns towards the sink. And he stares.

And he starts to cry.

Laid out exactly as he likes it is his stuff from his pack. His toothbrush, his primary face wash, his hair brush, his lotion, everything. In order of how he uses it, with the sink in the middle, and everything an appropriate distance from the sink so he doesn’t soak the whole counter trying to reach for whatever comes next in his routine. A setup his has perfected over many years and has had genuine conniptions over misplaced steps and wrong orders. Something inane and stupid and that only matters to him.

Of course Keith has noticed, of course Keith has memorized, of course he has replicated.

Lance is a horrible, horrible person.

This is has to be how it ends.

“Keith!” he shouts, and the man comes in running, half groggy and robbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers.

“Lance?”

“My brush is — in the wrong place.”

Keith inspects him carefully. “You’re crying.”

“Because the brush is in the wrong place! I keep it in the same spot, I like it here, you know I like it here, why is it —”

He interrupts himself with a great, heaving hiccup, so large it shakes his whole body, and he’s furious with himself, with his shaking hands, with the careful look on Keith’s face.

This is how it ends.

This is how it ends.

This is how it ends.

“This is not where my brush goes,” he insists again, desperate to keep his voice steady, desperate to make it angry.

“Okay,” Keith says simply. He walks over and pulls the brush gently from Lance’s hands. “Where do you want it?”

Lance tries to breathe in. His chest shakes and shudders, poking holes in his voice. This isn’t working. Why isn’t it working?

“No, you’re supposed to — I’m being unreasonable.”

“You’re upset about something.”

“Something stupid.”

“Okay. I’ll fix it. I can fix it.”

“No, you can’t — I’m not —”

The rest of his strength leaves him.

This is how it ends.

This is how it ends.

Why can’t he make it end.

Slowly, Keith reaches out to grab his hands. Lance lets him, like the coward he is.

“Come to bed, sweetheart. You’ve had a long day. You need to sleep.”

“Okay,” he whispers, defeated, squeezing his eyes shut. He keeps them shut as Keith guides him to the giant bed, as he pulls back the covers, as he crawls in and waits for the sound of the light switch to be flicked off, of the tiny creak of Keith’s weight as he joins him.

For a long moment Keith is quiet. Long enough that Lance would assume he’d fallen asleep, except that he still sits upright, except that his hand has slid under Lance’s shirt, and his thumb traces a line across the small of his back, over and over again.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he whispers.

A new tear slips hot down Lance’s face.

This is how it ends.

He knows, or at least he must suspect. Maybe he realized his mistake some time ago, and has been waiting for Lance to fess up, to explain why he went along with Keith’s mistaken affection in the first place. Why he used Keith, confused as he was, for his own selfish needs.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. He can’t bring himself to turn around, to sit up, to meet Keith’s eyes.

Keith’s hand doesn’t so much as twitch. “What for?”

“For leading you on.”

That certainly gives him pause.

“Leading me…on?”

“Yeah.” Lance sniffles, dragging himself upright and away from Keith’s affectionate hands, huddled against the massive headboard. “You came back…confused. I don’t know. You thought we were in love. I wanted it, so I let you. I’ve been manipulating you.”

“Lance…” Even only in the silvery blue moonlight streaming in from the windows, Keith’s face is unmistakable, obvious; strong brow creased in worry, head tilted in confusion, face pulled with something like desperation. “Lance, we are in love. Aren’t we? I love you. And you love me, I know you do.”

Lance shakes his head. His tears make his face crumple and he knows how ugly that makes him look, so he hides his face.

“No, I made you feel that way, I didn’t correct you back then and it’s habit now so…”

He trails off. Keith doesn’t respond. He wonders if he’ll stay the night, bed surely big enough for him to sleep without touching Lance at all, or if he’ll have to go get a new room.

A tiny, tiny part of Lance’s brain recognises the irony in that and wants him to laugh. But the steady breaking of his heart keeps it at bay.

“…Back at the tarmac,” Keith says what feels like hours later, startling Lance out of his skin. He looks up at the man with wide eyes, having half-convinced himself he was already gone, and Keith meets his gaze determinedly. “Back at the tarmac, you said I was honest. Did you mean that?”

Lance swallows.

“Yes.”

Keith holds his gaze, looking for something, then nods, having found it. “Believe me then, sweetheart.” He crawls forward, slowly, as if he is afraid Lance will startle away from him. That fear is what startles Lance out of his stupor, out of his guilt, out of the dread that has been building in his stomach for months. He hasn’t seen that kind of fear — the fear of getting too close — on Keith face since he came back. And never does he want to see it again. He throws himself into Keith’s arms, too hard, hard enough to hurt, but Keith catches him and holds him and squeezes just as painfully tightly. “I love you, star of my skies.”

“That’s cheesy as hell,” Lance croaks, and Keith laughs, wetly and beautifully. “I love you too.”

“Good.” Keith kisses the top of his head. “Good.” He exhales, long and shuddering; relieved. “God, I spent two years waiting for this exact moment.”

The statement strikes Lance as odd. “This exact moment.”

Keith tenses. Lance tenses, too, and immediately he relaxes again, breathing steadily until Lance matches him.

“On the space whale, time was…stretchy.”

“You mentioned.”

“Two years I lost.”

Lance tightens his hold. “I know.”

“Most of it was survival camping, really, but there were these visions, sometimes. For Krolia and me. Our pasts. You guys, in the present.” He takes a breath. “Our future.”

Somehow, Lance gets the feel he’s not talking about his and Krolia’s.

“Our future?”

Keith’s breath tickles his neck. Lance doesn’t dare move. Goosebumps pimple his skin and he lets them, shivering, warmed.

“Yes. So much, all the time. More than anything else we saw. Just — tiny snippets, here and there; your face when you sleep, your fingers on a bow, you dragging me on a surfboard and a million other places I woulda followed you to anyway.”

One of his hands slides down Lance’s ribs, fingertips light enough to make him shudder, and rests, cupped open at his hip. “I saw this,” he admits. “Not — the whole conversation, or why, but my hands on you, in this bed, in the moonlight. It kept me going.”

Lance closes his eyes and tries to imagine. Stuck in a strange place where days don’t seem to pass with a stranger who claims to be his mother, watching visions of himself in the future, over and over again.

“No wonder your head was all wonky.”

“Yeah.”

“You’d already been with me. For two years.”

“For twenty. Thirty. Seventy.”

“…That’s a long time, Keith.”

“God, I hope so.”

Lance smiles. “You gonna stick with me that long, hotshot?”

“Like glue, darlin’.”

Lance looks up and, sure enough, Keith’s eyes are closed, face slack. He’s clinging onto consciousness with every bit of strength in his body, things like keeping his accent in check losing priority. Lance settles again against him, guiding them gently so they lie comfortably against the pillows, and breathes out, slow and long.

“Tell me about our future.”

“House on th’beach,” Keith murmurs. His words are slow and pulled apart. “Stone’s throw from your mama’s.”

Lance traces sleepy circles on his skin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Little boy with hair like yours followin’ every little thing you do.”

His breath hitches. He hadn’t thought about that — hadn’t let himself think about it. It’s dangerous, for more than one reason.

But tonight they’re safe. Under the silvery moonlight, with a bed three times bigger than they are, nothing can touch them.

“What about a little girl with your smile?”

“You got it.”

Lance’s smile is warm and giddy, tucked into Keith’s arm, etched there like it’s permanent. “Good. Goodnight, mi alma.”

“Night, baby.”

This is how it stays, forever and ever and always.

[actual-changeling]

No, because has anyone ever thought about that last New Year's Eve they spent together??????

They were not-really-pretending anymore, probably at the bookshop getting drunk and talking about all the historical special events they had experienced during that time, the New Year's Eves they spent alone, and the few rare ones they celebrated together.

Do you think they were both sitting on the sofa, shoes toed off, Crowley sprawling like usual, while Aziraphale was propped up in a corner, one leg folded underneath him? The television was running on mute in the background so they wouldn't miss the ball drop, a particularly special bottle of champagne was waiting on the table, knowing better than to lose its chill.

Do you think Crowley was talking, his hands flying to accommodate his words, when he felt Aziraphale's stare on him? Do you think he stopped in the middle of his sentence, turning his head to fully look at him, meeting eyes with pupils so wide that the blue was drowning in a sea of black?

What? Crowley asked, the counter ticking in his periphery. Two minutes. For a reason he refused to acknowledge, anxiety began fluttering in his stomach—once upon a time, it had been excitement, but he had learned better than to hope, to expect.

Do you think Aziraphale shuffled closer, ignoring the champagne, ignoring the television, simply holding his gaze with a soft smile on his lips?

The sound returned as the final countdown began, but Crowley did not hear a single number, dizzy with a fondness so ancient no words would ever be able to do it justice.

Do you think as the cheering faded into a buzz, Aziraphale leaned in and pressed a kiss right to the corner of his mouth, close enough to count, too distant not to? Do you think Crowley froze in place, forgetting to breathe, blink, speak, exist, caught between the urge to chase after him and the fear of what would happen once the late-night giddiness wore off?

Happy New Year, Aziraphale whispered, reaching for the champagne and opening it with a pop that echoed like a gunshot.

(aimformymouth, aimformymouth, aimformymouth)

Do you think he wanted to say something, anything, and yet all he could do was accept the champagne flute being held out in front of him, a low, garbled noise escaping him? Do you think Aziraphale's smile grew as he made himself comfortable again, resting one hand on Crowley's ankle and saying, It'll be a good year?

To a good year, angel, Crowley forced out, the glass chiming softly as they clinked them together.

To a good year, my dear.

Do you think that night plays on repeat in his head months later?

It'll be a good year.

Aziraphale is gone now.

It'll be a good year.

His chest is tight with grief and memories, and the wine glass meets the wall before he can stop himself, listening to the glass break and crumble.

It'll be a good year.

It had been a good year—right up until it wasn't.

[semisolidmind]

About the cartoon episode dreams.

What if when the other Smiling Critters show up in them, they kinda... act/react out of character for a second. Before getting back into character and smiling again. Some are wistful, and glad that at least one of them survived. Others are kinda salty that Catnap, of all critters, is one of the ones that survived after all he did. (Nothing more than like a brief gasp, them just pausing to stare in horror at the Catnap innocently perching on Y/N's shoulder, or a sad sigh and somber expression before snapping back into place.)

Just something ever so slightly amiss about those Red Smoke induced dreams.

exactly what i was thinking

like, the very first "episode" that y/n experiences is their introduction into the critters' world. they're found, dazed and confused in the woods, by dogday, who of course wants to help them and introduce them to his friends. they wander the woods for a bit, y/n following dogday and listening to him talk about how neat all his friends are. there's something...sad about it, but y/n has no idea why.

after walking a ways, dogday stops suddenly. he's flung an arm out in front of y/n to stop them too, almost protectively. he stares wide-eyed and completely still at a tree to their left. his ever present grin turns down at the edges, and he goes quiet. y/n follows his line of sight to a branch higher up.

a purple cat snoozes in the tree, his long tail dangling in the open air. it flicks occasionally. he seems to sense the presence of our heroes, because he slowly opens his eyes, stretching before turning towards them. his smile grows at the sight of his friend, and he tilts his head curiously at the new arrival standing next to him.

y/n feels a chill down their spine at his stare. they don't know why, but...they feel like they need to run.

then dogday says a cheery hello, seemingly broken out of his trance, and ease returns to the scene. the cat, introduced as dogday's best buddy catnap, comes down from the tree. he silently stares at y/n as dogday introduces them, a big smile on his face. y/n greets him nicely, and after a beat, the cat takes hold of y/n's hand. they get the feeling he's saying that he's ready to go. dogday laughs at his friend's silly ways, grabs y/n's other hand, and leads the group on.

the trio continues through the woods, dogday and y/n laughing and carrying on while catnap remains silent. y/n can feel him intermittently squeezing their fingers or rubbing his thumb on the back of their palm, feeling the bones underneath. they wonder if he or his friends have ever seen a human before.

after a short while, the two critters and their new friend come upon a clearing with a cluster of adorably themed houses. y/n, amused, figures the scratching post and the dog house are the homes of their two new little buddies.

in a big circle in the clearing, a group of critters similar to their two companions are happily playing.

they see a rabbit and a bird playing soccer, an elephant and a unicorn scribbling on some paper and painting at an easel, and a bear and a pig seemingly setting up a picnic. it looks nice. it's a beautiful day for all of them, and they all look so content. y/n feels a pang in their chest.

they want to cry, and they're not sure why.

dogday notices, and gently squeezes their hand. he says nothing, but the sad, shaky smile he gives them speaks volumes.

it's quickly gone when the rabbit notices him and calls his name. the other critters look up as well, a myriad of hellos raising a joyous cadence in the air. they all look so happy to see dogday. their curiosity at y/n is apparent as well, asking who they are and where they come from. the critters all have questions about them, and y/n does their best to answer them.

then catnap steps out from behind y/n's back.

the group of critters all go silent.

they all stare at him; some horrified, some angry. not even a breath is taken in at the sight of the drowsy feline. if catnap is put off by his friend's reactions to him, he makes no indication. though his grip on y/n's hand tightens.

but then the critters snap back to attention. it's almost like they've all decided unanimously to ignore catnap altogether. he doesn't react, his gaze trained on y/n just like the others. his grin hasn't moved.

the critters introduce themselves. bubba, crafty, hoppy, kickin, picky, and bobby. y/n feels like they know them all already. after dogday informs them all that y/n is trying to find a way home, the critters agree that they'll do what they can to help.

the episode ends in static.

y/n wakes up.

———

–more thoughts; dogday, catnap, and y/n are the ones who feel the strangeness of the dreams the most. the other critters have their moments, but not as often. otherwise most of the dialogue is pretty standard for a kids cartoon.

– another sad thought is that in each dream, the other smiling critters start to dissapear, one by one, confusing dogday and y/n (catnap seems...unresponsive. he also tends to dissapear when the others do, but comes back). they try and try to find them, but they're nowhere to be found. eventually, dogday and catnap are the only ones left. dogday has been getting angrier and angrier at catnap, and he's not sure why. the cat remains as pleasantly lackadaisical as always, though at times his grin seems to freeze and pupils seem to shrink.

–each critter gets an episode where they try to help y/n and y/n helps them in some way. each one would have y/n giving advice on how to solve a problem, using the cutout dialogue from the game as inspiration for the problems the critters face. helping bubba remember something he forgot, helping kickin overcome a fear, helping crafty finish a painting she struggles with, find bobby when she gets lost, helping hoppy reach a goal, helping picky try something new.

after a critter has their own episode, they dissapear.