#I'm writing the first idea as a fic

[thevioletcaptain]

i genuinely don't care how good a piece of ai generated art or writing looks on the surface. i don't care if it emulates brush strokes and metaphor in a way indistinguishable from those created by a person.

it is not the product of thoughtful creation. it offers no insights into the creator's life or viewpoint. it has no connection to a moment in time or a place or an attitude. it has no perspective. it has no value.

it's empty, it's hollow, and it exists only to generate clicks (and by extension, ad revenue.)

it's just another revolting symptom of the disease that is late stage capitalism, and it fucking sucks.

[youchangedmedestiel]

Friend: What are you doing right now?

Me: I have a lot of projects.

Friend: Oh so cool, what are those? New job, new business, new home, new relationship?

Me: Ok, I have a lot of SPN/Destiel projects.

[seventh-district]

Midnight Hour

With the warm haze of sleep fading from you, your brow furrows as your right hand presses lightly against his lower abdomen, your thumb sweeping up and down in a small attempt at a comforting motion. You quietly call for his attention, voice still thick with sleep.

“Star? Is everything okay?”

His typically silent breath suddenly hitches, and his head angles down to face you. Now that he’s turned toward the light, you catch the way his eyes shine, and the way the light reflects off of what you quickly realize are tear tracks, running down his cheeks.

You awake in the middle of the night to find your lover in tears.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Word Count: 3,139

Content Warnings: [crying (obviously)] [non-specific mentions of Astarion's past trauma] [this fic was written by someone who hasn't actually played the game and that might show in the details/the lack thereof]

Blinking your tired eyes open, you squint at the light of the crackling fire in front of you. Closing them again, you let out a soft sigh as you try to guess at the current time. Given that you woke on your own, you’re assuming it’s likely close to, but not quite, time for you to take over tonight’s watch shift.

Your group has fallen into a routine where you pair off into teams of two, and a different team keeps watch each night. Tonight’s turn belongs to you and Astarion, and he’s taken the first half of the shift as usual. You usually, ironically, sleep your best on the nights that he keeps watch, in spite of only getting half the amount of sleep as you do on the nights another team has the job.

You suppose you can credit the fact that, at the end of the day, Astarion is a creature of the night. Something about knowing he has the upper hand when it comes to any unwanted nighttime visitors your group may encounter is… reassuring. To you, as well as to the others in the group, loathe as some of them may be to admit it. That is, once they all felt confident in his promises to not make a surprise midnight snack of them, at least.

Tonight is a bit of an exception, though, and you’re not quite sure what woke you early this time. You typically sleep soundly until he gently coaxes you awake, nails combing through your hair, voice soft and apologetic in your ear. He’s always somewhat reluctant to wake you, but he does so nonetheless, having learned his lesson after the first time he made the executive decision to let you sleep the whole night through. His arguments of “You really looked like you could use the rest.” and “What’s one sleepless night? I can sleep when I’m dead.” didn’t hold much water in the face of the way he dragged ass through the entire next day.

In “the spirit of fairness” and “proving that he can stick to an agreement,” he never tried to take the whole shift by himself again. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with how guilty he felt when he heard the disappointment in your tone when you awoke that first morning and discovered he hadn’t stuck to the plan. Definitely.

Laying there in the quiet, you try and fail to pinpoint what feels different about tonight. You don’t hear any strange noises, nothing feels unusual, and blinking your eyes open again you raise your head a bit to look around the fire. The rest of the group are circled around the other sides of the heat source, sleeping soundly. You figure that you’re probably just getting used to this routine by now, and your body simply woke up around your usual shift change time on its own.

Still, that doesn’t explain the vague, unplaceable feeling that something is just… off.

You let out a sigh that turns into a yawn as you stretch and roll away from the fire onto your back. Letting your head roll further to the left, your eyes land on the familiar sight of your lover’s back as he sits in his usual position beside you, diligently watching your six.

He’s taken to placing his bedroll right next to yours, insisting that you lie between the fire and himself. You couldn’t really argue with his point that he can’t feel the cold anyways, so there’s no need for him to be the one next to the fire. Nor could you argue with the benefits of having him as a line of defense between you and whatever lurks beyond the reach of the firelight.

The feeling of security and protection that he provides you with is still relatively foreign to you, and a soft smile blooms on your face at the warm feeling it brings. Your smile then falls a bit as you remember the silent question you ask yourself on the regular, of whether or not you provide him with the same.

You roll the rest of the way to your left, and shuffle further toward him, closing what remains of the small gap he’d placed between the two of you. Lying halfway on your bedroll and halfway on his, you curl your body around his seated form, bringing your right arm up and gently placing a hand on the right side of his waist. He flinches slightly, and if this were earlier on in your relationship, you’d retract your hand. He’s long since informed you though that his reaction to unexpected touch is simply involuntary, and as long as it’s you, you’ve no need to pull away.

You recall the quiet, restrained desperation in his voice when he first explained it to you, all but begging you not to pull away. He can’t control the way his body reacts to touch, given that before you, he couldn’t recall the last time being touched meant anything other than pain. In spite of that though, he wants it. He wants you. That’s obvious in the way that he, without fail, immediately relaxes under your gentle touch once his mind and body process that it’s coming from you. The way he’s come to not only relax, but to lean into it. Lean into you.

You’d never push past his boundaries, never in a million years, but he’s made it quite clear after about a thousand of your quiet requests for consent at every minor touch, that he’s entirely welcoming of your non-sexual physical affections. Getting the man to verbally admit that he actually enjoys cuddling with you, without the truth being concealed beneath a heavy layer of playful banter and practiced, honeyed words didn’t come easy, but he came around to it in his own time.

So, you don’t pull back, instead following through with the motion and slowly snaking your arm around his waist. You press your front against his lower back and curl around to rest your left cheek atop his left thigh. You can’t help but notice that he doesn’t relax into you in the way he usually does, and your head turns to the right a bit, struggling to get a half-decent look at his face as you’re both turned away from the fire light.

He remains tense, still, and unresponsive to your movements, gaze seemingly locked dead ahead of him, staring out into the dark forest.

With the warm haze of sleep fading from you, your brow furrows as your right hand presses lightly against his lower abdomen, your thumb sweeping up and down in a small attempt at a comforting motion. You quietly call for his attention, voice still thick with sleep.

“Star? Is everything okay?”

His typically silent breath suddenly hitches, and his head angles down to face you. Now that he’s turned toward the light, you catch the way his eyes shine, and the way the light reflects off of what you quickly realize are tear tracks, running down his cheeks. He’s actively crying, tears dripping from his chin, and now with his head tilted down at you they take a different path, running down to converge and fall from the tip of his nose.

You nearly bolt upright in your shock, quickly unwrapping yourself from him and clambering around on all fours until you’re sat down in front of him, your hands gripping tightly to your upper thighs in worry. His wide-eyed gaze followed your every movement, and even now that you’re sat still in front of him, his eyes still dart around, frantically scanning you, for what, you don’t know.

“What- what’s going on?”

You keep your voice as quiet as you reasonably can in spite of your shock and concern, not eager to wake your companions and have everyone witness… whatever this is.

He doesn’t respond, looking just about as lost as you feel, shaking his head in silence as more tears fall. It’s one hell of a sight, and it suddenly hits you that this is the first time you’ve ever seen him cry.

Unsure of what to do and what even caused this, you resist the urge to wrap him in a hug, not wanting to overstep in this unfamiliar territory. Instead, you glance back over your shoulder and once again see and hear nothing of note before trying another question.

“Is there a threat? Did you see something that scared you, honey?”

He takes a long moment to answer, seeming unsure, before eventually settling on another shake of his head. His lack of confidence in his answer isn’t the most reassuring thing at the moment, but given that you aren’t detecting any danger either, you decide to believe that he really didn’t see any threat. At least, not here. Not right now, in the present moment, in front of him. He seems about halfway here and halfway gone, and if your growing suspicions are correct, he’s probably been sat here lost in the dark corners of his mind for a while now, given the state he’s in.

You catch movement to Astarion’s right side and watch as Karlach raises up from her prior position sprawled out face-down on her bedroll, propping herself up with her forearms beneath her. Her expression of concern is too aware and her eyes are too awake for her to have just now woken up, and you quickly gather that she’s probably been awake and laying there long enough to have heard your questions and Astarion’s lack of any verbal response. She doesn’t say anything though, and doesn’t move, just letting the situation unfold and keeping a watchful eye on the darkness behind you.

Relaxing slightly at the knowledge that someone else is awake and helping to keep watch now, your focus shifts back to Astarion, who’s gaze has moved to his lap, tears still falling fast. It’s almost unsettling, the way he cries. There’s no sound, no movement, his breathing is hardly even affected, nothing more than the occasional shaky breath to give away any sign of struggle at all. You don’t have to guess why it’s like this, given what he’s told you about his past. You’re sadly certain that he learned to cry like this ages ago. Silent and still, sat alone in the dark so no one would notice.

You don’t want to think about the sorts of punishments he’s endured as a result of showing such pain and emotion, but your mind pulls from what experiences he’s shared and offers up a few anyways, making you begin to feel sick.

Leaning down and trying to catch his gaze, you ask another question.

“Astarion, are you with me right now?”

He blinks, more tears spill, and his lips finally part as he responds to you with a strained whisper.

“I’m trying to be…”

You smile in spite of your current emotions and the general mood of the situation, doing your best to be something positive, something gentle, something safe for him to focus on.

“There you are…”

You say it to yourself as much as to him, relieved to finally hear his voice, as laced with pain as it sounds. You hold out your hand near where his lie balled into fists in his lap, offering him contact without forcing it on him.

“I want you to keep trying, okay? Do your best to come back into the present with me. You can take my hand, if you’d like?”

He stares down at your offered hand for a long moment before shakily unballing one of his fists. He hesitates, fingers trembling, before reaching out and placing his hand in yours. His skin is even colder than usual and slightly damp to the touch, and you couldn’t be less put off, or give less of a fuck about the messy state of him right now, or ever, if you’re being honest. You just want to help him, however you can.

You curl your warm fingers around his palm, wanting to pull him into a hug so badly but restraining yourself, letting him call the shots.

“You’re okay now, Star. You’re safe right now, here with me. We’re safe.”

He’s quiet for another long moment as he shuts his eyes tight, taking in your words. His other fist unfurls, and his body trembles almost imperceptibly.

“I… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

Your heart breaks.

“Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all, I promise you.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, his voice an insistent whisper.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Your shoulders drop from where they’d been tensely held up, body slumping with a silent sigh as you watch him still try to hold this wall up between the two of you. You’d made it past a number of his walls already, but this one… this one you’ve yet to be granted access behind.

“It’s okay to cry, you know?”

Another shake of his head, this time with far more force behind it, almost vehement.

“No.”

You soften your voice, insisting.

“Yes. It is. You can cry now, Astarion. No one’s gonna hurt you. No one’s gonna judge you. I swear on my life, that’s the truth.”

His breaths become more labored, uneven and shaking.

“You aren’t his anymore. The old rules don’t apply. You can let it out, now. No one, and I mean no one, is going to punish you for it.”

His eyes pinch closed and his head shakes hard side to side, like he’s fighting his own mind, and his hand opens and closes like it wants to grab onto something. He then moves, wrapping his free hand around your arm and suddenly you’re being pulled toward him, desperately, insistently.

You follow the motion as he continues to tug at you, first leaning forward and propping yourself up with your other hand on the ground as he continues to pull you closer. You quickly gather what he wants as he lets go of your hand in favor of latching onto your other arm, pulling you upward, choking back tears all the while.

You raise up on your knees and his hands move once again to hook beneath your arms as you allow yourself to be pulled up onto his lap with physical strength you keep forgetting he possesses. Hooking your legs around his waist, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him into you. His arms wrap tightly around your waist and he buries his face into the fabric of your shirt at the collar, muffling the soft sound of his crying which has now turned to full-blown sobs.

He’s still shockingly quiet in spite of it all, and you imagine it’s a mixture of being unable to let go of what’s ingrained into him, and not wanting to alert the entire camp to his current breakdown.

Your thumbs stroke up and down in place on his back, not wanting to let go of your hold on him but still wanting to give him some sort of comforting motion to focus on. Besides, you figure petting across the entire expanse of his scarred back might do the opposite of calming him down, so you refrain and keep your arms wrapped firmly around him. Turning your head down toward his, you whisper to him in between soft kisses to his temple.

“That’s it, love. Let it out.”

“You’re safe now, Astarion, I swear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“You have every right to cry. No one ever should’ve taken that away from you.”

He grips you even tighter as you shower him with painfully unfamiliar affection and acceptance, comfort unlike anything he’s ever felt before in his horribly long life. His forehead presses against your right shoulder as his crying slows, trying to ground himself and catch his breath. You make a point of holding him securely against you, breathing slow and deep to give him an example to follow.

You catch movement in your periphery and glance over at Karlach as she quietly sits up and makes a series of silent lip movements and hand gestures that you don’t entirely grasp. You work them out to mean that she’s gonna take over watch for the rest of the night, and you can rest with Astarion. You send her a grateful look and mouth a “thank you,” to which she waves you off with what you think you read as a silent “don’t mention it” on her lips.

After a short while spent focused on slowing down his breath and bringing him fully out of his memories and back here with you, you whisper quiet words in his ear.

“Your work is done, Astarion. You can rest now.”

You mean it in both possible interpretations of the words, and he seems to understand that, his body finally relaxing against yours for the first time tonight.

“You wanna lie down with me, love?”

He seems like he almost nods, but stops himself, whispering back in an exhausted voice, scratchy and thick from crying.

“Someone has to keep watch.”

You hesitate to inform him that Karlach has already taken over that role for tonight, sure that he’d get no sleep at all if he knew she’d witnessed this. You know you’re gonna be awake watching over him for the rest of the night anyways, so instead, you offer a compromise.

“I can hold you and keep watch at the same time, love. Just… let me sit and you can lay against me.”

He gives the suggestion a moment of thought before nodding his head, reluctantly loosening his hold on you. You maneuver the both of you carefully so as to avoid allowing his tired eyes to catch sight of your obviously awake companion sitting behind him.

It isn’t much of a task considering his eyes are halfway closed already, his only remaining focus locked on you. You settle down at the head of his bedroll, guiding him to lie down and bringing his head to rest in the center of your lap.

Your hands take turns gently combing fingers through his white curls, and you feel his tense shoulders begin to relax at the feeling. You bring a thumb down and gently stroke over the lines creasing his brow, quietly encouraging him to release the tension he likely doesn’t realize he’s holding. You watch him pull in a deep, albeit still slightly unsteady breath, and you can practically feel the relief that washes over him when he exhales.

Words aren’t necessary between the two of you at this point, not in this moment, but you offer him a few anyways, hoping they’ll resonate in his tired mind as he slips into sleep.

“You’re safe here, Star. Rest easy.”

A/N: Like I said in the CWs, I haven't played the game for myself (yet!) so I only know what I've seen in the hours of (mostly Astarion-focused) scenes I've watched on YT. As a result, this might have read a bit funny if I've gotten certain details wrong. For instance- I have no idea how resting at the camp actually goes, whether or not someone keeps watch all night, etc. Also I'm not sure if Astarion even needs to actually sleep or if he meditates/falls into a trance and just calls it sleep, but for the sake of simplicity, (and me being clueless,) when I say he falls into sleep just assume he's doing whatever he'd normally do to rest. On a different note- this little fic was inspired by a combination of two things. The lovely art and additional commentary on this post, by @velnna , and also by me listening to Midnight Hour by Sierra Eagleson on loop for like, an hour, and daydreaming up this specific scene before proceeding to write it out. It is a beautiful song that is now the title and theme-song for this fic, and I encourage you to go give it a listen if you haven't heard it already. Header Image Source: x

[beastsovrevelation]

Captured Angel

Michael Langdon x F!Angel!Reader

Contains: vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, elements of coercion, implied loss of virginity, blasphemy, hierophilia

“Good, you’re awake.”

A chill ran down your spine. You had awakened in an unfamiliar room. Your head ached, your wings hung limp, and your limbs were heavy. The air was soaked to the last thread in malice. It made you nauseous. Gritting your teeth, you dragged yourself up, your mind aflame with a single thought – you had to get out. You looked around, but before you could spot a way of escape, you felt a presence. Dark... Darker than the blackest night. Your heart froze in your chest, a taste of iron suddenly coating your tongue. Though you had not seen his face, you could recognize him anywhere. Seven heads. Ten horns. His honeyed voice left a cold, oily trace on your very soul as he spoke. You drew a deep breath, and spun around, to meet a pair of piercing blue eyes.

His lips crooked into a smirk. Holding your gaze, he moved towards you. You drew back.   

“Get away from me, filthy Beast...” you snarled.

Deep down, you loathed yourself for the instinctive reaction. You were a soldier. You had a duty to stand your ground, and instead, you cowered. He promptly crossed the gap between you two.

“Ah-ah!” he scolded, clasping your chin “That’s not very nice, now, is it?..”

You grimaced. Michael Langdon. How ironic, for Satan’s son to bear your General’s name. The one who cast him out... You hoped it hurt the Evil One greatly. Michael caressed your cheek. You winced, and pushed his hand away. Sneering, he grabbed you by the throat.  

“Why am I here?” you hissed through gritted teeth.

He glanced down at your heaving chest.

“You’re my captive” he purred “Isn’t it obvious?”

You swallowed. Struggling would only worsen your chances, you knew as much. His gaze darkened with hunger as he watched you – like a wolf, salivating at a wounded deer. Your guts had coiled into a tight knot, a sickly sweet taste coating your mouth.

“Why didn’t your bootlickers kill me?” you asked, not quite certain if you wished to know the answer.

A chuckle escaped his lips. The Antichrist’s lecherous expression made your blood boil. How dare the abomination touch an angel of the Lord, you thought. A strange sensation was budding between your legs, but you pointedly ignored it, just as you ignored the feeling of unease clawing at the back of your skull.   

“That would’ve been a waste...” Michael tilted his head “They thought a gift would please me. They weren’t wrong...”

You snarled, attempting to pull away.

“Get your putrid hands off me!”

He tightened his grip on your neck.

“Hush” he coaxed in a mockingly gentle voice “I’m not going to hurt you, angel.”

“Vile creature...” you spat.

He pulled you closer. You bared your teeth, as your face almost crashed into his. Though you did not need air, the pressure on your throat was beginning to make you dizzy. Every nerve in your body screamed to fight - your muscles   had tensed, prepared for combat. You might have broken away. Escaped this unholy place. You should have at least tried... But, perhaps because of the mist gathering over your mind, your legs trembled underneath you. You found yourself staring at his mouth. His breath brushed against your skin, warm and silken. Your pulse leapt into a frenzy.

Michael snuck his other hand under your clothes. The captors had stripped you of your armour, and taken away your sword, leaving only your linen tunic to cover you. His fingertips caressed your thigh, slowly creeping upwards. You held your breath as you felt him part the soft folds of your skin.

You had never been fondled like this before. Carnal pleasure was forbidden for your kind. You should be disgusted, you understood as much. Still, the electric-like impulse roused by his touch paralyzed you, preventing you from breaking his arm.

He stroked your entrance. You stifled a gasp, your intimate muscles tightened in anticipation. Your hole was beginning to well with slick. Taking your lack of resistance for a welcome, he slipped two fingers inside you. The feeling of his skin against your sensitive membrane made your head spin, and you barely held back from bucking your hips into his hand.

He let go of your neck, only to wrap his arm around your waist. Keeping you steady, he spread his fingers wider, straining you until it hurt. You shuddered. He massaged the velvety walls of your flesh, driving you to the edge of madness. Aware of how much satisfaction hearing your cries would give him, you clenched your jaw. His skin grazed against a certain knot of nerves, and you nearly sunk to the ground as your legs buckled from the bolt of stimulation. Still, somehow, you did not make a sound.

It only made Michael more determined. He fixated on your sweet spot, leaving you to desperately clutch the lapels of his jacket. His mouth lingered but a thread away from yours - you felt his heartbeat echo against your rib cage. He narrowed his eyes, and pressed his thumb to your clit. Overwhelmed, you drew a sharp breath.

“Enjoying yourself, aren’t you?..” he teased “What is it, my dear? What do you want, hm?”

He pushed a third finger into your dripping slit. You whined in pleasure muddled with despair.

“Speak up, angel” he demanded.

Virtue be damned. Something tameless had infected you. Caught in the furor of sin, you eagerly cast your innocence aflame.

“I...” you stammered “I want... I need you to ravish me...”

Michael threw you onto the bed, and climbed on top of you. Laying flat on your back, your wings sprawled open, you looked up at him, your eyes sweetly half-lidded. His knee shoved between your thighs, he ripped the front of your tunic open. You sighed as cold air brushed against your nipples. He placed his hands on your breasts, savouring the softness of your bare skin. His eyes aflame with lust, he took a moment to admire your flushed, helpless body. Biting your bottom lip, you pushed your chest into his touch. He grabbed you by the throat again.

“You’re mine” he snarled “Mine alone...”

Against your better judgement, you nodded. Your gaze wandered down to his crotch, causing your mouth to immediately water. Michael’s lips crooked into a sleazy smirk. He unbuckled his pants, and slipped his underwear down. Your eyes widened as his hard cock sprung free. Large, but not obscenely so. You pulled the skirt of your tunic up, leaving your aching cunt at his mercy.

He pinned you down under his full weight. You wrapped your arms around him, savouring the feel of luxurious fabric under your fingers. Like an animal in heat, you craved to feel him inside. His eyes locked with yours, Michael clasped your leg, and positioned himself more comfortably. You blindly caught hold of his member, helping guide it into your hole.

Your heart skipped a beat – you let out a moan as your membranes clamped around him. Hardly giving you a moment to adjust, he began to move. The sudden strain roused a twinge, but it soon was obscured by shattering pleasure. No longer holding back your mewls and whimpers, you sank your nails into his back. Should the expensive suit get ruined, it will be his fault.

Michael groaned, his teeth bared in primal satisfaction. Your response only encouraged him, and he quickly picked up the pace. Each thrust sent a shattering wave of pleasure through your fevered nerves. You wrapped your legs around his waist, welcoming them. He traced the tip of his tongue over your neck. You hissed as his long hair tickled you, overwhelming your senses even more. He purred, and nipped at your jaw.

“Kiss me” you demanded.

He obeyed, leaning down to press his mouth against yours. You parted your lips for him, and allowed your tongues to battle for dominance.

“Say my name” he ordered, upon pulling away.

“I can’t...” you gasped in horror.

“Your general isn’t here...” he growled “It’s just you and me...” he pressed his face to your temple “Say my name, sweetheart. Show the Beast how much you’re enjoying your downfall.”

He pulled his cock almost all the was out, then slammed it back in, roughly grazing your sweet spot. Your cried out, and sank your fingers into his hair. You didn’t want to think about her. You loathed to imagine her disappointment in you. But his presence eclipsed her face. Drowned it in the storm of ecstasy ravaging you.

“Michael!”

“Good girl” he praised with a grin.

Shock after shock of ecstasy tore through your body, setting every cell of it aflame. Your forehead was laced in sweat. Your muscles quivered from the tension. You were close. Very close. Turned feral by the pleasure, he grabbed you by the wrists, thrusting into you with merciless force.

“Michael...” you moaned.

You couldn’t stand it anymore. You arched your back, trembling and convulsing as a scream escaped your throat. Michael threw his head back with a snarl. You had grown painfully tight around him, prompting him to reach his own release. You felt him spill inside you – it was the strangest, most pleasant sensation  you had ever experienced.

You collapsed into the pillows, limp and gasping for breath. He slumped down on top of you. For a moment, you allowed yourself to soak in the glowing haze of bliss. But, just when he had crept off of you, and was about to pull you into his arms, you leapt up. Using his surprise for your advantage, you climbed onto him – this time, you were the one to pin him down. You caught his gaze, and drew a dagger from underneath your ruined tunic. Afraid to molest their master’s gift, the devil worshippers had missed it.

“You will find the men who captured me, crucify them, and bleed them like pigs” you growled, pressing the blade against his throat “Do you understand me, Antichrist?”

A drop of blood sept from under the metal, glowing against his milky skin in a warning.

“Yes” he murmured, as his eyes blazed with adoration.

[bitterie-sweetie]

Heyyy! If you’re open for requests, there’s this TikTok that I saw where a pregnant lady had her husband lift her heavy belly for a few minutes and it gave her some relief. I somehow could see Mingyu do that. His wife having a hard time getting used to her growth and him trying his best to help her 🫠🫠🫠

baby ⇢ mingyu x reader, 1k, fluff, domestic au ⇢ warnings: pregnancy, "baby" as a term of endearment, mingyu being his usually sweet self (mostly), established relationship

"This is all your fault, you know."

At the sharp tone of your words, Mingyu looks up from his phone. 

"This," you gesture at yourself, at the unmistakable way your stomach now protrudes, a little larger each day as time creeps closer to your due date. "This baby is already huge and we're not even halfway there. It's all your fault, Kim Mingyu. You and your—your stupidly big bones and your long limbs and your giant frame and, and—" 

It's another empty complaint, that's all. Lately that's been much of what comes out of your mouth the moment your sore feet touch the floor, having to support your new weight, and when you're rushing to the bathroom again after just having left it. And when you hear Mingyu's mom lament about how heavy he was at birth, you don't even want to think about how the next few months are going to go. 

This pregnancy is both a blessing and a curse.

You get up from your chair, eager to crawl into bed and let sleep magically melt away your problems if it comes at all tonight. But before you can take a single step, Mingyu is there. It takes him two steps to cross the room and come to your side, and while he usually wears a big smile whenever he looks your way, now it's been completely replaced with a frown. A solemn expression.

"I'm sorry, baby," he says softly, gingerly pulling you into a hug. 

"W-what? What are you apologizing for?"

"All of it."

You take a step back and try to wiggle out of his arms so you can properly read his expression. "Hey, I was just joking—"

"Y/N," he says, shaking his head as he loosens his arms, "it's hard going through all this alone. You know I would help if I could." 

He's being genuine—that much you can see, but that makes you all the more concerned. Is there something going on? What does he mean? So much of your attention has been focused on preparing for the baby ever since finding out the good news that you hardly had a moment to stop and consider his feelings in all of this, and for a second your heart drops at the thought that there might be something wrong. 

Mingyu's never been one to hide anything though. He always wears his heart on his sleeve and speaks without a filter—which is only a bad thing when he showers you with overly cheesy compliments—and even now, one look in his eyes tells you exactly what you want to know. You can see the excitement floating in his eyes, the absolute adoration at the start of this new chapter in your lives, the nerves of being a parent for the first time. 

But also mixed in there is a ton of guilt. 

While none of it is his fault, you can tell that he's feeling the immense guilt of watching you suffer to bring a child into this world while he is, well, still very much his regular self. 

"Mingyu, you are helping. You've been doing all the cooking and running around to get me whatever I'm craving, which has been a lot these days. You set up the baby's room all on your own, and then there are your massages—I'm going to get so used to having this luxury that I'll be asking for them even after all this." 

His frown only deepens. "Baby, that's not enough. I hate seeing you in pain and being unable to do anything about it. I wish I could take it from you." 

"Hey, look at me." You heave a sigh, reaching to take his face between your hands. "I'm fine, Mingyu. You know how strong I am, right? I can handle it. In fact, you should worry more about what this kid might do in the future."

"Knowing the two of us, that's probably true." He wavers for a second before a smile starts to creep onto his face, but he holds it back, almost shyly. "Y/N, can I try something?"

"Like what?"

Mingyu steps closer until the space between you diminishes, leaving only your belly pressed against his. Then in one motion, he takes his hands and carefully places them under your belly, and then lifts. 

"Does this help at all?" he asks, face gleaming with tentative hope.

You slowly relax into his hands and take notice of how everything shifts. The weight pressing on your bladder is alleviated immediately, and your sore lower back feels much better. Even your feet aren't quite as in pain as before. "Yeah, actually. This helps a lot. Thank you, baby." 

"Good. Then I'll do this for you all day." Then he nuzzles even closer to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as you wrap your arms around him as much as you can. There's still too much space between you with the baby in the way, but when you close your eyes and listen to the sound of Mingyu's steady breaths, it's enough to spread a warmth in your heart that takes you back to the early days of your relationship. 

"Hey, Y/N?" Mingyu pulls back slightly to look at you.

"Hmm?"

"Do you really think we should be worrying about how our kid might turn out? What they might be like?" 

You study him, looking beyond the spark of anxiety in his eyes. "Well, yeah, but they'll be fine. Trust me, if they have your genes, they'll basically be perfect already. You were a perfect kid." 

"I guess I kind of was." He stays still for a moment, but when he meets your eyes again, there's a mischievous smile threatening to creep across his lips. "Yeah, see, I wasn't exactly worried that the kid might turn out like me." 

"Hey, Kim Mingyu!"

[kamikazeworld-art]

Something I feel a lot of people seem to forget about the relationship between the peak lords and bingqiu is that, at the end, Yue Qingyuan quietly gave Shen Qingqiu his approval and support. He was the one who urged him forward towards Binghe with a smile, letting him know he always had a home there, so he should do what makes him happy right now. He saw the love his shidi and most special person held for Binghe even in the wake of all the pain and destruction, and said in his own way "I support you".

Whatever feelings there are about their past, whatever the shape of his affection for Shen Qingqiu, it is canon that Shen Qingqiu has his FULL unconditional support in his relationship with Luo Binghe. And honestly? I love that so much.

[firstkanaphans]

Hi Sarah! For the smut prompt, I'll eat up anything you write with AkkAye or SandRay but I'd love number 4 for Sand and Ray. I feel like Ray would love being told how good he is, I'm a strong 'Ray has a praise kink' believer!

Hiiii! Somehow this turned into top!Ray. I hope you don’t mind? Word Count: 1600ish

{telling} them how good they are

“How long’s it been since someone fucked you?”

Sand was so kiss-drunk that it took him a few seconds to digest Ray’s words. They were in bed and Sand was laying on his back while Ray straddled his waist, and although it wasn’t exactly rare for Ray to get possessive like this when they were intimate, that particular topic was one they had never broached before. Maybe he had misheard.

“What?” he asked, reaching out to trace a finger over the “beautiful” tattoo on Ray’s hip. Ray was shirtless and Sand felt drawn to the ink on his skin. He felt drawn to the boy wearing it. 

“How long’s it been since someone fucked you?” Ray repeated. “And who was it? Was it Boeing?”

Sand snorted because he found the idea of Boeing topping anyone hilarious, but Ray didn’t laugh. “It wasn’t Boeing.”

“Who then?”

“No one you would know,” Sand said, letting his hand fall back to his side and then sitting up so he and Ray were face-to-face. “Just some guy I met at the bar. I don’t remember his name.”

“When?”

“Eight or nine months ago?” It was only an estimate, but Ray’s pout became more pronounced at his words. “Is that a problem?”

“I want the last person you fucked to be me.” He said it petulantly like that was an honor Sand had deliberately been keeping from him and Sand couldn’t help but laugh. He collapsed back down onto the mattress and gestured at his more-than-willing body. “Well then, by all means.”

He hadn’t actually expected Ray to take him up on the offer. He’d thought it was a joke—a petty squabble with a past he had no control over—but then Ray’s eyes darkened with a hunger it was impossible not to recognize.

“Roll over,” Ray demanded, his voice taking on the cadence of authority his rich blood afforded him. Sand’s humor washed away in an instant and his heartbeat quickened. Although he would never admit it to anyone, he liked it when Ray told him what to do. Fucking Ray was only half the fun. His true joy came in hearing Ray tell him, in painstaking detail, exactly how he wanted to be fucked. 

So, like an obedient dog, Sand rolled over.

He was already naked from the waist up, but Ray stripped him of his pants as well and then carefully kneaded both globes of his ass before pulling them apart and leaning in to place a wet kiss against his rim. It was loving—worshipful, even—and despite the fact that Ray had never done this to Sand before, he was skilled with his mouth. It didn’t take long before Sand was trembling beneath him, stretched open on his fingers and his tongue. He decided to distract himself with conversation.

“When’s the last time you did this?” he asked. Instead of answering, Ray froze. “Ray?” Still no answer. “Ray?”

He looked over his shoulder to find Ray still hovering over his ass, his mouth wet and messy, his eyes wide. “Well, see, here’s the thing…”

“Never?!” Sand cried in shock.

Immediately, Ray grew defensive. “I know what I like. Why would I bother doing anything else?” But then his face softened and he reached out to squeeze Sand’s ass once more. “Can I? With you?”

Sand turned back around, once again under his spell. “Fine. Just hurry up or I’m going to come before you’re even inside me.”

Ray climbed off of Sand to remove his own pants and when Sand risked a glance at him, he found that Ray was smiling, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

“Do you want me to use a condom?” Ray asked, covering Sand’s body with his once more as he leaned down to kiss his shoulder blade. Sand pushed up onto his knees and Ray tucked himself easily into the space behind him, clearly already knowing the answer, but wanting Sand to say it anyway.

“No,” Sand said, pushing back against him,. Ray took his dick in hand and began running it along Sand’s opening, taunting him the way Sand oftentimes did to him.

“Why not?”

“Because I want to feel you come inside me.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, in one fluid motion, Ray said, “good boy,” and pushed inside.

Sand wasn’t sure which of them was more affected, but the feel of Ray inside him, filling him more full than he had ever been, immediately threatened to overwhelm him. It wasn’t a physical reaction so much as an emotional one. Sand had been fucked far rougher than this by far more endowed men. But it had never meant anything. It had only ever touched his body, never his heart.

Behind him, Ray let out a moan and then collapsed down so that his forehead was pressed against Sand’s back. For several seconds, the two of them just stayed there, their bodies connected, as they breathed in tandem.

“Are you okay?” Ray asked after a minute—checking in, the way Sand always did with him. Sand knew Ray well enough to know that was a learned behavior, not something that came naturally to him. It warmed his racing heart. “Was that too much?”

“No. I’m good,” Sand said, pushing back onto Ray’s dick just enough to make the boy moan again. “Now fuck me like you mean it.”

With a hesitance Sand wasn’t used to from him, Ray began to move. He pulled out of Sand’s body and then pushed back inside with no particular finesse or skill, but it still felt good because it was still him. Sand pushed back in time to his thrusts, silently asking for more, but Ray didn’t seem to know how to give it to him.

“Is this right? Am I—?”

Suddenly, Sand realized what the hesitation was. Ray didn’t like not being good at things. He had a pathological fear of disappointing the people he loved. He needed positive reinforcement.

“That’s perfect. You’re perfect,” Sand said, reaching behind him for Ray's flank and slowly leading him into a steady rhythm. Ray took his instruction and began to speed up. Sand dropped his head down onto his hands, opening his body up even more. “Fuck, that feels so good. You’re doing so good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sand agreed. “You can go harder.”

Still hesitant, Ray did as asked and with every thrust, Sand fell a little more under his spell.

“Fuck, Ray. Right there.”

The praise seemed to reawaken Ray’s confidence. Or at least his dirty mouth. “You like it when I fuck you, don’t you? You like my dick inside you?”

“Yes,” Sand moaned.

“Say it.”

“I like your dick inside me.”

Ray gave a particularly hard thrust and his cock rubbed right against Sand’s prostate. Sand wasn’t sure whether he had done it on purpose or whether it was just beginner’s luck, but he could feel his self-control start to unravel. 

“I want to make sure you’ll be able to feel me tomorrow,” Ray said. “I want to make sure you’ll remember who it was that was fucking you.”

“As if I could forget.”

His words seemed to trigger something in Ray. “Fuck,” he said, collapsing down over Sand’s back, abandoning his long thrusts in favor of letting their bodies grind together as if he could no longer bear to let them separate. “How do you last for so long? It feels too good.”

“Go ahead and come,” Sand said, hopelessly endeared. “I want you to.”

Ray cursed again, but took the out Sand had given him. With a few last hard thrusts, he came inside Sand’s body for the very first time.

For several seconds, they both just stayed there, intimately connected. Sand’s cock was throbbing with arousal and his whole body was sore in a way he wasn’t used to, but in that moment, he felt very, very loved.

Ray pulled out of him slowly. Sand could feel the warmth of his seed leaking from his opening and he was about to climb out of bed to get something to clean them both with when he felt Ray’s tongue push inside him. 

It was Sand’s turn to curse. He had never before been completely at Ray’s mercy before and it made him feel wild. Wild and free. Free from his own thoughts. Free from the expectations he put on himself. 

Ray continued to lick his seed from Sand’s body and as he did so, he reached around and grabbed his cock. Sand sighed at the touch, knowing he wouldn’t last long and, sure enough, he came under Ray’s skilled ministrations quickly with his lover’s name on his tongue.

That night, Ray was the one who cleaned them. Sand had never realized before just how intimate the practice was. He wondered if Ray felt just as loved and cared for when Sand did this for him.

“So,” Ray said once he was finished, finally crawling back into bed and cuddling into Sand’s side. “Did I do good?”

Sand considered teasing him, but saw no reason to lie. “The best.” 

Ray rolled his eyes as if he didn’t believe him, but it was the truth. It was the first time in his life that Sand had been fucked and actually enjoyed it. 

“I’ll get better,” Ray said as if it was a challenge. Sand knew better than to argue with him. “But you have to promise me something. No one but me ever again. Do you understand? I want to be your last.”

“No one but you ever again,” Sand agreed. It wasn’t a hard promise to make. He was the only one who had ever mattered. “Now go to bed. You can practice more in the morning.”

[themaevethcometh]

okay i've had this scene from an au stuck in my head recently so here's 3k of timkon identity shenanigans where kon has been recently taken in by luthor for nefarious reasons and is forced to attend a gala where tim and bruce show up. robin hasn't revealed his identity to the team yet even though they've been friends for years. canon/timeline has been put in a blender and liquified.

Kon takes a deep breath in through his nose, holding it for a few seconds before slowly letting it out of his mouth.  It’s a technique that Robin taught the team when he was trying desperately to get them on a more bat-approved training regime, including meditation and an acrobatics routine that Nightwing allegedly used on the Teen Titans years ago.  Kon is fully aware that he’s got weird stuff going on with his body’s organs and systems compared to humans, but the slow, rhythmic breathing still brings comfort and helps center him, slowing everything down enough so he no longer feels like he’s going to accidentally fry someone with his heat vision.

He tugs at the collar of his dress shirt, gulping and taking a deep breath again.  The shirt and tie feels so much more restrictive than his Superboy uniform, tightening like a noose around his neck, and the inflexibility of the suit coat makes him feel like a stiff, awkward mannequin.

“Stop that,” Luthor says, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder.  Kon immediately stills, straightening and trying to relax at the same time.

“These people are vultures,” Lex says, voice low.  Kon tries to focus his super hearing on him, rather than the woman with the loud laugh across the ballroom or the clink of glasses down the hall where the staff is continuously loading and unloading equipment.  He can hear the steady beat of Lex’s heart, the rhythmic whoosh of air traveling in his lungs, the slight gurgle of his stomach (gross!).  Kon decides he doesn’t like listening to Lex Luthor very much.

“Remember what I told you,” Lex is still saying.  “Be on your best behavior.  Today is about getting your name and your face out there.  Be polite, but not a pushover.  Never let them see weakness.”

Kon forcibly bites back the retort that his only weakness is kryptonite and makes himself nod instead.

Luthor leads him over to a group of people with his hand still clamped on Connor’s shoulder like a shackle.  From there, it’s an exhausting parade of schmoozing with millionaires and billionaires, shaking hands firmly (but not too firmly!), laughing at unfunny jokes, and pretending that he loves dear old Dad instead of wanting to punt him through the nearest wall.

Kon is charming.  He knows this.  It’s something that he’s known since he freshly came out of a test tube, and it’s something that he’s perfected with smiles and body language and a well-placed word or phrase.  Kon can get most people eating out of his hand with barely any effort, but it’s usually normal people a little closer to his age, not rich, egotistical, out-of-touch old people who want to pinch his cheeks but absolutely cannot be allowed to due to his invulnerable skin.  Kon forgets everyone’s name almost as soon as he hears it, clutching his flute of sparkling cider like a lifeline (but not hard enough to shatter).

Kon doesn’t know how long he gets paraded around as Luthor’s newest pet, but it feels like forever.  Everyone talks around where he’s been for the past 17 years of his life (nonexistent and then in a lab and then gallivanting around with superheroes and then, finally, as of two month ago a little farm in Kansas until Lex Luthor uprooted everything with a few well-placed threats), and Kon lets Lex tell the cover story about how he didn’t find out about Connor until recently, but he’s happy to be reunited with his son now.

Son.  Connor isn’t anyone’s son.  He was maybe getting to be a family member to the Kents finally, but Luthor threw a wrench into all of that.

Connor had a room at the farm.  He had a chore list to do and homemade meals to eat, and Clarke has finally stopped flinching when he sees him.  Clarke grinned at him the other day, not his public smile or a small, polite thing, but an actual, honest to goodness grin.  Connor bets he can kiss that goodbye now, just like he can kiss goodbye ever knowing Robin’s real identity, because there’s no way that Batman will let him tell Kon now that Kon is semi-legally under the guardianship of a supervillain, and just like there’s no way that Kon can have anything remotely resembling a normal teenage experience as the ward of a billionaire and forced showpony, and just like–

“I’ll be damned,” Lex breathes next to him, interrupting Kon’s spiral.  Kon follows his gaze to the entrance of the ballroom, ears picking up the loud, boisterous laugh of Bruce Wayne clapping someone on the back a little too forcefully.  Kon has never seen Bruce Wayne in person, but he’s difficult to miss in the papers, especially with how often he finds himself in trouble.  Robin has told him of a few instances when he or one of the other Gotham vigilantes has had to rescue him, and Kon knows that Lois interviewed him once and Clarke has informally run into him at a gala such as this.

Clarke says he tried really hard to be the journalist from the Planet here tonight once Lex demanded that Connor be there, but it was too late notice.  Neither Clarke nor Lois are among the reporters clustered in the corner.  Kon is alone.

“He didn’t RSVP,” Lex says, miffed.  Kon immediately likes Bruce Wayne significantly more because of it.  “Oh, and he brought a friend.”

Kon peers around the crowd that has quickly amassed around Gotham’s favorite billionaire and finally spots the person Bruce Wayne has a hand on the shoulder of.  It’s a teenage boy, dressed in a dark suit with dark hair parted in the middle to keep it out of his eyes.  He’s slight, but not skinny, and he’s not overly tall, probably closer to Robin or Bart’s height than Connor’s.  He doesn’t show any signs of discomfort at the press of adults around him, offering polite handshakes and letting the women kiss his cheeks the way some of them have tried with Kon.  Bruce doesn’t stray far, taking the boy with him when they finally finish with the crowd near the door and head to the bar.  The boy doesn’t seem to mind the attention.  Kon, however, does not appreciate the tone of voice that Lex used when he said friend.  He’s ready to do some superheroing if he needs to.

“Let’s go,” Lex says, putting his hand on Connor’s shoulder again to steer him through the crowd.  “Let me handle Bruce Wayne.  The kid is Timothy Drake.  He recently became the head of his parent’s company when his father died.  This is the first time he’s been seen at an event since the death.  Bruce is almost certainly going to adopt him.  Timothy stayed with him when Jack Drake was in a coma, plus he has the dark hair and light eyes and Brucie favors in his kids.  He’s your focus for the rest of the night.  Forget about everyone else.”

“Lex!  I didn’t know you’d be here, you old dog!” Bruce calls before Connor has time to process all of that, slinging an arm around Luthor’s shoulders and seemingly crushing all of the air out of him in less than a second.

“It’s my party,” Lex wheezes.

“Good thing I’m here to liven it up, eh?” Bruce asks, elbowing Luthor in the ribs.

Kon really hopes that Bruce Wayne’s obsession with dark haired, light eyed boys is an innocent coincidence, because he doesn’t want to apprehend him for being a pedophile when he’s pissing Lex off so easily.

“Hello, Timothy,” Luthor greets, holding out his hand.  Bruce pouts at being ignored while Timothy shakes politely.  “May I just say, it’s refreshing to see you out and about.  I’m sure running your parent’s company is stressful all by yourself.”

Timothy tilts his head, reminding Connor vaguely of a bird.

“I’m happy to do it,” he says, polite but firm.  “It’s what my parents would have wanted, and they left things well organized for me.”

“And I suppose Bruce here has been giving you advice?”

“Now Lex,” Bruce says, wagging his finger at him, “you know that’d be a conflict of interest.  Besides, Tim could run circles around me.  I should be asking him for advice!”

Connor feels his eyes start to glaze over as Luthor and Bruce volley back and forth, seemingly forgetting that he’s even there.  Having Lex’s attention off of him and on someone else is a much needed break, so he’s not about to complain, but it’s also really fucking rude.  Connor hasn’t even been introduced to these two.

Timothy catches his eye, sweeping his gaze over to Luthor and Bruce and rolling his eyes.  Connor smirks.  Timothy raises an eyebrow and Connor mirrors him, just a slight quirk.

Timothy looks pretty nice, up close.  His eyes are the promised light blue, but his dark eyelashes are long and thick, framing them beautifully.  He’s pale, almost reflective in the glittering chandelier light, and he carries himself with a self-assuredness that Connor envies in this environment.  The suit fits him really nicely, hugging his shoulders and accenting his trim waist and long legs.  When he raises his flute to take a sip of the drink inside, Kon finds himself tracking the liquid as it disappears past his pale pink lips, his throat flexing as he swallows.

He’s not bad to look at.  He could easily turn out to be dull as a brick or a total douchebag, but so far first impressions are good.

“And who is this young man?” Bruce asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.  Luthor puts a hand on his back to push him forward a step, and Kon doesn’t have to move, but Lex is going to be mad if he doesn’t and the situation is delicate.

“This is my son, Connor,” Luthor introduces.  Kon offers his hand with his most charming smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking first Bruce’s hand (better grip than he expected) and then Timothy’s (rougher than he thought it’d be, skin warm).

“Son, eh?  He must take after his mother!” Bruce laughs.  Lex’s face pinches, but Connor doesn’t have a chance to relish in it before Bruce is sweeping Luthor away with another arm around his shoulder, talking loudly about secret children and parenting hacks.  Luthor tries to protest, but it’s quickly drowned out by Bruce, and he doesn’t have a chance to so much as glance back at Connor before they’re swallowed by the crowd.

Kon blinks.

“Bruce will keep him busy for a while, sorry,” Timothy says, not sounding very sorry.  He takes another sip from his glass, then leans in.  Cologne tickles Connor’s nose.

“Hold your drink by the stem, not the glass,” he says quietly.  “It’s supposed to keep your drink from getting warm, an old etiquette thing.  It’s small, but it’ll help you blend in a little more.”

Kon looks around the room, taking in the people with flutes like him and where they’re holding it.  The majority are holding the stem, and the ones that aren’t are people that Luthor hasn’t bothered to introduce him to yet.  Kon adjusts his grip accordingly, off-balance and embarrassed.

“Thanks,” he says.  Timothy tilts his head.

“You want to get some air?  There’s a balcony over there.  Your father will be able to find you easily once Bruce releases him.”

“Yes,” Kon agrees immediately.  He’s used to not fitting in, but having the eyes of so many judgy rich people on him when he’s pretending to be Lex Luthor’s human son has been exhausting.  No one has been too rude so far, but the weight of Lex’s hand on his shoulder is heavy, and this complicated set of social rules that he still doesn’t understand puts him on edge.

Normally he’d say fuck the rules and do what he wants, but the situation is too delicate for that.  Clarke and Robin both told him that he needs to be careful and think twice about every move he makes, and for once neither of them sounded condescending about it.  He could tell that they don’t like the situation, either, worry and sympathy clear in their faces.

“Come on,” Timothy says, heading towards a set of double doors.  He doesn’t glance back, trusting Connor to follow him, and Connor does, stepping in his footsteps as he expertly weaves through the crowd, deflecting anyone trying to stop to speak to them with smooth excuses and a well-placed smile.  In no time at all he’s pushing open the large french doors, releasing them from the ballroom and into the cool night air.

Kon tilts his head up, blinking at the night sky above him.  It’s cloudy, obscuring what few stars manage to make their way through the light pollution to reach Metropolis.  Connor wishes he could fly up there, feel the dampness of early rain on his face, burst into the dark and escape everything.  For now, he keeps his feet on the ground, instead joining Timothy by the railing.

“So, how often do you come to these things, Timothy?” Connor asks, leaning back on his elbows.  The other boy perches with a hip pressed against the railing, arms crossed over his chest.

“Tim, please,” he says.  “Timothy makes me feel like I’m in trouble or you’re trying to swindle me out of a business deal.”

“Okay.  How often do you come to these things, Tim?” Connor corrects, testing the feel of it in his mouth.  Tim relaxes at the sound.

“Decently often, but I usually stick to Gotham,” he says.  “I’ll have to start coming to more now that I’m in charge of Drake Industries, but I grew up going to galas.  Is this your first one since Luthor found you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Connor asks.  Tim smirks, but shakes his head.

“I think I’d remember if I’d seen you at one of these before.”

Connor flashes him a charming smile.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”  Tim’s cheeks turn pink, his blush noticeable against his pale skin even with the limited light out here.  Kon takes a sip of his sparkling cider, satisfaction making it taste sweeter on his tongue.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re probably the only people under thirty in the whole building besides some of the catering staff,” Tim says. 

“You missed the toddler earlier,” Connor hums.  “She was throwing a tantrum.  I very much sympathized.”

“Did I really?” Tim asks dryly.  “What a pity.  Oh no.  How unfortunate that Bruce likes being fashionably late to everything.”

Connor snorts.

“Bruce Wayne, huh?” he says.  “How’d you two meet?”

Tim shifts so he’s leaning back against the railing like Kon.  Kon takes a moment to drink in his profile, tracing the sharp jut of his nose, the hair shielding his eyes from him at this angle.

“He’s my neighbor,” Tim says.  “I’ve kind of always known him, but our families weren’t really close until a few years ago.  When my dad was in a coma, Bruce took me in.  My uncle was supposed to get custody of me now, but…”

Tim trails off, searching for words.  Eventually, he shrugs.

“He’s fostering me right now.  We’ll see where it goes from there.”

“Do you want to stay with him?” Kon asks.  Tim considers his words carefully.  Connor’s mouth is always running away with him, but Tim seems to have the opposite approach.  Everything is measured and careful, cold and tactical.  It reminds Kon of Robin in the middle of missions, keeping his reactions even and methodical to counteract the impulsiveness of the rest of the team.  Kon wonders if Tim is the type of person to let himself be stupid and emotional around friends like Robin is, or if he always keeps everything bottled up.

“Yeah, I do,” Tim breathes eventually.  “But it’s complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

Another pause.  Kon does Robin’s breathing exercise, staying patient.  Some people need time to talk, and Kon can’t help if he doesn’t know what’s wrong.

“I guess I don’t want him to adopt me because he feels obligated,” Tim says.  “He has a family.  There’s–It’s a long story, too long to explain now.  Sorry, this is a weird first impression, huh? But enough about me!  What about you?  Where were you before Luthor found you?”

“Uh,” Connor says, still recovering from the whiplash of topics and searching for Luthor’s cover story.  “Kansas.”

“Kansas?” Tim prompts.

“Yeah, Kansas. I was in the foster system for a while, then I got adopted by this nice old couple who live on a farm in Smallville, which is just as small as it sounds.  I didn’t know anything about my birth parents until Lex showed up.”

“Wow,” Tim says.  “This has to be a big adjustment, then.”

Connor scratches the back of his neck.

“Yeah, kinda.”

Kon’s whole life feels like a big adjustment, from adjusting to existing and Clark’s negative feelings towards him, to adjusting to working for Camdus and living in Hawaii, to adjusting to Young Justice and Teen Titans, to finally trying to adjust to Smallville, only to be ripped away from that and forced into Metropolis high society.

“Do you miss them?” Tim asks.  “The old couple who adopted you?”

Kon swallows against the unexpected pang that rolls through him.  He can almost taste Martha’s pancakes on his tongue and hear the crinkle of the newspaper as Jonathan hands him the cartoons.

“I wasn’t with them very long.  Only a few months.”

Tim tilts his head.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Connor shrugs.  He doesn’t know what the right answer is here.  Martha and Jonathan are the closest thing he’s ever had to parents, but part of him never expected to stay with them.  When Luthor ripped him away from them, there was a part of Kon that wasn’t surprised at all, even if a bigger part was in agony.

Martha kissed his forehead when he left the farm and gave him a sad smile.

“You can always come back here, okay?  This is your home, no matter what Lex Luthor has to say about it.”

“If they formally adopted you, Lex Luthor’s claim as your biological father isn’t enough to force cut contact,” Tim says, pushing off the railing and taking a few steps closer.  “Trust me.  I researched this stuff when my dad came out of his coma.”

Kon frowns.

“He didn’t like Bruce?”

Tim wavers.

“It’s complicated,” he offers.  Kon snorts.

“Yeah, I get that.”

Tim’s mouth quirks up, giving Connor the shadow of a smile again.

“It’s not really a first meeting story.”

“Guess we need a second meeting, then,” Connor says.

“Yeah?” Tim asks.  “My weird family dynamic really captivated you, huh?”

“It was your eyes first, actually,” Connor says.  Tim opens his mouth, then closes it again, eyes wide.  Kon holds his breath.  He says flirty things all the time, both to his friends and to people he rescues who seem like they need a pick-me-up, but it’s been a while since he sincerely flirted with someone he plans to see again.  He almost never does it with someone who only knows him as Connor rather than Superboy, much less a boy.

If this goes badly and Tim tells the entire Metropolis elite that Lex’s son is a homosexual, maybe the scandal will be enough for Luthor to send him back to Smallville.  If it goes well…

“You have… very nice eyes, too,” Tim says eventually.  Connor beams, then beams even more at the sharp inhale Tim draws in response.  Tim shifts.

“Hey, do you want to get out of here?” he asks.  “There’s a decent ice cream place open late a few blocks away.  We can be there and back before anyone misses us.”

Connor glances towards Luthor in the ballroom.  He’s still talking to Bruce Wayne, and they’ve amassed a small crowd around them.

“Bruce will keep Lex busy for a while.  He likes to talk.  Besides, you can always tell him that you were networking,” Tim offers.

Luthor said that Tim should be his focus for the rest of the night.  He never said that they had to stay at the gala.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing grandly towards the French doors.  Tim blinks once, then again, then smiles.  His eyes light up with it, and Kon suddenly understands why Tim had to inhale before.

“Come on,” Tim says, leading the way.  Kon follows just as closely as he did before, trailing him until they spill out into the Metropolis night and he can stand next to him, almost close enough for their arms to brush.

Maybe living with Lex Luthor won’t be so bad if comes with seeing Tim Drake, too.

[momhwa-agenda]

[3:30PM] Seokmin

You giggle in between moans, enjoying the sensation of Seokmin's large nose pressing against your clit. You think of pushing his face further to deepen his tongue in your core while grinding against his nose, but you remember Seokmin strictly prohibited you from using your hands for now. 

If you as much as laid your hands on him at any moment, he warned you that he wouldn't let you come at all. Your boyfriend showing dominance was undeniably a turn-on, but you always struggled to keep your hands to yourself. You'd beg --- after all Seokmin smirked when you begged him for something in bed once --- but you were too scared of not being able to come. 

And then you felt his hands grab at your sides, giving you exactly what you craved, you were on the verge of tears. The pleasure ran deep and intense, especially as you heard the sounds of Seokmin slurping down your juices. "S-Seok…" you moaned, trying to tell him that you were close. This only made him devour your sex profusely. It's as if the air was sucked out of your lungs, vision turning white. meanwhile Seokmin was taking in all your juices from your climax whilst grinding your body to his face, not wanting to waste a drop.

･:*.⋆❀⋆.*:･

Taglist: @daisyvisions @midnightfantasiez @kitschun @snowflakewhispers

[vaguely-concerned]

garashir snippet, established relationship, context??? we don't do context here baby only banter

“Elim,” Julian says, his cup of Tarkalean tea frozen half-way to his mouth. “What on earth are you doing?”

Glancing up from his prone position half under the console, Garak says: “Ah. That depends. Are you, in this instance, engaging in that uniquely Human custom of asking questions to which you do not actually want to hear the answer?”

“If not for my ill-judged personal affections and the Hippocratic oath, I would strangle you,” Julian murmurs, finally sipping his tea.

“Then I owe my life yet again to your respect for that august and ancient man of letters, and to the peculiar enduring blind spot of your normally so discerning heart.” 

Julian laughs and crouches next to him. “I suppose you do. Seriously, though, what’s going on?”

[youchangedmedestiel]

Leaving with memories from the future

Salty Dean 

Happy 15th anniversary 

Beautiful soul

Cosy Sunday morning

Healing guilt

Thanked as deserved

There is nothing stupid about you and me 

Need for comfort 

Inspiring Fanfiction

A gift to listen and keep

Never going to apologize for saving you

How to like Halloween and scary movies

Offering pie is the solution

Kissing you is like fireworks

Light touches

You did everything you could

My old man

Warm and soft skin

Love you babygirl

Just a small green ball

Too close to step back

A little knife to save you

Angelic bubble

You are perfect the way you are

Quit being cute! 

I can't resist you

Looking when you aren't

Dying sunset

How to make an angel of the Lord dance

Slutty boy

OCDean

Summer paradise

[gingermintpepper]

Fate-Master I

I did say I would post more wips of my Zeus and Apollo writing so here's a bit from a series I've been writing concerning a young Apollo grappling with being the up and coming Moiragetes - Master of the Fates.

Do let me know if there's any interest for this sort of thing; I didn't originally intend to post this stuff anywhere, but I've just been so frustrated that I feel like it's necessary now 😂

Apollo marks time by etching notches into a clay tablet. He watches from the edge of the mountain’s summit, six of his crows perched three-by-three atop his shoulders and the seventh casting her gaze down onto the maidens all gathered to pick their flowers. He watches them laugh and joke and throw their petals all about, free and fragrant with an easy camaraderie spread thick between them all. He carves his first notch when Persephone lays eyes on the innocent narcissus; in his visions he could never make sense of time’s passing - he did not know how long she would remain swallowed, merely that it would be long enough for her to be missed, searched for, grieved and avenged.

 It will be worth it all in the end.  

Soon, all the world will delight in the birth of new Seasons, a new system of time to mark the stabilisation of this new era.  

He averts his eyes when the earth crumbles beneath Persephone’s feet. There is no way for him to deny it if he truly does bear witness to the act. Apollo cannot see the pitch-black rider on his earth-dark horses as he grabs the maiden. He cannot see those immortal steeds galloping down, down, infinitely down beneath the earth so their rider may delight in his prize. He does not know the sound of her screams as the ground eats her alive. Only the narcissus remains when he once more casts his gaze down, white and untouched. Innocent. Like Apollo. Neither of them have seen a single thing. 

(But oh, her screams are loud in his ear. Big, reedy yells, wet with phlegm. A fawn crying for her mother, the tittering of a sparrowling swallowed foot-first by the viper. They never seemed this loud in his dreams, like footnotes easily overlooked at the very bottom of the page. Apollo does not see her go, but he hears her. He hopes he is the only one who hears.) 

He calls for his darling crow to return to him, stepping light into the halls of Olympus. His day will continue on as normal but to visit his mother so he can request a particularly thick himation for the coming days. Lemnos clicks next to his ear and Apollo huffs, dismissing his crows in a scatter of bright white feathers and glittering metal. They will watch what he cannot. They will make sure the maiden remains buried deep beneath the earth. 

The subtle cold emanating from his father’s quarters curls about his calves - he did not realise he had already travelled the length of the halls. He does not knock before he enters; the women are all busy this time of day and shrewd Athena is still out dancing with his sister, it will just be Father in his room, bent over his table or pouring over one of his maps. 

“It is done.” 

And Father looks up from his writing, a knowing glint shining in wine-dark eyes. His face remains frightfully still, marble stiff and focused on Apollo with the full weight of his eagle sharp intent. “You did not see it?” 

Her scream is the same as the highest note on the aeolian scale. A wonderfully piercing ‘A’. It is similar to the sound that resonates in the sky’s centre, Apollo cannot stop hearing it in his ear. “I did not.” 

Father smiles then, like sunlight peeking through the rough edges of the storm, “Good. That’s good.” He puts his hand to his face, scratches his chin as he hums contemplative. “How much time do we have before… well, before.” 

Demeter’s wailing will be a much darker sound, phrygian and guttural, discordant. Apollo’s had the score written for months now. He thinks he will hang Persephone’s cry next to it. Maybe he will incorporate their melodies into the song he will play at her return. Maybe it is cruel of him to already be thinking such things. “I know not. Time has never been the clearest to me, even in my most vivid of visions.” 

“It is no matter,” Father leans forward, digs a bolt of bright red fabric out of his drawer. “Here,” When he catches it, Apollo feels a denseness in the fibres he has never known. They’re slick yet springy, far coarser than sheep’s wool but unlike any goatskin or leather he has ever handled. “For the cloak you will ask of your mother.”   

He is slowly becoming accustomed to his thoughts not being his own, to his father living so closely in his head. The woven string connecting them still bleeds dye if either of them pull too hard on the connection, but in these quiet moments, it is a comfort. A lifeline. 

“Chimera skin, so it will not burn when you wear it for your work.” Would Father be this calm if it was Artemis swallowed by the earth? Would Apollo? That watery scream is a persistent ringing, she is still screaming far beneath where none but the rider can hear her. (Apollo hears her. Even now, he can hear the heavy breath of the dark stallions, the ripping winds that sting at her ears. Persephone is a friend, can he really leave her to this fate -?) “Phoebus.” 

Father’s broad palm is warm on his shoulder. It pulls him gently from his spiralling thoughts. The heat is unexpected; even now, Apollo can feel his toes going stiff from the room’s chill. 

“I am well,” he hears himself say, distant like the clanging stallion hooves which carry the rider’s prize deeper beneath the earth. Father does not let him go when he tries to escape. He does not tighten his hold either. His hand merely remains on Apollo’s slim shoulder, a point to anchor him here and not there. Apollo focuses on the faint hum of his father’s power, the gentle whistle of his cloud-hairs as they flow about his head, the muffled shuffling of his crows’ feathers as they settle in the gables to await his return. He no longer hears her. Not her, not the dread chariot. He cannot hear a single thing. “I am well.” 

[nadiuu]

Tokka Week 2023 – Day 5: Gossip/Whispers

[kyouka-supremacy]

I fucked up

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Oh, Lonely Bones, Have You Forgotten? Chapter Two

Hello, beautiful people! Chapter two’s here!

Now, to be honest, I’ve been getting in my head about this one. The first chapter got so many compliments on its slow building suspense, and this chapter is more of a meandering slice of life/case fic, so I’m not gonna lie, slightly worried it won’t go down as well. So if you enjoy it, please do come tell me and put my mind at ease! It didn’t come together easy and I have been staring at it for WAY too long - but this week I’ve been self-isolating with covid so uh. A lot of writing time opened up.

WARNINGS: Annnngst. Death, loneliness, abandonment, touch starvation, sensory deprivation, along with morbid things like burials and bodies and bones are core themes of this fic. The ending will be happy eventually but we WILL have a sad ride to get there. So please be aware of that before reading.

Thank you everyone who read/commented on chapter one, hope you enjoy this instalment! Also thank you to justafandomfollower on tumblr who offered to beta this when I was getting paranoid - I ultimately did not take you up on the offer bc by the time I felt like this was ready to have other eyes on it I just wanted to post it and get it over with but I appreciate you!!! It was such a kind offer, unfortunately I physically can not edit this thing any more than I have or I will truly go insane 💛

Chapter two is 9.7k. Chapters 3/4 coming soon (hopefully). Also on Ao3 (need to be signed in to read)

~

"So. I kinda feel like I'm gonna wish I hadn't asked," said Crystal, arms crossed and feet shuffling. "But... screw it. What's in the box?"

Charles visibly winced. He stepped into the room behind the trunk he was helping to manoeuvre through the mirror, and staggered on entry. Distracted, no doubt, by the effort of searching for a way to answer her query without causing distress. "It's, uh. Well. It's..."

Edwin, having no such compunctions about stating the facts, set down his end of the trunk with haste. "Me," he said, putting a good arm's length between himself and the awful thing. It had already begun ramping up towards another outburst in the short time the container had been closed. Edwin could feel that insistent, vexatious drone reestablishing itself. Could feel the temperature in the office drop — for him, at least. Crystal seemed unaffected. Definitely spectral, then. "I'm in there. What's left of me, at any rate."

Under different, less harrowing conditions, he might've enjoyed the look on Crystal's face. A slow, dawning transformation from confusion to slack-jawed horror. It wasn't altogether unlike the face she'd made when they'd returned from the case of the disappearing chin with their reward: a mason jar full of assorted teeth.

But the circumstances were far from jovial. Engaging in some good-natured needling of his colleague was quite far down his list of priorities. The comfort of such a ritual — and even the comfort of the sanctuary in which they now stood — lay sullied by the aura leeching from the trunk.

Edwin found himself feeling... unappreciative, of the hallowed space. Of their shared artefacts and ephemera, of the four walls that had housed their agency from its inception. It all seemed so far out of his purview, at present. There was a numbness settling upon him. Different to the ever-present sensory deprivation of the ghostly condition. Different, and worse. His usual lack of feeling was just that; a lack. An absence of heat, of touch, of smell and taste and bodily sensation. It was a simple, neutral nothing. This was a something. This was the presence of an absence. For the first time in decades, as pins and needles bloomed about his person, he was granted a physical symptom of his own lack of physicality. It was troubling. He could feel; but only just enough to be reminded that he couldn't.

His hands twitched, and he tugged his gloves off in jerky motions, finger by finger. As he did so, he tripped headlong into a battle of wills; staring down the sealed trunk with bated breath. The sound of Charles' voice as he explained and Crystal's as she quizzed, they all seemed to fade to an insignificant hum behind that wheedling drone. It was like a whisper into the ear. So quiet and yet by sheer proximity, sheer intimacy it drove all other noise to the background. Drawing his ears, his eyes, his mind to the enclosed space. Urging him to step close, to open the lid. To look, look, look at me...

"Edwin? Edwin, you listening?"

"Hm?" He had not, in fact, been listening. Abashed, he turned his attention to Charles. "Yes. That is, ah... might you repeat that?"

Charles was watching him with open concern, eyes wide and a tension in his jaw. His gaze kept darting between Edwin and the trunk as if he could see the pull between them, following it like a string. "What are we gonna do?" he asked, voice pitched low. "With... with them?"

Edwin hadn't the faintest notion.

Still, he'd insisted on not involving the police, and this was his problem in most every possible sense. So he cleared his throat, and discarded his coat and gloves on the desk. "Well. Clearly, the matter merits further investigation. We are still on a case, after all." He strode over to the bookshelf and perused its titles, fingers dancing across the spines. "The school should be safe, now that the cause has been removed from the grounds."

"Bad new for our office, though," muttered Charles.

"Okay, have I like, missed something?" Crystal cut in, throwing her hands in the air. "This doesn't make any sense! I’m sorry, Edwin, but if these... if these are your bones —" her voice dropped, briefly, into a hiss. As if the harsh truth would soften if spoken in hushed tones. "Then how can they be doing this? They can't be haunted, right? How can they be haunted, when your spirit is —?"

"Otherwise engaged? I've no idea." He riffled through the pages of a volume on hexes, finding nothing of relevance at a glance. He'd already known that would be the case, but the need for familiar motions was... acute. "It's really quite fascinating," he said, in an attempt at airy detachment. He wasn't altogether convinced he pulled it off.

"Edwin," said Charles — much closer to Edwin's ear than he'd expected in his distraction. Edwin jumped a tad, wrong-footed. He cursed the impulse at once when Charles pulled away, apology writ large across his face. "Maybe, um," Charles forged on, hands held where Edwin could see them. "Maybe you should let us handle this one, mate. You're a bit... close to the situation. Yeah?"

Edwin offered a tight, strained smile. "Thank you, Charles. But I'm quite alright. And I'll be even better when this case is closed, so we'd best hop to it. Besides, chances are strong that this holds very little relevance to me, at all. It's possible the remains have been infested or claimed by another paranormal entity. This could all be unravelled with something as simple as a counter-jinx. Now, have you that grimoire — the one we acquired in ninety seven? I think it might be in your bag."

Charles sighed, and clapped Edwin on the shoulder. "I'll have a look."

He sloped off in search, and Edwin busied himself loading books onto his arm; any that could be even tangentially related. Educational texts, diaries, even certain storybooks could point them in the right direction. It was possible they were looking into something unlike anything they'd seen before. They may need to glean insights from unorthodox sources.

He'd amassed a stack of about a baker's dozen by the time Crystal replaced Charles at his shoulder.

"Gimme some of those," she said, hands palm up and fingers flapping.

"They're very dense volumes," said Edwin, barely sparing her a glance. "Spanning several languages, many of them dead —"

"Then gimme the ones in English. We all need to work together." Her hands did not lower, and nor did her gaze; it remained fixed upon him in a brazen manner that dared him to argue. Her eyes were hard, but her voice softened somewhat when she said: "Let's wrap this one up fast, okay?"

He sighed, and accepted defeat. He begrudgingly handed her his (replica, thoroughly de-hexed) edition of The Boneturner's Tale. "Thank you," he uttered.

"This the one, Edwin?" Charles called.

Edwin glanced over and found Charles with one arm in his bag of tricks, the other holding aloft a tattered book. "That's it exactly, Charles. Flick through and find the section on malicious enchantments — bones are a common component in numerous spells. See if you find any phenomena corresponding to what we've experienced tonight."

Books in hand, Edwin picked his way across the office, nigh on hugging the wall — giving the trunk a very wide berth. "Likewise to you, Crystal," he instructed. "We're looking for any mention of cold snaps, telepathic communication, or compulsions in relation to bones or remains. We need to ascertain what we're up against and, ideally, how to stop it. I daresay we have a long night ahead of us."

Crystal groaned, sinking like a stone into the sofa. "I'm gonna need some coffee or something," she muttered, tucking her feet under herself as she opened her book.

"Maybe we can sweet talk Charlie into putting the kettle on," Charles teased.

Crystal snorted. "Yeah, great. She'd like that almost as much as you calling her Charlie."

Edwin loosened his bowtie as he claimed his desk chair. He felt constricted, all of the sudden. As if the new not-awareness was expanding into a new cognizance of the clothing on his person. He looked, disquieted, at the box; and though it simply wasn't possible, he could feel it looking back. It was certainly talking back; on and on, that never ending litany, uttered without breath or pause, a rolling patter of desperation. Look at me look at me look at me please —

He slammed the first book down, decisively, and flipped to the index. "Onwards and upwards..."

Charles picked up another book from the stack — one that made him go a touch cross-eyed upon opening — and perched on the desk at Edwin's elbow. "Don't worry, mate," he said, delivering a companionable knock to Edwin's arm with his knee. "With all three of us on the job, the Dead Boy Detectives at full force? We'll have this sussed out by morning!"

~

Two Days Later…

"How's it feel, now?" asked Crystal, pen poised over Edwin's notebook.

Edwin, with gritted teeth, wrestled his jumbled thoughts into some kind of submission. It was so hard just to think — and it got harder with every step down the corridor. "Six," he bit out, resting his hands on his knees and catching his breath. He could scarcely hear himself over the racket in his head. "Definitely six."

Crystal jotted it down. Edwin wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of adding her chicken scratch handwriting to his meticulous notes. But the way these tests had his own hands shaking, his writing was no better at present.

"It's getting worse," Crystal muttered, brow furrowed as she scanned the page.

"Obviously it's getting worse," he snapped. "I think we've quite thoroughly established that, Crystal."

"Oi! Leave off," Charles cut in, stern. He was wearing the same stormy expression that had followed Edwin on his slow, arduous odyssey down the hall. "She's only trying to help."

Edwin sighed, and dragged his hands down his face. Perhaps he could up and disappear into them. "Yes. Yes, I know." He risked a peek over his fingers, down at Charles. They were shoulder to shoulder, two abreast in the narrow corridor. But while Edwin was upright (just about) and forward-facing, Charles was hunkered down and reversed. A necessity while he unspooled the tape measure along the floor at the pace of Edwin's cautious feet. "Charles, how far?"

Charles checked the tape measure against the toe of Edwin's boot. "'Bout thirty feet."

"About?"

Charles rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright, you bloody pedant! Thirty point... three."

"It's not pedantic to record our findings with accuracy," Edwin grumbled. "Write it down, Crystal. Please," he appended, with haste.

She did so — but she frowned at Edwin like he was the one being tedious and unreasonable. "Is this really the best thing we could be doing?" she asked.

"Our research has been a dead end. We need more information to build off. We need to establish rules, parameters." He straightened up from his resting position, and adjusted his rumpled waistcoat. A vain attempt, with the garment unbuttoned and hanging limp from his torso. "This haunting must have a boundary to its area of affect. At the school I didn't feel it at all until the second floor. It'll get worse, and then better when I'm out of its range."

"Or," Crystal contended. "You triggered a trap when you opened the box, and now it's not gonna let you go."

Edwin scowled. "If that proves to be the case, then I shall gladly add it to the information we hold. But logic and due process dictates we gather every available piece of evidence before leaping to conclusions. Now, if there are no more objections, let's get on with it, shall we?"

"You should take a breather, mate," said Charles, eyeing Edwin with disarming intensity. "You're looking a bit peaky."

Edwin sniffed, steepling his fingers. "We've had two fruitless days already," he said. "I'll not tolerate a third."

He took a bold stride before either could respond — and hissed through his teeth as the clamour in his head roared to the fore. It was rather like radio static, scratching upon his frayed nerves. And that was to say nothing of the cold, which was creeping back and making him regret stripping so many layers.

It was like there was a thread, pulled taut between him and the object in the office. With every step he stretched it tighter, felt the pressure more keenly. With every inch of distance, it pulled back harder — like one of Charles' rubber band slingshots. He wondered at what point it might snap him back by force.

He exhaled, and watched the phantom breath condense in the air before him. He channelled the discomfort and pain into his hands; clenching the fingers, grinding his fists.

"You alright?" asked Charles, eyes narrowed.

"Quite," Edwin rasped. A graceless recovery; and it only worsened on his next step, when he was unable to suppress a pathetic whimper.

“Sounds legit," Crystal muttered.

The thread was pulling tighter, tighter, the cry more insistent. Begging him to turn around, to come back — come and see, come and see, come and see...

"Mate..." said Charles, a note of warning in his voice.

Edwin took a breath; and then another step. And the thread drew tight, white hot and razor sharp; so sharp as to slice through his very mind like a wire through soft clay.

He gasped, his knee buckled. His ankle disappeared into the floor as he lost his concentration on the material plain.

Crystal winced. "How'd that one feel?"

He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. "Six... and a half."

"Right," said Charles, matter-of-factly. "That's enough of that."

He hit the retract button on the tape measure, sending it spiralling back into its casing.

"Charles, really —" Edwin protested.

"No! I'm not having it!" said Charles, straightening from his crouch and taking Edwin by the shoulders. "Not gonna stand here and watch you hurt yourself for some stupid bloody experiment. C'mon." He spun Edwin around and began near-frogmarching him towards the office. "Back you go."

"Charles," Edwin snapped, struggling against the undignified manhandling. But when he really did feel measurably better with every step, it was hard to muster the enthusiasm to fight. "I survived seventy years in hell. I think I know my own limits!"

Crystal snorted, falling into step behind Charles. "Kinda sounds like the reason you don't know your limits, honestly."

"Yeah! Yeah, exactly," Charles agreed, emboldened. "You've been ripped to shreds in that place. God only knows what else you'll put yourself through. If this is a six —"

"And a half," Edwin corrected, miffed.

"If this is a six and a half," said Charles. "I don't even wanna know what a ten is."

The racket in Edwin's head subsided somewhat — and flustered ire filled the void it left behind. He brushed off Charles' hands and turned on him, quick as a whip, burning with indignation. "I do not need to be mollycoddled. Perhaps, Charles, for once, you might take a rest from your ceaseless fixation on safeguarding my feelings in order to actually solve this case!"

He regretted the words before they were even out. But his pride was wounded, and so he turned on his heel and stalked away; before he could see the matching hurt on Charles' face.

Some things, like cursed skeletons in trunks, were liable to drive a man to madness if looked at directly.

~

The office, of course, was just about the last place Edwin wanted to be. But with the invisible bond tethering him, it was the only place to which he could retreat in solitude. Almost solitude, that is. It was hard to feel truly alone, with that thing so close at hand. With the way it seemed to burrow into his consciousness, whisper its wretched pleas in his mind. Look at me look at me see me please see me —

Edwin pounced upon the bottom desk drawer — the 'stuff drawer', as Charles so descriptively dubbed it — and rummaged around. He uttered a soft 'a-ha!' of triumph when his fingers closed around a large, weathered brass padlock. Another donation from a satisfied customer. It was enchanted to open only for the person who'd closed it.

He hastened over and, with shaking hands, threaded the shackle of the padlock through the staple of the trunk. He felt the answering hum of the enchantment flaring to life as the mechanism clicked shut. Spells, at least, were tangible even to a ghost.

The pleading magnified, sharp and anguished. Then it subsided instead into a quiet hum of dismay, and a further drop in the temperature of the room.

Edwin collapsed like a de-strung puppet, sagging down upon the trunk and breathing raggedly. He closed his eyes, leaned forward, hands on his head, head practically between his knees. He sat, and breathed, and waited for the room to stop spinning.

It wasn't Charles who found him in such a state, but Crystal. A fact he was at once disappointed and relieved by. He didn't care for Crystal seeing him this way, depleted and vulnerable. But considering his last words to Charles, he had no immediate desire to be confronted by him, either.

"Edwin," Crystal greeted, in that uncharacteristically formal manner that she reserved for him alone. Usually, she applied it in jest, as a running joke. Rarely had he seen her deliver it with a face so grave.

He collected himself on a slow inhale, straightening his back. "Crystal," he answered in kind, standing and marching to his desk.

She followed. He was careful not to look at her, but her platform boots on the old wood floors telegraphed her location. "So," she said, coming to halt on the opposite side of the desk. "You ready to apologise to Charles, yet?"

Her confrontational manner rankled, made it all too tempting to deny any wrongdoing. But try as he might, he couldn't deny the evidence.

He sighed, folding into his desk chair and massaging his temples. "Soon." He risked a glance, found her looking at him not with anger, but with concern. It unsettled him. Crystal's anger, he knew what to do with. Generally they sniped back and forth until the tension broke or someone stormed off. Anger and pettiness was their shared dialect. He wasn't so well-versed in the vocabulary of her earnest worriment. "I am... sorry that you had to see that," he offered.

"I've, like, never seen you like that," she said, sitting down in the chair generally reserved for clientele. She was watching him like she was studying him, reading him. He half expected her eyes to go white as she went in for a closer look. "You guys bicker all the time, but. I've never seen you actually mad at him." She leaned back and crossed her arms. "He's pretty cut up about it."

Guilt curdled in Edwin's stomach. "Is he...?"

"He's okay. I left him bugging Jenny with his angst." She shrugged. "She kind of always knows exactly what blunt shit to say to snap you out of it."

"Ah. Yes, good. Very good."

She watched him. She had a very stubborn stare. It had served them well on occasion, usually in the acquisition of information from a tight-lipped witness.

He fidgeted, tugging at his shirtsleeve. "It was... unkind. What I said to him. Not to mention unfair. Disingenuous of me, to complain about his protective tendencies. Considering how greatly I've come to... value them."

She raised her eyebrow.

He returned the gesture. "... Depend upon them, even."

"Yeah. Yeah, it was pretty messed up, what you said to him." She leaned on the desk, arms folded. "But... I guess you're pretty messed up right now, huh?"

Edwin scowled. "That is... one way to put it."

"What's with the scratching?"

"Hm?"

"The scratching." She pointed at his hand, and he looked to find he'd abandoned his sleeve in favour of itching the wrist beneath. "That's not one of your things, your twitchy, gesture-y... things. You only started doing that when..."

Her eyes darted over her shoulder. "When you brought them in."

Edwin didn't follow her glance. He was trying not to look at the object in question any more than he had to. "I hadn't noticed."

She tilted her head as she regarded him. "You can still feel them, can't you?"

"Truthfully, I'm not altogether sure what it is I feel," he said. "Only that I am feeling considerably more than usual."

Crystal toyed with the sleeve of her ratty cardigan. "Must be super weird. Not being able to feel. I never really asked, but like... how do you even, like, ground yourself? How do you get a sense of where you are in the world?"

Edwin hummed, considering. "There is... an awareness, I suppose. Broad peripherals, so to speak. In lieu of other sensory input, one becomes quite keen of eye and ear. Sometimes that translates into the illusion of pressure from objects we know are at hand."

"Is there anything you can feel?"

"Pain," he said, bitterly. "Only from particular sources, I grant you. But yes, we're quite familiar with pain."

"That sucks."

He huffed. "It does, indeed, suck."

"There's seriously nothing else?"

He hesitated. "Well. I suppose, in a manner or speaking, we can feel ourselves."

She leaned in closer, inquisitive. Edwin didn't much care to dwell on this subject — but he did wish to encourage her scientific curiosity. She was a detective in training, after all.

With a beleaguered sigh, he propped his elbow neatly upon the desk, hand pointed to the ceiling. He folded his sleeve down, neatly, exposing his wrist. Pale skin, sparse hair, blue veins that remained only as a faded shadow of the blood that once pumped through them. With an attention-summoning flourish he lifted his other hand. Slowly, he scratched his fingernail down the length of his wrist. He felt the scraping drag of his nail edge against skin and hair — at least he could imagine he did, quite vividly.

"I theorise that it's once again a matter of awareness. Amplified, in this case. Awareness from visual input; plus that from conscious and subconscious intention and expectation; equals sensation. Or at least a convincing enough replica." He spread his fingers and swept his palms out, embellishing the point. "I know that I intend to scratch my arm; ergo, my arm is scratched."

"Just your intentions?" she asked, gaze turning from his arm to his eyes. "Not other ghosts? You guys can't feel each other?"

He gave a sad smile, dropping his hands to the table. "No. No, we're not mind readers. Without being attuned to the intention, even other ghosts may as well be far apart on the mortal plain."

"Guess I always figured you guys must feel something," she said, rubbing her arms. Despite the gloomy subject, she managed a small, teasing smile. "With the way Charles is always hanging off of you."

He smiled, ducking his head. "Well. There is something to be said for the comfort of a gesture. Wishful thinking can go a long way, in our circumstances." He watched her hands, wondering what the texture under her palms felt like. It looked like a soft cardigan, well-worn, well-loved. His own hands clenched into fists on the desk. "After decades of the same, one learns to take what one can get."

She puffed out her cheeks. "Well that's. Depressing."

"Yes, quite."

"But you're feeling stuff now. Aren't you?"

"Yes." His jaw twitched. "Unfortunately, not a pleasant experience, in this case."

"Look." She clasped her hands on the desk, leaning towards him like a co-conspirator. "I get wanting to figure this out, I really do." She lowered her voice, as if they were sharing a secret. "I know how much it royally sucks to have a voice in your head you can't shake."

Edwin flinched, guiltily. The comparison hadn't even occurred to him.

"And I'm gonna help you," she continue, eyebrow twitching like she knew what he'd just thought and was choosing to move past it. "But let's... let's take the pain experiments down a notch, okay? Because if you keep hurting yourself, Charles is gonna give me the sad puppy eyes and I can not deal."

Edwin gave a soft snort of laughter. "He is rather compelling, isn't he?" Fondness crept into his tone, unbidden.

She seemed to pick up on that unspoken thought, also, her lips pursing against a smile. "Yeah, yeah, he's adorable. So. Back to work? No more weird, fucked up self-torture shit?"

Edwin may be stubborn, but he knew when he was outvoted. He sighed. "Very well."

"Cool. let's do it." She cut off his agreement with a raised finger. "After you apologise to Charles."

He raised his eyebrow. "You're quite the canny negotiator. Have you been practising?"

"We got a deal?"

Edwin sniffed, haughtily rolling his sleeve back into place. "Well. As it happens, I was about to do that, anyway."

She smirked. "Sure you were."

~

Of course, Edwin was not currently able to make the short trip to Jenny's new establishment, where Charles was offloading his woes. He could've tried, but he imagined the wilful endangerment of himself would undermine his apology for... well, for wilful endangerment of himself. So he sent Crystal with word to Charles, and waited.

Edwin found waiting around to be a fretful exercise at the best of times. The presence of the object only made matters worse.

He paced along the breadth of the wide window, listening to the drizzling London rain. Usually, he found the sound of the droplets on the window pane calming. It was marred on this occasion by the more insistent sound in the back of his mind, buzzing for attention. The temperature in the room dropped with each lap of the window; every time he turned on his heel to retrace his steps, and refused to acknowledge the trunk in the slightest. He wanted to don a coat or jumper, but refused to give it the satisfaction.

Soon, another sound broke through the drone. Footsteps down the corridor. The door opened, and in walked Charles.

"Alright?" he greeted. He was eyeing Edwin with wariness — but, thankfully, not with distress.

Edwin let out a breath he hadn't know he was holding. He'd been afraid... well. He often feared that one of these days, he'd finally exhaust the bottomless well of Charles' patience, his kindness. "Charles," he breathed, steepling his fingers to keep them from twitching at his sides. "I owe you an apology."

Charles' tense shoulders dropped, infinitesimally; like a weight had fallen from them. His entire countenance softened in turn, and he smiled at Edwin with fondness as he closed the door behind him.

"Already forgotten, mate." He said. He advanced in long, even strides across the office, sparing a vigilant glance for the trunk on his way. He rounded the desk to stand before Edwin, planting both hands upon his shoulders and addressing him directly. "You're pretty stressed out, yeah?"

Edwin exhaled on a breathy laugh. "To say the least." He looked down at Charles' hand, the thumb tracing circles on Edwin's shirt. Perhaps it was a result of his discussion with Crystal, but he was above-averagely aware of the absence of weight, of feeling. Of warmth. He swallowed, tightly, and placed his hand over Charles'. "But I should not have taken it out on you."

"No. You bloody shouldn't've." He gave a self-effacing little grin. "Lucky for you, I'm a hardy sort of bloke."

What a ridiculous boy he was. A steadfast, self-sacrificing fool, always to quick to forgive Edwin his trespasses. Affection bloomed in Edwin's chest, bright and effervescent. The cold, the noise; for an instant it all melted like ice dropped into hot tea.

Charles' grip tightened; Edwin saw him squeeze his arms."But seriously, yeah?" said Charles, sober. "No more torturing yourself for this bloody case. Else I'll have Jenny come up here, give you a right telling off. And she's proper good at it."

Edwin smiled down at his feet. "Well, then. I suppose I have no choice."

"Too right."

Charles hesitated, gaze raking Edwin's face, taking him in from his eyes to his lips. Edwin cocked his head, questioning; if only to mask how tender and raw he felt under the close, gentle scrutiny.

Wordlessly, Charles pulled him close. He wrapped his arms tight around Edwin's shoulders in a fierce embrace; slotting them together like two puzzle pieces.

"Thank you," he mumbled into Edwin's neck.

Edwin's breath hitched, as it so often did when Charles held him so. No matter how common the occurrence, or how absent the physical sensation. The very gesture was bound to leave him gently thunderstruck nonetheless.

He returned it in his usual manner; with the stiff, cautious awkwardness of inexperience. Grateful, in some small, bitter way, that Charles couldn't possibly feel it. Couldn't bear witness to his bungling attempts at expressing affection.

Though he'd accept that humiliation. He'd take it with gratitude. If only for the chance to feel the soft gust of Charles' breath against his throat; to know the warm weight of him in his arms.

Soon, far too soon, Charles sniffed and pulled back. His hands never left Edwin's shoulders as he regarded him with squinted eyes and a wrinkled nose. A small, mischievous smile tugged his lips. "So," he said. "Back to the books, then?"

Edwin sighed. "Too the books," he agreed, without enthusiasm.

Charles chuckled. "How's this for a role reversal, eh?"

~

One Day Later…

Despite the obstructions of Charles and his mother-henning, they had made some progress in their studies. Edwin's notes on the object and its effects read thus:

Physical properties of the object (as observed by Charles): Faint, blue glow. Slight visible movement — agitation, vibration. No visible runes or enchantments. All bones assumed to be present and correct — Charles unwilling to 'rummage'.

Sense of cold: spectral only, no material plain adjustment. Affects Charles, not Crystal. Worse with distance/when box is closed.

Phantom sensations: a slight grounding effect, connection to material plain. Irritation, itches, pins and needles. Affects neither Crystal nor Charles. Intensifies in close proximity.

Whispering/speech: inaudible to Charles, Crystal. Sometimes unintelligible. Notable phrases: look at me, see me, don't leave me. Other sounds include a slight rattling, at times increasing in frequency to a buzz. Worse with distance/when box is closed.

It was hardly a treasure trove of information to work from, and he did manage to persuade Charles that further experimentation was needed. But he was under quite strict orders to withdraw should the pain top a four on his 'bloody mental' pain scale. A promise he kept to the letter.

Headaches, as it happened, were quite possible to achieve at a three or lower.

"I'm a ghost," Edwin complained, from his repose on the sofa. "I cannot get headaches."

"Well, then you're a scientific marvel, aren't you?" said Charles, patting his shoulder. He was perched on the edge of the couch, looking down at Edwin with pity. "Looks like you can get 'em just fine, mate. What you can't get is any paracetamol." He winced. "Bit rough, that."

Edwin sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I miss hemp."

"You what?"

"Indian hemp — you've never tried it? My nanny used to give me a pinch when I was feeling out of sorts," said Edwin, nostalgic. "Always used to perk me up."

Charles laughed. "Fuck me. You telling me you was toddling round, stoned off your tits at, what, six?"

Edwin rolled his eyes — wishing he hadn't when the motion exacerbated the pain in his skull. "I hardly overindulged."

"Perish the thought," teased Charles, in his tiresome facsimile of Edwin's cadence.

Edwin swatted at his arm, half-heartedly. Charles dodged it with laughter and ease, standing up and cracking his knuckles.

"Now, I can't offer you any drugs, but," said Charles, circling round to the end of the sofa. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together briskly. "I can do this."

Edwin frowned. "What are you doing?"

Charles, now standing behind Edwin's head, leaned over it to grin down at him and wiggle his fingers. "My mum used to do this," he said. "Head massage. You'll like it."

Edwin regarded him, unimpressed. "Charles, I cannot feel."

"C'mon — give it a go!"

He remained unconvinced. But, as he'd told Crystal only yesterday, a comforting gesture wasn't to be sniffed at. "Very well," he said. "Carry on."

"Brills. Here we go, then!"

Charles, showed Edwin his hands and made sure he was watching them. Then he pulled them back to just above Edwin's eyebrows and, presumably, began to rub the skin there. Edwin couldn't have said for sure that's what was happening, of course. Charles could be drawing lewd images on his forehead, for all he knew. But the look of concentration was there on Charles' face and so perhaps, if Edwin closed his eyes and used his imagination, he could fill in the gaps. He could imagine the motions of Charles' confident fingers. Picture them against his own skin, carefully working out the tension stroke by stroke.

Charles always seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands. How to swing a bat, how to catch a ball, how to hold Edwin together. Even when he demonstrably did not know what he was doing at all, his moments of utmost impulsivity. Even then, he committed to the act with such decisiveness, such single-minded intent. It boggled Edwin's mind to think that he could have such confidence of bearing, and yet such limited material impact on the world. Charles Rowland's hands could have shaped the universe, were they as substantial in matter as they were in resolve. He'd already managed miracles with nought but air and ectoplasm.

Edwin’s belief, it seemed, was well-founded. Despite his misgivings, he did feel the ache receding. He sighed. Even such a minor relief, after days of such heightened pressure, had him all but melting under Charles' hands. He indulged in a slow, languid stretch of his body, his back arching off the sofa as a soft groan escape him.

"Alright down there?"

Charles sounded ever so slightly out of breath. Edwin smiled. Trust him to put all his effort and then some into a gesture that Edwin couldn't even fully appreciate. "Yes. That's wonderful, Charles." His eyes fluttered open and he craned his head back against the armrest, catching Charles' eye. "Thank you."

He was surprised to find Charles looking even more breathless than he sounded. His mouth hung slightly open, and his hooded eyes appeared to be a touch glazed.

Charles blinked back into startled clarity when he felt Edwin's eyes upon him, and snapped his mouth shut. He pulled his hands away to give Edwin a brusque, chummy pat on the shoulders.

"Anytime, mate," he mumbled. "Anytime."

~

Three More Days Later…

The case dragged on in its plodding, unsatisfactory manner. Edwin felt himself clinging to his composure by the skin of his teeth. He was a raw, frazzled nerve, stripped to his shirtsleeves and the barest trappings of dignity. For nearly a week he'd been enduring this ceaseless psychic bombardment with precious little to show for it, and his patience had worn thin.

So when Crystal barrelled into the room, slamming the door against the wall in her haste, he nearly bit her head off.

"Do you mind?" Edwin exclaimed, smacking his hand down on the desk and sending a small ream of papers flying.

Over on the sofa, Charles snorted into alertness. Though he couldn't doze off, he'd been staring at the same page in his book for so long that he appeared to have drifted into a semi-conscious state. Edwin hadn't had the heart to rouse him — they were hardly making progress either way.

"We're idiots," was Crystal's response to Edwin's rhetorical outburst. She looked about as stretched thin as Edwin felt; hair pulled back into a tangled, frizzy knot atop her head, shadows under her eyes. She'd been wearing the same scruffy jeans and faded t-shirt for at least forty-eight hours. She planted both hands on the desk and leaned in close, staring Edwin down. "The mirror."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The mirror." She threw her hands up. "We never tried the mirror!"

"Never tried what with the mirror?" asked Charles, groggy, sitting up and dragging a hand down his face.

"We never tried sending Edwin through it," she explained, slowly, as if they were small children. "All that time we spent fucking around, trying to see how far he could walk away — did any of us ever fucking stop and think if he could teleport away?"

Silence. Deafening silence. Edwin and Charles shared a look.

"Bloody hell," Charles muttered. "Maybe we are stupid."

Edwin didn't reply. He had more pressing matters to attend to; he near vaulted the desk in his haste to get around it.

He marched with single-minded purpose towards the large mirror they'd yet to relegate back to storage. If it meant passing closer to the trunk than he had in days, he paid it no mind. Though the object in question noticed, and he felt its psychic fingers clawing at his ankles as he passed. Its whispers followed him like a curse; don't don't don't —

"Woah — alright, mate, let's take it easy, yeah?" Charles rushed out, springing up from the sofa and darting to Edwin's side. His hand circled Edwin's wrist, a comfort and a restraint all in one. "Think it through — you know what happens when you don't look before you leap, yeah?"

Edwin closed his eyes and exhaled, hands clenching into fists. Charles was right, of course. But with potential freedom so close at hand he scarcely wished to admit it. "I need a location," he said. "A target."

"Jenny's shop," Crystal quickly suggested, coming to stand at his other shoulder. "It's safe, and she knows you guys. It's only her working there today."

"Perfect." Edwin held his hand out to the mirror and visualised Jenny's new London workplace. And very old butcher's shop, established not long after Edwin's time. Owned in the modern era by the founder's great, great grandaughter, and her charming civil partner. Despite the transatlantic culture shock, Jenny had rather fallen among thieves. In his mind's eye, Edwin pictured the rustic mirror on the wall, nailed to sturdy old brickwork. Mounted between taxidermy animal heads and antique butchery implements. "I have it," he said, and opened his eyes to find that answering ripple on the mirror's surface.

Charles' grip tightened when Edwin tried to take a step. "You sure about this?" he asked. "You said that mirror hop right before you found 'em felt off..."

That was true enough. But an unpleasant experience was well worth the modicum of freedom it might afford him. "I'll be quite alright, Charles. We know that I can still go through mirrors, it’s how we got the box here, after all. It’s a question of whether it will let me go without it," he said, breaking Charles' hold on his wrist to take him by the hand instead. "But I must try."

Charles' eyes were wide with worry, but he nodded. Though his fretting over Edwin won above all else, this case had been arduous on him, as well. They all needed a breakthrough. "Alright," he said. "But give us a second."

Edwin watched, bemused, as Charles dashed for his bag and rummaged inside. He resurfaced with a large coil of rope. Charles was a blur of frenetic motion as he fastened it in a sturdy sailor's knot around the leg of the desk (he’d picked up some useful skills during the case of the drowned diver).

"Hold this, yeah, Crystal?" said Charles, dumping the slack length of remaining rope into her arms.

"Smart," she said — though a confused frown followed. "Wait, me hold it? What are you doing?"

"Going with him. You feel two tugs, drag us out, yeah?"

"Charles," said Edwin. "I've mirror hopped a thousand times. There's no need for you to —"

"What's the matter?" said Charles, rejoining Edwin and tying the rope around his waist. Despite the nervous tension suffusing him from head to toe, he still found the wherewithal to give a cheeky grin. "Can't wait to get rid of me?"

Edwin's heart, if the spectre of such a thing still existed within him, skipped a beat. "Quite the opposite," he said, gesturing for Charles to hand him the remaining slack when he was finished. "But someone has to spare a thought for your safety — and I think we all know it won't be you."

"In't that what I've been telling you?" Charles teased, lifting his arms for Edwin to loop the rope around him.

Edwin rolled his eyes, and secured the lifeline with a sharp tug. "Evidently, we're a terrible influence on one another."

"Guys," Crystal interjected.

They both whipped their heads round to look at her.

"I have been awake," she said, slow and just a touch dangerous. "For fifty two hours."

Edwin cleared his throat. "Yes, yes. Quite right. Time is of the essence." He met Charles' eyes. "Are you ready?"

Charles nodded, slipping his hand into Edwin's once more; a more tangible tether than any rope or chain. "Ready."

"Good luck," said Crystal, bracing her hands on the rope and her feet on the floor. "Don't die. Again."

"Reckon we've been here before," Charles joked. "You tryna make that a running gag?"

She grimaced. "Well, maybe if you two quit risking your afterlives so much, I'd have to say it less."

"Yeah, alright, fair cop." Charles squeezed Edwin's hand. "On three, then?"

Despite his trepidation, Edwin smiled. "We've been here before, too," he said. "Yes. On three. One..."

Charles gripped him tight and pressed up against him, shoulder to incorporeal shoulder. "Two..."

The whispering filled Edwin's skull, dense and cloying. Don't leave don't leave don't —

He looked once more to Charles' face; it was all the courage he required.

"Three!"

~

The space behind the mirror welcomed them, as it had welcomed Edwin back at St. Hilarion's. That is to say, it did not welcome them in the slightest. A journey which should have taken an instant seemed to stretch behind and before them, ad infinitum; thick as syrup, fast as a locomotive. They tumbled headlong through the roiling vortex of here, there and everywhere. Had they the ability to bruise, Edwin was sure their snapping lifeline would have whipped welts across their ankles. He fell endlessly, uncontrollably.

But it was a significant improvement on the last time. Now, at least, he had Charles to fall alongside. His one constant companion besides that damnable whispering — though as they fell it grew fainter, fainter, fainter...

Then they were through to the other side, expelled once more into the world they knew — collapsing together in an ungainly pile of limbs. And Edwin gasped, violently, as that thread which tethered him to the voice snapped behind him.

"Ugh, fuck, I'm gonna be sick," Charles groaned. It was an empty threat; he was by Edwin's side in moments, clear-voiced and intent. "Edwin?" His warm brown eyes swam into view. His hand — the one not currently tangled in Edwin's fingers — cupped Edwin's face. "Edwin, you alright?"

Edwin laughed, breathless and elated, his hand covering Charles'. "It stopped," he breathed. "Charles, it stopped, I can't hear it!"

Charles' grin could've lit the night. "Yes, Edwin!" he crowed, bumping their foreheads together. "You did it, mate — you're out!"

Edwin felt boundless, in that moment. Unrestrained. Unashamed of holding Charles close and sharing his laughter, sharing his breath. For the first time in what felt like a small lifetime, it was all gone. The cold, the itch, the whispers and pleas. All of it lay somewhere else, out of sight and mind, and for a moment he could simply be. Be with his best friend, the love of his life, with his smile and his laughter; no distractions, no compulsions. So surrounded by Charles and nothing but Charles that he could almost imagine how his fingers felt upon his face. How his laughter felt upon his lips...

"What. The fuck?"

And just like that, the moment shattered.

They both startled, landing soundly on their backsides on the butcher shop floor. They looked up to find Jenny staring at them, bug-eyed and incredulous, from behind the meat counter.

"Um. Hullo, Jenny," Charles greeted her, with a sheepish grin. He threw in a wave for good measure — forgetting that his right hand was currently engaged in holding Edwin's. Edwin had never been an unwilling participant in someone else's wave before. He rather hoped he never would be again.

"Miss Green," Edwin added, fumbling to extract himself from the wave. He scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off. Now that his head wasn't full of ceaseless psychic badgering, he had the presence of mind to feel self-conscious about his shabby state of... un-dress. He should have put his waistcoat back on, at the very least. Here he was, standing before a lady in a public establishment, and he was bordering on the semi-classical. "Our apologies for, ah. Barging in."

"Yeah, sorry. Should've knocked!" said Charles.

"Yes. Quite."

Jenny narrowed her eyes, staring at the rope that had them quite literally joined at the hip. She gestured between the two of them with her cleaver. "So. I guess you two made up."

Edwin cleared his throat. "Ah. Yes, all water under the bridge."

"Yeah, yeah, all sorted," Charles agreed.

She gave Edwin a look, then turned to Charles and raised a razor-sharp eyebrow. "He stop being a dick?"

"Yeah, he did," said Charles, grinning, as he cut off Edwin's indignant protest with an arm around his shoulder. "Can't stay mad at me for long, can he?"

Edwin rolled his eyes — his smile, alas, was irrepressible.

"Great! Happy for you!" Her tone was dry, her smile tight-lipped. "Never jump out of my mirror while I'm holding a fucking meat cleaver again."

She punctuated her edict with a sharp, decisive swing; severing the pork joint on her chopping block with an executioner's resolve.

Edwin grimaced, and adjusted his bedraggled collar. "Duly noted."

Charles opened his mouth, no doubt to come out with another cheeky rejoinder. He was interrupted, however, by the tightening of the rope, forcing both he and Edwin to lurch back a step. They both looked down in alarm at the slack trailing into the mirror as it went taut, repeatedly. An insistent tug, urging them to follow.

"Oh," said Edwin, weakly. "I can't imagine that bodes well."

There was no time to dwell on the implications. In seconds Charles' hands were at Edwin's waist, attacking the knotted rope. "Charles, what are you doing?" Edwin enquired.

"You stay here for a bit, yeah?" said Charles — followed by a muttered curse as he was foiled by his own stellar rope-tying technique. "Take a breather — I'll go back, check on Crystal."

"You kids do know this isn't a clubhouse?" came Jenny's weary interjection.

Edwin gathered his courage, and stilled Charles' hands. "No," he said. "Thank you, Charles. But if there's a problem with... with the case, well. I should be present to handle it."

"You've been handling it for days, mate," said Charles; levelling him with his infamous 'sad puppy eyes'.

To paraphrase Crystal, Edwin could not deal. But, bravely, he held his ground nonetheless. Even forced a small smile. "I've handled worse for seventy years," he said.

Charles scowled. "Yeah, that's not gonna make me —"

"Spit-spot, now, Charles," said Edwin primly, seizing Charles' hand and about-turning to the mirror. "We've been summoned."

"Edwin —!"

But his argument, like Jenny's final bewildered comments, were lost to the currents of the in-between as they slipped once more into the vortex.

~

Yet again, another unpleasant journey through the mirror. Unfortunately, Edwin was growing rather used to it.

What he was not prepared for was what awaited them on the other side.

"Oh, fuck," said Charles — though it was barely coherent as a swear past the chatter of his teeth.

Edwin agreed, whole-heartedly. Though truth be told, he could barely hear Charles over the sudden and vicious return of the cries in his head. He pressed his palms to his ears — though it was futile with the noise seeming to ring out from within himself — and took in the awful scene.

The office that awaited them was barely recognisable as the one they’d left. In part due to the mess of toppled furniture, scattered books and broken memorabilia that littered the place, as if a hurricane had torn through the building during their short absence.

But mostly, due to the snow.

Edwin stared, aghast, at the dense white blanket that now lay across anything and everything. Flakes drifted through the air, but at far too sedate a pace for this kind of coverage. To have cloaked every surface so thickly and thoroughly suggested a veritable blizzard had beset the room behind them. And standing in the middle of it all was Crystal. Untouched, it seemed, by the snow, which must be spectral in nature — but not unaffected. She was shivering, visibly, and her breath escaped in soft puffs of glistening vapour.

"About t-t-time," she bit out, with difficulty. She abandoned the rope in favour of rubbing her upper arms through the meagre defence of her threadbare cardigan.

"Crystal!" Charles bolted to her, hands joining hers, for all the good it would do her. "What the b-loody hell happened?"

"Soon as you guys w-went, it just —" she mimed an explosion, puffing air from her cheeks. "Everything starting s-shaking, and snowing, and — and then this French chick just like, b-burst outta the wall and started yelling —"

"That’s just our landlady," said Charles. "She’s harmless."

"Yes. She’s not even French," said Edwin, turning a slow circle, regarding the chaos with dismay. "If Madame Seine felt the disturbance, then it must have fanned out beyond this room. Quite far beyond — she tends to haunt the attic…"

"I can feel it," said Crystal, shoving her hands under her armpits in an attempt to warm them. "Not — not as bad as it looks, I guess, or I’d be freezing, but I can feel it. I haven’t felt it before."

"It must be getting stronger," Edwin muttered. "Reaching beyond the spectral and out to your psychic awareness." He turned on them. "Can either of you hear it, now?"

"Like a whisper," said Charles, shaking his head as if dislodging water from his ears. "Or a — a buzzing? I dunno." Crystal nodded her agreement.

Edwin’s jaw clenched. "Right. Definitely stronger, then." He closed his eyes. "It is… considerably louder than a whisper, for me."

DON’T LEAVE ME DON’T LEAVE ME LOOK AT ME SEE ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME

"That is enough!"

Charles and Crystal both jumped. Edwin could hardly blame them — it was a sudden outburst, and one he wasn’t proud of. But he could scarcely think with that miserable clamour. He felt browbeaten, harried — hounded mercilessly even in the safety of his own mind. He’d put it off for too long.

He turned, slowly, and he looked at the trunk.

Immediately upon doing so, the air changed. The last of the snow ceased to fall and a chorus of slow drips took its place, as that which had settled begun to melt. The cold did not lift entirely, but it did somewhat. The voice did not cease or quiet, but it did soften in tone — from cries of anguish to cajoling, coercive murmurs. Like it knew it had his attention; like it wanted him to close the distance.

Nothing else for it.

"Edwin," said Charles. "You sure about this?"

"Not in the slightest," he said, as he hunkered down beside the trunk. His fingers closed around the enchanted padlock; it warmed under his touch and clicked open obediently. "But we’re running out of options."

Before he could even slip the padlock free, Charles was at his side — and Crystal followed suit. Their hands joined his upon the lid of the trunk; their eyes found his in silent question.

He exhaled, slowly. "Just a quick peek," he promised them. Promised himself. "Just to… mollify it."

Crystal gave him a look he didn’t much care to interpret. He had no doubt she’d confront him with whatever thought she’d just had, soon enough. For now, they had more pressing matters to attend to.

"Just a look," Charles agreed — though he was focusing far more intently on Edwin’s face than on the box. "See what’s what."

"Yes," he breathed. "What’s what…"

They shared a look — Charles to Edwin, Edwin to Crystal, back again — and slowly, as one, lifted the lid.

The first thing that came into view was the glow. Blue, and cold, and rippling over the surface of the grim contents like a sheen. Underneath, as Edwin’s eyes adjusted, shapes began to consolidate. A queasiness overtook him as, unbidden, the scientific names he'd learned presented themselves like annotations in a textbook. Annotating the withered remains of his own pitiful skeleton.

A cold droplet landed upon his cheek. He startled. Sensation was uncommon — sensations of damp even moreso. He glanced up to find that the snow upon the ceiling light was melting, a steady drip drip drip that happened to align with him. Carving his face like falling tears.

"It’s doing somethin’," Charles muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Warming up in here…"

"I can’t hear it anymore," said Crystal. "Can you guys?"

Charles shook his head. "No. Edwin?"

He nodded. "It’s faint." He frowned. "I think… I think it’s saying something else, now…"

…ay wi… me…

"What’s it saying?" asked Crystal.

"I… I’m not altogether sure. It’s so quiet." He cocked his head. "It sounds scared."

"He," said Crystal.

Edwin stared at her. "What?"

She raised her brows and looked between him and the miserable pile of bones. "He sounds scared," she said, gentle. "Edwin, it’s you."

He bristled. "We don’t know that for —"

"Fuck's sake, Edwin," said Charles. "What else d’you need? It’s in your bones, it talks to you, it went bonkers when you left. What else could we be dealing with here?"

"Any number of things!" he said. "Anything could have… imprinted on my remains. A parasite, a demon, some kind of carrion feeder — perhaps even an infestation of dandelion sprites, it’s certainly attention-seeking enough —"

"They only go for living hosts, Edwin, you bloody know that," said Charles.

"There’s no it, Edwin," Crystal pressed. "There’s no ‘the case’, ‘the object’, it’s — it’s you. We all know that, we’ve known that since the start."

"And I don’t think pretending not to know is helping us any," Charles added.

Edwin opened his mouth to argue — but there were no words left. No more logic that could save him.

Charles watched him, and took his hand. "Edwin," he said. "What’s he saying to you?"

Edwin looked at the bones. At his bones. Met his gaze, eye to empty eye socket.

Sta… ith me…

He exhaled a hoarse, rattling breath.

"He…" Edwin swallowed. "He wishes for me… to stay with him."

"Just you?" asked Crystal.

He shook his head. "I… cannot say."

"Right." Charles gave a short, sharp nod, and pushed the lid back, until it swung open enough to stay upright on its own. "Let’s have a sit down for a bit then, eh?"

"Good idea," said Crystal. She sounded weary beyond her years; aged by the psychic onslaught. "Let’s all just… sit. Fuck, I’m fucking tired…"

"Edwin? Turn around, yeah? C’mon."

Edwin allowed himself to be guided by Charles’ hand on his back, Crystal’s on his elbow. Allowed himself to be propped, his back against the trunk, his knees tucked to his chest. Allowed his head to be pulled to Charles’ shoulder, and laid to rest there.

"This alright?" asked Charles. "I mean, is it — is he happy, with you not looking at 'im?"

Edwin nodded. He had very little energy to expend with the motion. "Yes. Yes, for now it — he seems to be… content."

"Good. That’s good." Charles exhaled, a slow, overwrought thing. Edwin could see a stray strand of his own hair lift and fall in the slight gust from Charles’ breath — his hair had fallen into some disarray, of late. Shameful, really. "Let’s all just… just take a second, yeah?"

Edwin had no strength left to argue. He closed his eyes, tucking his head closer into Charles’ collarbone. Wishing he could feel the rise of his chest, his soft exhalations in his hair. But even a shadow of an embrace was better than nothing. Charles didn’t need a physical presence to be Edwin’s anchor in this world. On his other side, Crystal settled herself, arm tucked through Edwin’s, an ankle flung across his, and for just now he didn’t care to shy away. Her breathing slowed. She muttered something that sounded like 'wake me when the next ice age hits'.

It was almost… peaceful. Here on the floor. No words, no actions, all tumbled together with scandalous disregard for propriety. Edwin hadn't had the ability or the desire to sleep in decades, but were that not the case, he thought he could have here. With Charles his pillow, and Crystal his blanket. He wished he could sleep. Just for a few stolen hours, a brief escape from his own mind and the thoughts lurking there. The theories turning over, and over. No, not theories. Nothing so useful as a theory. A theory would imply that he had any information to form the building blocks of a solution; and he was as tragically, hopelessly lost at sea as he had been days ago. Not theories. Something far more ominous.

Implications.

“Charles,” he said, softly.

“Yeah, mate?”

“How long…” Edwin licked his lips. His mouth felt dry, chapped. He felt uncomfortably, uncommonly real at that moment; so close to his bones they could have merged back into one being. “How long will I have to stay with him,” he said, barely above a whisper. “In order to make him… happy? Do you think?”

And will it be less than forever?

Charles, slow and steady, wrapped an arm around Edwin’s shoulder.

“We'll sort it,” he said, low, unwavering. "I promise, Edwin, we'll sort it."

Edwin released a ragged breath into Charles' shoulder. He watched the spectral thaw seep sluggishly into their shoes.

"D'you believe me?" asked Charles, voice tender, flayed open; like he couldn't bear it if the answer was no.

Edwin took one of Charles' hands in both of his, and clutched it like a talisman.

"I believe you."

~~

Yaaaaay pain!!!!! Hope you liked! I love love LOVE all your comments and seeing you so engaged in the story has genuinely been so incredible and if you keep it up I will be a very happy boy and you will get me through my last days of covid isolation! (I have been stuck in one room for 5 days so far to keep distance from my folks, it’s bad guys, luckily my room is very pretty but I pretty much wrote Edwin’s mental breakdown from first-hand experience lmao) Commentary! Yes, Boneturner’s Tale is a TMA reference. No, Edwin did not hand his friend an actual dangerous evil book. It’s like a cheap and nasty paperback replica or something lmao. Hex or no hex, she’s not gonna enjoy reading it much :/ Honestly, writing Edwin and Charles falling out physically hurt. It didn’t last long in part bc my heart couldn’t take it dkjsfbdsnfagdgf Try as I might this fic keeps turning into Charles-and-Edwin, so there’s still not as much Crystal screentime as she deserves, but I truly enjoyed writing her heart-to-heart with Edwin! I love the ways they’re different and the same and I love it when they’re bitches who care for each other 💛 I am NEVER getting this complex about ghost touch again. For all future fics unless stated otherwise just assume ghosts can’t feel humans/the world but can feel each other to some extent, I’m making myself so sad writing Edwin and Charles in a universe where they’re utterly lost in space! It’ll be worth it in the very end I promise xD Yes I fully ground the fic plot to a halt for tender hugs and horny head massage. My house my rules. Yes, Indian hemp was indeed a headache remedy! I was sort of hoping I could google ‘Edwardian headache remedies’ and found out they used, like, cocaine, so I could have Edwin sigh and say ‘I miss cocaine’, but alas, we take what we can get. Pray for my girl Crystal, she works with these gay losers who flirt nonstop and Do Not Realise they are married. She’s getting so many premature grey hairs. Semi-classical = semi-nude. Been reading up on some Edwardian slang lmao. Don’t expect Jenny to come back in this fic but it was so nice to say hello to her! I don’t know what the deal is with the office - like, if the boys leave money for an actual human landlord who doesn’t ask questions or what - but my personal headcanon is that it’s an empty building that no one can sell or do anything with due to persistent hauntings, and it’s haunted by a friendly former brothel madame who once ran her business out of there. The boys first case they solved together was hers, and she adores them, thinks they’re lovely boys, and she lets them have the office and is basically their eccentric pretending-to-be-French Mrs Hudson counterpart. I don’t know why this is my headcanon except that I find it fun and whimsical and I think Madame Seine and the Night Nurse would be a hilarious MILF double act. Maybe I will write fic about her one day. I know this is a bit of an odd one, story progression wise. I hope no one feels put out by the fact that the story hasn’t exactly progressed much - but as I was drafting the rest of the fic I sort of realised that I wanted, amongst other aspects of Edwin’s journey, for him to have some denial to overcome. Which, in my classic carried-away way, became basically an entire chapter of obfuscating rounded off with a cold splash of reality. He needed to find that connection to the bones and accept it before they can get to the next stage of figuring out how to make them happy and end the haunting. Fun Fact! When writing the very last scene/conversation, the Power of Love by Frankie Goes To Hollywood came on shuffle. This would have been posted an hour earlier but I need to wail into my pillow in anguish. Anyway, that’s it for now! No idea when the next chapter’s up - I think it’ll be easier to write than this one but I’ve also sunk waaaay too much time into this one this week, so I should take a break for the sake of my hands and my other projects! It WILL be up though, probs in a few weeks. Until next time! 💛

[patheticgirlsteve]

Eddie thinks it's sweet that Steve puts so much time and effort into engaging in Eddie's hobbies and passions. Like, SO sweet. But he can't help but feel bad for not engaging in Steve's interests as well. So he tries to think what he can do to show Steve that it's not one-sided, that Eddie cares about Steve's interests as well, but he has a hard time coming up with ideas.

There's the obvious things like taking Steve to a basketball game or listening to his ABBA and Tears for Fears tapes with him (without complaining loudly about it the whole time). But beyond that, he's pretty stumped. So he goes to Robin.

"Rob, you gotta help me out here," he begs her. "Tell me what Steve's hobbies are, you know him better than anyone."

"Shouldn't you know his hobbies? You guys have been dating for months," Robin replies.

"Yeah, but he doesn't ever talk to me about these sorts of things, we always end up talking about my interests instead, which I know is so shitty. Please, Robin, help me to not be a shitty boyfriend," he gives her the best puppy dog eyes he can manage and she caves pretty quickly, settling in to help him make a list of all of the things Steve is into.

It doesn't take long for them to realize that Robin doesn't know any better than Eddie does what Steve is into. This, of course, makes them both feel bad. So Eddie resolves to go straight to the source. He talks to Steve about it.

Eddie apologizes for not even knowing what things his boyfriend is into enough to enjoy those things with him, but Steve just shrugs it off. He genuinely likes a lot of the stuff that Eddie has introduced him to, he still doesn't really like metal music and he doesn't have any desire to play D&D, but he likes taking Eddie to concerts and feeling the energy of the crowd; he loves going to Eddie's performances at the Hideout and watching his boyfriend be an absolute rockstar; he likes sitting in on D&D sessions and watching Eddie in his element as DM; he likes listening to Eddie read his favorite books aloud to Steve, doing different voices for each character.

But Eddie still feels bad, because it shouldn't be all about his hobbies all the time, relationships go two ways and he wants to support Steve's interests too. He tells him this, but Steve just shrugs it off again and says that he doesn't really have any interests.

And Eddie gets it. Gets that Steve has spent his entire life living for other people, being King Steve, keeping his parents happy and everyone around him in awe. He hasn't really gotten a chance to just be himself, to even figure out who he is and what he likes.

And Eddie gets it, but he also hates it. He wants Steve to find who he is and what he loves, he wants to give him that chance. He wants Steve to find things to be passionate about too, because everyone deserves to have things to be passionate about.

"Okay," he says. "So, lets find you some then."

Steve just sort of blinks at him then asks, "What?"

"Lets find you some interests, something of your own to be passionate about,"

Steve considers for a moment. "Um, okay, how exactly do we do that? Just test out hobbies until something sticks?" He asks, not really being serious.

"Yeah," Eddie says, and he is being serious. "Try interests on like clothes and get rid of them if they don't fit. Let me help you find something that you love, Stevie, you deserve to have passions just like anyone else."

Steve thinks about it for a moment, before quietly asking, "And you'll help me?"

Eddie nods, "Yeah, baby, I'll help you."

And thus begins the journey to find Steve some hobbies.